Affair with the Rebel Heiress / The Magnate's Pregnancy Proposal. Emily McKay

      “I ‘disabused her of the notion’?” he muttered to the empty spot where she’d been. “Who the hell talks like that?”

      He stood there for a minute until he realized the couples around him were staring with interest. He flashed his best charming rogue smile and shrugged. “Women.”

      Several men tried to hide their smiles. A couple laughed outright. The women either rolled their eyes or just looked away. But he could see in their eyes that they were more amused than they wanted to be.

      If the audience was keeping score, it looked like he’d won another round. It didn’t feel that way, though. If only he’d believed her when she said she wasn’t interested in sleeping with him. Hell, he’d even be satisfied with believing himself.

      Kitty’s heart pounded in her chest as she maneuvered through the maze of bodies on the dance floor. Nausea clung to her, sticky and thick. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain any semblance of calm around Ford. Her nerves were frayed to the point of exhaustion.

      Selling Biedermann’s was something she’d never thought she’d consider. Just meeting with FMJ to discuss it had been abhorrent. But she’d done it. She’d dug deep to find strength she’d never known she had and she’d done the right thing for the company. And this was how fate had punished her.

      Why, oh, why, did it have to be him? Why did he have to be the F of FMJ? Six billion people in the world and the one she never wanted to see again just happened to be the one who held her future in his hands. It was cruelty piled on top of humiliation. It was completely … nauseating.

      She flattened her hand against the restroom door and shoved her way inside. The room was thankfully empty. A fact that she only had a second to appreciate before another wave of nausea washed over her. She bolted for the closest stall just as bile mixed with the rich appetizers she’d been so hungry for when she’d first arrived.

      Talk about humiliation.

      As if throwing up—in public—wasn’t bad enough. As Kitty knelt on the bathroom floor with one hand propped on the toilet paper dispenser and the other wedged against the wall, she heard footsteps outside the stall.

      “Oh, my, are you all right?” asked a wavering voice from behind her.

      The voice sounded kind—benevolently maternal. Kitty wasn’t taken in. Too many “kind” women were starving for gossip.

      “I’m fine,” Kitty managed. She raised her left leg, felt around in the air a bit for the door, then kicked it shut.

      “Is there something I can get you, dear?”

      Hmm … a cool washcloth? A glass of water? Retrograde amnesia? Any of the above would do.

      Kitty shoved the hair out of her face and straightened, wiping at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand.

      “Perhaps I could notify your date that you’re not feeling well?”

      Nosy and persistent, then. Kitty stood, smoothing down her dress. In her haste, she stepped on her hem and pulled it out. But that couldn’t be helped. Praying she looked better than she felt, she left the sanctuary of the stall. Kitty turned to see an elderly woman hovering by the sinks. Though she had to be nearing ninety, the woman was well-dressed and obviously took pains with her appearance.

      Kitty remembered something her grandmother had often told her. There’s no situation that can’t be improved with a fresh coat of lipstick.

      Sayings like that had made Kitty roll her eyes as a teenager. Inexplicably, Kitty chuckled. “I think I’ll just freshen my makeup.”

      The older woman smiled. “Always a good idea, if you ask me.”

      Kitty faced the mirror. Her hair had lost its smooth sheen and now looked tousled beyond repair. Her face was ashen, her lips dry. Even her eyes seemed to have developed dark circles. She could only suppose they’d darkened to match her exhaustion.

      And here she’d thought she looked pretty good just a few hours ago when she’d left the condo.

      She sighed. By the sink there was a selection of hand lotions and perfumes, along with a bottle of mouthwash and a stack of tiny cups. She filled one of the cups with water to rinse out her mouth.

      Spitting as delicately as she could, Kitty said, “This is quite embarrassing. I don’t think I’ve ever thrown up in public before.”

      “Think nothing of it, dear. Every woman goes through it.”

      Kitty raised her eyebrows. “Every woman—” she started to ask in confusion.

      “Well, not every woman. But when I was pregnant with Jake, my second, I couldn’t keep anything down, either.”

      “Oh, I’m not … That is, I’ve just been under a lot of stress.”

      The woman gave her a pointed look. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

      “I’m not—” But Kitty’s protest died in her mouth. “Pregnant.”

      Her vision tunneled, fading to black at the edges but staying piercingly bright in the center, where she could see her reflection in the mirror. Pale. Frightened. Terrified.

      What if she was? She couldn’t be. But even as she thought it, reality came crashing back.

      She was losing Biedermann’s. Ford was back in her life. Running her company. So why wouldn’t she be pregnant?

      Ford stood in the grand ballroom of The Pierre, scanning the room one last time as the nasty truth sank in. Kitty had left him standing on the dance floor, dashed off for the bathroom and then—somehow—sneaked past him on her way out.

      As unpleasant as the idea was, there was no other explanation. Kitty was nowhere to be found. Hell, he’d waited long enough for her to put in an appearance.

      Maybe he had it coming. After all, this wasn’t an actual date. He’d pushed his way in. Bullied her into agreeing, to use her word.

      Still, he wasn’t going to let her get away with this.

      Forty-five minutes later, he was standing at her door, a lavish bouquet of orchids in his hands.

      Her hair was loose about her shoulders, no longer sleek, but tousled as if she’d been running her fingers through it. Her face had been scrubbed clean of makeup, leaving her cheeks rosy. Her mouth was still impossibly pink, though.

      She’d changed out of her dress and had a long silk robe cinched tight around her waist. The result was that she looked like one of those forties movie starlets. Somehow, even devoid of makeup and expensive clothing, she still exuded class. As if she’d been simmered in wealth since childhood and now it fairly seeped from her pores.

      She eyed him suspiciously, her gaze dropping to the orchids and then back to his face. “What are those for?”

      Since she didn’t seem inclined to invite him in, he elbowed past her into the apartment. “They were my excuse to get in the building. One of your neighbors was leaving. I told him I was here to apologize for a date gone bad so he’d let me in.”

      “And he believed you?”

      “What can I say? I was persuasive.”

      After a moment of indecision, she closed and bolted the door. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. I’ll hunt him down and kill the jerk.”

      “Don’t do that. If you’re mad at me, take it out on me.” While she considered his words, he surveyed her apartment. A dingy kitchen led off from the living room and he headed there with the flowers. “Do you have a vase?”

      “I thought the flowers were just a ruse.”

      “That’s no reason not to enjoy them. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find flowers at midnight on a Friday night?”

      He