“You’re what?”
“I thought that might get your attention. Dr. Filbert says we won’t be able to tell the sex of our bébé for a little while longer, but we’re definitely expecting. I was going to tell you in the morning, but since you woke me up now, I decided I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.”
She felt him tremble with excitement. He rolled her carefully on to her side. After feeling her stomach, he leaned down and kissed the place where it was growing. When he lifted his head to kiss her, he tasted the salt from her tears.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Raoul? You’re going to be able to raise your second child and you’ll be the most wonderful father in the world.”
Tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced her gently. “I was just going to say what a beautiful mother you’re going to make. I’m the luckiest husband alive.”
“I only have one request. I would like you to choose the name if we have a boy. But if it’s a girl, I want to call her Blondine. Won’t it be thrilling for her to read the storybook her papa loved?”
“Abby—”
* * * * *
Look out for the next romance story in the HOLIDAY WITH A BILLIONAIRE trilogy
Coming soon!
And if you enjoyed this story, check out these other great reads from Rebecca Winters
THE MAGNATE’S HOLIDAY PROPOSAL
WHISKED AWAY BY HER SICILIAN BOSS
BOUND TO HER GREEK BILLIONAIRE
RETURN OF HER ITALIAN DUKE
All available now!
Keep reading for an excerpt from A CONTRACT, A WEDDING, A WIFE? by Christy McKellen.
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A Contract, A Wedding, A Wife?
by Christy McKellen
CHAPTER ONE
Risk—a game of strategy, conflict and diplomacy.
HE WAS NEVER going to find someone suitable to marry at this rate.
Xavier McQueen let out an exasperated sigh as the woman who had seemed like his best hope—on paper at least—gave a firm and very final no to his admittedly completely barmy-sounding proposal before putting the phone down on him.
Apparently only being married for a year before divorcing wouldn’t look good on her dating CV. She was under the impression it could put off real prospects in the future because they’d be worried about her coming with baggage from such a short previous marriage.
Closing his eyes, he slumped back in his chair.
Three months he’d been wasting his time with this ridiculous endeavour and now he only had six weeks left before the Hampstead mansion where he’d lived for the last four years—the home that had been in his family for the last hundred and fifty years—would pass to his money-grubbing clown of a cousin.
Damn his great-aunt and her jeopardous eccentricity.
He thought she’d loved him—certainly more than his parents ever had—but this bizarre stunt she’d pulled with her will had made him wonder about that.
Shoving a hand through his hair and trying not to pull it out in his frustration, he stared out of the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, barely registering his view of the majestic Tower Bridge stretching out across the fast-moving River Thames.
He’d not wanted to widely advertise exactly what he was looking for in case it brought out the crooks and the crazies but that meant he’d quickly run out of people to ask to help him out. The problem was, the chosen candidate needed to be someone he could trust, as well as someone he’d be able to get along with, but all his good female friends were already married and he didn’t fancy taking his chances with any of his exes. A year was a long time to live with someone who detested the very sight of you.
The other two women, who had also been put forward as possible candidates by his friend Russell—the only friend he’d trusted with his problem—hadn’t worked out either. Not being able to have sex for a year hadn’t appealed to either of them. They’d both been looking for the real deal. Soul mates. An ideal he had no faith in whatsoever any more, not after being left humiliated at the altar five years ago by the woman he’d thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. His disaster of a non-wedding, which he now liked to think of as a near miss, had put paid to that ridiculous notion.
Nope, it was short-term, uncomplicated relationships for him from here on in. Or a purely business one like this needed to be, thanks to the bizarre demands stipulated in Great-Aunt Faith’s will.
Just as he was reaching for the glass of water on his desk to relieve his parched throat, there was a loud knock on the door and a petite woman with bright blue eyes and a riot of blonde curls walked purposefully into his office and placed a small basket of assorted cakes on his desk with a flourish.
He frowned down at them, then up at her. ‘I didn’t order any cakes.’
‘I know. They’re an excuse to get some face-to-face time with you,’ she said, folding her arms and looking down at him with
