The Millionaire's Pregnant Mistress. Michelle Celmer

if she was hurt?

      Without considering the consequences, he charged across the room to the partially open bedroom door and shoved his way through, his heart thumping against his rib cage. More muted sunshine and soft color—but no Tess. He stormed through her closet to the bathroom.

      Empty.

      Where had she gone? Had she snuck out? Had agreeing to stay here only been some sick joke to humor him?

      He returned to the bedroom, teetering on the narrow ledge between anger and panic, when he heard a muffled snore from the vicinity of the bed. Only then did he notice the slight lump resting beneath a mountain of fluffy blankets.

      Relief hit him so deep and swift his knees nearly buckled.

      He’d been picturing her sprawled on the floor bleeding to death, and in reality she was only taking a nap.

      He raked his hair back and shook his head. He had to get a grip, or this was going to be the longest five months of his life. He had to stop expecting the worst. She was safe here. The baby was safe. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to drive her away. She wasn’t his prisoner. She was a guest.

      He considered waking her to see if she wanted something to eat, but decided against it. Though he hated the idea of her missing a meal, she obviously needed her sleep just as badly.