Found (Not Quite a Billionaire Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  But then, it had been a honeymoon. Of sorts. And Hemi didn’t need much excuse.

  I shifted in my seat, and Hemi looked up from his laptop. “Need something?”

  “No,” I said. “Go back to work. Geez. I’m fine.”

  See? Grumpy. I sighed. “Sorry. But I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going to go lie down for a while.”

  He’d upgraded his jet. Apparently, the one he’d had before had been insufficiently grand. Now, we had a bedroom in the back, complete with double bed made up fresh for the trip.

  I propped myself up against the pillows, turned on the overhead TV, found a movie mindless enough for my current state—Frozen, because sister-love was good, and so were strong women—and prepared to while away some time. Aroha squirmed, pushing off my diaphragm and shoving her head down harder onto my cervix, and I put my hand over her and said absently, “Good job exercising, sweetheart, but could you give the leg lifts a rest?”

  In answer, she kicked me under the ribs and punched me in the kidney. Right, then. Maybe not.

  I don’t know how long it took me to realize that I wasn’t just uncomfortable. All of Frozen, anyway. Anna had thawed, I’d wiped away my tears, and we were into the epilogue when my abdomen began to tighten again, harder than ever, and I thought, Hey. Wait, and realized that the contractions were getting pretty strong.

  I lay there, one hand on my distended abdomen, and waited some more, trying not to hold my breath. And sure enough, in a few minutes, there it was again.

  Braxton-Hicks, I told myself, but . . . I was up here in the air, hours from land and getting farther away every minute. And there was a doctor on board. I’d just check. Quietly.

  Ha. Small chance of that. As soon as I waddled up front and asked Melody, “Could you come talk to me a second?” Hemi was up.

  “What?” he asked.

  The pressure came again, tightening around my belly like a band, and I put a hand onto the seatback beside me and breathed my way through it. Melody had a palm there, too, a look of concentration on her face. And, I thought wildly, if Hemi took that expression into a poker game, he’d lose his shirt.

  “Let’s go on back and have a look,” Melody said, switching, from one second to the next, from a carefree adventure-sports enthusiast into a take-charge professional.

  Hemi came, too, and Karen was pulling off her headphones and saying, “What? What’s happening?”

  I wanted to laugh, it all seemed like such an overreaction. “Nothing,” I said. “Probably just looking to create some drama to liven up the trip.” But I said it to the air, since Melody was guiding me toward the back of the plane.

  And after that, it really got exciting.

  Hemi

  I was swearing at myself, and I was bargaining with God. Neither of which would do any good.

  Why did you risk it, you bloody fool? You knew it could happen. What the hell were you thinking?

  And, in the next second, Please. Just let her be all right. Just let the baby be all right. I’ll do anything. Please.

  Life didn’t work that way, though, and I knew it. There were no bargains possible. There was only reality.

  Reality was Hope, changed into a short nightgown, a monitor strapped around her belly, her hand clasping mine, her voice soothing me. Telling me it would be fine, that this was why I’d brought a doctor, that I’d been right.

  I didn’t care about being right. I’d never cared less.

  Reality was the pilot turning around and heading back to Auckland. Reality was being five hours out and forty thousand feet in the air. Reality was watching one movie after the next with Hope—Cinderella and her prince, Beauty and her beast—and not seeing a thing. Reality was Karen singing along to the songs on Hope’s other side, being her sister’s caretaker for once and knowing how to do it, because Hope had taught her.

  Reality was time passing and labor progressing as labors did, until Hope wasn’t watching the movie anymore, until she was closing her eyes and going inward during the ever-longer contractions. Until the TV was off and Melody was putting absorbent pads under my wife, getting her ready, because she didn’t think we were going to make it in time.

  Hope shifted uncomfortably against the pillows, grimaced, and said, “So thirsty.” Karen fed her ice chips, and I said, “What would help? Massage your back some more?”

  “Could you . . . get behind me?” Hope asked. “Please? Can I lean on you?”

  I could see the tears in her eyes. My endlessly brave, impossibly fierce little warrior, who wasn’t going to have to do this alone. Not this time.

  I got back there, I held her, and it was better, until it wasn’t. Until she was blowing out rapid breaths during every contraction and squeezing Karen’s hand so hard, her fingernails left red crescents on Karen’s skin.

  “Transition,” Melody said. “This is the maximum, Hope. Take them one at a time. You’re giving your baby room to come out. You’re doing great.”

  Hope was white, the beads of sweat forming on her forehead as fast as Karen could wipe them away. “Hemi,” she said. “Please.”

  “What, love?” I asked. “Anything.”

  “Could you . . . sing?” she gasped. “Please? Please sing me a Maori song.”

  I did. Of course I did. I sang every Maori song I knew. Ballads and hymns, fighting songs and loving songs. There were enough, because there were enough Maori songs in the world to get through anything. Even this.

  My voice got hoarse, and I didn’t stop. Hope was calling out loud now, and it was killing me, but something was changing. We were starting our descent. I was almost sure of it. Thirty minutes.

  “Almost there, love,” I told Hope. “Soon be down, sweetheart. And our baby’s going to get born.”

  “Is she . . . all right?” Hope asked desperately. “It doesn’t feel like she can be all right.”

  “She’s fine,” Melody said. She reached inside Hope again, and Hope hauled in her breath and moaned. It hurt so much. I could feel it as if it were my own body.

  “Good news,” Melody said. “Time to push. Come on, Hope. Let’s get this little girl born. Let’s make the magic happen.”

  “Sing, Hemi,” Hope begged. “Please sing.”

  I did. I sang my baby girl into the world. I sang her a lullaby during a lull, and I sang her a protest song, a strong song, when things were toughest. And when Melody said, “We’ve got a head coming,” and Hope was nearly screaming, I started singing a song to be born by. Pokarekare Ana, the song every Maori knew. The song my daughter would sing.

  I wove a net for the two of them with my voice, strand by strand of silver and gold. I sang my strength into Hope. I sang my daughter into life. I sang my girls home.

  Hope

  It wasn’t until the bedroom door opened and the paramedics came in that I realized we were on the ground. I hadn’t even noticed the landing.

  I couldn’t stop shaking. My hands, my legs. Melody was working on me, sewing me up, and it hurt, but it was so much less than the pain I’d just gone through that I could barely pay attention to it.

  Besides, I was looking at my baby. Our baby. Hemi was beside me on the bed with Aroha cradled in his arms, wiping her off gently with a towel as he murmured something soft and sweet to her. I could swear she knew her father, too, the way her rosebud mouth nuzzled against his chest. Her dark curls were still damp, and her skin was a golden color that made me want to cry. Or maybe I was crying anyway.

  Our golden girl. She was here.

  A paramedic started to take her away from Hemi, and I put out a hand—to touch her, or maybe to stop him—but Hemi said, “It’s all right, baby. It’s all right,” and I realized he was talking to me.

  “We’re . . . down,” I managed to say.

  Karen said, “Holy shit. Hope. You had a baby in the air. You had your baby!” She was laughing and crying, both together. I reached out a hand and clutched hers, as I’d clutched it all along, and was so grateful for her.

  Hemi got up an
d left me, and the paramedics were loading me onto a stretcher, which was good, because I’d be going with Aroha. I said, “Hemi.”

  “What, sweetheart?” he asked. His face was streaked with tears, and I couldn’t even wonder at it.

  “What happens to a baby who’s born on . . . I mean, it’s New Zealand, isn’t it? Isn’t that where we are?”

  “Auckland airport,” he said. “You can run, but you can’t hide. Once a Kiwi . . .”

  He was babbling. My big, strong, stoic Maori husband was completely over the edge. I managed to smile at him—at least, I thought it was a smile. “So what does that mean?”

  “Oh,” Karen said. “If you’re born somewhere, you’re a citizen. Right? Wow, how cool is that?”

  “Yeh,” Hemi said, taking my hand, smiling at me, loving me. “I reckon our girl’s a Kiwi. Through and through.”

  Read the book that inspired the series: JUST IN TIME: Escape to New Zealand.

  Never miss a new release or a sale—and receive a free book when you sign up for my mailing list.

  Find out what’s new at the ROSALIND JAMES WEBSITE.

  Got a comment or a question? I’d love to hear! You can email me at Rosalind@rosalindjames.com

  THE ESCAPE TO NEW ZEALAND SERIES

  Reka and Hemi’s story: JUST FOR YOU

  Hannah and Drew’s story: JUST THIS ONCE

  Kate and Koti’s story: JUST GOOD FRIENDS

  Jenna and Finn’s story: JUST FOR NOW

  Emma and Nic’s story: JUST FOR FUN

  Ally and Nate’s/Kristen and Liam’s stories: JUST MY LUCK

  Josie and Hugh’s story: JUST NOT MINE

  Hannah & Drew’s story again/Reunion: JUST ONCE MORE

  Faith & Will’s story: JUST IN TIME

  Nina & Iain's story: JUST STOP ME

  THE NOT QUITE A BILLIONAIRE SERIES (HOPE AND HEMI)

  FIERCE

  FRACTURED

  FOUND

  THE PARADISE, IDAHO SERIES (MONTLAKE ROMANCE)

  Zoe & Cal’s story: CARRY ME HOME

  Kayla & Luke’s story: HOLD ME CLOSE

  Rochelle & Travis's story: TURN ME LOOSE

  Hallie & Jim's story: TAKE ME BACK

  THE KINCAIDS SERIES

  Mira and Gabe’s story: WELCOME TO PARADISE

  Desiree and Alec’s story: NOTHING PERSONAL

  Alyssa and Joe’s story: ASKING FOR TROUBLE

  Thank you to my amazing alpha read duo, Kathy Harward and Mary Guidry, for holding my virtual hand through FOUND and the previous two books as I navigated this new territory, and continually steering me right. Mary, the title is for you, and Kathy, the singing is for you.

  Thanks to Carol Chappell and Bob Pryor for their feedback, and a special thank-you to Phalbe Henriksen, who volunteered to do a last proofread and found things I could have sworn weren’t there!

  Thanks to Mary Guidry for being the best assistant an author could possibly have.

  Thanks to my husband, Rick Nolting, for his support and encouragement during an especially tough time while I wrote this book, and to Barbara Buchanan and Rick Dalessio for giving me space and time in their home to finish it when it didn’t seem possible. I may write all my books in your house, especially if Rick keeps feeding the author like that.

  And finally, thanks to my readers for going on this journey with me. I appreciate you.