Protecting Her Royal Baby. Beth Cornelison

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      “You can’t worry about me. You have to save our child!” He pushed her toward the front door. “Hurry! They’ll try to kill you, try to kill him.”

      A dark-clad figure appeared from her kitchen and raised a long-muzzled gun. Fired.

      The father of her baby pushed her to the floor as the bullets whizzed over them. The jolt as she hit the floor sent a sharp pain through her belly, and a warm gush of fluid trickled down her leg. She clutched her middle, worried for her baby.

      In the next second, he was shoving her up and toward the front door. “Go! Hide! Don’t come back here!”

      Bullets pelted the wall near her, and she screamed. How had her life become such a nightmare?

      Snatching the keys to her old car from the peg by the door, she raced out to her front driveway as fast as a pregnant woman could run. The pain in her midsection grew, and she nearly doubled over. With a quick glance over her shoulder as she tumbled into the driver’s seat, she saw three men now in her living room with her baby’s father. They held him by the arms, restraining him, a gun at his temple.

      Nausea swamped her. They would kill him, she was sure. But why? What was their motive?

      One of the men burst through the front door, following her. He raised his weapon, and she gunned the engine. The thunk of bullets hitting the rear of her car spiked her fear. She gasped and scrunched as low as she could in the seat as she sped away. Tears blinded her as she raced down the street. She didn’t know where she was going. Away. To hide. To—

      Another sharp pain gripped her stomach. More warm fluid puddled beneath her. Oh, dear God! Her water had broken. The fall in her living room must have started her labor!

      She held her belly and cried out as the contraction tightened. Forget hiding. Her baby was coming. Doubling over in pain, she raced down the highway, praying she could reach the hospital in Lagniappe in time.

      * * *

      The car was coming right at him. Weaving. Speeding. With him at twelve o’clock.

      Adrenaline shot through Hunter Mansfield. Irritation and alarm nipping the back of his neck, he slowed to a stop along the rural Louisiana road where he jogged every Sunday afternoon. He assumed a ready stance on the balls of his feet, prepared to jump out of the way of the erratically lurching vehicle as it neared. The glare of sunlight reflected off the windshield, preventing him from seeing the driver. A drunk? A distracted teenager?

      The small blue Honda’s engine roared, and the car lurched forward, its wheels kicking up gravel as the passenger-side tires moved from the pavement onto the narrow shoulder. Hunter braced himself, rapidly weighing whether to dive for the four-foot ditch to his left or feint right into the road, assuming the car wouldn’t correct its path in time. Both posed risk.

      The ditch.

      Just as he shifted his weight to spring to his left, the sun slipped behind a cloud. He caught a glimpse of a face behind the steering wheel. A woman. A startled, frightened look. A last-second swerve, tires squealing.

      He jumped aside but not fast enough. The sedan clipped his hip as he launched himself toward the ditch. He landed with a tooth-jarring thump. Rolled. Pain streaked from his shoulder down his arm.

      He twisted to watch the Honda rocket past, grumbling an invective under his breath.

      Still traveling at a high speed, the car overcorrected from the swerve to miss him and fishtailed. In seconds, the driver had lost control. The sedan careened off the road at high speed, flipped and rolled into the ditch.

      Horror punched him in the gut. Scrambling to his feet, Hunter ran down the road to the inverted car and crouched at the broken driver’s window. “Hey, are you okay?”

      A pained and panicked cry came from inside.

      Unable to see the front seat even from a squat, he got on his stomach and peered inside. The sight that greeted him backed his breath into his throat.

      The woman lay crumpled on the roof of the sedan, which was now below her. Her forehead was bleeding. Her face was wrenched in a mask of agony. And she clutched her...rounded belly.

      Hunter’s anxiety ratcheted up a notch. She was pregnant. And judging from the pool of bloody fluid under her hips, her water had broken in the crash.

      Another wail of pain from her confirmed it. She was in labor.

      “Damn,” he muttered as a chill slid through him, despite the warm autumn sun. “Ma’am, are you hurt anywhere other than your head?” He reached in far enough to put the car in Park and turn off the engine.

      She turned wild blue eyes toward him. Frightened eyes. “Don’t hurt me!”

      He raised his palms. “I won’t. Calm down.”

      “Please! Don’t hurt me. I’m not—” She stopped with a gasp and a moan, holding her stomach.

      Hurt her? What the—

      “I’m not going to hurt you, ma’am. Why would you think—”

      “My baby!” she gasped between shallow pants. “It’s coming!”

      “Yeah. I see that.” He jerked at the Velcro strap that held his cell phone strapped to an armband while he jogged, and dialed 911. “I’m calling an ambulance now. Try to slow your breathing. You’re hyperventilating.”

      Another frightened groan answered him, and she cast a nervous glance around her. “Where am I? What happened?”

      Hunter arched an eyebrow. “You don’t remember?”

      Her brow puckered, and her eyes reflected anxiety, confusion. “Something’s wrong. I can’t...”

      He frowned. How hard had she hit her head? Was she a meth user? Mentally unstable? He studied her face, but her smooth, unblemished skin and her white teeth didn’t show any telltale signs of drug use. She was, in fact, strikingly beautiful, with a youthful oval face, thick golden-blond hair, clear blue eyes and lush red lips.

      “Try to calm down. Take slow, deep breaths. No one is trying to hurt you.” When the emergency operator came on the line, Hunter quickly gave the man the bullet points of the situation. Location. One-car accident. Woman in labor. Bleeding forehead. Possible delusions.

      When he’d been assured an ambulance and police were on the way, Hunter switched the call to speaker setting and put his phone on the ground by the car, leaving the line connected as instructed.

      “Ma’am, I’m going to try to open the door so I can help you.” Crawling onto his knees, he pulled at the crushed door. Though it gave a little, the bent frame was jammed. Hunter rose to his feet for better leverage and tried again. The shoulder he’d landed on when he dived into the ditch throbbed, and he paused long enough to roll his arms and loosen the muscles.

      “Ow!” The fear behind the woman’s cry spurred him to act faster, put everything behind getting the door open.

      “Hang on, ma’am. I’m coming.” Propping a foot against the dented frame, Hunter pulled СКАЧАТЬ