Her Pregnancy Surprise. Barbara McMahon

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      ‘I wonder who that is?’ her mother asked with a frown. ‘I do wish you’d fetch the dogs in through the kitchen when we’ve got guests,’ she remonstrated gently. ‘Hilary will have hysterics if they go within ten yards of her…tiresome woman,’ she added to herself. ‘Down, Fred,’ she added sternly to the large dog who had planted his damp paws on her stomach.

      ‘I can’t imagine who it is,’ Megan replied, her heart thumping madly in her chest.

      Her mother looked at her sharply. ‘Are you feeling all right, Megan?’ She considered her daughter’s face with a frown. ‘You look a little flushed.’

      ‘Me? I’m fine, absolutely fine!’ The cheerful smile she pinned on her face felt as though it was about to crack…or was that her face? ‘I’ll go and see who it is, shall I?’ she added brightly.

      ‘Would you, dear?’

      Megan was already running across towards the vehicle, her boots crunching on the gravel. Seconds later she arrived breathless and quivering with tension.

      ‘You’re late!’ she fired as the tall figure stepped with lithe, fluid ease from the disreputable-looking four-wheel drive. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’ If she was honest she had been relieved when she had thought he wasn’t honouring their bargain.

      ‘Something came up,’ he revealed casually.

      ‘And it didn’t occur to you to let me know,’ she quivered accusingly.

      One dark brow angled sardonically. ‘Don’t you think you should wait until we are irresistibly attracted before you get possessive…?’ he suggested mildly.

      The sarcasm brought an angry sparkle to her eyes. ‘This might be a joke to you, but—’

      ‘Not a joke,’ he interposed. ‘But I don’t see any reason we can’t make the best of it. We might even enjoy ourselves…’

      ‘Enjoy? Are you insane?’ Then, transferring her attention to the off-roader, she continued without missing a beat. ‘Is that yours?’

      If I had an ounce of foresight, she thought, I would have considered the question of transport and hired him the sort of car people would expect a best-selling author to drive around in. If I had any foresight I wouldn’t have done this at all.

      ‘No, I stole it on the way here,’ he returned, straight-faced. His dark eyes moved from the tendrils of hair that curled damply around her fair skinned face to her wide, anxious eyes. ‘Is that a problem?’

      Megan tore her attention from the Land Rover and cast him a look of seething dislike…as she did so she immediately realised that nobody would notice if he rolled up riding a child’s tricycle!

      ‘Oh, my God…’ she groaned, grabbing agitated handfuls of damp hair. ‘Look at you!’

      She followed her own instructions and allowed her glance to travel down the long, lean length of him once more. It was a cue for a heat flash to consume her all over again.

      He was sheathed from head to toe in black. The leather, age-softened jacket he wore was moulded to truly fantastic shoulders. It hung open to reveal a plain white tee shirt that clung to his powerful chest and lean, washboard belly. His dark moleskins followed the muscular contours of long, powerful thighs. God, was that a hole in the knee…? She despaired that a tiny glimpse of flesh could make her break out in a sweat.

      This was never going to work.

      ‘What’s wrong with me?’

      Nothing, if you liked being hit over the head with sex appeal.

      ‘Everything!’ she snapped in a doom-laden drone.

      His mobile mouth quirked at the corners; he didn’t appear particularly chastened by her pronouncement. ‘Harsh.’

      ‘You might have made an effort to look less…’ Sexy. Her eyes slid from his as she added huskily, ‘More…like a writer. And you could have shaved; you look like you haven’t been to bed.’

      He lifted a hand to the strong curve of his jaw covered with a layer of dark stubble and grinned. ‘I haven’t.’ He had had an idea for his next book; when inspiration struck, he listened. He had worked through the night to get it down on paper.

      ‘Spare me the details of your conquests,’ she begged.

      ‘Relax, nobody knows what this particular writer looks like.’ Persuasive as his argument was, it didn’t stop her feeling as though she had made a terrible mistake. ‘And isn’t this the way they want your writer to look…?’

      ‘Want? That’s the problem—nobody actually really believes he looks like a Byronic hero. You look too good to be true—they’ll smell a rat.’ But he wasn’t true, was he? He was a fake. He was also quite simply the most impossibly good-looking male she had ever seen.

      ‘Why, thank you.’

      ‘Look, if you’re not going to take this seriously drive away now,’ she instructed. This was almost certainly going to go wrong. ‘No,’ she added urgently. ‘Drive away anyway. This was a very bad idea.’

      ‘Chill out,’ he drawled, looking infuriatingly laid-back.

      The suggestion made her see red. ‘Chill out? Chill out!’ she repeated in a shrill squeak. ‘Easy for you to say. If this goes wrong people aren’t going to think you’re the desperate sort of woman who has to resort to hire a lover!’ she declared with a groan of self-recrimination.

      He scanned her anguished face, with deep-set eyes that revealed none of his feelings. ‘Presumably they’ll just think I’m a gigolo,’ he cut back. ‘Actually I wasn’t aware that sleeping with you was part of the deal, but what the hell?’ His sensual mouth formed a wide smile that didn’t touch his eyes. ‘I’ll throw that in for free.’

      There was a lengthy silence while Megan cleared her head of disturbing images and sounds: A darkened room, soft groans, intimate murmurs, two sweat-soaked bodies intimately entwined…She tugged fretfully at the neck of her sweater as she fought for breath. Inch by inch she fought her way back to control…or something that passed for it.

      ‘God, don’t go sensitive on me,’ she begged, still haunted by the humiliating memory of the suffocating white-hot excitement she had felt when she had imagined—She caught her breath sharply. Don’t go there, Megan, she told herself sternly.

      ‘You know I wasn’t speaking literally,’ she contended calmly, meeting his eyes. ‘I’ve simply realised I can’t go through with it. Late in the day, I know, but don’t worry—I’ll still have a word with Uncle Malcolm. He’ll look at your manuscript, I promise.’

      Megan heard the crunch of gravel behind her and looked over her shoulder. Her mother was advancing towards them. When her attention flickered back to her co-conspirator he was shaking his head.

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