His Pregnant Mistress. Carol Marinelli

Чтение книги онлайн.

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER ONE

      DON’T look up.

      Don’t look up.

      Over and over, Mia said those three little words to herself, knew, without a shadow of a doubt, it was the only way she could get through this dark hour in her life.

      She attempted to focus on the order of service she held. Her hands trembled so violently it made reading impossible, which was maybe just as well, for even the photograph of her dear friend Richard smiling back at her was enough to cause a fresh batch of tears to well in her eyes, for the stifled scream to build in her throat at the agonizing end to such a beautiful life; it didn’t make sense.

      Nothing today made any sense.

      Nothing in the formal surrounds of the church, or the austere people that packed the tiny pews, captured the essence of what Richard was about. She could count on one hand Richard’s true friends—the so-called dreamers and drifters that were relegated like herself to the back pews of the church. While the Carvelles and their entourage sat at the front, sweltered in the unfamiliar tropical heat in heavy black suits, the sultry, balmy heat of the late afternoon in Cairns clearly a distant memory, as one by one they had drifted down south, as one by one they had abandoned their roots and headed for the concrete security of the financial capital, their money too big, their egos too wide for the lush, unspoilt beauty of far North Queensland where they had first made their fortune, building and developing the type of luxury hotels that ensured the tourists returned. Too much was never enough where the Carvelles were concerned, the grass was always greener, the wallets always deeper somewhere else.

      Only Richard had stayed.

      As she stared at the order of service her mouth hardened and it took a moment to register that the emotion she was feeling was anger.

      Anger towards the insensitive might that was the Carvelles.

      Even the photo of him they had chosen looked wrong, wooden and formal in a suit and tie a world away from the casual, scruffy shorts and T-shirt guy Richard was.

      Had been.

      The mental correction caused a searing pain to rip through her, her hands moving to her stomach, massaging the life within, willing herself to stay calm for the sake of the baby she carried inside.

      Richard’s baby.

      The surge of panic that overwhelmed her was exacerbated by the rustle in the pews as the congregation stood and Mia attempted to stand, her legs trembling violently as the procession moved, willing herself to hold it together, to just get through the necessary formalities without drawing attention to herself.

      So she stared down, screwing her eyes closed as the procession passed, the horrible scent of incense from the minister’s lantern as he led the mourners an aching reminder of her father’s funeral just two years previously. But despite her vow not to look up, to keep to the plan Mia had put in place merely to get her through, as the music stilled, and the congregation hushed, Mia’s strategies fell by the wayside as her eyes slowly lifted. Drawn, not to the coffin, but to the dark-suited figure that followed behind, to the face that had haunted her dreams for the last seven years, to the face that had loved her, the eyes that had adored her and to the man who had so cruelly discarded her.

      Ethan.

      Only his haughty profile was visible as he walked with the sombre procession, taking his place in the front pew, staring fixedly ahead as the minister’s voice welcomed the congregation on this sad day.

      And though the minister’s words were well delivered, though it was Richard that had brought her here today, it was Ethan that held her attention, Ethan whom she stared at as the congregation shuffled to a stand, realizing, not for the first time, just how different Ethan was from his younger brother whom they were here to mourn. Richard, pale-skinned with light auburn hair, so vulnerable and fragile; the absolute antithesis of this confident, jet-haired swarthy-skinned, imposing man standing tall at the front of the church, easily a head above the rest. The only sign of emotion in his impassive face was that his jaw clenched in stony silence as the rest of the congregation started to sing, one hand held behind his back, the knuckles white with tension against his immaculate suit, and as an age-old hymn she’d heard a million times before filled the sacred space only now did she really hear it for the first time, each and every word seeming to dredge through the remnants of her soul. And only now did СКАЧАТЬ