Her Billion-Dollar Bump, page 1
“I didn’t come here to ask anything of you,” Fliss said with quiet dignity. “Nothing. I mean that. Nothing.”
“Except my time,” Saint noted dryly.
“Not even much of that,” she assured him with a proud lift of her chin. “I’m catching the train back to Nottingham once I’ve finished the rest of my errands. You’ll never hear from me again. But I had to tell you something that didn’t feel right to send as a text.”
“What’s that?” He did his best to sound detached, but his ears were ringing with that word. Never. He held his breath, straining to hear over that jarring sound of a train disappearing down a tunnel. His muscles felt both paralyzed and tense with readiness to leap and catch.
“I’m pregnant.”
Diamonds of the Rich and Famous
London’s most exclusive jeweler. Three life-changing gems.
If you’re part of the glitterati, then you’ve already heard of Smyth’s, London’s most exclusive—and elusive—purveyor of diamonds. But recently new rumors have been swirling around the brilliant boutique: these flawless gems seem to generate drama!
PA Mareka is just picking up a ring for her CEO boss when a run-in with the paparazzi has the world convinced she’s his bride! The papers think they’re a perfect match: Could they be right?
Find out in Mareka and Caye’s story
Accidentally Wearing the Argentinian’s Ring
by Maya Blake
After an accident, Julius wakes with an engagement ring fit for royalty as the only clue to his identity—the Crown Prince of Rodina! But who is his betrothed?
Read more in Esme and Julius’s story
Prince’s Forgotten Diamond by Emmy Grayson
After one scorching night together, billionaire Saint Montgomery wants to give mysterious Fliss a jewel to remember him by. But he’s already left her with quite the memento—she’s pregnant!
Don’t miss Fliss and Saint’s story
Her Billion-Dollar Bump by Dani Collins
All available now!
Her Billion-Dollar Bump
Dani Collins
Canadian Dani Collins knew in high school that she wanted to write romance for a living. Twenty-five years later, after marrying her high school sweetheart, having two kids with him, working at several generic office jobs and submitting countless manuscripts, she got The Call. Her first Harlequin novel won the Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best First in Series from RT Book Reviews. She now works in her own office, writing romance.
Books by Dani Collins
Harlequin Presents
Innocent in Her Enemy’s Bed
Awakened on Her Royal Wedding Night
Bound by a Surrogate Baby
The Baby His Secretary Carries
The Secret of Their Billion-Dollar Baby
Four Weddings and a Baby
Cinderella’s Secret Baby
Wedding Night with the Wrong Billionaire
A Convenient Ring to Claim Her
A Baby to Make Her His Bride
Jet-Set Billionaires
Cinderella for the Miami Playboy
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
This one is for Emmy Grayson and Maya Blake, my fellow authors in this trilogy. Thank you for being lovely and generous and a delight to work with.
Contents
PROLOGUE
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
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM MY ONE-NIGHT HEIR BY NATALIE ANDERSON
PROLOGUE
AS FELICITY CORNING picked up the wastebasket from beside the client’s writing desk, a glint of gold script on glossy ebony caught her attention.
You are invited to attend London’s premier Benefit for the Arts Gala
The gala was being held at a swanky art gallery in Chelsea two weeks from now.
This is the way, the devilish dreamer on her shoulder whispered. That voice was delusional, always telling her to keep trying...find a way.
Given how many obstacles the universe had put in her way, she was ready to throw in the towel on her fashion-design aspirations. She was only twenty-four, but after two years of knocking on fashion house doors that remained firmly closed, she was growing disheartened.
She understood that dropping out of her degree—and having books and books of sketches with only a few physical samples—meant she wasn’t seen as a viable candidate for even an unpaid intern position. The designers needed to see more commitment to her craft, but she couldn’t help feeling like she had already missed the boat.
If you could show them what you’re capable of, the voice persisted, someone might finally take you seriously.
“No,” she said aloud.
Risking her current job was not the way to go about it. Housekeeping might not be the most glamorous job in the world, but the agency catered to wealthy clients. That was why she had taken it. She often got to put away samples, shopping, and dry cleaning from top designers. Aside from the occasional post-party apocalypse, the work was basic and physical but undemanding. The pay covered her bills. More or less. London was obscenely expensive.
Felicity actually lived a penurious existence. Most artists did. She didn’t mind going without lattes or streaming services so she could spend her scant disposable income on bolts of silk and high-end notions, though. Building out her collection was her way forward. It was her passion. It was the only entertainment she needed.
However, her life had fallen into a rut. Every day was a grind that only seemed to entrench her deeper into a place she didn’t want to be. She had been thinking of going back to school to finish her degree, which she had waffled her way through the first time round. She had been persuaded by her grandmother into thinking a practical business degree was the way to go, then later switched to visual arts before knocking off to take care of Granny until she had passed away.
Going back to school would create the Catch-22 of having no time outside of her classes and day job to sew. Plus, most fashion houses were looking for a post-graduate degree. It would be years before she was remotely “qualified” in the eyes of top designers.
With a sigh of frustration, Felicity carried the wastebasket into the housekeeping closet, but she didn’t immediately empty it into the larger bin. First, she plucked out the invitation and set it on the shelf of cleaning products.
She wasn’t taking it, she told her squirming conscience. She was merely not throwing it away.
Maybe the owner of this three-bedroom townhome—a well-known supermodel—had tossed it by accident. She had recently been cast in a blockbuster movie and was out of town. That was likely why she had discarded the invitation despite the message on the back.
Delia Chevron and date, courtesy of Brightest Star Studio
The studio must have picked up the ticket price for her. How nice to be so rich and famous you could throw away a dinner worth a few hundred pounds. Such a waste. A crime, really, when good people went hungry every day.
People like you, the voice whispered.
“Shut up,” she hissed.
But when Felicity left for the day, she told herself she was only taking the card as inspiration. Someday she would be invited to an event like this—or one of her gowns would, she thought wryly.
But she knew better. She knew she would take a risk that could go horribly awry.
On the other hand, it could change her life.
As it turned out, it did both.
CHAPTER ONE
SAINT MONTGOMERY WOULD have been ushered down the red carpet with or without a date, but he was solo tonight, so he chose the less conspicuous side entrance where he was funneled like a steer for branding past a thinner bank of photographers. He couldn’t avoid the barrage of questions on his recent breakup, however.
“Saint! Are you and Julie still speaking? What happened?”
He should have brought a date. A new face would have changed the narrative, and God knew he was tired of this one.
Historically, his romantic liaisons were casual and pleasant and ended without conflict. If asked about a particular breakup, he would claim “artistic differences” or some other facetious explanation.
His affair with Julie, however, was the gift that kept on giving. Or taking, as it turned out.
He’d caught her trying to break into his laptop. She’d claimed to be the jealous type who’d suspected him of an affair. He had assured her he was the possessive type, especially when it came to his proprietary software.
Saint wasn’t surprised she’d had a mercenary motive in sleeping with him. Most people operated in their own self-interest, including him, but this experience had shaken his already jaded view of his fellow human beings.
When he had begun seeing Julie, he had taken her at face value, believing she hadn’t needed anything from him beyond affluent companionship. She was the daughter of a famous sportscaster in the US and stood to inherit millions. She had recently broken up with a star athlete and had told Saint she wasn’t ready for anything serious again. She wanted marriage and children “someday” but not today. She had fit seamlessly into his social circle of tycoons and celebrities, flirting and charming wherever she’d gone.
She had seemed an even match for Saint, who always promised monogamy, but little else. He had dropped his guard more than he normally would, never suspecting that Julie had a gambling addiction. Or that she would attempt industrial espionage to pay down her debts.
She could have cost him billions if his bespoke security software hadn’t alerted him to her attempt to clone it. He hadn’t pressed charges. He’d gone easy on her, expelling her from his life while offering to pay for a treatment program.
She had petulantly refused, then gone on every damned talk show in the English-speaking world, literally selling a tale that he had wronged her.
This story was well past its shelf life. Saint was beyond ready to change the channel.
“You can wait for your party over there.” Ahead of him, the greeter waved a woman into purgatory on the far side of the single door and invited the group ahead of him to come forward.
A kick of desire arrested him as he ate up the vision in blue.
Who was she? She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. More eye-catching in an undiscovered, wallflower way. Most women had arrived dressed to compete with plunging necklines and tiaras and capes made of ostrich feathers. This one’s makeup was muted. Her brunette hair fell in subtle waves from a side part. Rather than an ice cap’s worth of diamonds, she wore a pair of gold hoops and a thin chain with a locket. Her gown was a simple halter style that tied behind her neck before cradling her ample breasts in soft gathers above a high, wide waistband. The skirt fell in a solid curtain off her wide hips, leaving her legs and shoes hidden.
He let his gaze return to those lovely breasts sitting heavy and relaxed in the gathered cups of silk. No bra. He would swear it on his life. Her nipples were leaving a subtle impression beneath the sheen of fabric. One soft swell lifted and moved without restraint as she brushed her hair back from her cheek.
He swallowed. Saint was a healthy man with a strong sexual appetite, but he rarely felt need. Not like this. Not hunger that was immediate and intense and specific.
Her unease was palpable as she pressed a self-conscious smile onto her lips and eyed the bank of photographers. They were ignoring her in favor of new arrivals at the end of the line.
Wait. Was she looking for a path of escape? She pressed her lips together and took a step.
“Angel,” Saint said on impulse, stepping toward her. “I’m so glad you decided to come.” He crooked his arm in invitation, aware of the cameras shifting to the pair of them.
“What?” Her amber gaze flashed to Saint, hitting him like a shot of whiskey, sending even more heat pouring into his gut and out to his extremities. The delicious warmth sank to pool low and heavy behind his fly. It was exciting. Dangerous, but exciting.
“Sir.” The greeter reacted to Saint trying to bypass him, then stammered, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Montgomery. Of course you may go in.”
“We’re blocking the entrance,” Saint said, steadying his new date’s faltering steps as he guided her into the noisy foyer, then found them a quiet corner in the main gallery.
She blinked, taking in the freestanding sculptures and abstract oils surrounding tables placed like stepping stones into the labyrinth of the gallery’s showrooms. The glitterati milled in pockets at the edges. Above them, origami flowers were suspended on threads, drifting and bobbing on gentle, unseen currents, like an upside-down meadow.
The woman’s enchantment was cute, her uptilted mouth in that rosy pink nearly irresistible.
“I was stood up, too,” Saint said, signaling a server to bring champagne.
“You’re joking.” Her wide-eyed gaze came down from the ceiling as she took the glass he handed her.
“Prevaricating,” he admitted. No one would ever leave him waiting. “I parted ways with my date two weeks ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” She sounded sincere, which was adorable.
“It’s for the best. And you? Who had the poor taste to leave you hanging?”
“Are we prevaricating?” Her chin dropped in a sly, self-deprecating dip. “I actually knew my...um...date wouldn’t be here. I came anyway, hoping they’d let me in, which they didn’t. So you’ve aided and abetted a party crasher.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I’ve done worse.”
She started to say something, then checked herself, biting her lips with contrition.
“What? You’ve heard that about me?” That was no surprise. He’d misspent his young adult years on wine, women and song. He was a lot more circumspect these days, but that playboy reputation remained his calling card and had its uses, so he didn’t fight it.
“Maybe.” Her lashes flickered as her gaze traveled across the unpadded shoulders of his jacket and down to the buttons that closed it.
He stole the opportunity to take another long drink of her figure-eight figure—which was a solid ten. He came back in time to see the tip of her tongue slide along the seam of her lips.
Her bottom lip was wide and full, the top one thinner with two sharp peaks in the center and an uptilt at the corners that gave an impression she had an amusing secret.
Damn, but he wanted to kiss her. Right. Now.
But when her gaze lifted to his, there was wariness behind the speculation. She quirked a quizzical brow at him.
“Are you really Saint Montgomery?”
“Yes.” He liked his name in her accent. It wasn’t one of those posh pronunciations that scolded, demanding he behave like his namesake. Her broad inflection held a rueful skepticism that seemed to know he was the furthest thing from a saint.
“So why are you talking to me?”
He liked how direct she was, too. “Is that a real question? I find you attractive.”
She choked on the sip of champagne she’d started to take. “No.” She tilted her head, eyeing him with suspicion. “At best, you’re on a rebound from your recent breakup.”
He winced, caught, but, “Both things can be true, can’t they? I do find you attractive, but it also suited me to give the paparazzi fresh meat to chew on. Now they’re out there wondering who the hell I came in with.”
Her eyes widened with alarm.
“Why does that worry you? Who did I come in with?”
“I’d rather not say.” She glanced around and shook her head with something like incredulity. “I was misrepresenting myself by turning up here and really need to quit while I’m ahead. Thank you for getting me in, but I’m leaving.”
“Why?” He put out a hand, needing to touch her again if only to graze her bare elbow. And watch her nipples peak against the thin silk of her gown. “Who was your date? Why did you come if you didn’t think they’d let you in?”
“I’m embarrassed to say. Genuinely.” Her flush of awareness turned to dark pink stains on her cheeks. Her bright-eyed amusement was very much at her own expense. “I’ll do more damage than good if I stick around, so... It was nice to meet you, but I have to go. Even though it galls me to walk away from a dinner worth a hundred pounds.”
She really was new here. “It’s twenty-five thousand.”
“What is? This statue?” She halted herself from setting her unfinished glass on the base of a nearby sculpture.
“The plate fee.”
“Is twenty-five thousand pounds?” she cried and fumbled her glass, splashing champagne against her knuckles. She added an earthy epithet that he would’ve loved to hear against his ear while they were between the sheets.
He offered his pocket square, not bothering to mention he’d underwritten a table of ten for his London team of executives and their spouses.
“I’m definitely leaving,” she blurted as she handed back his damp square of silk.
“Not before midnight, Cinderella,” he cajoled, caressing her arm again, liking how quickly goose bumps rose against his tickling touch. He nodded toward an archway into another room. “I have to make the rounds. Stay and amuse me.”
