Bestselling Authors Collection 2012

779 Pages·2012·2.77 MB·English

by  Morey Trish

BESTSELLING AUTHORS
COLLECTION 2012
THE HEIR FROM NOWHERE
Trish Morey
DANTE’S HONOUR-BOUND HUSBAND
Day Leclaire
UNBUTTONED BY HER MAVERICK BOSS
Natalie Anderson
THE PROPOSAL
Brenda Jackson
SEIZED BY THE SHEIKH
Ann Voss Peterson
www.millsandboon.com.au
IMPRINT: Special Release eBooks
ISBN: 9781460807088
TITLE: BESTSELLING AUTHORS COLLECTION 2012: THE HEIR FROM NOWHERE/DANTE’S
HONOUR-BOUND HUSBAND/UNBUTTONED BY HER MAVERICK BOSS/THE
PROPOSAL/SEIZED BY THE SHEIKH
First Australian Publication 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Trish Morey/Day Leclaire/Natalie Anderson/Brenda Jackson/Ann Voss
Peterson All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this
work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known
or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Mills
& Boon®, Locked Bag 7002, Chatswood D.C. N.S.W., Australia 2067.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks owned by Harlequin Enterprises Limited or its corporate affiliates and
used by others under licence. Trademarks marked with an ® are registered in Australia and in
other countries. Contact [email protected] for details.
www.millsandboon.com.au
THE HEIR FROM NOWHERE
Trish Morey
About the Author
TRISH MOREY wrote her first book at age eleven for a children’s book-week
competition. Entitled Island Dreamer, it told the story of an orphaned girl
and her life on a small island at the mouth of South Australia’s Murray
River. Island Dreamer also proved to be her first rejection—her entry was
disqualified unread. Shattered and broken, she turned to a life where she
could combine her love of fiction with her need for creativity—Trish
became a chartered accountant! Life wasn’t all dull, though, as she
embarked on a skydiving course, completing three jumps before deciding
that she’d given her fear of heights a run for its money.
Meanwhile she fell in love and married a handsome guy who cut
computer code, and Trish penned her second book—the totally riveting,
A Guide to Departmental Budgeting—whilst working for the N.Z. Treasury.
Back home in Australia after the birth of their second daughter, Trish
spied an article saying that Harlequin Books was actively seeking new
authors. It was one of those “eureka!” moments—Trish was going to be
one of those authors!
Eleven years after reading that fateful article—actually June 18, 2003, at
6:32 p.m!—the magical phone call came and Trish finally realised her
dream.
According to Trish, writing and selling a book is a major life
achievement that ranks up there with jumping out of an airplane and
motherhood. All three take commitment, determination and sheer guts,
but the effort is so very, very worthwhile.
Trish now lives with her husband and four young daughters in a special
part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland and
visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo.
You can visit Trish on her website at www.trishmorey.com or drop her a
line at [email protected].
CHAPTER ONE
‘YOU don’t know me, but I’m having your baby.’
Was it possible for your blood to stop flowing before you were dead?
Dominic Pirelli believed it, the way his veins suddenly clamped shut and
his blood seemed to congeal in a heart that had itself long ago turned to
stone. And even if he’d wanted to slam the phone down in denial, he
was incapable of movement, one hundred per cent of his energy
concentrated and distilled down, focused on just one tiny word.
No!
And then the need to breathe kicked in and he dragged in air, and
slowly his pulse resumed, pounding out a message in his temples,
echoing his disbelief. It was impossible! It didn’t matter what the doctor
had tried to tell him this morning. It didn’t matter what this woman was
telling him now. It had to be impossible.
‘… having your baby.’
The words played over and over in his brain, defying logic, making no
sense. He dragged in air, trying to reestablish a foothold in a day gone
mad.
This was not the way he was used to operating. On a normal day it
took a lot to blindside Dominic Pirelli. Many a business competitor had
tried to gain an advantage over him and been unsuccessful, washed
away in the wake he left behind as he forged ahead with his own plans.
Many a woman had tried to tie the billionaire investor down and failed,
swept aside like so many brightly coloured petals on a fast-flowing
stream.
On a normal day, nothing happened in his life that he didn’t
professionally desire or personally sanction.
But today had ceased being a normal day one short, cataclysmic hour
ago.
When the clinic had called with the news.
A mistake, he’d first assumed.
An impossibility.
It was so many years ago and someone had clearly pulled the wrong
name from its files; someone had clearly rung the wrong number. And
he’d argued exactly that, only to be told that the only mistake had
occurred some three months back, when the wrong embryo had
somehow been put in the wrong woman. And even through the torrent
of apologies, he’d still refused to believe it could be true.
And then the phone had rung a second time and a woman’s voice
uttered the words that turned a horrific concept into chilling reality.
‘I’m having your baby.’
He sank heavily into his chair, wheeling it around so that he could see
something—anything—other than the nightmare that consumed his
thoughts and vision. But the view he knew should be there, the picture-
perfect view over a glittering Sydney Harbour, the yachts and ferries
zipping their way beneath the Harbour Bridge and between the park-
lined shores, was lost to him in a blur of incredulity. He squeezed his
eyes shut and pinched his nose so hard that fireworks shot through his
closed lids, but still nowhere near hard enough to blot out the anguish or
the pain.
This could not be happening!
Not this way.
It was never supposed to happen this way!
‘Mr Pirelli…’ The voice resumed. Hesitant. Shaky. Almost as if the
caller were as shocked as he was. Not a chance. ‘Are you still there?’
He exhaled. Long and loud, not caring how it sounded down the line.
He didn’t care about anything right now, least of all about sounding
civil. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he heard himself say. ‘What’s in it for
you?’
He heard a gasp, a muffled cry and almost felt sorry for speaking his
mind. Almost. But he’d only spoken the truth. Experience told him that
people rarely did anything if not motivated by profit.
‘I just thought, given the circumstances, you should be informed.’
‘Like hell.’
A pause. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help how you see it. I just wanted to talk to
you. To see if we can find some way through this mess.’
This mess. At least she had that right. ‘You think there’s some way
through this? You think there’s some simple solution that can be plucked
from the air? Do you have fairies in the bottom of your garden, or
simply in your head?’
He expected she’d hang up. He’d hoped she would, if only to
terminate a conversation he didn’t want to have—wasn’t equipped to
have.
Because he wasn’t sure he could hang up first. He was no more
equipped to close off the chance of—what exactly?—the chance of
having a child that had long since died, along with his marriage?
But there was no telling click at the end of the line to momentarily
assuage his pain and relieve what little guilt he felt. No sound but a
pause that grew heavier and weightier by the second. Until he found
himself inexplicably awaiting her response. What was she thinking?
What did she really want? Fifteen plus years building the biggest
business empire Australia had seen had left him woefully unprepared for
anything like this.
‘I know this has been a shock,’ she said softly. ‘I understand.’
‘Do you? I doubt it.’
‘This is hard for me too!’ Her voice sounded more strident, more
pained. ‘Do you really think I was overjoyed to discover that I was
pregnant with your child?’
His child? The realisation slammed into him like a blow to the gut. No
mere concept; this woman was carrying his child. His and Carla’s. The
child she’d been so desperate to have. The child she’d been unable to
conceive. Even success through their last resort, IVF, had eluded her,
cycle after futile cycle. He put a hand to his brow, felt the shock of
events thunder in the beat of blood at his temples, tasted the bitter taste
of bile in the back of his throat.
And yet this woman—this stranger—had succeeded where Carla had
failed so very many times.
Why?
Who was this woman that she could turn his life upside down? Who
was she that she could stir up the ghosts of his past? Who gave her the
right to mess with his life?
All he knew was that he couldn’t do this over the phone. He had to
meet her. Had to deal with this face to face.
He tugged on his tie, undid his top button, but still the room felt sticky
and overheated. And still his voice, when it came, felt like gravel in his
throat. It sounded worse. ‘What did you say your name was again?’
‘It’s Angie. Angie Cameron.’
‘Look, Miss Cameron—’
‘It’s Mrs, actually, but just Angie is fine.’
Of course. He pushed back in his chair. She might sound like some
nervous teenager over the phone, but she would have to be married and
for some years to be undergoing fertility treatment. ‘Look, Mrs
Cameron,’ he said, ignoring her invitation for informality when he was
still having trouble believing her story, ‘this isn’t something I can discuss
over the phone.’
‘I understand.’
He sucked air into his lungs and shook his head. God, did she have to
sound like some kind of therapist? If she was so upset about carrying his
child, then why didn’t she rant and scream and rail about injustice in the
world like he wanted to? Didn’t she realise his world was tearing apart—
the world he’d taken years to rebuild?
He could so not do this!
‘We should meet,’ he said somehow through near-gritted teeth as he
wheeled around in his chair, his finger resting over a button on the
phone that would connect him to Simone. ‘As soon as possible. I’ll put
you back to my PA. She’ll organise the details.’
If she had anything else to say, he didn’t hear it before he punched
that button and slammed the receiver down, lungs burning as if he’d just
run ten kilometres along the cliffs, his brow studded with sweat. Simone