Virgin Mistress, Scandalous Love-Child. Jennie Lucas
“Obey me, and it will be easier for everyone. Especially you.”
Obey him?
That was what had gotten her into this trouble in the first place. Just off Copacabana Beach, to the rhythmic beat of samba music and the howls of the crowds, he’d looked back at her. He’d taken her in his arms and kissed her with a sudden ferocity that had made her weak. “You’re coming home with me,” he’d whispered against the flushed heat of her skin. “You’re coming to my bed…”
And she hadn’t resisted. She’d thought she was in love with him. She’d dreamed so long of being his, and she’d surrendered to his orders without a fight.
But back then she’d only risked herself. Now she was pregnant. Her baby had to be protected at all costs. If Diogo meant her harm….
“You said you didn’t want to be a father. I accept that.” She shook her head desperately. “Send me back home. We’ll never bother you again. The child will never even know about you!”
Diogo’s dark eyebrows lowered. “Because you have other plans? No,” he said with a curl on his lip. “No baby of mine will leave Rio.”
Jennie Lucas grew up dreaming about faraway lands. At fifteen, hungry for experience beyond the borders of her small Idaho city, she went to a Connecticut boarding school on scholarship. She took her first solo trip to Europe at sixteen, then put off college and travelled around the US, supporting herself with jobs as diverse as gas station cashier and newspaper advertising assistant. At twenty-two she met the man who would be her husband. After their marriage, she graduated from Kent State with a degree in English. Seven years after she started writing she got the magical call from London that turned her into a published author.
Since then life has been hectic, with a new writing career and a sexy husband and two babies under two, but she’s having a wonderful (albeit sleepless) time. She loves immersing herself in dramatic, glamorous, passionate stories. Maybe she can’t physically travel to Morocco or Spain right now, but for a few hours a day, while her children are sleeping, she can be there in her books.
Jennie loves to hear from her readers. You can visit her website at www.jennielucas.com, or drop her a note at [email protected]
Virgin Mistress, Scandalous Love-Child
BY
Jennie Lucas
MILLS & BOON
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To Pete, who offered to whisk me to Rio for “research”. Happy anniversary, honey, today and forever.
CHAPTER ONE
PREGNANT.
As Ellie Jensen came up the stairs from the subway, her body was still shaking. She dimly heard taxi drivers yelling curses and honking their horns. Vendors were already setting up hot dog and pretzel carts on the sidewalks. After a long, gray winter, New York had finally surrendered to the brilliant warmth of May.
But Ellie was cold to the bone. She hadn’t felt her fingers or toes for hours. Not since she took the pregnancy test that morning and saw those two parallel pink lines
Pregnant.
She was getting married in six hours, and she was pregnant.
With another man’s baby.
Her boss’s baby.
Ellie stopped dead in front of the Serrador Building. She craned her neck to look up at the thirtieth floor, and panic ripped through her.
Diogo Serrador, the dark, ruthless steel tycoon who’d employed her for the last year, was going to be a father.
I cannot get you pregnant, querida. She still remembered his sensual voice that hot night, riding the hot drumbeat of Rio’s Carnaval. He’d whispered against her skin, Do not worry. It’s impossible.
And she’d believed him!
How could she have been so stupid? With her history, how could she have fallen prey to the oldest cliché in the world—an innocent country girl moving to the big, bad city and getting seduced by her arrogant, wealthy, vastly sexy boss?
She should have left the company at Christmas, when Timothy did. At the very least, she should have given notice weeks ago—as she’d promised him she would. But she’d kept procrastinating. As if something would stop her from losing the city she loved. The life she loved. The man she…
She stopped the thought cold.
It had been just a crush. A wild, heart-pounding crush. Then a seduction…
Ellie’s heart hurt as she looked up at the brilliant blue sky above the sweetly singing birds. The air was fresh and warm. The world was new.
But the news of her pregnancy wouldn’t make Diogo a father. She knew that already. The notorious playboy had his choice of gorgeous, brilliant women. He took them out, treated them like goddesses, then discarded them like last night’s rubbish. If women like that couldn’t hold his attention, no wonder he’d forgotten Ellie, a high school dropout with cheap clothes and unremarkable looks!
Diogo Serrador, a decent father?
The most likely scenario was that he’d carelessly offer her money for an abortion.
“Oh…” Covering her face with her hands, she cursed him aloud, causing the pedestrians hurrying past her on the sidewalk to give her a wide berth.
As inconvenient a shock as this pregnancy was, Ellie had already come to love this baby ferociously. This child was hers. Her family.
But Diogo had the right to know. Didn’t he?
Ellie ground her teeth. She would fling his lie back into his face!
She pushed open the building’s wide revolving door and took the elevator to the thirtieth floor. Determination steeled her as she passed the glassed-in offices down the hall.
“You’re late,” Carmen Alvarez snapped at Ellie as she passed her desk. “The numbers you gave me last night were all wrong. What’s the matter with you, girl?”
Ellie felt the floor move beneath her in a sway of nausea. She’d nearly been sick twice on the subway ride from her tiny Washington Heights studio apartment. She’d been queasy for months. That should have warned her, but she’d told herself her cycle was erratic. She couldn’t be pregnant. Diogo Serrador had given his word! I cannot get you pregnant, querida.
“Are you sick?” Mrs. Alvarez demanded with narrowed eyes. “Partying all night?”
“Party?” Ellie gave a weak laugh. That morning, when she’d finally been unable to zip up the black pencil skirt or button her close-fitting white shirt, she’d gone to the twenty-four-hour drugstore and bought a test from the pimply-faced teenager at the cash register. “No, not a party.”
“Then