Audra Adams - The Bachelor's Bride

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Special thanks to two special men… Jim Reid, for lending his name and his inspiration…

-and-

Frank Banas, for teaching me the difference between “separate” and “spread.”

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Epilogue

Everything was white. The walls were white, the curtains billowing out from the dark, open windows were white, the bed was very white, its sheets, its satin comforter, the netting hanging from the ceiling. All pristine, blemishless.

White.

She cradled her head in her arm as she laid back against the smooth pillow. A brilliant moon bathed the room in pale light. Her eyes were wide open and she watched him approach her, slowly, steadily, a cigarette in his hand. He, too, was dressed in white, a casual summer suit and half-buttoned shirt.

He smiled, and she smiled back at him. She didn’t move as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes roamed her face, her body, caressing her. They were green, like emeralds with a fire ring of blue around the outer rims. She said something and he laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling, making him look far less forbidding than before.

He put out the cigarette in the white ashtray, leaned forward and kissed her. She let him. He felt wonderful. His lips were cool as they brushed against hers. He pulled back and stared at her, the smile gone, and in its place was another look, not the forbidden one, but something different.

Desire.

She’d seen it before in a man’s eyes, of course, but never like this. This was intense, and a blip of fear invaded her belly. Or was it excitement? She raised her hand to his face to brush away a strand of very blond hair, and he turned into her palm. His skin was warm, dry, smooth.

He moved closer, his face only inches away from hers. “I want to make love with you,” he whispered.

“Yes...” she answered with a long hissing sound that he cut off as his mouth descended once again.

He parted her lips with his tongue this time and swept inside her mouth with the power and finesse of a tempest at sea. She had never been kissed like this, had never felt a mouth this hot, this wet, this controlling. She could only follow his lead, do his bidding, and she did, willingly.

His hands touched her, moving up her arms ever so slowly to her collarbone and onto the tops of her breasts. He played there for a moment until the straps of her sundress fell from her shoulders. With a slight tug, he had it to her waist, baring her breasts to his burning gaze.

He flicked his fingers against her nipples, the peaks so sensitive, they hardened immediately under his ministrations. He smiled again, murmuring words of praise that twisted her insides with their meaning.

She closed her eyes as his mouth replaced his fingers, and once again she was taken by surprise by the heat of him. Her body arched. He ran his hands down her sides, lifted her dress and caressed the insides of her thighs with featherless movements of his fingertips.

“Open,” he said, his head pillowed on her breast, his breath fanning her sensitive skin.

Obediently she spread her legs, anxious for him to touch her. But he took his time, teasing her as he ran a fingertip into the elastic band of her panties, back and forth, pulling the material, stretching it until he managed to get past the barrier to the sweetness that lay beyond.

She called out when he touched her, and he raised his head to kiss her once again, taking her mouth whole, swallowing her moan as his fingers grew bolder. He dipped into her, stroked her. She felt her body melt against his fingers. She was wet, hot, needy.

And she wanted more. Her hands roamed inside his open shirt. She splayed her fingers across the expanse of his chest, running her fingernails through the soft tufts of hair, scratching her way down his body until she reached his waistband.

His fingers hesitated for the briefest moment before he continued the slow, steady, intimate stroking. He sat back and watched as her fumbling fingers unbuckled his belt, freed the fastening, and unzipped his pants. His eyes were intense as she ran her fingers over the length of him. He was smooth, hot and hard, a reward, she felt, for her persistence.

They stared into each other’s eyes as their hands, their fingers, continued to drive their bodies to the brink. She was the first to look away. She shut her eyes tightly as her body took control, pulsing to the rhythm of his stroking, building, climbing toward a light so blinding she felt she would fall into it.

“Now,” he said, and she did not argue.

Within seconds his body covered hers, and he was there. She had never been this full, this stretched, this consumed by a man. Her hips rose and fell in tandem with his movements. They danced the ancient dance of men and women in perfect harmony, so sweet, so pure, so wonderful that she could not stop the spasms of pleasure when they came. So she didn’t try. She rose to greet them, rejoicing in the way he made her feel, rejoicing in her own ability to feel this at all, rejoicing in his response as he tensed and followed her headlong into the burst of light.

After a long moment he raised himself up onto his elbows. His eyes were mesmerizing. They sparkled in the bright moonlight. Again he smiled, and the eyes crinkled. He kissed her nose, and she smiled, too.

She studied his face, so tanned and handsome with his high cheekbones, strong jaw and very blond hair falling down across his forehead. A nice face, a trustworthy face, a face she could love, she thought.

A face in a dream....

The dot was blue. She held it up to the light to double check. Just in case she’d made a mistake.

For the second time.

No. There was no doubt. It was blue all right.

Rachel Morgan slowly sat on the commode in the bathroom of her tiny studio apartment. She exhaled a long-held, overly hopeful breath. There would be no point in taking the test a third time. The results were sure to be the same.

She was pregnant.

The question was, how?

Her hands began to shake as she lost her adrenaline high. This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be real. Rachel hadn’t had a serious relationship since she’d moved to New York City two years ago after her mother’s death and the breakup of her engagement to Tom. There was no one in her life—if you could call the mess she’d made of things to date a life. Biting her lip, she fought back tears.

Jobless. And now pregnant.

But again, the how came back to haunt her. She was a rational human being. There was no such thing as an immaculate conception—at least not that she knew of, not in this day and age, and not to someone as imperfect as she. So there had to be another explanation. Her stomach churned.

Which meant that The Dream had to be real.

The phone rang and she forced herself to rise and walk into the L-shaped room that served as her kitchen, living room and bedroom. She sat on the edge of her Murphy bed and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Rachel? Trudy. I’m glad I caught you. I may have a lead on a job. One of our suppliers is looking—”

“I’m pregnant.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“How?”

“Darned if I know. I’m sitting here trying to figure it out.” She didn’t mention the nausea or the shaking.