Her Surprise Baby Christmas (Evermore Book 4) Read online

  Clare Connelly is the internationally best-selling author of over fifty romance novels available digitally and in print, including novels in the Harlequin Presents/Mills & Boon Modern and Dare series.

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  All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s very-vivid, non-stop imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention (mwah-ha-ha).

  All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.

  The illustration on the cover of this book features smokin’ hot model/s and, as gorgeous as they are, bears no relation to the characters described within.

  Any medical advice in this book, related by characters, or otherwise, exists to further the story and is not necessarily based in fact. Medical advice quoted in this book should not be taken as anything other than narrative invention; please do not rely on romance novel characters to inform your medical decisions! If pregnant, seek professional, qualified advice.

  First published 2018

  (c) Clare Connelly

  Cover Credit: adobestock

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  PROLOGUE

  HE STARED AT THE bride, his expression grim, his eyes watchful.

  She looked beautiful, as always. She looked the same as ever, in fact. He’d say age had forgotten Kat Cassidy, only it wasn’t that so much as an excellent plastic surgeon had made a fortune arresting her body clock.

  She turned in her new husband’s arm, and Vitalo Katrakis fought a wave of bitterness.

  Forty eight hours ago, she’d turned up on his doorstep in Athens. Forty eight hours ago she’d told him she still loved him. That she’d cancel the wedding if he’d only give her a reason to.

  God, how he’d loved her.

  Once upon a time, a long time ago, when he’d still been young and easily led by women. When he’d allowed infatuation to take grip even when he’d known he should have kept it at bay.

  It was some small mercy that he’d been loyal to his best friend and mentor, Senator Andrew Cassidy, refusing to sleep with Andrew’s wife even when she’d begged Vitalo to give into their desire and take her to bed. Even when she’d crept into the guest room he’d been using wearing only a lace thong, her long, blonde hair tumbling over her full, beautiful breasts, as she’d moved towards him, pleading with him to make her his.

  Nausea surfed inside of him.

  He’d hated her that night, because he’d wanted her. He’d come so close to breaking the bonds of friendship and loyalty and doing just what she’d asked.

  He’d almost slept with her.

  God knows he’d wanted to.

  But he hadn’t. And now, so many years later, he was at her wedding, wondering what had stopped him from saying ‘yes’ to her this time? Was it still loyalty to Andrew, even now, so many years after the older man’s death? Was he so bound by their friendship that he couldn’t bring himself to sleep with a woman he’d desired since he first met her?

  As of five hours ago, she was married again. And while he didn’t know nor respect her groom - Lorenzo someone or other - Vitalo did respect the institution of marriage.

  This marriage was the ending of a chapter in his life – one in which he and Kat lived out a sort of fantasy. One in which he gave into decades’ old temptation and finally made love to her.

  Vitalo exhaled impatiently, throwing his scotch back and looking around for a waiter. He’d arrived at the wedding late – after the cake had been cut – and everyone was now drinking and dancing.

  The room was full of well-dressed revelers.

  His eyes skated across the guests, searching for someone who would bring him another drink, and landed instead on a woman who looked about as unimpressed with the wedding as he felt.

  She was brunette – a point in her favour. After Kat, he’d assiduously avoided blondes, and she was also textbook beautiful. Beautiful in a way that was obvious and classic. Wide-set eyes, almond shaped, with an aquiline nose and a pouting mouth, full heart-shaped lips painted a perfect pink. Her cheek bones were impressive, giving her face the impression of having been sculpted with care and precision – whether by a surgeon’s scalpel or God’s hand - making her seem haughty and unapproachable, and out of nowhere, he ached to approach her.

  Out of nowhere, he ached to make this woman his.

  With one last look at the bride, a woman he’d desired and refused to possess, he stood slowly, stretching his six and a half foot frame to full height. At thirty five years of age, he had the latent power of a twenty-something athlete, the strength of a warrior and the looks of some kind of ancient Adonis.

  There was a determination about him, a confidence bordering on arrogance, that demanded respect.

  His dark eyes followed the brunette’s progress intently. She was moving through the crowd, her slender figure sashaying as she went, and certainty firmed in his gut.

  He knew from experience, there was one very good way of putting the enigmatic Katerina Howard from his mind – one way of obliterating the hold she’d had over him to bits and pieces.

  There was one way to forget about Kat, and what she’d meant to him, what his need for her had done to him; and like all the other times he’d slept with another woman to forget Kat, he knew he’d enjoy it tonight. He knew he needed it tonight.

  CHAPTER ONE

  WHAT IN THE WORLD was she doing?

  His weight against her was some kind of kryptonite, his body strong and powerful. Bella had to tell him she’d never done this before. She had to… he slipped his fingers under her dress, pushing it up her legs, running over the silky softness of her thighs. She whimpered, deep in her throat, pleasure making thought almost impossible.

  This was madness.

  The best kind of madness.

  His fingers found the lace of her thong and he cupped her buttocks possessively, pressing her closer to him, so she felt the strength of his arousal and a low, groaning noise broke from her chest.

  “Yes,” she whispered, not even sure what she was saying ‘yes’ to, knowing only that she needed him in a way that was important and essential. “Yes,” she said, again, lifting her hands to tangle them in his thick dark hair.

  He pulled up, his eyes locking to hers, and then he kissed her, his mouth expert as it moved over hers, seducing her senses, driving her to the point of oblivion. There was pleasure and there was radioactive desire, and this was the latter.

  Not that she had any experience. Only, she didn’t want to think about her loveless, failed marriage. She didn’t want to think about her ex-husband. She didn’t want to think about anything. Not the wedding she’d just been at – her mother’s, to a man decades younger. She didn’t want to think about the father she’d lost years earlier, who would surely be devastated by his wife’s choice of second husband. She didn’t want to think about the lik
elihood that her new stepfather was using her mother for wealth and connections. She didn’t want to think about the plastic surgery her mother had had, to look more like Bella’s contemporary than parent.

  The man lifted her dress higher, his fingers running over her sides, and she pulled her hands out of his hair purely so she could lift them up above her head. He pushed the dress up, tossing it across the room, and her eyes followed it, taking in more details of this place he’d brought her to.

  Never in her life had she done something so spontaneous as this. She blamed champagne, and the wearing down of her soul.

  Thoughts. More thoughts.

  But not for long. He dropped his head, swooping down to collect one of her breasts in his mouth, taking it deep, sucking it in between his teeth and rolling her nipple with his tongue until fireworks danced behind the lids of her eyes, burning her with brightness, making her ache with pleasure.

  His hands tested the weight of her other breast, his fingertips delighting in the feel of her nipple, her body arcing forward. She had to tell him. Tell him she’d never done this. He lifted his mouth, claiming hers, and then his strong hands found her waist and lifted all of her, carrying her, legs wrapped around his waist, towards the bed.

  She tasted scotch in his mouth. He’d arrived at the wedding reception late – it had almost been over. She’d never met him before, never seen him, and presumed he was one of the groom’s friends. He wasn’t in good humour, though, unlike the other wedding guests.

  He’d been drinking scotch when she’d walked past, in search of a quiet place in which to hide out the rest of the reception, and he’d snaked a hand out, curling it around her wrist.

  “You’re beautiful,” he’d said, and she’d wondered if he was a little drunk. She’d wondered if he was very drunk. Only he wasn’t – he didn’t seem under the influence. He kissed her as he lay her down on the bed and pushed out of his shirt. Her fingers traced his naked chest, finding the ridges of his muscular abdomen, reveling in the unfamiliarity of this.

  She’d been a good girl all her life.

  No more.

  No longer. Not tonight.

  “I want you to make love to me,” she whispered, saying the words aloud for her own confidence, for her own conviction. Afraid, perhaps, that she might change her mind and chicken out at the last minute.

  “Love has nothing to do with it.” He softened the pronouncement by pushing up to offer a smile, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  And his words were reassuring, because he was right. Sex and love were two distinct prospects.

  “Sex. I want to have sex with you.”

  He watched her as he stripped out of his pants, his eyes hungrily roaming her body, studying her, desiring her, enjoying her. She felt more beautiful then than she ever had before.

  “What’s your name?” She asked, as he reached for his briefs and pushed them down. His arousal was enormous and spectacular; she couldn’t look at it.

  “Does it matter?” The words were deep and throaty.

  She swallowed. Her virginity was an accident. Happenstance. It meant nothing. And yet she somehow felt she ought to at least know the name of the man who was going to be her first lover.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  His smile was slow to spread over his face, and then he was kissing her breasts, and she was moaning, and against her flesh, he said, “I am Vitalo.”

  It sounded like vitality, and she felt his aliveness and raw power in the single word. His mouth moved lower, to her soft, feminine core and she cried out as his tongue ran over her seam and his hands spread her thighs, holding them wide so he could flick her most sensitive cluster of nerves with the tip of his tongue, making her arch her back and scratch her nails into the soft white duvet cover.

  Pleasure, unexpected and intense, burst over her, splitting her in two. She called his name, loudly, spilling it from her lips over and over again until she was almost unintelligible.

  He didn’t pull away. His mouth tormented her, the stubble of his chin between her thighs, rubbing her sensitive flesh until she was so overwhelmed with sensation she could no longer speak.

  She lay with her eyes shut, her body pink, her breath bursting from her. There was a noise, a crinkling of something, and he thrust inside of her, hard and fast, and she jolted her eyes open as pain surged inside her.

  He was right above her, his eyes looking at her with shock, first, then accusation, then anger. “What the hell?” he demanded, his breath ragged, his body held still.

  “I… I meant to tell you,” she lied, ashamed that she hadn’t. Pain receded quickly, now that his initial invasion was complete, and pleasure returned. No, more than pleasure. Having him inside her was doing something strange to her. Tentatively, gently, she lifted her hips up, moaning as her body grew more and more accustomed to the feeling of his strong hardness buried in her soft core.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, earnestly, her fingernails digging into his arms. “Please don’t.”

  He swore under his breath and then moved, but gently now, the animalistic passion that had driven him deep inside of her on that first powerful thrust brought under control. He moved now as though he were conducting an orchestra, building it to a gentle crescendo, building it to a thundering wave rather than a bolt of lightning. But it didn’t matter what he intended, her pleasure was vibrating intensely through her, and her second orgasm splintered her apart anew. She wrapped her legs around his waist and called his name out, and then his mouth was on her breast again, his hands possessive on her body.

  He stayed above her, his breathing rushed with the effort of holding his own release at bay. “And what is your name, my sweet little virgin?” He murmured, his hand lifting to her hair, dyed a soft brown a year or so earlier.

  She didn’t speak at first, she was trying to process this, what they’d just done, thoughts threatening to intrude.

  “Bella,” she said, belatedly.

  “That’s apt.” His eyes roamed her face and then he thrust into her, so she gasped. Pleasure burst anew, her over-sensitised body trembled beneath him. “Well, Bella,” he tasted her name, rolling it around his mouth until she almost felt it on her skin, then he thrust, hard this time, his body marching to a different rhythm, filling her with a new type of lust and need, filling her with an intensity of feelings that almost tore her apart.

  This time, when she reached a fever pitch of need, approaching the edge of sanity and sense, he drove her over the edge and tumbled with her, releasing himself on a guttural cry, his body wracked with pleasure.

  The sound of their tortured breathing filled the room, harsh and heavy, and then he rolled off her, lying on his back beside her, staring at the ceiling, his expression impossible to decipher, his cheeks slashed with dark colour. She stared at him, reality beginning to force its way into this pleasure, beginning to force its way into her life.

  “How old are you?” The question was quiet, so quiet she almost didn’t hear it.

  She swallowed, blinking slowly. “Twenty five.”

  His head jerked to hers in shock. He swore again, his eyes roaming her face, disbelief in every feature. “What are you, some kind of nun?”

  Despite the enormity of what they’d just done, she smiled distractedly. “Not by choice.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  She shifted her thoughts over the prisms of her life, the facts she liked to keep hidden – her engagement, the accident, her marriage. The divorce. She swallowed, turning away from him, staring at the ceiling. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Damn it,” the explosion was soft. “Don’t you think I have a right to know?”

  She shook her head, biting down on her lip. “It’s no big deal.”

  “On the contrary, Bella, this is a very big deal. Did it occur to you I might not want to be the man charged with taking your innocence?” He pulled up, standing and staring down at her, unconcerned for his nakedness. “I’m not looking for
a relationship. If you thought ‘making love’ with me might lead to more, then you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “Wow,” she said after a moment, once his words had digested. “That’s incredibly arrogant. I’m not interested in a relationship either. That,” she waved her hand over the bed, “This. It’s all I want from you.”

  “Why?” He pinpointed her with his laser-like stare. “Why tonight? Why me?”

  She closed her eyes, thinking of her mother’s wedding, and the tangle of emotions that accompanied her when it came to her family. She thought of how alone she’d felt all day, how completely isolated. How she was an outsider, all the time. She thought of the way she’d swayed, alone, on the dance floor, as couple after couple had taken their place, moving as if they were one person, their bodies in perfect sync, and emotions were welling inside of her. She thought of her ex-husband and his beautiful new wife, of their family and happiness, their togetherness and love.

  She’d needed companionship. She hadn’t wanted to feel alone. But it was too pathetic; she couldn’t admit to being so self-pitying.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I take it you’re not on the pill,” he queried stonily, reaching for his pants and pulling them up swiftly, buttoning them over himself with a firm movement.

  “No,” she swallowed. “But you used a condom. There’s no way I’m pregnant. You don’t need to worry.” The very idea was anathema to Bella. She was already ricocheting from her failed marriage, she didn’t need an unplanned pregnancy into the mix. The reality of what she’d just done slammed into her and she stood up, swaying slightly.

  “Cristo, you’re drunk.”

  She blinked at him, shaking her head. “I am not.”

  “You can hardly stand up straight.” He thrust his hands onto his hips, glaring at her with a belligerent impatience she should have found annoying. She should have found patronizing. She certainly shouldn’t have found it sexy and distracting.