Billionaire Baby Daddies: A five-book anthology

by Connelly, Clare

“You’re sure it is normal?”

  Abigail cast her husband a look of pure fury. “This. Is. Not. Helpful.”

  He frowned and held his hand out once more. She squeezed it tighter than he’d imagined she could have the strength for but he said nothing.

  Her pain made him ache. He wished he could do something to take it away. Though he loved Michael and knew he would love their newest baby too, he cursed in that moment that he had ever caused her to conceive another child.

  Her pain could not be eased by anything but delivery and finally, after what felt like an eternity to Kiral (and certainly longer to Abi!) a flailing baby, pink and chubby, was pulled from her body and placed on a nearby table.

  The baby wasn’t crying, and Abigail, despite feeling like she’d been run over by a freight truck, pushed up to sitting. “What is it?” She demanded, her tone imperious, her eyes fevered.

  The doctors, including R’izar, were bent over the little girl, and Abi turned to Kiral. She was filled with worry. “Is something wrong? Why isn’t she crying?”

  No abnormalities had been detected at any of her foetal ultrasounds. The baby had been growing perfectly.

  And when Abigail felt like her sanity might snap from worry, the baby began to bellow. Loud, screaming calls that echoed around the hospital and proclaimed the arrival of the newest royal.

  “She is perfect,” R’izar glowed, wrapping her in a blanket and carrying her to Abigail’s chest. He placed her down gently and Abi sobbed. The baby was already alert, her little eyes peering up and floating around the room. Though she couldn’t make anything out, of course, beyond a few blurred outlines, she could hear their voices and she could smell her parents.

  Abi kissed her forehead and sobbed once more.

  “And so our magic continues,” Kiral murmured, running a finger down his daughter’s soft, plump cheek. He had never seen a baby so tiny. She was like a doll, only more beautiful and more fragile.

  “Another blessing,” she agreed.

  Abi took only a few moments to enjoy the peace before smiling up at her husband. “You can let them in.”

  He shook his head. “It is too soon.”

  “Nonsense.”

  He stood. He was torn between paternalistic pride to show off his daughter and a soul-deep need to provide comfort for his wife.

  “I’m fine,” she promised.

  He moved to the door and pushed it open. Beyond it stood a huddle of nervous, excited loved ones. Annette, of course, holding Michael against her shoulder. Lilah looking like she was about to jump out of her skin, and Will, who had become somewhat of a fixture at the palace. Even Kiral’s uncle was there, his eyes glimmering and his expression glowing. As they moved into the room, the uncle stopped long enough to put a hand on Kiral’s shoulder. “You have fixed it all,” he said seriously. “You have done what I could not.”

  The cryptic remark was not something Kiral could interpret at that time. He simply nodded and put a hand around his uncle’s slender shoulders. “Come and meet our daughter.”

  “She’s divine,” Lilah sighed. “A little angel on earth.”

  “There’s about ten thousand people waiting downstairs to hear about her, too,” Will said with a rueful grin at his friend. “And you thought your people wouldn’t accept Abi as their Queen?”

  Abi’s cheeks flushed. It had become a source of great teasing for her husband that Abi had become more adored and revered than anyone could have foreseen. Her popularity outstripped his in every way. The cruel article that had been written about her had sparked a kind of national outrage. People were clamouring to defend her and point out how brave she had been to raise a sick child on her own simply because she respected the royal customs of Delani. She had been touted as a perfect bride and even Melania, herself now married, had sent a secret note months after Abi and Ki’s wedding. We would never have married. He would never have lived without you and I always knew it. I’m pleased for you, your highness, and hope we can meet when ‘the dust settles’. M.

  In the months after her daughter’s arrival, Abi thought about fate often, contemplating the magical whims that chose one path over another, then veered to a new direction out of nowhere. Fate, people’s decisions, their motivations — so many paths had run together to form this reality for Abigail. And one man’s particular choice had been, almost, the most vital. And so Abigail called for a man of whom she thought often, and always with gratitude.

  The guard approached the Emira’s private office cautiously. After all, he was a lowly palace sentry, and this was the inner sanctum of the royal family.

  But when he entered, Abigail stood and smiled brightly. She crossed to him and extended her hands. He did likewise in instinctive response.

  “You remember me.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “Of course, your highness,” he said, bowing low.

  She laughed. “If you hadn’t taken pity on me on that very hot, unbearable day, when my nerves were torn to shreds and I was certain everything was about to go wrong, I don’t know what would have become of me, or my son.”

  His eyes sparkled with pleasure at the unexpected compliment. Though he had often felt relieved that things had turned out as they had, he never once felt she owed him another thought.

  “You have good instincts, sir,” she said. “I respect good instincts.” She squeezed his hands and then stepped backwards. The guard couldn’t believe how beautiful and regal she looked; even as a dusty, heat-worn woman, she had been pretty, but now? She looked like she belonged in this building more perhaps than anyone ever had before.

  “I want someone like you on my children’s security detail.”

  He froze. “Madam,” he shook his head. “It is not, how you say, possible.”

  “It is not only possible; it is done.”

  “I do not have the rank necessary …”

  “You do now. My husband has promoted you at my request. I believe you have, as I said, the instincts that I want around my children. They are the most precious people to both His Highness and me. If you had not acted so courageously on that day it is possible that neither Michael or Astrid would be here now.”

  “You are as magnanimous as reported,” he said, his expression a mix of delight and pride. “I am in your debt.”

  Her smile shone with the power of every ray of sun that had ever blessed the earth. “No, sir. We are all in yours.”

  THE END

  THE SHEIKH’S SECRET BABY is book 1 in THE ROYALS OF DELANI series. Book two THE PRINCESS’S FORBIDDEN LOVER is available now.

  Regret Me Not

  Prologue

  Three years ago

  SHE WAS SILK BENEATH his fingertips, soft and smooth and his body craved hers again now, despite the fact they’d spent the whole night wrapped together, limbs entwined, mouths seeking. He’d been hungry in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time – if ever – and he was hungry for her now.

  He shifted carefully in the bed, angling his face towards hers so he could see her better, the soft light of dawn filtering in almost a sufficient amount to shape the features he knew so well by touch.

  It was her eyes he’d noticed first. Almost too-large for her face, and so shimmering brown they were like liquid gold. They’d been both trusting and cynical and if there was one thing in life Fiero Montebello understood, it was contradictions. He understood happiness and pleasure, like this, in the midst of extreme pain and shock. A night out of time, a night to revel in his body’s instincts and strength, when the body of the man who had raised him, his beloved grandfather, was simultaneously close to death. This night had been a reprieve, a release, a way to exist on a purely sensual level, to close off his emotions and thoughts and simply enjoy bodily pleasures.

  How long had it been since he’d done this?

  Lips that were full and pouting without her notice were parted now, her soft breath sounds filled the room. Her nose had a lift at the end, like a little ski-jump and there was a cluster
of tiny, faint freckles which danced across her cheekbones – he’d laid kisses there the night before, wanting to kiss her all over, taste all of her, thinking he could do so and be done.

  But it had been years since he’d felt his body move with passion like this, years since he’d obeyed his body’s commands, and finally succumbing to temptation had driven him wild. He felt wild now, filled with needs and almost selfish enough to wake her, so that they might start answering them together.

  But it was wrong.

  Wrong to be here, wrong to have come, wrong to have gone to her bed, to have made love to her until she was crying his name – Fiero – as if the very flames of hell were at her back and he the only possible way to douse them.

  He was a married man.

  His lips stretched into a grimace as he thought of that – of his wife, and how little was left of their marriage. They’d agreed to separate. They’d both signed the divorce papers, in fact. But his grandfather’s illness made it impossible, for now. To pain the older man in the twilight years of his life meant they must – on the surface – continue to appear as a ‘married couple’, despite the fact she’d moved out of the home they’d shared, despite the fact their marriage was colder than a long-dead fish.

  He suppressed a groan of frustration. Which meant what, exactly? That this wasn’t wrong?

  It was a fine line. He could make his peace with it, but what of his young lover, who’d so willingly given her body over to pleasure, who’d opened herself up to him so trustingly? If she were to discover that he had a wife back in Italy, albeit in name only?

  And the press? If they were to discover this, and Gianfelice awoke to yet another scandal in the papers?

  No. He couldn’t risk it.

  His body screamed at him in regret, but Fiero knew what he must do. Pushing back the covers, he stood, taking the time to commit her appearance, at least, to memory, in the hope it would be sufficient comfort in the days to come – when he would no doubt kick himself for having done something so foolish and walked away from her without one last time, one last kiss, one last everything.

  He gathered his clothes and dressed quietly in the small lounge room of her flat. He took in the details on autopilot – the neatness and order, the books categorised by author surname on the shelves across the room, the fresh cut flowers on the kitchen bench, a glass bowl overflowing with fresh, fragrant fruits, a colourful rug on the floor.

  The décor was just like she had been, when she’d walked into the restaurant unable to secure a table and he’d offered for her to join him. Eclectic, beautiful, serene, bright, fascinating…

  He stifled a groan and reached for the notepad and pen she kept on the kitchen bench. The first page had a few items neatly penned, a grocery list that made him smile when he read the contents: olive oil, bread, tea bags, vegemite. The last brought her Australian accent to mind and his gut kicked in a strange sensual response.

  He flipped the page and hovered the pen over it for a moment, balancing his words mentally before committing them to paper.

  I had a great night. You were perfect. He paused, knowing he needed to walk away, to force a clean break. It had been one night, there was nothing between them, no expectations, no promises. He’d been very careful there.

  Nonetheless, he found himself adding: If you ever need anything… and placing his business card beside the note. It was simple and discreet – FIERO MONTEBELLO and his cell number. Nothing more, no mention of his job title or industry. Then again, the Montebello name really needed no introduction. They owned airlines, hotels, fashion chains, and pharmaceutical interests. The name was synonymous with being a titan of industry.

  He left the card and then strode out of the apartment, pulling the door closed quietly behind himself, and mentally doing the same thing.

  It had been one of the best nights of his life, but now it was morning, and he had to get back to his real life.

  That didn’t include Elodie Gardiner.

  One

  IT HAD BEEN THREE years, almost to the day, but he could still see her perfectly in his mind, the mental snap-shot he’d taken of her before striding out of her flat in Earls Court embedded in his brain somehow, so nothing and no one seemed able to dislodge it.

  But she wasn’t that woman anymore.

  He stood rigid across the hospital room, his body completely still, his eyes taking in every detail of her appearance. Her face was badly bruised down one side, and blood was dry and clumped in the roots of her silky, dark hair. She wore a hospital gown. One arm was in a cast as was a leg, including an ankle. Her toenails were painted the palest pink, just like the night they’d slept together. Memories seared him, threatening to pull him out of the present, and he couldn’t let that happen.

  “What is the prognosis?” He spoke with the command that came naturally to him, a command that wasn’t a by-product of his birth into one of the world’s wealthiest families, nor was it because he was responsible for one sixth of that company’s empire. No, his command was innate to him, a part of his character and soul, a marker of the Montebello arrogance that ran through each of their veins.

  “Hard to say,” the nurse didn’t look up. “Her bones’ll mend, though she’ll be in a lot of pain for weeks, I’d say. She’ll likely need rehab to get back on her feet properly.”

  He narrowed his eyes, acutely aware of the fact the nurse was carefully hedging, choosing her words with care. “But there’s something else - something you’re not saying?”

  The nurse lifted her eyes to Fiero’s, her expression wary. “Who are you to Miss Gardiner?”

  Nobody. The word rattled through him but he rejected it out of hand. They weren’t ‘nobody’ to one another. It had been three years but that night was alive in his mind, as though it had been only yesterday. Apparently, the reverse was true. Why else would she have asked for him to be called? Three years, and yet she’d been in an accident and his had been the name she’d given.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, the last hour a blur. His meeting with the British Prime Minister, conveniently in Westminster, and then the call from the hospital.

  It’s Ang from the Royal High and Free in Kensington. Elodie Gardiner’s been in an accident and she’s put you as her emergency contact.

  The words had echoed through him, bringing to bear memories of a night he rarely let himself think about, of a woman who had been breathtakingly beautiful – all the more so for how forbidden she’d been to him.

  He didn’t know why she’d listed him as an emergency contact. Something about that hurt him low in his ribs, because it spoke of an intense loneliness and vulnerability. Was he truly the only person she could think of in a time like this?

  But then – that didn’t make sense. It had been three years, surely she hadn’t spent her life in a void of friendship and people? Not someone like Elodie who sparked from her every piece of her being.

  “She’s unconscious,” he murmured, taking a step towards the bed and wincing at how battered she was, at the pain she would be in when the morphine eventually stopped easing it.

  “Mmm.” The nurse was no longer drip-feeding information but that didn’t matter. Fiero was on his own path now.

  “Was she unconscious when she came in?”

  The nurse compressed her lips, clearly not keen to divulge anything to a man who might very well be a stranger.

  “I’m her emergency contact,” he said with authority even as the question of ‘why’ hung over his head.

  The nurse looked at him for several beats longer and then sighed impatiently. “Hang about. I’ll go see what I can find.”

  It was Fiero’s turn for impatience. “Where is her doctor?”

  The nurse reached for the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “We’re waiting on the neurologist consultant to arrive. She’s on call; we’ve paged her.”

  He stifled a curse and swept his eyes shut. “Do you mean to tell me there might be neurological issues here and we are waiting?”
/>
  The nurse flinched a little. “I can page her again.”

  “Do that.” But Fiero was already reaching for his own phone, pulling it out of his pocket and dialling his personal assistant, ignoring the ‘no mobile phone’ sign near the door of the room. The nurse clearly thought better of pointing it out. She moved quickly from the room.

  Fiero was alone with Elodie.

  Three years.

  His body radiated tension as he moved the rest of the way to the side of the bed. Of his own accord, his fingers lifted to the hand that wasn’t in a sling. He stroked it gently, his eyes sweeping shut, impossibly long, black lashes curling against his dark skin.

  His assistant answered his phone call.

  Instincts took over.

  Springing his eyes open, he spoke in rapid-fire Italian. Where is the best hospital in London? How quickly could a private helicopter ambulance be arranged? Clear his meetings for the week. Everything. Yes, the dinners too. He disconnected the call and stared down at her, knowing that for whatever reason she’d given his details to the hospital, he was glad for it. Glad because he was the right person to make sure she got the very best care. Cost was irrelevant.

  She would be well again.

  “Dr Hassan won’t be long,” the nurse breezed back in, holding a plastic cup half-filled with water. She passed it to Fiero and he took it without acknowledging it.

  “What happened?”

  “A car accident.” The nurse had now apparently obtained the authority to speak freely with him. “I don’t know the details, but she was lucky it wasn’t worse. She was nipped as she stepped onto the curb, thrown across the footpath. Her head collided with a shop window, hence the lacerations and bruising.” The nurse clucked sympathetically. “Caused quite a commotion.”

  His nod was tight.

  “She’s been in and out of consciousness since,” the nurse continued.

  He suppressed the desire to drill her on the hospital’s policy with neurological admits. His assistant would be arranging everything – soon Elodie would be getting proper care.