“I’m prepared to waive the debt you owe me, if you give me a child.”
Piper gasped. “You’re talking about a baby! Not some pawn in a game of chess.”
“You’re in a position to repay me?” Wade asked.
“You know damn well that I can’t pay you back.”
When his hands settled on her shoulders she flinched, but it didn’t deter him. Instead he turned her body and enveloped her in his arms. It shouldn’t feel so good. She should pull away, refuse his offer of solace—he was the enemy—but instead, she welcomed his embrace.
“Would it be so bad, Piper? We were good together once.”
“Please,” she said, her voice strained and small. “Give me time to work something out.”
“You have until dinner tonight.”
Dear Reader,
I’m frequently asked by readers, and sometimes just those who are curious, where I get my ideas. It often makes me pause and wonder, too.
Essentially, my story ideas evolve from a trigger. That trigger can be a snippet I might hear on the news or a line from a song’s lyrics, or even a picture of a house. Once that trigger does its stuff, my mind is stimulated to twist and turn the snippet, or the line from the song, into a gazillion “what if” scenarios. The same, too, with a picture of a house. What kind of people live there? How long has this house been a part of them? Is it even a part of them and, if not, why not?
With The Pregnancy Contract, there were various triggers and one of the key ones is a very lovely historical home, called Alberton, in the city where I live. I haven’t visited the house recently, but the memory of previous visits always lingers inside me. And with those memories, the very strong impression that it was very much a “family” home. So then I started to wonder—what if someone had taken for granted that this family home would always be there, always be theirs? What if, one day, they came home and it wasn’t?
I hope you enjoy The Pregnancy Contract. It was a very emotional story to write and one that made me sigh with satisfaction when Piper and Wade finally reached their happy ever after.
Happy reading!
Yvonne Lindsay
About the Author
New Zealand born, to Dutch immigrant parents, YVONNE LINDSAY became an avid romance reader at the age of thirteen. Now, married to her “blind date” and with two fabulous children, she remains a firm believer in the power of romance. Yvonne feels privileged to be able to bring to her readers the stories of her heart. In her spare time, when not writing, she can be found with her nose firmly in a book, reliving the power of love in all walks of life. She can be contacted via her website www.yvonnelindsay.com.
The Pregnancy
Contract
Yvonne Lindsay
To Anna Campbell and Trish Morey, the funniest
“went to the cheese shop” and French champagne buddies a girl could have!
One
“He’s dead?”
Wade watched her carefully. Oh, she was a good actress all right. Anyone would think she was shocked, or even sorry, to hear her father had died. But if that was genuinely the case, maybe she’d have been at his side in his last hours instead of partying her way around the world these past eight years. He fought back the rawness of his own grief for the man who had been his mentor—his best friend. He should have been able to share that grief with the man’s daughter. But he knew better than to share any part of his feelings with Piper Mitchell again.
“Yeah. Four days ago. This—” he gestured behind him to the throng of people circulating through the lower floors of the house “—is his wake.”
“No, he can’t be dead. You’re lying.” Piper took a shuddering breath. “You have to be lying!”
“I wouldn’t waste my breath lying to you.”
His words slowly sank in, digging beyond her disbelief. He could see the exact moment the reality hit her. Her face paled beneath the healthy tan that had gilded her cheeks only moments ago. Her light-colored irises that glittered like the palest blue topaz all but disappeared as her pupils dilated and the shadows under her eyes hollowed and darkened. She took an unsteady step backward, and instinctively Wade shot out a hand to stop her before she toppled down the tiled stairs behind her.
She tilted her head to look at his hand, curled around her arm.
“I … I don’t feel very well,” she said, her voice trailing away into nothing as her knees buckled and her eyelids fluttered shut.
Silently cursing her for both her timing and her reaction, Wade scooped her up into his arms and carried her through the front door.
“Mr. Collins, is everything all right?” Dexter, the butler, for want of a better description, came hurrying from the ballroom where the bulk of the mourners had gathered over drinks and canapés.
“It’s Miss Mitchell, she collapsed when she heard the news about her father,” Wade replied, clamping his jaw on the more colorful adjectives he’d have preferred to use to explain her reaction.
“Should I call a doctor?” Dexter asked.
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary. Let’s see how she feels when she wakes. Is her room still prepared?”
“It was one of Mr. Mitchell’s express wishes that Miss Piper’s room always be kept ready, sir.”
“I’ll take her up, then.” Wade nodded at the pack Piper had dropped on the front porch. “Could you bring her things?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Wade powered up the wide sweep of stairs with his late boss’s daughter in his arms. Despite her height, she barely weighed enough to register on his breathing, and when he lay her down on the frilly comforter that adorned her bed, he noticed how thin and frail she was beneath the jeans and bulky sweatshirt she wore.
“Perhaps it would be best if I called Mrs. Dexter to attend to her,” Dexter said smoothly as he deposited the grimy backpack on the polished wooden floor of the room.
“Yes,” Wade said, watching for any signs of consciousness from the still inert form on the bed. There was no way he wanted to have his hands on her any longer than necessary. Not anymore. “That would be best.”
Why now? he wondered. Why had she come back now? He stood to one side of the bed, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath the well-worn sweatshirt. He shook his head. He’d seen the bank statements and knew how she’d burned through her trust fund over the past eight years. What the hell had she spent all her money on? Certainly not clothing if what she wore now was anything to go by.
A noise at the door alerted him to the presence of the housekeeper-cum-cook he’d inherited along with Dexter when he’d bought the house from Rex Mitchell a couple years ago.
“Ah, lovey, what have you done to yourself?” Mrs. Dexter muttered under her breath as she pressed a hand to Piper’s forehead. “And your beautiful hair, what on earth is this?”
“I believe they’re called dreadlocks,” Wade said dryly, his lip curling with derision.
Trust Piper to arrive on his doorstep looking like some refugee from another country. It was just the kind of plea for attention they’d all come to expect from her during her late teens.