Sheikh's Baby Bombshell. Melanie Milburne

      CHAPTER ONE

      ABBY GOT THROUGH the wedding and the reception without once losing it. Not even a tiny wobble of her chin. Not even a single tear. She smiled in all the right places, said all the right things, even stood next to the bride, her best friend, and the groom—the man who for the past nine years was supposed to be her groom—and had photos taken.

      She had been polite and gracious on the outside, but inside she was...gutted.

      She knew it was time to move on. It had been time to move on for the past ten and a half months, but she hadn’t quite managed to do it.

      But tonight was the night.

      Yes, indeedy. Abigail Lucinda Wright was going to break out of her pathetically introverted shell and find herself a man and have a one-night stand with him.

      Not vanilla sex. No, sirree.

      Hot sex.

      Chilli-hot sex.

      The piano bar was tucked in an alley off one of London’s high streets. It had a classy reputation; no riffraff would dare to come here. There was live music and dancing and the drinks were exotic and hideously expensive. Way too expensive for a cake decorator from south London, but what the heck—it wasn’t every day your best friend married your childhood sweetheart while you stood and smiled like a Cheshire cat for the cameras.

      Abby steeled herself as she walked into the bar. You can do this.

      The music was romantic and slow and deeply stirring. Emotions she had bolted down tested their restraints. She felt them nudge around the circumference of her heart like tiny fists punching against damp paper.

      ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

      Abby looked at the fresh-faced, slightly chubby mousey-haired man who was an inch shorter than she was—which meant he was very short, because she was no bean pole and she was wearing ridiculously high heels—and smiled. ‘Sure, why not?’

      ‘What would you like?’

      I’d like to go home! I don’t belong here. What was I thinking? Abby forced another smile to her lips. ‘Champagne. If they have it.’

      ‘Classy.’

      ‘That’s me.’

      That’s so not me, Abby thought as she nervously fiddled with the clasp of her purse while her would-be suitor went to fetch her drink. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so hasty in accepting the first drink offered to her, but she wanted this over with.

      It was a rite of passage.

      An initiation.

      Mind you, she would have liked someone she could feel a little more attracted to. Mousey Man, as pleasant as he seemed to be, didn’t quite fit her fantasy of tall and dark and toe-curlingly handsome.

      Abby did a sweeping survey of the bar. Was no one single these days? There were couples everywhere, holding hands, sharing drinks, dancing cheek to cheek to the slow waltz that was being played by the concert standard pianist.

      Everyone seemed to belong to someone—hang on a minute—apart from one tall eye-poppingly gorgeous man who was sitting at the end of the long bar, currently looking at her with a slightly hooded watchful gaze.

      Abby felt a slow blush steal over her face as those dark eyes held hers. A strange, totally unfamiliar sensation passed through her body. She felt a shifting of her organs, a stirring of something that had long been lying dormant. An awakening.

      An awareness.

      ‘Here you go.’ Mousey Man handed her a glass of fizzing champagne.

      Before Abby could take it off him Tall Dark-Eyed Guy stood up and came over. ‘I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,’ he said.

      Abby opened her eyes wide at his arrogant impertinence. ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘It’s not real champagne.’

      ‘Hey, wait a minute! ‘ Mousy Man spluttered.

      Tall Dark-Eyed Guy nailed Mousey Man with a look. ‘Do you want to tell her what you put in her glass or would you prefer to make a statement to the police?’

      ‘The police?’ Abby swung back to frown at Tall Dark-Eyed Guy. ‘Since when has it been a crime to buy sparkling wine instead of champagne?’

      He gave her the sort of look an adult does to a very naive child. ‘Hasn’t anyone told you not to accept unsealed drinks from strangers? He could’ve slipped anything in that glass while you weren’t watching and you’d be none the wiser until you woke up next morning with a bad headache