The Millionaire's Pregnant Mistress

Just a quick nap, she decided, then she would go exploring.

She stripped down to her birthday suit and pulled back the fluffy leaf patterned comforter and slipped beneath the cool, silky-soft vanilla-white sheets. She felt herself sinking as the mattress conformed to her body.

It was like curling up in a bowl of whipped cream. Within minutes she was sound asleep.

Ben pushed aside the drapes covering his office window and stood in a column of bright light, gazing out across acres of pristine rolling green grass and gardens blooming with vibrant shades of deep orange, sunny yellow and royal purple.

Jeanette would have loved this. It was exactly what she had envisioned when they bought this house. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her out there, playing with their son. He would have been nearly a year old now. Maybe even walking. Saying his first words. In his imagination his little boy always had Ben’s dark hair and his mother’s pale blue eyes and bright smile. He was always happy and laughing.

The door opened and he turned to see Mrs. Smith standing there, saving him from a landslide of painful memories. He let the curtain drop.

“Your guest is all settled in,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, nothing—oh wait, yes there is. I need you to go through the house and get rid of anything alcoholic.”

She frowned. “Whatever for?”

“A condition of her staying here was that I stop drinking. She thinks I’m an alcoholic.”

“And you let her believe—”

“It doesn’t matter what she believes, I want her to feel comfortable here. Just do it please.”

Mrs. Smith didn’t look happy, but she didn’t argue. “I’m going to say, again, that I don’t like this arrangement.”

“I know you don’t.” She hadn’t liked Jeanette, either, but they had learned to coexist. She was so protective of him, the truth was, she would never think anyone was good enough.

“I know you still feel guilty, Ben, but it wasn’t your fault.”

He didn’t have to ask what she meant. She had never said it to his face, but he knew she blamed his wife for his son’s death. She’d always considered Jeanette spoiled and self-centered.

Her career had just been taking off when she found out she was pregnant. She’d been more annoyed than excited at the prospect of becoming a parent, by the physical limitations of her pregnancy. Afraid it would affect her career negatively—God forbid she get a stretch mark or two—she’d even talked briefly about terminating, but thankfully he’d managed to talk her out of it. He had been sure that given time to adjust, she would have enjoyed motherhood. At least, that had been his hope.

In the end, none of it had mattered.

“Have you called your parents?” Mrs. Smith asked.

His parents.

Having to explain this to his family was another problem altogether. They had never been overbearing or judgmental—quite the opposite in fact. He hadn’t seen or heard from either of them since last Thanksgiving. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t be difficult for them to understand. In so many ways, they barely knew him. “Not yet.”

“Don’t you think you should?”

“Why? There’s no point in getting them excited about a grandchild they’re never going to see.”

Four

Ben knocked on the door to Tess’s suite, curious as to why she hadn’t shown up for dinner. Why, in the three and a half hours since she’d arrived, she hadn’t even ventured out of her suite.

No. He wasn’t curious. He was downright worried.

According to Mrs. Smith she’d only had two bags and a couple of small boxes, so it couldn’t have possibly taken her all this time to unpack. What if something was wrong? What if she was sick?

He knocked again, harder this time. “Tess, are you there?”

Knowing he probably shouldn’t, he eased the door open. The sitting room was flooded with pinkish light from the setting sun. He’d always been fond of the color scheme, and Tess staying there seemed oddly appropriate somehow. Much like her, it was refreshing and cheerful and almost whimsical in its simplicity. And homey. That was what being with Tess had felt like.

Like coming home.

He stepped past the doorway and listened for the sound of movement. The suite was dead silent.

“Tess,” he called, expecting an exasperated reply. In fact, if it meant she was all right, he welcomed a little sarcasm, but she didn’t answer.

Fear looped like a noose around his neck, making it difficult to breathe.

What if she’d slipped and fallen?

What 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.

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