Page 68 of The Billionaire's Demand

Pregnant Before the Proposal

Clare Connelly

“I...thought you should know...” she began, then sipped her tea quickly. It had cooled down just enough to be palatable without burning.

“Yes?”

Her teeth pressed into her lip.

“God, this is way harder than it should be,” she said on a humorless laugh. If only he knew how much this was her worst nightmare. Not being pregnant, but all the circumstances surrounding it.

“Libby, are you okay?”

“No,” she groaned, placing her tea on the bench. “Not really.” She frowned. “And yes, at the same time.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I know,” she said softly, sucking in a deep breath. “The thing is...” She stared at her tea rather than into his eyes, which were too perceptive, too inquisitive. Too everything. “The thing is,” she started again, “that night...”

Silence fell, except for the ticking of the clock, which sat on the kitchen bench. Strange, she’d never really noticed how imperious and loud it was before. Every second cranked noisily past.

“Raul, I’m pregnant,” she said, finally, the words, now she’d committed to saying them, rushing out of her. “Three and a half months pregnant, in fact. You’re the father.”

To Megan Haslam

Who commissioned my first Harlequin and has been the most incredible partner ever since. We’ve worked together on more than forty books and I have adored the process each and every time, and learned so, so much from your generously shared wisdom. Thank you for always seeing the essence of the stories I wanted to tell, and helping me to carve that out better, tighter, more emotionally. You are a superstar!

CHAPTER ONE

LIBBY CURSED UNDER her breath at the unmistakable and unexpected sensation of the luxury yacht moving. Not moving in the gentle, bob-bob-bob way it was supposed to whilst moored at the marina, but rather like a bull at a gate, out of the dock, at high speed.

She stood, then almost fell, as the boat veered hard left.

Removing one of her yellow gloves, Libby placed it, along with the microfibre cloth she’d been using to dust beneath the Spanish Revival desk in the centre of the luxuriously appointed office, down on the floor and planted her feet a little wider.

They were not supposed to be moving.

At least, not while she was on board.

Her eyes flew to the clock across the room.

Her cleaning shift had another hour to go and Libby was supposed to be completely alone. Only she wasn’t. When she’d come onboard, it had been to discover that the owner of the craft, whom she’d been told would be at an event in the city, was actually in situ, all swarthy, brooding billionaire.

It hadn’t bothered Libby per se, though she generally preferred solitude—the habit of a lifetime was hard to shake.

Now, she realised there was someone else. Or many someone elses.

Outside the corridor of the office, she could hear raised voices. Shouting. Her ears pricked up, listening to the foreign language. Spanish? Italian?

She whirled around, looking for somewhere to hide, something to grab to defend herself with if necessary. She grabbed a paperweight then ran behind the desk, to hide beneath it. Many were the times in Libby Langham’s twenty-six years when she’d wished for a few extra inches, but this was not one of them. The space wasn’t huge and yet it easily accommodated her petite frame.

With great effort she stilled her breath, and though she was no longer a five-year-old with a penchant for playing hide and seek, she clenched her eyes shut, willing away whatever dangers might come her way.

The door burst open. More shouting—the voices of several men. Then the sound of skin connecting with skin and the slamming of the door.

She kept her eyes squeezed shut, the paperweight in her hand heavy and smooth, somehow comforting, and she waited, listening.

Footsteps.

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