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Pregnant with the Soldier's Son
Amy Ruttan
When ‘living a little’…While celebrating her promotion, the last thing strait-laced orthopaedic surgeon Ingrid Walton expects is to be seduced by mysterious dashing soldier and army medic Clint Allen. Especially when there are consequences to their passionate night!…becomes ‘living for two’!Seven months later Ingrid comes face to face with the father of her unborn baby…now the new trauma surgeon! But Clint has changed – his last tour of duty has left emotional scars. Can sharing their baby, their work and an undeniable chemistry give them a chance to heal their pasts and enjoy the future…together?
Dr. Allen had his back to her, but there was something about his stance which tugged at the corner of her mind.
It was when he turned around.
“Hi, Dr. Walton …”
The words died in his throat, whereas Ingrid felt as if the world had dropped out from beneath her feet. She stood there stunned, like a deer trapped in a set of headlights, as she stared into those light cerulean eyes which had the darkest rims around them so that they seemed to make the blue of his irises pop.
It was the eyes which had attracted her to him in the first place. The only difference was that his dark hair had grown out. It had been buzz cut the last time, but he hadn’t spiked it as he’d threatened to do all those months ago. That had prompted a discussion on cheesy pickup lines, which had then deteriorated into her sleeping with him.
He’d also aged a bit—but then war could do that to a person. Still it was him. Clint. The soldier who had taken her virginity. The man she’d lived a little with.
The man who still haunted her dreams.
Dear Reader (#ulink_0acff8e7-bc1d-5189-a5a7-02f80a3a5ef2),
Thank you for picking up a copy of PREGNANT WITH THE SOLDIER’S SON.
One of the first things I learned as a writer was to ‘write what you know.’ Which I do find funny, because I’m not in the medical profession at all. But I know a lot of people who are, and I love research.
This book has a bit of what I know in it. The hero and heroine’s son is written based on my own experience with my middle child, who in 2006 almost didn’t make it. I didn’t have the same traumatic birth experience as Ingrid, but my son and Ingrid’s son both had the same rough start in life. I remember clearly sitting in a wheelchair and the paediatric surgeon telling me, ‘He’s very sick. Prepare yourself.’
Spending a month in the PCCU was one of the most stressful times of my life, but it gave me new respect for the doctors and nurses who face this every single day. I’ll never forget the smile on that surgeon’s face a year later, when he saw my son playing with trains at his check-up. His job is so full of heartache, but his smile told me there are great rewards for practising in this field of medicine.
Now my son is a healthy, active and imaginative eight-year-old, and I look at pictures of him as a newborn and send up thanks that he’s here today, scattering blocks and comic books all over my house. Except for when I step on them. Blocks hurt!
I hope you enjoy PREGNANT WITH THE SOLDIER’S SON. I love hearing from readers, so please drop by my website, www.amyruttan.com (http://www.amyruttan.com), or give me a shout on Twitter @ruttanamy (http://www.twitter.com/ruttanamy).
With warmest wishes
Amy Ruttan
Born and raised on the outskirts of Toronto, Ontario, AMY RUTTAN fled the big city to settle down with the country boy of her dreams. When she’s not furiously typing away at her computer she’s mom to three wonderful children, who have given her another job as a taxi driver.
A voracious reader, she was given her first romance novel by her grandmother, who shared her penchant for a hot romance. From that moment Amy was hooked by the magical worlds, handsome heroes and sigh-worthy romances contained in the pages, and she knew what she wanted to be when she grew up.
Life got in the way, but after the birth of her second child she decided to pursue her dream of becoming a romance author.
Amy loves to hear from readers. It makes her day, in fact. You can find out more about Amy at her website: www.amyruttan.com (http://www.amyruttan.com)
Pregnant with the Soldier’s Son
Amy Ruttan
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to one of my special guys, Aidan. Buddy, I thank God every day you’re here with me. I love you with all my heart.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u4106386b-8c1f-5f93-9d60-5d1ba3acd6d8)
Excerpt (#u4c4ab559-7972-533a-b090-7c977ebe5ec5)
Dear Reader (#ulink_5b88a7c5-d527-5146-8f41-b9118ede1f91)
About the Author (#ubff072d1-869c-58bc-b5fe-f60f26cdeb5f)
Title Page (#u2dff1268-6b4c-5489-93ca-ab64ff9463a2)
Dedication (#ulink_1f39620c-0b7f-5c5f-9a74-70069ddf454b)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_241c3c3b-a661-54ed-befa-2f8983d28eca)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_0523a3f3-65f4-558b-8733-06c4c1e42263)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_3bb15718-40bf-5464-87f1-981f8dacab04)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_840c95f9-b3d2-5d32-8d8a-8bb8e7e4c983)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_fdc2f349-79b3-5211-9307-6f5a170bde2d)
“WOULD YOU GET a load of that guy!”
“Who?” Ingrid asked as she scanned the darkened bar where she and her closest surgical best friends were celebrating her recent promotion.
“That guy. Down at the end,” Philomena said, following her words with a whistle, a cat sound and a clawlike swish of her manicured hand. “I bet he could get me to purr all night long.”
Ingrid turned in her seat to see who her friend was referring to, and when her gaze fell on the aforementioned male who made the respectable oncologist Dr. Philomena Reminsky turn feline, Ingrid almost choked on the cherry in her cosmopolitan.
Tall, muscular and clad in army fatigues, the soldier sitting at the far end of the bar seemed to have every hot-blooded female in a twenty-foot radius panting after him. His hair was buzzed short, but she could tell from the slash of his eyebrows that his hair was ebony. He would probably be even dreamier with longer locks. Still, the buzz cut suited him.
There was an aloof, brooding quality to him.
Something that told the outside world not to mess with him, yet called to the female species like a siren call.
There had to be at least ten other soldiers in the bar, but he kept to himself, his eyes fixed on the television in the corner, oblivious to what was going on around him.
Either oblivious or unconcerned.
Ingrid loved the tall, dark and silent types. Something to do with her love of heroes like Mr. Rochester, Mr. Thornton and Mr. Darcy.
As if knowing she was assessing him, he tore his gaze from the television screen and looked at her. Even from just six feet away she could see his eyes were crystal blue. So light and intense they seemed to pull her in.
Heat bloomed in her cheeks and she turned away quickly.
What am I doing?
This wasn’t her style. She didn’t flirt with strangers in a bar. She was too much of an introvert for that. The only people she could open up and talk to really were other surgeons, nurses or her patients.
Career was what Ingrid focused on. Not men.
That’s why I’m still a virgin.
Well, she may still be a virgin, but at least she was finally an attending at Rapid City Health Sciences Center.
One goal accomplished.
It was why she was at this country-and-western bar with her coworkers. To celebrate her promotion. Not to flirt with men.
Why not?
Because she had no interest in a relationship. Marriage and commitment were not things she’d ever get entangled in.
“Well, it seems a lucky lady has caught Beefcake’s attention,” Philomena whispered in her ear.
Ingrid stole a glance out of the corner of her eye and saw that the beefcake in question was staring at her. He smiled, a crooked smile that was so sexy it made her heart skip a beat and her insides turn a bit gushy.
Could be the alcohol.
Ingrid glanced away again; she knew she was blushing.
“What’s wrong?” Philomena asked. “He’s coming over. Talk to him.”
“I can’t,” Ingrid whispered. “What do I say?”
“Finish your drink and say hi. Maybe he’ll buy you another.” Philomena moved to leave, but Ingrid grabbed her arm.
“No, don’t leave me. I’m not good with men.”
Philomena just grinned as she detached Ingrid’s clawlike grip from her forearm. “You’ll be fine. Live a little.”
Right. Live a little.
Except that’s not how she had been raised. Her father, if he was dead, which he wasn’t, would be spinning in his grave to know what she was contemplating.
He’d taught her never to take risks. To play it safe and lead a respectable and worthwhile life. Not that he thought being an orthopedic surgeon was as worthwhile as being a cardiothoracic surgeon or a neurosurgeon, but that was neither here nor there. And one risk she never wanted to take was falling in love.
Who says you have to fall in love?
Which was true.
Love at first sight was a fairy tale. One she didn’t believe in. Love was for fools.
Oh, great. She was dithering. She usually dithered and stammered when she was around hot men, but that was usually out loud. Now it was happening subconsciously too.
Ingrid hurriedly gulped down her drink, the alcohol burning her throat. She tried not to choke when she sensed a large body behind her. The scent of cologne and something spicy she couldn’t quite put her finger on overcame her senses.
“Is this seat taken?”
Ingrid looked up and the gorgeous, broody soldier from across the bar was standing right beside her.
Don’t stammer!
“No, go ahead.” Ingrid hoped there was no hitch in her voice to let him know she was a bit nervous. In fact, the whole room began to spin. She wasn’t sure if it was the vodka or him.
She hoped it was him.
