Sandra Hyatt - The Magnate's Baby Promise / Having The Billionaire's Baby

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She wondered if she’d just imagined that night in Sydney, two months ago.

Cal Prescott stood in the doorway, broad and immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit, a chilly gleam in his eyes. Those same eyes had creased with serious concentration as they’d shared hot, wet kisses in the privacy of his penthouse suite. Flared with hunger as he’d slipped her dress from her shoulders—She slammed the door on those memories, barely managing a croak. “Cal.” “Ava.” Cal’s voice, a slow burning rasp that had turned her on so quickly, so completely, was the same, but little else was. His face was a study in frozen control, eyes reflecting only an impersonal razor-sharp study as he remained still, somehow dwarfing her kitchen even from the relative safety of the doorway.

She was alone with Cal Prescott. Again.

Despite wanting to be a vet, choreographer, hairdresser, card shark and an interior designer (though not all at once!), PAULA ROEended up as a personal assistant, office manager, aerobics instructor and software trainer for thirteen years (which also funded her extensive travel through the US and Europe). Today she still retains a deep love of filing systems, stationery and travelling, although the latter is only in her dreams these days. Paula lives near western Sydney’s glorious Blue Mountains with her family, an ancient black cat and a garden full of rainbow lorikeets, magpies and willy wagtails. You can visit her at www.paularoe.com .

Grateful thanks to my wonderful writing group, The Coven, for the hours of brainstorming, encouragement and Saturday morning brunches. Oh, and for letting me immortalize your names in print. I owe you all a large decaf soy caramel latte!

Dear Reader,

Just like my navigation skills, sometimes my stories begin in one place then end up somewhere completely different. This one was no exception. I did know a few things—secret pregnancy, forced marriage, Outback business in trouble—but that’s where the similarities ended. Cal and Ava started with different names and occupations, different pasts and conflict, and even though I loved that story, it just wasn’t the right one for them. And because I never throw my ideas away, the original version is sitting in my filing cabinet, waiting for its time to shine.

It’s exciting to see my first “Outback” story come to fruition. Even though Gum Tree Falls and Jindalee are purely fictional, I did do some research in and around far western NSW where Ava grew up (no hardship—it’s gorgeous country). Creative license is a beautiful thing, so I renovated “The Toaster”—the controversial but expensive apartment block at Sydney’s Circular Quay—into a very tall, very elegant building where Cal lives. I don’t know about you, but I’d love to have the Quay, Opera House and Royal Botanical Gardens as my daily room with a view!

Come and visit me at www.paularoe.com , where there’s more behind-the-scenes info about The Magnate’s Baby Promise .

With love,

Paula

I t’s my company. Mine.

The mantra throbbed in Cal Prescott’s brain until, with a growl of frustration, he slammed his palms on the desk and shot to his feet.

Victor had really done it this time—not only pitting his sons against each other for the ultimate prize of VP Tech but demanding an heir in the bargain. With a sharp breath Cal whirled to study the panoramic view of Sydney’s Circular Quay and Botany Bay below, the gun-metal arch of Sydney Harbour Bridge nestled comfortably in the foreground. The unusually sunny June morning did nothing to smooth his anger; Victor’s trademark directness still smouldered away in his gut.

You must both marry and produce an heir. The first one to do so gets the company.

Zac, his stepbrother, didn’t deserve VP Tech. He was Victor’s real flesh and blood, yes, but the younger man had turned his back on them years ago. It was Cal who’d stuck with family, who had put in the long hours, steadily growing the business until his One-Click office software package had finally cracked the biggest seller spot in Australia last year.

Cal Prescott didn’t walk away. Ever. He’d put every waking hour, every drop of sweat into his stepfather’s company. Damned if he’d let it slip through his fingers now.

With long-legged strides he stalked over to a discreet wall panel and jabbed a button to reveal a well-stocked bar. He smoothly poured himself a glass of whiskey, neat.

Making money, proving himself, had been an all-consuming desire for so long he barely remembered a time he hadn’t lived and breathed it. And with every million he’d made, every deal he’d brokered, he could’ve sworn he’d seen pride on Victor’s craggy face, felt the rush of approval when the gruff, emotionally spare man imparted brief praise. Obviously he was good enough to bring in millions but not good enough to be a Prescott, to be automatically entrusted with the legacy of VP Tech.

Unfamiliar bitterness knotted his insides, curled his lip. Victor hadn’t even given him the courtesy of an explanation; he’d simply issued the ultimatum then left on some business trip, leaving Cal to sort through the bombshell’s wreckage.

The phone rang then and Cal sat, grabbing the receiver.

“There’s a woman I’d like you to meet,” Victor said by way of greeting.

Speak of the devil. “You’re back.”

“Yes. You remember Miles Jasper, the Melbourne heart surgeon?”

The sour taste of futility burnt the back of his throat. “No.”

Victor ignored him and continued. “He has a daughter. She’s twenty-seven, blond, attractive and—”

“I don’t give a damn if she’s Miss Universe,” Cal ground out. “I’m not some prize stallion at auction. I may have agreed to this ludicrous arrangement, but I will pick my own wife.” He slammed the phone down with a satisfying crack.

After a long, drawn-out moment he dragged in a controlled breath, slid a sealed envelope from his desk drawer and slowly centred it on the desk with meticulous care.

Thanks to a local investigator and a helpful cabbie, his obsession with the elusive Ava Reilly could now be put to rest.

For the past nine weeks he’d refused to think about her, about that one amazing night, shoving it from his mind with the decisive efficiency he was renowned for. But now, as he let his thoughts wander back to their chance encounter, the walls began to crack.

Long limbs, soft black hair and a pair of bright blue eyes teased his memory. Ava. A movie-star name, one that evoked a woman with poise, elegance. Presence.

She’d gotten under his skin and stayed there, disrupting his thoughts at awkward times—in meetings, with clients. The worst were the early mornings, before the sun rose. Time and again he’d hauled himself from the depths of a hot erotic dream where her mouth had been on his, her lips trailing over his chest, her skin hot and silky beneath his hands. It had left him frustrated and aching with need way too many times.