Her Baby Secret. Kim Lawrence

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      Her Baby Secret

      Kim Lawrence

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      QUINN, his lean body clad in supple motor-cycle leathers, strode into the swish foyer of the world-famous magazine Chic.

      The glass swing doors closed behind him and, green eyes narrowed, he paused for a moment to get his bearings. Nothing in his attitude hinted at the fact that he knew that had the person he sought known he was there he would undoubtedly have found himself chucked out on his ear!

      By nature Quinn was a confident individual—in his experience assurance was far more likely to open doors than an apologetic manner—but he considered this situation called for a extra degree of audacity. The meek might well be going to inherit the earth but Quinn couldn’t wait that long—he was a man with a mission!

      At any time Quinn had the sort of face that made people look, and then look again, their eyes admiringly drawn to the pleasing arrangement of strong bones and intriguing manly hollows that made his irregular features stand out from the crowd. At that moment his expression—a fairly accurate reflection of his one overriding emotion, determination—drew more second glances than usual.

      His steely purpose extended beyond the tight-jawed, edgy expression on his saturnine features, his entire lean, loose-limbed body was tense with resolve; even his soft-footed tread had something uncompromising about it. In fact Quinn oozed danger, and human nature—or at least female nature—being what it was, this was the fatal ingredient that had every woman in the place instantly riveted.

      In the normal run of things Quinn wasn’t much bothered about the impression he made on people, except when, as part of his professional role, he needed to put them at their ease. His present enterprise was purely personal, and he had other, more urgent, things on his mind than racing pulses! He was going to see Rowena, and if that involved an unseemly contretemps with a security guard, chaining himself to an immovable object or just generally making a spectacle of himself, so be it!

      Dignity had its place—hell, he was great at dignity, he oozed the stuff morning till night—but now wasn’t the occasion to display restraint. He’d been displaying it for the past couple of months and where had it got him…? Fobbed off, ignored and generally given the run around, that was where!

      His chiselled jaw tightened another notch as he contemplated the abysmal way Rowena Parrish, his long-time friend and recent lover, had been treating him since that memorable night in New York.

      No, the time had arrived for a little bit of positive action. Quinn wasn’t a man accustomed to dealing with rejection or failure, and he was damned if he was going to accept it now without some sort of explanation. It would have to be an extremely good one too if it was going to satisfy him!

      ‘I’m here to see Ms—’ he began firmly as he approached the nearest of the receptionists arranged around a big half-moon-shaped desk.

      ‘Oh, and she’ll definitely be glad to see you.’ There was a fervent nod of agreement that slid like a Mexican wave down the line of pretty faces.

      It wasn’t that the other applicants hadn’t been good-looking. Like this one they’d all been sheathed in sexy black leather, and unlike this clean-shaven specimen they’d had the air of dissipated ruggedness that went with a sprinkling of designer stubble. Despite this advantage none had even come close to matching the indefinable something extra that this guy had by the bucketful!

      The receptionist and her companions had all been watching his approach, mouths slightly ajar. His every physical attribute—these included legs that were longer than long, narrow hips, a washboard-flat belly and wide, powerful shoulders—had been digested, drooled over and stored for future dreamy reference.

      Quinn, ready to do battle, was a little taken aback by this response. He cleared his throat and frowned suspiciously—was this some new devious ploy of Rowena’s to get him out of her hair?

      ‘Right, then, I’ll just go to…?’

      ‘If you’ll give me your name I’ll let them know you’re on your way up.’

      ‘Quinn Tyler.’ There was no instant start of recognition—good, Rowena hadn’t left any instructions to have him thrown out if he showed up as she had done at her apartment building.

      After a lot of judicious eyelash fluttering the young woman consulted the screen in front of her. ‘We haven’t actually got you down…it must be some sort of mistake.’ There were fervent nods of agreement. ‘No problem, I’ll just add your name here,’ she told him cheerfully.

      It was slowly dawning on Quinn that there was some sort of mistaken identity thing going on here, but as this seemed to be working in his favour he didn’t see much point setting the record straight. If it got him closer to the inner sanctum and Rowena he was quite happy to play along, though that might be easier if he knew what role he was meant to be playing.

      He dismissed any lingering qualms with a philosophical shrug—it couldn’t be worse than a punch-up with Security, could it…?

      Elbow leaning on the desk, he shamelessly utilised his most winning smile. ‘That’s very good of you…’ he consulted the name badge pinned to her ample bosom ‘…Stephanie.’

      A couple of minutes later, his fixed smile faded abruptly as he stepped into the glass-fronted lift and it began its smooth ascent. He looked at the piece of paper the nubile Stephanie had thrust into his hand, and his brows rose cynically at the sight of a scribbled phone number before he crushed it carelessly between his strong fingers.

      The directions he’d received from Stephanie took him to a long, narrow room that contained a row of chairs and little else furniture-wise.

      Quinn blinked; he was looking at a leather fetishist’s dream. Males, mostly a few years younger than himself—mid to late twenties, he estimated—filled the available chairs. They were all clad in a similar fashion to himself—black leather from head to toe.

      As he was surveying the surreal biker reunion scene in front of him, a door just to his left opened and he turned to see a short female figure dressed in a garish combination of lime green and cerise emerge, carrying a clipboard.

      ‘Who’s first?’ The black leather rose en masse in response to her slightly bored query.

      Apparently oblivious to the sudden rise in testosterone levels and anxiety,