The Baby Deal. Alison Kelly

      “You’re carrying my child, so you can forget any ideas you’ve got about cutting me out of its life.”

      Reb continued, “You might not have much of an opinion of me, but you’re way off base if you think I’m going to walk away from my own flesh and blood.”

      Amanda-Jayne forced herself to speak calmly and civilly. “Am I to understand that you’re determined to contribute to the baby’s upbringing?”

      Reb mentioned a monthly sum he considered reasonable and she nearly staggered with surprise. “I’m afraid there’s a condition to my offer….”

      Amanda-Jayne swallowed hard. “What?”

      “You have to marry me to get it.”

      ALISON KELLY, a self-confessed sports junkie, plays netball, volleyball and touch football, and lives in Australia’s Hunter Valley. She has three children and the type of husband women tell their daughters doesn’t exist in real life! Not only is he a better cook than Alison, but he isn’t afraid of vacuum cleaners, washing machines or supermarkets. Which is just as well—otherwise this book would have been written by a starving woman in a pigsty!

      The Baby Deal

      Alison Kelly

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      My thanks to Bernice for her assistance with the research, and to Bob, for knowing about ’82 Fords.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      TEARS of shame rolled down Amanda-Jayne’s face at the realisation that after years spent endeavouring to be the perfect daughter and then the perfect wife she’d spent the last few hours behaving like a perfect tramp.

      She wanted to die on the spot.

      No, she didn’t!

      She could just imagine how the newspapers would report the circumstances of her death: DIVORCED SOCIALITE FOUND DEAD AFTER A NIGHT OF PASSION WITH HOME-TOWN BAD BOY.

      The humiliating implications of that thought had her quickly but silently swinging her feet to the floor as her eyes struggled to adjust to the pitch-blackness of her surroundings. Her tears weren’t helping the situation, but unfortunately her instinctive recognition of lush, quality carpet beneath her as she lowered herself onto her hands and knees was as much another source of despair as it was a relief. The possibility that this was a hotel where she’d previously stayed and might be recognised by staff—or, worse, one of the guests—was almost as disturbing as her original fear that, in keeping with her appalling behaviour, once she orientated herself she’d find herself in some two-bit flea trap.

      Seconds later, though, her night vision sharpened enough to reveal that while the hotel was obviously a five-star one it wasn’t, thank goodness, one she patronised. Now all she had to do was try and find her clothes and escape before the naked man adorning the mattress she’d just vacated woke up.

      Trying to keep one eye on his prone form as she crawled on hands and knees, following the trail of her clothes, wasn’t easy. Especially not when her outraged conscience was screaming loud enough to wake the dead. Oh, dear Lord, who’d have thought giving in to her married friends’ demands that she celebrate her divorce with a ‘girls night out’ would end up like this? Certainly not anyone who knew her. At least she fervently hoped not.

      Spying her bra peeking out from beneath a pair of floor-strewn black boxers, Amanda-Jayne felt her face flame in the darkness. Snatching it up, she hastily slipped it on but, rather than reassuring her, the recovery of the garment somehow made what she was doing seem even more tawdry than what she’d already done. On the verge of screaming that it was shame, not excitement generated from the memory of how she and the garment had become separated, that was causing the disturbing heat within her, she caught herself. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t afford for what modicum of sanity she still possessed to abandon her now. She had to get out of here before he woke up; now wasn’t the time for tears or self-recrimination.

      Several moments of head-swivelling perusal of the nearby area revealed no sign of her panties. Where the devil were her pa—? Her belly clenched even before her eyes strayed to the tangle of sheets. Oh, no! Uh-uh. There was no way that she was going to climb back in there looking for them.

      What on earth had possessed her? How could she have acted so out of character; done something so…so rash? Rash? Rash? Ha! Who was she trying to kid? Cheap was the only word to describe her actions. She must have been drunk, despite the fact she’d only had a couple of drinks… Perhaps the stress of the last year had caused some sort of abnormal biophysical reaction. That could happen…couldn’t it? Of course it could! It must have. After all, she wasn’t a big drinker, so surely if she’d drunk so much that tonight had been solely the result of alcohol consumption then by rights she should be in the last stages of alcoholic poisoning or clinically dead by now.

      It wasn’t just what she’d done, but with whom she’d done it. This was a thousand times worse than waking up and finding she’d gone to bed with a well-respected businessman or even a famous celebrity or noted lawyer. Apparently she’d been so drunk she’d gone to bed with…with— No! It didn’t bear thinking about. Although she supposed she should take some comfort from the fact that by committing this act of lunacy outside the perimeters of her usual social circle she’d spared herself the risk of ever having to face him again. Unless, of course, she took complete leave of her senses, bought a Harley and started running with a group of bikers!

      If only she’d declined to go ‘celebrating’ with her friends. If only she hadn’t refused to go home when Rachel and Penelope had left. ‘If only I could find my stupid dress,’ she muttered, flinging aside the male shirt she’d mistaken for her clothing.

      A throaty male growl suddenly rumbled through the darkness, momentarily stopping her heart.

      Then the bed base emitted several soft whimpers, suggesting movement from its occupant. Holding her breath, Amanda-Jayne remained on her hands and knees, face buried in the carpet, praying devoutly that her naked derrière wasn’t visible from the bed. Not that it hadn’t already been closely scrutinised, stroked and admired by the man in question, she mused miserably, not daring to move. If he thought she’d already left he’d probably roll over and go back to sleep. Of course it was possible he was still asleep, in which case she was wasting valuable time remaining here face down, butt up doing nothing!

      Still not game to risk breathing, she furtively raised her head enough to peek over the foot of the bed at the sheet-draped nude male, only to quickly shut her eyes in a bid to discourage reminders of how intimately acquainted she and the still dozing Adonis had recently become. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep back what she would have liked to believe was a moan of despair, but the sad truth was it was more likely generated by lust—and lack of oxygen. Much as she might be feeling ashamed enough to die, there was no denying the man who’d managed to get her to abandon the morals of a lifetime had a body to die for. Not that that was any excuse for her wanton behaviour.

      But what she really wanted to know was how a motorbike-riding rebel from her home town had gained entry into the fashionably chic,