Dani Collins - Proof Of Their Sin

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Paolo muttered.

The words sliced through Lauren, withering a very sensitive nerve. She knew she lacked experience and sophistication. Why else had her husband cheated on her? Paolo didn’t need to rub it in, though.

Lauren flashed him a livid glance from eyes that burned. But he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t aware she was melting under his touch.

She lifted her chin, daring him to take that away from her.

Nothing. Not one iota of reaction. Only an uninterested, “Why did you want to see me?”

The moment of truth. She waited until he’d spun her so her back was to the majority of the crowd, making lip-reading from across the room less likely.

“I need to tell you that I’m…” She found the Italian word she’d looked up specially. “Incinta.”

If the language switch caused him any confusion he didn’t show it. In fact, he showed little reaction at all beyond one contemptuous glance down his nose.

“Congratulations. Whose is it?”

When succumbing to a night of unbridled desire, it’s impossible to think past the morning after!

But with the sheets barely settled that little blue line appears on the pregnancy test—and it doesn’t take long for you to realise that one night of white-hot passion has turned into a lifetime of consequences!

Only one question remains:

How do you tell a man you’ve just met that you’re about to share more than just his bed?

Find out in:

PROOF OF THEIR SIN by Dani Collins

Look out for more One Night with Consequencesstories coming soon!

DANI COLLINSdiscovered romance novels in high school and immediately wondered how a person trained and qualified for that amazing job. She married her high school sweetheart, which was a start, and then spent two decades trying to find her fit in the wide world of romance-writing—always coming back to Mills & Boon ®Modern TMRomance.

Two children later, and with the first entering high school, she was a winner in Harlequin’s Instant Seduction contest. It was the beginning of a fabulous journey towards finally getting that dream job.

When she’s not in her ‘Fortress of Literature’, as her family calls her writing office, she works, chauffeurs children to extra-curricular activities, and gardens with more optimism than skill. Dani can be reached through her website at www.danicollins.com

If you enjoyed this title look for Dani’s debut NO LONGER FORBIDDEN? at www.millsandboon.co.uk

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Happy Twentieth Anniversary to my love,

my husband Doug. (A bit late, but publishing doesn’t happen overnight, honey. Just like a marriage.)

A loving thank you to my mother, Sharon, for leaving her Janet Dailey books on the coffee table when I was in high school. Yes, this book in your hands is all your fault.

However, Mom does share credit with the editors at Harlequin London—most especially Suzy Clarke for her initial encouragement and my current editor, Megan Haslam, for the spot-on coaching that make my stories bigger, better, stronger.

I’d like to also wish a Happy First Anniversary to Sandra and Dave. This is how you get a man to buy a romance novel for his wife, people. Dave will do it. He’s a romantic and a gentleman.

And a very affectionate acknowledgement of my fellow author Cathryn Parry, who has been the most supportive friend you can imagine. If the planets align, I’ll hand this to you in person.

NOT FOR THE first time in the last several weeks, Lauren Bradley wondered where she should draw the line between becoming the bold, independent woman she’d always wished she could be and behaving like a shameless, demanding radical. Words like licentious, brazen and embarrassment trickled through her mind with increasing frequency as she walked that blurry border.

Unsurprisingly, when those hurtful words echoed in her head, they were always pronounced in her mother’s thin, distressed voice.

Flicking one long, brunette braid over her shoulder, Lauren silently told her absent mother to pipe down while she regarded the woman behind the counter of this exclusive hotel salon. The woman had just given Lauren the most excruciatingly polite brush-off and the habits of a lifetime urged Lauren to slink away in quiet disgrace.

But her heart was beating for two these days, knocking hard against the wall of her breastbone and bouncing back on a spine that had to harden to contain it.

Dare I? she wondered with a shiver of apprehension.

Oh, she knew she appeared to be just one more hick tourist come to New York looking for a posh hairstyle to take home as a souvenir, but this meant so much more to her than that. Lauren stood on the threshold of taking control of her life in a way she’d never imagined, but to do so meant shoving past the old Lauren who always smilingly took a backseat to everyone. If she didn’t dig deep and find her true spirit right now she might as well collect her luggage from upstairs and retreat to the empty rooms of her grandmother’s mansion where she could raise her baby with all the fear of drawing attention its mother had suffered most of her life.

No . Lauren locked her knee, surreptitiously putting her foot down.

She allowed the salon receptionist to finish the call she’d used to try to dismiss her. Ingrained manners were a pain that way. Besides, Lauren needed the extra seconds to gather her courage and manufacture a gracious smile for the woman who gave her a strained Still here? smile as she hung up.

“I believe there’s been a miscommunication,” Lauren said with the most warmly modulated yet implacable tone she could muster. “I’m attending the Donatelli Charity Ball this evening.”

The woman, a little younger than Lauren’s nearly twenty-five, widened her eyelash extensions with a fraction of respect. Exactly . Paolo Donatelli was a man who made every woman stand taller and suck in her stomach.

A zing of empowerment swept through Lauren. She was name-dropping, sure, but she’d never before had the gall to try it. Over her mother’s gasp of horror, she heard her grandmother say, Good girl! Clenching her fingers on the strap of her carry-all purse, Lauren added daringly, “You’re certain you have nothing for Bradley? Mrs. Ryan Bradley?”

Her mother would have a stroke over such audacity, but Lauren stood her ground, pronouncing the name with delicate precision because, honestly, what was the use in being Mrs. Bradley if she shrank from all it afforded her?

“Mrs. Bradley…” The salon hostess searched her book while her plucked brows came together in concern. “It sounds familiar—”