Wedding-Night Baby

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Authors: Kim Lawrence

BOOK: Wedding-Night Baby
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“Did you ever intend telling me?”
“It's none of your business,” Georgina said stubbornly.
 
“My child is none of my business?” His blue eyes glittered ferociously.
 
“Biologically you're the father,” she admitted hoarsely. “But your part was over a long time ago. What we had was casual; a brief moment of madness.”
 
Callum's head jerked as though she'd struck him. “You can't really think I'm willing to let you deny me contact with my child?”
 
“I want this child and you're not going to take him from me!”
KIM LAWRENCE
lives on a farm in rural Anglesey, Wales. She runs two miles daily and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing. It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons and the various stray animals that have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!
 
 
Kim Lawrence is a bright new talent in Harlequin Presents
®
. She loves creating strong, sexy heroes and spirited, lively heroines to tame them!
 
Look out for future books by Kim in Presents
.
Books by Kim Lawrence
HARLEQUIN PRESENTS
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2034—ACCIDENTAL BABY
 
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KIM LAWRENCE
Wedding-Night Baby
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CHAPTER ONE
G
EORGINA TRIED the deep-crowned straw hat once more before discarding it in favour of the cream silk creation which looked for all the world like an oversized mushroom. It did amazingly kind things to her heart-shaped face. She was experimenting with tucking her long chestnut hair into the crown when the doorbell rang. Apprehension shadowed the clear depths of her thickly fringed hazel eyes.
This would be him! With a deep breath that was meant to go some way towards making her appear calm and collected, she went to answer the door of her flat. She opened the door with a flourish, but as her eyes travelled upwards to the face of the man on her threshold her studied smile faltered and died, to be replaced by a frown that drew her dark, well-defined brows into a straight line.
There had to be some mistake! Her heart sank as she took in the teak-skinned, hawkish face; this wasn't what she had been expecting at all! How would this creature conduct himself at a social function? He hardly looked house-trained! And besides, he wasn't even wearing morning dress, after she had specifically stated... She'd never believe any recommendation of Bea's again!
Indignation made her draw herself up to her full, but unimpressive, height. Just for a split second she had had the strangest notion she had seen him before, which was absurd, of course—this wasn't the sort of man a person forgot! Not the sort of man she needed at all. But the odd
electrical spasm of recognition that had prickled along her nerve fibres was too definite to ignore totally. Rather than analyse the disconcerting sensation, she found it easier to concentrate on the aggravation his physical appearance might well cause her.
‘Miss Campion...?' She noted with some indignation that the tall stranger looked almost as taken aback as she felt. His blue eyes were running over her pink suit with a bemused expression. The narrowing of those eyes was a frown without any other movement of his rock-hard features; this was probably as near to disconcerted as his features went.
Suddenly she wished she'd opted for a longer skirt-length, and whilst she had thought at the time that combining pink with her hair was a statement meant to break down stereotypical colour co-ordination it now seemed a major error. This was foolish, because aside from the fact that all her hair was concealed a man in his line of work who didn't even possess morning dress was no great arbiter of good taste.
‘I asked for tails,' she informed him sternly. The blue eyes blinked, but he didn't exactly look stricken by this information. ‘Still, it is optional and that suit isn't too bad,' she admitted grudgingly; the fabric and cut made it almost appear a designer creation, though his long-limbed body would probably make most things look better than average. Her eyes travelled the length of his body and she swallowed—a lot better, she conceded grudgingly. Common sense told her that a man who made his living this way couldn't run to designer labels. ‘You'd better come in.'
‘You
are
Miss Georgina Campion?' He was very tall, she realised as he ducked to avoid a low light-fitting in her tiny hallway. His voice was gravelly, deep and held a vague twang which she couldn't immediately identify; it was slight and she couldn't place it.
She felt flustered and ill at ease as she confirmed her identity. His composure was a stark contrast as he looked around curiously—but then, she reminded herself, for him this was a commonplace situation. No wonder he seemed remarkably at ease. Still, all the better if he was professional, she told herself soothingly.
‘Have we met before?' The frown returned to his penetrating eyes and the query had a vaguely accusing note to it.
‘I have the sort of face that reminds people of their distant cousins,' she said, realising with a start that her instantaneous reaction had not been unilateral. Unless, of course, this was the man's clumsy attempt at being agreeable. It didn't seem likely; nothing else about him suggested that he was going out of his way to be more than basically polite. ‘Under the circumstances you'd better make it Georgina. My family call me Georgie, but I hate it,' she warned him sharply.
‘Anyone would,' he observed in a soothing manner. A slight spasm around his mouth seemed to indicate that he found this admission amusing. ‘Georgina is a charming name.'
She viewed the gravity in his face with suspicion but only gave a small grunt in reply. ‘Come in. I've left your buttonhole in the fridge. If we don't get a move on we'll be late.'
She fetched the white carnation from its resting place and returned to her sitting room to find her escort casually flicking through her books. He glanced up as she entered. With him beside her she was certainly going to be conspicuous, she decided, not sure whether this was desirable or not.
‘I suppose, under the circumstances, I'd better know your name,' she said, handing him the flower and pinning on her own corsage of delicate Singapore orchids.
‘It's Callum.' Struggling with her corsage, she didn't see the sudden decisive narrowing of his alert eyes. ‘Callum... Smith,' he finished smoothly, moving forward as she pricked her finger with the pin. The minor manipulation of the truth didn't cause him any qualms.
Despite the jet lag and the will-reading he'd had to attend Callum suddenly felt less tired. He had already decided that Miss Georgina Campion must be an unusually astute young woman. The size of the personal bequest which his uncle had left instructions for him to deliver personally made that much obvious, but she wasn't what he'd expected at all.
It might be worth his while finding out what it was about her that the old fox, Oliver, had found so appealing—beyond the obvious, he thought with a cynical twist to his lips. He didn't actually begrudge her the money, just the way she'd got it.
So far the trip hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd anticipated. He had hoped to find an heir apparent already installed on his uncle's throne. It had become immediately obvious to him that this wasn't so. He was irritated that he would have to spend more time in London than he had originally intended. He wasn't anxious to become embroiled in business which didn't interest him.
Since he'd got here he'd found the same name cropping up, first of all at the solicitor's and then once again when he'd reached Mallory's. It was highly suspect that she seemed to be the only person privy to essential information. Coming face to face with his uncle's lady-friend had been something of a shock, but he wasn't about to be misled by a pair of wide eyes and an air of innocence.
‘Let me,' he offered smoothly, taking the flowers from her fingers. Her youth and innocent appearance must have appealed to an elderly though still robust man. No doubt she knew exactly how to manipulate all her advantages,
he thought, distaste filling him as he smiled brilliantly. His interest was piqued—more than piqued, if he was honest.
How his family and friends would stare if they knew he was ready to act on impulse and embark on this bizarre blind date—Callum Stewart, whose behaviour was always governed by cool, clear logic. He justified his actions by telling himself he'd find out more about her if she didn't view him as a danger.
Georgina stuck her bleeding thumb in her mouth and remained stationary whilst he fixed her corsage against the bodice of her jacket. It was the sort of top that was meant to be worn with nothing underneath, and whilst the neckline was respectable the deep V did hint at the cleavage it only just concealed. Georgina wished she knew just what those blue eyes could see with the advantage of height.
‘There, all done.' He took a step back, not lingering over his task. The waft of his breath on her cheek was warm and fragrant and the tip of his forefinger as it grazed her neck felt slightly calloused, although his long, shapely fingers were neatly manicured. Georgina was annoyed to find she'd been holding her breath whilst the task was accomplished.
Hiring an escort for the day suddenly seemed a less sensible decision than it had before she'd actually met him. Callum Smith wasn't the sort of man she had wanted at all. Beneath the well-cut suit was a body that looked lethally powerful. He looked quite out of place in the suburban setting—impressive, but not at all domesticated. The strong-boned face was in no way pretty but it was fiercely commanding, with all the confidence and hauteur of a hawk.
She gave herself a mental shake. Hawk indeed! She was being fanciful; the tan was probably nothing more than overexposure to a sunbed, and the impressive build the result of many narcissistic hours in a gym, pumping iron.
He was what she'd got, and he'd have to do for the day. All that stark, unrelenting masculinity was going to be tough to take for an entire day; she preferred a slightly more subdued appeal in her men.
Not that I actually have any, she reminded herself stoically, ignoring the emotional tightening in her throat as she acknowledged her solitary state.
‘I don't suppose you have a car. We'll use mine,' she added as he didn't contradict her. ‘We should start now; I have to nurse her on the motorway,' she explained, gathering her handbag.
‘Where are we going?'
She shot him an exasperated look. ‘To my cousin's wedding in Somerset. Doesn't that agency tell you anything?' she grumbled. She was being freshly assailed by doubts about this scheme. Bea had been so convincing and she had scoffed at Georgina's rather prim enquiries as to how respectable these escorts were. Georgina had wanted to make it quite clear at the outset that
all
she wanted was a piece of window-dressing for one day.
‘Maybe you should go over the details just in case they've forgotten anything else,' he suggested as he followed her down the steps she shared with the four other tenants of the old Edwardian semi.
‘I probably should,' Georgina agreed. The battered Beetle was where she had left it in the shared parking space. About to duck in through the door, she thought better of the operation and took off her hat, laying it carefully on the rear seat. ‘It's open,' she told her companion, who was staring, quite rudely, at her hair. It was thick and glossy, a deep shade of russet, her best asset—her only asset, she sometimes thought. It fell, river-straight and glossy, to her waist.
With ill-concealed amusement she watched him attempt to fold his long, lean frame into the passenger seat.
‘Doesn't this blasted thing adjust?' he asked as he finally managed to squash himself in. ‘No wonder you leave it open; no one in their right mind would steal this death trap.'
‘It did adjust once, but it's stuck. You'd better put your seat belt on; I wouldn't want your neck on my conscience. If it's any comfort I have a legitimate MOT.' What was he used to—chauffeur-driven limousines?
‘You'll have more than my neck on your conscience if I have to travel far in this thing. Couldn't you get a cab?'
She laughed as she started the engine. ‘All the way to Somerset? I'm not made of money. Don't worry,' she added, in case he got the wrong idea. ‘I can pay your fee.'
‘I'm relieved,' he observed drily. ‘I could drive,' he added tensely as she negotiated a bend.
‘I wouldn't have thought you could afford to be chauvinistic in your line of work,' she shot back, ruffled at the implied criticism of her driving. Then, in case she'd wounded his feelings, she added, ‘Not that there's anything wrong with your line of work.'
Work of any sort was hard enough to come by these days. Perhaps the man had family responsibilities, or he was out of work. Casting a sidelong glance at his profile, she had to admit he didn't look like someone harassed by domestic detail. She was anxious in case she'd sounded prudish and judgemental.
‘Have you used the agency often?' he enquired casually.
‘Never before, but my friend Bea has several times. Lots of women are too busy to have a relationship and certain social occasions can be uncomfortable without a male escort.' She darted a glare at her companion, daring him to contradict her, uncomfortably aware that she was trying to convince herself as much as him.
The blue eyes were fixed on her profile and she swiftly
averted her gaze to the road, finding the intensity of the startling blue glare disorientating.
‘I'm sure you're right, but I doubt if that state of affairs would continue for long... You're a very attractive lady.'
Georgina gritted her teeth. ‘I'm sure you have a very nice line in insincere compliments,' she hissed, ‘but I'd like to make it quite clear that I require an attentive, presentable escort, nothing more.'
‘Just an observation.' He'd seen more attractive women, known truly beautiful women, experienced instant attraction and sometimes done something about it, but never before had he experienced such an immediate and urgent desire to touch, to claim a woman in a profoundly primal way.
This visceral reaction had been triggered by the briefest touching of eyes. The muscles in his belly still contracted as he recalled the blind bondage of that fleeting instant before his brain had started to function with its usual clarity. Callum frowned; he had every intention of keeping his hormones in check.

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