Amy Ruttan - Pregnant with the Soldier's Son

Dr. Allen had his back to her, but there was something about his stance which tugged at the corner of her mind.

It was when he turned around.

“Hi, Dr. Walton …”

The words died in his throat, whereas Ingrid felt as if the world had dropped out from beneath her feet. She stood there stunned, like a deer trapped in a set of headlights, as she stared into those light cerulean eyes which had the darkest rims around them so that they seemed to make the blue of his irises pop.

It was the eyes which had attracted her to him in the first place. The only difference was that his dark hair had grown out. It had been buzz cut the last time, but he hadn’t spiked it as he’d threatened to do all those months ago. That had prompted a discussion on cheesy pickup lines, which had then deteriorated into her sleeping with him.

He’d also aged a bit—but then war could do that to a person. Still it was him. Clint. The soldier who had taken her virginity. The man she’d lived a little with.

The man who still haunted her dreams.

Thank you for picking up a copy of PREGNANT WITH THE SOLDIER’S SON.

One of the first things I learned as a writer was to ‘write what you know.’ Which I do find funny, because I’m not in the medical profession at all. But I know a lot of people who are, and I love research.

This book has a bit of what I know in it. The hero and heroine’s son is written based on my own experience with my middle child, who in 2006 almost didn’t make it. I didn’t have the same traumatic birth experience as Ingrid, but my son and Ingrid’s son both had the same rough start in life. I remember clearly sitting in a wheelchair and the paediatric surgeon telling me, ‘He’s very sick. Prepare yourself.’

Spending a month in the PCCU was one of the most stressful times of my life, but it gave me new respect for the doctors and nurses who face this every single day. I’ll never forget the smile on that surgeon’s face a year later, when he saw my son playing with trains at his check-up. His job is so full of heartache, but his smile told me there are great rewards for practising in this field of medicine.

Now my son is a healthy, active and imaginative eight-year-old, and I look at pictures of him as a newborn and send up thanks that he’s here today, scattering blocks and comic books all over my house. Except for when I step on them. Blocks hurt!

I hope you enjoy PREGNANT WITH THE SOLDIER’S SON. I love hearing from readers, so please drop by my website, www.amyruttan.com, or give me a shout on Twitter @ruttanamy.

With warmest wishes

Amy Ruttan

Born and raised on the outskirts of Toronto, Ontario, AMY RUTTANfled the big city to settle down with the country boy of her dreams. When she’s not furiously typing away at her computer she’s mom to three wonderful children, who have given her another job as a taxi driver.

A voracious reader, she was given her first romance novel by her grandmother, who shared her penchant for a hot romance. From that moment Amy was hooked by the magical worlds, handsome heroes and sigh-worthy romances contained in the pages, and she knew what she wanted to be when she grew up.

Life got in the way, but after the birth of her second child she decided to pursue her dream of becoming a romance author.

Amy loves to hear from readers. It makes her day, in fact. You can find out more about Amy at her website: www.amyruttan.com

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to one of my special guys, Aidan. Buddy, I thank God every day you’re here with me. I love you with all my heart.

Cover

Excerpt Dr. Allen had his back to her, but there was something about his stance which tugged at the corner of her mind. It was when he turned around. “Hi, Dr. Walton …” The words died in his throat, whereas Ingrid felt as if the world had dropped out from beneath her feet. She stood there stunned, like a deer trapped in a set of headlights, as she stared into those light cerulean eyes which had the darkest rims around them so that they seemed to make the blue of his irises pop. It was the eyes which had attracted her to him in the first place. The only difference was that his dark hair had grown out. It had been buzz cut the last time, but he hadn’t spiked it as he’d threatened to do all those months ago. That had prompted a discussion on cheesy pickup lines, which had then deteriorated into her sleeping with him. He’d also aged a bit—but then war could do that to a person. Still it was him. Clint. The soldier who had taken her virginity. The man she’d lived a little with. The man who still haunted her dreams.

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Copyright

“WOULD YOU GET a load of that guy!”

“Who?” Ingrid asked as she scanned the darkened bar where she and her closest surgical best friends were celebrating her recent promotion.

“ That guy. Down at the end,” Philomena said, following her words with a whistle, a cat sound and a clawlike swish of her manicured hand. “I bet he could get me to purr all night long.”

Ingrid turned in her seat to see who her friend was referring to, and when her gaze fell on the aforementioned male who made the respectable oncologist Dr. Philomena Reminsky turn feline, Ingrid almost choked on the cherry in her cosmopolitan.

Tall, muscular and clad in army fatigues, the soldier sitting at the far end of the bar seemed to have every hot-blooded female in a twenty-foot radius panting after him. His hair was buzzed short, but she could tell from the slash of his eyebrows that his hair was ebony. He would probably be even dreamier with longer locks. Still, the buzz cut suited him.

There was an aloof, brooding quality to him.

Something that told the outside world not to mess with him, yet called to the female species like a siren call.