“Did you ever intend telling me?” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright
“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
Wedding-Night Baby
Kim Lawrence
CHAPTER ONE
GEORGINA 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