Pregnant By The Millionaire. Кэрол Мортимер

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      NICK woke up alone.

      Which was strange, because he was pretty sure he hadn’t been alone when he’d fallen into a satiated asleep several hours ago.

      Something about a goddess…?

      Ah, yes—Hebe, the goddess of youth.

      Tall, slender, with a long, straight curtain of silver-blonde hair and eyes of so pale a brown they were gold. Strange magnetic eyes, that gleamed with a multitude of secrets.

      Not that he was interested in learning those secrets. Hebe had merely been a distraction, a way of putting the past and all the pain and the significance of the day behind him. He had wanted to forget, be diverted, and the presence of Hebe Johnson had certainly provided that. For a few hours, at least.

      So where was she? It was still dark outside, and the tangled sheets beside him were still warm, so she couldn’t have been gone long.

      He frowned slightly at the thought of her having just disappeared into the night. That was usually his privilege! Wine, dine and bed a woman, but never ever become involved—least of all allow them into the inner privacy of his life.

      Of course that was slightly more difficult when it was his bed they had shared!

      Because she didn’t live alone, he remembered now. Something about a flatmate. So after dinner he had brought her back to his apartment over the gallery for a drink instead—and other things!—breaking his cardinal rule in the bargain.

      Two rules, in fact, he acknowledged with a grimace as he remembered that Hebe actually worked for him, two floors down, in the Cavendish Gallery on the ground floor.

      But desperate times called for desperate measures, and so he had brought Hebe back here, needing to lose himself in the lithe beauty of her perfect, long-limbed body. And he had. He’d found himself dazzled, bewitched—the fact that she wasn’t one of the sophisticated women who usually had a brief place in his life, adding to the excitement of the evening. To the point that his pain had been anaesthetised, if not completely erased.

      Nick gave a groan as he remembered what yesterday signified, moving to sit up in the bed, needing to get away from the scene of that heated lovemaking now, and standing up to turn his back on those tumbled sheets before walking out of the bedroom.

      Only to come to an abrupt halt as he saw he wasn’t alone after all.

      Hebe, the goddess, was just switching the light off as she came out of the kitchen with a glass of water in her hand, her nakedness only shielded by the fine silver-blonde hair that reached almost to her waist.

      Nick instantly felt a stirring of renewed arousal as he looked at that golden body—legs long and silky, hips and waist slenderly curvaceous, breasts firm and uptilting, the nipples rosily pouting.

      As if begging to be kissed. Again.

      He had noticed her at the gallery several months ago, her beauty such that it was impossible for her not to stand out. But he hadn’t so much as spoken to her until yesterday.

      And now he wanted her. Again.

      ‘What are you doing?’ he prompted huskily as he padded softly across the room to join her, with only a small table-light for illumination.

      Hebe’s breath caught in her throat just at the sight of him. She was still not quite sure how she had ended up in Nick Cavendish’s apartment. In his bed. In his arms.

      She had been captivated by him since the moment she’d first seen him. In love, or more probably in lust, she acknowledged ruefully as she easily remembered each kiss and caress of the previous night, having been totally lost from the first moment Nick had held her in his arms and touched her.

      Or perhaps she had been lost before that…

      An American, the charismatic Nick Cavendish owned the London art gallery where she worked, as well as others in Paris and New York. His time was equally divided between the three, with apartments on the top floor of each building always ready for his use.

      Hebe had been working at the gallery for several weeks before she’d first caught a glimpse of the elusive owner.

      When he’d walked forcefully into the west room of the gallery four months ago, seemingly filled with boundless energy as he fired instructions one of

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