A Mistake, A Prince And A Pregnancy. Maisey Yates

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       Maximo placed his hand over her stomach again, his expression intense. “This is my baby that you carry, Alison. Our baby. I could not feel it more if you had conceived in my bed.”

      His accent was thicker than she’d ever heard it, his voice a husky rasp that made her nipples tighten and her pulse pound.

      “The attraction between us is very convenient.”

      “Convenient?” Her tongue felt thick and clumsy, her mind still clouded by passion.

      “Of course. How could it not be convenient for me to feel desire for my future wife?”

      A Mistake, A Prince and A Pregnancy

      by

      Maisey Yates

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MAISEY YATES was an avid Mills & Boon^® Modern™ Romance reader before she began to write them. She still can’t quite believe she’s lucky enough to get to create her very own sexy alpha heroes and feisty heroines. Seeing her name on one of those lovely covers is a dream come true.

      Maisey lives with her handsome, wonderful, diaper-changing husband and three small children, across the street from her extremely supportive parents and the home she grew up in, in the wilds of Southern Oregon, USA. She enjoys the contrast of living in a place where you might wake up to find a bear on your back porch and then heading into the home office to write stories that take place in exotic urban locales.

       A recent title by the same author:

      HIS VIRGIN ACQUISITION

      MILLS & BOON

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      For Aideen and Ben.

      You’re two of the bravest people I know,

      and you’ve inspired me in more ways than you can know.

      I’m your number one American fan.

      Chapter One

      “OH, PLEASE don’t rebel on me now.” Alison Whitman put her hand over her stomach and tried to quell the rising nausea that was threatening her with immediate action if she didn’t get a hold of some saltine crackers or a bottle of ginger ale. Morning sickness was the pits, and it was even worse when it lasted all day. Worse still when you were about to tell a man he was going to be a father.

      Alison put her car in Park and took a deep breath, almost relieved to discover a roadblock in her path. The wrought-iron gates that partitioned the massive mansion from the rest of the world looked impenetrable. She didn’t know a lot about this man, the father of her baby; nothing really other than his name. But it was clear that he was way out of her league, both financially and otherwise.

      Her eyes widened when she saw a man in a dark suit with security-issue sunglasses prowling the perimeter of the fence. Was Max Rossi mafia or something? Who had security detail in the middle of nowhere in Washington State?

      The guard, because that’s what he had to be, exited through a smaller pedestrian gate and walked toward her car, his expression grim. He gestured for her to roll her window down and she complied, self-conscious of the crank handle that she had to use to perform the action. Her car wasn’t exactly a new, fully loaded model.

      “Are you lost, ma’am?” He sounded perfectly pleasant and polite, but she knew that his right hand, which looked as though it was resting on his hip and was partly concealed by his dark suit jacket, was likely gripping a gun.

      “No. I’m looking for Mr. Rossi. This is the address I was given.”

      The man’s lips turned up slightly. “Sorry. Mr. Rossi isn’t receiving visitors.”

      “I’m…” She swallowed. “I’m Alison Whitman. He’s expecting me. At least I think he is.”

      The guard held up a hand, pulled a cell phone from his pocket and hit Speed Dial. He spoke rapidly in a foreign language, Italian, she guessed, before hanging up and turning his attention back to her.

      “Go ahead and pull in. Park your car at the front.” He walked to the gate and keyed in a code. The iron monstrosities swung forward and Alison pulled the car through, her stomach now seriously protesting.

      She really didn’t know Max Rossi; she had no assurance he wouldn’t harm her in some way. Maybe she hadn’t thought this through.

      No, that wasn’t true. She had thought this through. From every angle until she was certain she had no choice but to come here and see the father of her baby, despite the fact that she wanted to bury her head in a hole and pretend the whole thing had never happened. She couldn’t play ostrich on this one, no matter how much she might like to.

      The house was massive, its bulk partially concealed by towering fir trees. The intensity of the saturated greens surrounding her was almost surreal, compliments of the year-round rainfall. Nothing new to a native of the Pacific Northwest, but she rarely ventured outside the Seattle city limits anymore, so being surrounded by this much nature felt like a new experience. And seeing such a pristine, modern mansion set in the middle of the rugged wilderness was akin to an out-of-body experience.

      Of course, the past two weeks had also seemed like an out-of-body experience; first with the positive pregnancy test, and then with all of the revelations that had followed.

      She parked her ancient car in front of the house and got out slowly, really hoping she didn’t lose her lunch in the middle of the paved driveway. Not exactly a way to make a good impression on a man.

      The security detail appeared out of nowhere, his hand clamping firmly on her arm as he led her to the front door.

      “I appreciate the chivalrous gesture, but I can make it through the door on my own,” she said drily.

      Her escort gave her a rueful smile, but loosened his grip and let his hand fall to his side. Although she noticed he was still ready to grab hold of her if he needed to.

      He opened the front door for her and she had a feeling it wasn’t good manners that made him allow her to go in first, but a desire to keep himself in the most advantageous position.

      “Ms. Whitman.” The deep, velvet voice held just a hint of an accent and the sound made her already queasy stomach turn, but not with nausea. This feeling was something she didn’t recognize at all; a strange twisting sensation that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She put a hand to her stomach and tried to suppress it.

      The sight of the owner of the amazing voice only increased the pitching sensation. She watched as he strode down the sweeping, curved staircase, his movements quick and smooth, masculine yet graceful.

      He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen—not that she ever spent much time dwelling on men and their looks. This man, though, demanded admiration, even from her. He was just so masculine, so striking.