Caroline Anderson - With This Baby...

“Morning, gorgeous,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose, and Claire grinned at him.

“I thought you were talking to me,” she teased, and suddenly the atmosphere between them became electric.

After a moment of tense silence, Claire turned away, a gentle tide of color sweeping over her cheeks, and Patrick drew in a quiet, steadying breath and stepped away.

“Did you sleep all right?” she asked, hastily filling the silence, and he groped about for something sensible to say.

“Um—yes, fine,” he said, and rolled his eyes. He sounded like a total idiot, which was hardly surprising, because, as he was beginning to discover, being too long in Claire’s company was enough to completely addle his brain.

Not to mention playing hell with his hormones!

Every woman has dreams—deep desires, all-consuming passions, or maybe just little everyday wishes! In this brand-new miniseries from Harlequin Romance® we’re delighted to present a series of fresh, lively and compelling stories by some of our most popular authors—all exploring the truth about what women really want.

Step into each heroine’s shoes as we get up close and personal with her most cherished dreams…big and small!

• Is she a high-flying executive…but all she wants is a baby?

• Has she met her ideal man—if only he wasn’t her new boss…?

• Is she about to marry, but is secretly in love with someone else?

• Or does she simply long to be slimmer, more glamorous, with a whole new wardrobe?

Whatever she wants, each heroine finds happiness on her own terms—and unexpected romance along the way. And she’s about to discover whether Mr. Right is the answer to her dreams—or if he has a few questions of his own!

The Billionaire Bid

by Leigh Michaels.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

‘NOT again!’

Patrick slammed the phone down and shot back his chair, narrowly missing the dog’s tail. Ever the optimist, the dog leapt to his feet, anticipating a walk, but Patrick shook his head.

‘Sorry, Dog, not this time,’ he muttered, snagging his jacket off the back of the chair and heading for the door. Still hopeful, those persuasive eyes watched him for the slightest encouragement, but Patrick lobbed him a biscuit and left him to it. This shouldn’t take long. It never did—although last time he’d felt almost sorry for the girl.

He shook his head to dismiss thoughts of last time from his mind, and headed for the lift. If this young woman thought she was going to be any luckier than the other one at slapping a paternity suit on him, she had another think coming. She’d have more luck with the lottery.

Patrick knew every woman he’d ever had an intimate relationship with—knew, loved and had remained friends with, furthermore—and no stranger was going to be able to hoodwink him into believing she’d had his child.

The lift doors slid open to reveal a young woman standing in the foyer with a screaming baby in her arms, and Patrick sighed inwardly. Was this a change of tack for the paternity punters? The last one had also come armed with a screaming baby—to wear him down, or tug his heartstrings?

Either way, it wouldn’t work. It hadn’t then, despite her haunted eyes, and it wouldn’t now. He was made of sterner stuff.

‘Mr Cameron?’

Well, that made a change. At least she wasn’t calling him ‘Patrick, darling’. He studied her for a moment, taking in the soft silver-blonde hair scooped back into a ponytail, the clear, challenging eyes, the too-wide mouth devoid of lipstick, the snug jacket that showed off all too clearly her softly rounded breasts and slender waist.

‘Do I know you?’ he asked, knowing full well that he didn’t—and for some reason regretting it. Stupid. She was just another money-grubbing little liar.

She shifted the baby in her arms and the screaming settled to a steady grizzle. Still rocking the infant gently, she looked up at him with those clear grey eyes that seemed to search into the deepest recesses of his soul and find him wanting.

‘No—no, you don’t know me,’ she said, and her voice surprised him, low and mellow and distracting. ‘You knew my sister, though—Amy Franklin. She came to see you a few weeks ago with the baby.’

Ah. ‘And I told her I’d never seen her before in my life.’

‘And I don’t believe you,’ she said softly, her eyes accusing. ‘I’ve got evidence—’

‘Excuse me—is that your car?’

They both turned and looked at his receptionist, Kate, who was pointing through the plate-glass doors. Right outside, and causing a chaotic traffic jam, a recovery truck was busily winching the remains of an ancient lipstick pink Citröen 2CV up into the air.

‘Good grief,’ he said weakly. It looked straight out of the 1960s hippy era. The tatty paintwork was smothered in huge psychedelic flowers, and as it was raised into the air the driver’s door fell open and swung gently in the wind, releasing a trail of paper cups and sweet wrappers that rained down like confetti on the man beneath.

‘How dare he?’

Thrusting the baby at him, the young woman turned on her heel and headed for the door, marching out with hands on hips and haranguing the unfortunate truck driver, arms flailing like a windmill as she gesticulated wildly at the dangling car.

‘Oh, good grief,’ Patrick said again, and, handing the screaming baby to his bewildered receptionist, he went outside, extracting his wallet and wondering what this little fiasco was going to cost him. Far more than the car was worth, without a shadow of a doubt, but any minute now she was going to land the poor guy one by accident and get herself arrested.

‘I’m sorry, this young lady was just trying to gain access to our car park, but the car stalled and she couldn’t get it going again. She’d just come in to call a recovery vehicle,’ he ad-libbed, shouldering her none too gently out of the way and stepping between them. ‘Perhaps I could reimburse you for your trouble…’

The man, burly and immovable, gave a dismissive snort. ‘Sorry, mate. Rules is rules. I have to remove it, it’s causing an obstruction. She’ll have to collect it from the pound—not that it’s worth it. I mean, what is it worth? A tenner? Fifty quid for the rarity value? Personally, if it wasn’t for the fact that you have to pay the fine anyway, I wouldn’t bother.’