Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
HIS NINE MONTH SEDUCTION
Clare Connelly
All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.
All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.
The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.
First published 2017
(c) Clare Connelly
Cover Credit: adobestock
Contact Clare:
http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk
Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/
Email: [email protected]
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BOUGHT FOR THE BILLIONAIRE’S REVENGE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY CLARE CONNELLY
CHAPTER ONE
“THEO.”
He didn’t turn around, and she couldn’t blame him.
The exclusive wine bar was pumping; a writhing, teaming mass of well-dressed bodies. Was it always this busy? Or was it just the Friday night crowd that had saturated the small space with expensive cologne and loud voices?
Or was it that her heart was beating so hard that it drowned out anything else?
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Anxiety slicked over her like a waterfall, suffocating her, making breathing almost impossible.
“Theo?”
The man to his left heard. His eyes dropped to Imogen and a smirk crossed his chubby, cherubic face. He lifted his glass to his lips, Scotch, she’d have guessed, and in the process of throwing back a slug, pointed towards her.
Theo turned, and it was as if he moved in slow-motion. His dark hair, thick and coarse, breezed as he tilted his head, his eyes seeking the source of intrusion.
Imogen supposed, in the small part of her mind that was capable of operation, that he got approached by women all the time. Though probably not many like her, she thought with a hint of wry amusement. In jeans and a simple white shirt, she was hardly this kind of establishment’s usual patron. Her shoes were ten-year-old Doc Martens that she practically lived in, though she’d replaced the trademark yellow laces years earlier and in their place stood bright pink worms that snaked up the boot and around her ankle.
“Yes?” His eyes skimmed her face, a frown tugging at his lip.
Dear God. He didn’t even remember her? How was that possible?
It was only then that Imogen realized she’d been building up all sorts of fantasies. Him pulling her into his arms, thanking his lucky stars that she’d found him. Thanking her for ignoring the fact he’d crept out in the small hours of the morning, leaving a clump of banknotes beside the bed – money she’d chosen to believe was for the room in her parents’ motel, rather than services rendered.
“Do I know you?”
Holy hell. He definitely didn’t remember her.
She darted her tongue out, licking her lower lip, her enormous grey eyes flicking to the door as if expressing her sudden urge to run. Run like the wind.
Only she’d come to this decision after a lot of thought and heartache, and telling him he was going to be a father was the right thing to do.
Even if he was a bigger bastard than she’d realized.
“Yes,” she said, simply.
Had she forgotten how gorgeous he was? Up close, the effect of that face was doing all sorts of weird things to her nerves – and they were already in a stage of total meltdown. He’d been unshaven when they’d met. The night they’d made love.
No. Had sex. Mentally she forced herself to edit her language, even in her own mind. They were going to be co-parents and she couldn’t let herself get carried away with fantasies of what ‘could’ be.
Basing herself in reality guaranteed she wouldn’t get hurt.
“You work for me,” he hazarded a guess, his impatience conveying itself in the tautness of his lips, the unyielding strength of his shoulders. There was something else there too. A recognition of sorts. If he didn’t remember the details of the night they’d spent together, perhaps, on some level, he did remember her?
“No.” Her eyes met his, and her stomach rolled. She was dropping off a cliff, falling into their brown depths, drowning in their liquid heat. “Not exactly.”
He expelled a breath and his nostrils flared. “I’m not in the mood to play coy guessing games. What do you want?”
Her heart squeezed painfully inside of her. “Can we perhaps go somewhere a bit more private?”
There was something in her voice that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Familiarity and a strange sense of knowledge.
But it was a ploy. A lot of women had tried this ruse on him in the past. Pretending they had a relationship only to secure an introduction. It infuriated him.
“What for?” He dropped his head lower, so that he could whisper in her ear. “I’ll save you some time. I’m not looking for company tonight.”
She didn’t grasp his words at first. The smell of him overwhelmed her. Pangs of recollection sliced her heart and weakened her resolution. If she left now, they’d always have that night. That one, perfect, brief encounter.
But the second she told him the truth, what then?
“Besides, you’re not really my type,” he said and the words were like tiny little bullets sinking into her soul. She pulled back, fixing him with a look that clearly conveyed her outraged disgust.
There it was again! The weirdest sense that they’d met before. Only surely he’d remember. For one thing, this woman was tiny. Like a five-and-a-half foot pocket rocket with silky blonde hair half-way down her back and eyes so big they were almost circular. She was everything he avoided in the women he dated – she was all innocent and sweet and naïve and … pretty. Soft. Kind.
Definitely not right for him in the state of his life he’d entered. The state where he wanted to take anything in a skirt to his bed. He chose women who were like him. Sophisticated, experienced, hardened by life’s frenetic pace – who wanted what he did. A bit of fun. No fuss.
“Well, that’s too bad,” she snapped sarcastically. “Because I’ve been fantasizing about you all night.”
There was such a look of disgust in her face that he didn’t need to wonder if there was a hint of truth in what she’d said. She wasn’t approaching him because she wanted him to hit on her.
Curiosity piqued, he propped an elbow on the bar, carving out a little more space for himself and establishing a neat niche for her to step
into. Only it would have brought Imogen close to his body and she wasn’t going to risk touching him, even by accident.
“So, you don’t work for me. Do you want a job? Is that it?”
The article in The Guardian had only come out the day before, the headline BRITISH BILLIONAIRE SET TO TAKE OVER WORLD had been a little gaudy for his liking, but otherwise the story had been accurate. His net worth, his business interests, the fact he employed almost twenty thousand people around the world. The airline he was acquiring had been the purpose for the piece, though it had been only a paragraph at the bottom.
His secretary had been fielding calls all day from would-be investors.
“No,” she shook her head. “But I need to speak to you.”
“Fine. Speak.” Theo turned around and nodded at the barman. He appeared instantly, a young man of around twenty-two who, perhaps, picked Imogen as more like him than the usual crowd and gave her a charming smile. “Y’all right, miss?”
She leaned forward, so he could hear her over the din of the customers. “Just a sparkling water, thanks.”
Theo was absolutely certain she hadn’t meant to brush her breast against his hand as she’d leaned towards the barman, but the warm softness of her curves instantly made his gut clench and his dick hard.
He compressed his lips, impatience zipping through him faster now.
“Hendrick’s.” He spoke over her, then pushed back a little, giving her more room.
They stood in silence as the barman organized their drinks and then she reached for hers.
Her fingers were shaking.
She was nervous? He looked at her anew, studying her more carefully now. She was dressed like she’d strolled in from a lecture at university, and she wasn’t wearing make-up, besides a little mascara perhaps and some gloss on her lips.
So she hadn’t exactly gone to effort to impress him. But yes, she was definitely sweating on something.
“Well, Miss… what is your name?”
“Gen. Imogen,” she mumbled, sipping her water and forcing herself to meet his eyes.
“Miss Imogen,” he supplied, his eyes scanning hers, wondering at the hairs that stood up on the back of his neck. Her eyes darted towards the door, spearing him with impatience. If she wanted to get away from him so badly then why the hell had she approached him in the first place? “Why don’t you spit out whatever it is you came to say and then you can go again?”
“I’m trying.” Her smile was weak. Her pretty lips twisted almost as though she were in pain. “The thing is, Theo…”
And there it was again! The strangest sense of connection he’d ever known. His name on her lips was some kind of homing beacon. Like a key he could pick up and slide into a door; but a door to what?
“I’m pregnant.”
What was that sense of loss that dropped through him, pulling his gut lower in his body?
“Well, that’s … interesting,” he said with a shrug of the broad shoulders she’d dug her nails into again and again as he’d made her body ring with pleasure. “Am I supposed to congratulate you?”
“Good God, you’re an arrogant so and so.” She expelled an angry breath, and then her hands wrapped around the lapel of his coat and she yanked him down towards her, so she could whisper in his ear. “Let me paint a picture for you. You, me, smoked cheddar, Ed Sheeran…”
She let him go, stepping back to witness the impact of her words. And had the satisfaction of seeing all the colour drain from his face, his eyes sweep closed as he digested the Cliff’s Notes of the night they’d shared.
“You’re…”
“The girl from the pub,” she nodded awkwardly. But her pride was groaning, her whole body weakened from the insult of his pathetic recollection. And worse, her obvious lack of impact on him.
“You’re…”
“Remember? We slept together? Three months ago?”
“Hell.” He jerked his fingers through his hair and now she could see she had his full attention. Every single nerve in his body was honed on her, as though he could hear what she wasn’t saying if he listened hard enough. “You’re saying it’s mine?”
Her jaw dropped for a moment, then she recollected herself, her eyes drawing together. “No, dumbass. I’m just going around telling every guy I’ve ever slept with that I’m pregnant. Just for fun. You know? Why not? I loved spending hours of my life tracking you down. Thanks for leaving your number, by the way.”
Self-disgust darkened his cheek bones. “Contrary to your experience, I would think I was easy to find…”
“To find, sure. But to speak to? You’re more secure than Prince William.”
His lips twisted at the remark, but then, the shock began to recede and the reason she was standing in front of him clarified like glass clearing of fog. “You’re saying you’re pregnant. With my baby.”
“Yes. For a smart guy, you’re really slow on the uptake.”
He grimaced at her observation; it had merit, in that moment. “Come with me.” He muttered, slamming a fifty-pound note on the bar and placing his hand around her elbow.
But Imogen didn’t move. “Come with you where?”
“We need to speak,” he muttered, his eyes scanning hers. “We have to talk about the baby, and your pregnancy and…”
“No,” she shook her head, and now he saw that what he’d taken to be nervousness was, more likely, fierce determination. “We don’t have to ‘talk’. I’m not here because I want anything from you.” She crossed her arms over her chest and his gaze was involuntarily drawn downwards, to the swell of cleavage he could glimpse above her collar, and the waist that was still neat and flat. “I’m sure that’s going to be your next insulting offer, but please, don’t suggest paying me money or anything as offensive as that. This is my baby, but I thought you should at least know. It doesn’t feel right that you could have a child wandering around and not at least be aware of it.”
“Wait a second.” He lifted his hand appeasingly, his expression inscrutable. “That’s hardly fair. You’ve blindsided me with this and now you want to just walk out of here?”
“Sound familiar?” She batted her long, curling lashes at him, a look of defiance spreading over her face.
“Hell,” he shook his head. “We slept together and I didn’t instantly remember you. So sue me. Let’s move past that. We have to talk.”
“What about?” She demanded, sipping her drink for something to do.
His eyes followed the movement, the delicate throat that knotted as she swallowed. Ghosts of that night floated out of his memory, haunting him, reminding him of fragments of the time they’d shared. But they were just tiny slithers, nothing substantial he could grab hold of.
“This. You. Everything.” He thrust a hand in his pocket, leaning his body slightly closer. “There’s a place around the corner. It’s quiet. We can speak privately. Will you have dinner with me? Let me get to grips with that before you disappear into thin air?”
“I have no intention of disappearing into thin air,” she promised him, her expression unknowingly haughty. “If I wanted to run away from you, and my responsibilities to this baby, then I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Right,” he nodded, appreciating her honesty. “I’m glad you are. But I can hardly hear myself think in here.”
“Yeah, interesting choice of place to unwind,” she drawled, thinking longingly of the cozy lounge area of The Dragon’s Belly with its leather armchairs and low tables perfect for an afternoon of board games.
“It’s convenient,” he said. “Come on.” His hand in the small of her back was practical, but that knowledge didn’t stop the darts of awareness from pounding through her, zipping through her veins, firing her pulse and drying her mouth.
She shook free of him, indignant at the way he could so easily make her body respond. Then again, it had been like that from the moment he’d walked up to the bar, all disheveled gorgeousness with those low-slung jeans, navy blue sweater and air of dis
pleasure. Two drinks later and he’d moved beyond his bad mood and had devoted his attention to charming the pants off Imogen – literally, as had been the case.
And it hadn’t been difficult.
She’d been his, for a smile.
And maybe four hours?
It was a warm night, but she shivered as they stepped out of the bar. “Here.” He shrugged out of his coat but she shook her head.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re cold,” he drew his attention to her arms; they were covered in a fine sprinkle of goose bumps. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t appreciate it if he pointed out that her nipples were straining against the flimsy fabric of her shirt.
“I’ll live.”
He didn’t argue with her. He was hardly in any place to dictate anything to her. “This way.” He nodded down the street and began to move in the direction of the Italian restaurant he ate at more nights than not. She fell into step beside him and he tried to ignore the sweetness of her fragrance. Vanilla? Orange blossom? Something sweet yet understated, just like her.
Gianni was at the door of the restaurant, his portly form pinned by a bright green apron that showed the generous bulge of his stomach. “Ah, ciao, Theo!” The older man grinned, extending a hand to shake before turning to Imogen. “And con a bella donna, eh?”
“Si, si,” Theo nodded, for once, not in the mood to chat with the restaurateur. “We need a private table.”
“Ahhh,” Gianni’s eyes twinkled with mischief and misplaced ideas of seduction as he pushed the door inwards, holding it open and allowing them to pass. “Is perfect, no?” He nodded to the table by the window. While it was separated from other tables, it was hardly discreet.
“No,” Theo shook his head. “That one.”
He pointed to the booth at the back. There was a wall on one side and a fish tank on the other, bubbling with crustacean that had the misfortune of being bound for someone’s plate.
“You sure?” Gianni scowled. “It’s so bright. Not, eh, romantic…”
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