The Blackmail Pregnancy. Melanie Milburne

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      “I’m digging you out of bankruptcy. I’ll settle the overdraft and pay off any outstanding debts you might have.”

      “Why would you do that?” she asked, her mouth suddenly bone dry. “What possible reason could you have for doing that?”

      “I have a very good reason,” he said evenly.

      A flutter of apprehension settled deep in her stomach. Here comes the fine print, she thought to herself: his conditions. “And that is?” She managed to get the three words past the stiff line of her mouth.

      His dark eyes held hers for a lengthy period before he finally spoke. “I want you to have my baby.”

      The Blackmail Pregnancy

      Melanie Milburne

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Dedicated to my husband Steve—love you to pieces.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘IF YOU don’t nail this deal, Cara, we’re sunk.’

      Cara stared at her business partner in shock.

      ‘What do you mean “sunk”?’ she asked, her palms moistening in mild panic.

      Trevor flapped his hands in the air theatrically as he answered, ‘Kaput, finito, washed up.’

      She swallowed the lump of fear in her throat as she met his troubled gaze across the desk.

      ‘But we’re doing all right,’ she said. ‘You said so only last month at our planning meeting. And with the Pritchard account due any day now—’

      Trevor shook his head.

      ‘I had a meeting with the accountant this morning. Our business loan is stretched to the limit and the paltry Pritchard pennies won’t even cover this week’s interest, let alone next month’s. That’s why the Rockcliffe account is so crucial. We literally can’t survive without it.’

      Cara automatically stiffened at the mention of that name. Tiny feathers of fear tickled the length of her spine as she brought its owner’s dark features to mind.

      ‘Why me?’ she asked after a lengthy silence, her skin still prickling in apprehension.

      ‘Because you’re the one he asked for, darling,’ Trevor’s tone was full of affront as he inspected his perfectly manicured nails. ‘He insisted on you handling the whole account. Quite homophobic of him, I thought. But then you’d know all about that since you were once married to him.’

      Cara’s eyes gave little away, but inside she felt as if her stomach was unravelling.

      ‘It was a long time ago, Trevor,’ she said as dispassionately as she could. ‘Seven years, in fact. I hardly even remember what he looks like. Probably got a paunch by now, and a bald patch the size of a lawn,’ she added for effect.

      ‘Perhaps that’s why he asked for you.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘He might want to refresh your memory a bit.’

      She gave him a reproving look.

      ‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with Byron Rockcliffe’s memory,’ she said. ‘It’s his motives that worry me.’

      ‘Motives?’ Trevor’s eyes widened expressively. ‘Who gives a fig about his motives? He’s doing our business a favour by engaging your services. Think of it! A harbourside mansion in Cremorne. Carte blanche, no questions asked.’

      ‘It sounds too good to be true,’ she cautioned. ‘I’d prefer to see the fine print before I commit myself.’

      ‘It’s too late for that. I’ve already committed us—I mean you.’ He gave her a shame-faced look and continued, ‘Sorry, pet, but I had to do it. I couldn’t see all that money going to someone else. You know what they say about looking a gift horse in the mouth.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, getting to her feet and reaching for her portfolio. ‘I do know what they say, and you’d do well to remember it. A horse’s age is commonly assessed by the length of its teeth. You have only to insist on the horse’s mouth being opened to see if what you’re getting is really a good deal.’

      ‘I’m not sure it would have gone down too well if I’d asked Byron Rockcliffe to open his mouth for me to peer in.’ Trevor chuckled. ‘Perhaps I’ll leave that to you.’

      Cara gave him a fulminating look as she opened the office door to leave.

      ‘If I don’t show up for work tomorrow it will be your entire fault. You’ve put me in over my depth and I’m holding you totally responsible.’

      ‘If you don’t show up for work tomorrow I’ll assume Byron Rockcliffe has talked you back into his bed,’ Trevor said with a wolfish grin. ‘He sounds so deliciously male. Mmm…such a waste.’

      Cara turned on her heel and shut the door on her partner’s teasing expression.

      ‘Good luck!’ Trevor’s voice called from inside.

      She didn’t answer; she needed more than luck to get through the next hour or so. She needed a miracle.

      The offices of Rockcliffe and Associates were huge even by Sydney standards. Cara took the shiny lift to the nineteenth floor, her heart beating a steady tattoo in her chest at the thought of seeing her ex-husband again.

      The lift stopped on the thirteenth floor to let some people in and she wondered if it was some sort of omen. She pressed herself to the back of the stainless steel and mirrored walls and tried to concentrate on getting her breathing under some sort of control.

      The lift stopped three more times, prolonging the agony, and she stared at the illuminated numbers above her head as if they were a countdown to disaster…Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…nineteen.

      The doors pinged open and she jerked upright. Another wall of mirrors faced her as she stepped out. She looked at her reflection as if seeing it for the first time. Her mid-brown hair with its blonde highlights was falling from its clasp, her cheeks were flushed as if she’d just run up the nineteen floors, and the dark blue business suit she’d thrown on this morning shrieked off-the-peg. It was two seasons old and she’d lost weight since she’d bought it.

      The blonde receptionist, however, was armoured with Armani and a heady perfume to match. Cara approached the arc of the front desk with a resentful trepidation.

      ‘I have an appointment with Mr Rockcliffe,’ she said in a voice that sounded distinctly rusty. ‘At three p.m.’

      The receptionist glanced at the appointment file on the computer screen in front of her.

      ‘Ms Gillem?’

      ‘Yes,’ Cara answered.

      ‘He’s running a little behind.’ The receptionist lifted a clear blue gaze from the screen to meet Cara’s hazel one. ‘If you don’t mind waiting…’

      ‘How much behind?’ Cara interjected in irritation.