Emma Richmond - Instant Mother

Six-year-old Jessica held up her face for a kiss, then scolded Stefan that he hadn’t done the same Six-year-old Jessica held up her face for a kiss, then scolded Stefan that he hadn’t done the same He glanced at Alexa, and obediently walked back to kiss her goodbye. A small kiss, a perfunctory kiss, on the cheek. And Alexa wanted more. “I’ll see you later.” “Yes.” More? Yes, she wanted more. Wanted real warmth, real happiness—a real marriage. She’d tried burying it, ignoring it, tried to justify it. Anything but admit the truth. She was in love with Stefan Blake. And had been for a very long time. Not attraction, sexual awareness, but love. And he didn’t love her. About the Author Emma Richmond was born in north Kent, England, during the war when, she says, “farms were the norm and motorways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!” Title Page Instant Mother Emma Richmond www.millsandboon.co.uk PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

Six-year-old Jessica held up her face for a kiss, then scolded Stefan that he hadn’t done the same

He glanced at Alexa, and obediently walked back to kiss her goodbye. A small kiss, a perfunctory kiss, on the cheek. And Alexa wanted more.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Yes.”

More? Yes, she wanted more. Wanted real warmth, real happiness—a real marriage. She’d tried burying it, ignoring it, tried to justify it. Anything but admit the truth.

She was in love with Stefan Blake. And had been for a very long time. Not attraction, sexual awareness, but love.

And he didn’t love her.

Emma Richmond was born in north Kent, England, during the war when, she says, “farms were the norm and motorways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

DESPITE the bitter April wind that made all other pedestrians huddle into coats and scarves, Alexa swung along with her languid, easy stride. Coat unbuttoned, jean-clad legs looking impossibly long, groceries clutched to her chest, she seemed not to have a care in the world.

Unaware of the amused glances she was receiving, her lovely amber eyes full of impish humour, generous mouth pursed in a wry smile, she strode along the square towards her restaurant, and no one seeing her would have guessed at her inner trepidation. She had a wedding party to cater for that evening and she’d never cooked on such a large scale before. Sixty guests, and although they would all be eating the same food it was still a bit daunting.

Unconsciously shaking her head, sending the profusion of long chestnut curls flying, she told herself not to be a fool. She could do it; of course she could. Whatever else she might lack, it certainly wasn’t confidence.

‘Hello, Alexa,’ a dry voice murmured from beside her.

She halted, her eyes widening in pleased surprise. She knew that voice. Quickly turning her head, she stared at the tall bear of a man who was standing outside the newsagent’s. He looked as sexy as ever, long, dark raincoat flowing open in the wind, green eyes full of amusement, and she gave a delighted laugh.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I might ask the same of you.’ His beautiful eyes steady, relaxed, indolent, he asked softly, ‘Following me, Miss Gifford?’

‘No!’ she laughed. ‘Why would I be following you?’

‘I have no idea. So what are you doing here?’

With a funny little grimace, she murmured irrepressibly, ‘Cooking?’ Indicating the restaurant ahead of them, she added, ‘I own it.’

‘Oh, dear.’

With a gurgle of laughter, she shook her head at him. ‘You live here now?’

‘From time to time.’

Smile widening, she insisted softly, ‘I didn’t know. Truly.’

‘Now why don’t I believe you, I wonder?’

‘I don’t know. It’s the truth.’

He gave an amused smile. ‘I don’t think truth and Miss Gifford should ever be used in the same sentence, do you?’

‘Yes! I never tell lies!’

‘Just bend the truth a bit?’

‘Avoid explanations,’ she corrected. ‘And you don’t have to see me, speak to me. You can stay out of my way!’

‘Oh, I will,’ he promised softly. ‘Being in your way is—dangerous.’

Her grin widening, eyes alight with mischief, she murmured, ‘Just because there have been one or two accidents whenever we’ve met...’

‘One or two? You nearly got me killed in Romania...’

‘I didn’t start the landslip!’

‘Flooded my apartment...’

‘It was a burst pipe!’

‘Wrecked my car with me in it...’

‘I dented your bumper! Don’t exaggerate, Stefan.’

‘And now you’ve followed me to Canterbury.’

‘I haven’t followed you!’ And she hadn’t. It was pure coincidence.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Three months. Come in for a meal some time.’

‘And get poisoned? No, thank you.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m a very good cook.’

He gave a lazy smile, shook his head at her. Glancing at his watch, he said, ‘I have to go. I’m flying back to the States this morning.’ Then, a hint of devilry in his amazing eyes, he dipped his head and kissed her warmly on the mouth. ‘Be good,’ he said softly, before turning and walking away.

Mouth tingling, she watched him, then gave an infectious chuckle. His dark hair was still too long, she saw, still brushed back and curling up over his collar. People turned to watch him as he passed, because he commanded attention.

‘Hey!’ she suddenly yelled. Hurrying to catch him up, she asked breathlessly, ‘Will I see you again?’

He halted, turned his head, and smiled. ‘Possibly. ’

Allowing him to walk on, eyes still full of warm amusement, she hefted her purchases into a more comfortable position. ‘Possibly’ meant—yes?

Unaware of the pedestrians forced to flow round her, she watched until he was out of sight. A man who made women feel just a little bit special. Not because of what he said, or did, just because he was. And it was, what? Almost a year since she’d last seen him? A lot could happen in a year. And had.

Retreating the few paces to her restaurant, she nudged open the door and edged inside.

‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself.’

Turning, she smiled at Linda, her pretty, dark-haired assistant, and handed over the shopping. ‘Am I?’

‘Mmm. So, who was he?’

‘He?’ she queried. ‘Who?’

‘The hunk you were just talking to.’

‘Oh, Stefan.’ With that odd little smile in her eyes, she murmured softly, ‘He thinks I’m trying to kill him.’

‘And are you?’ Linda asked wryly.

‘No,’ she laughed.

‘So tell.’

‘Nothing to tell,’ she denied as she led the way into the kitchen. ‘We met in an orphanage in Romania. They’d advertised for people to help renovate the old building, take out supplies. And he was absolutely useless at anything practical,’ she remembered with a grin. ‘He was eventually allowed to wield a paintbrush.’