The Billionaire's Fake Engagement / Man From Stallion Country. Robyn Grady
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baby, even part-time.
A palm against her sick stomach, she shook her head again. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
His eyes dimmed more. “You don’t like children?”
“I adore them.”
“You don’t think you could love a child that’s not yours?”
Oh Lord. “That’s not the problem.”
Finding her hands, he clasped them to his chest. “We’ll have our own children.”
Her throat ached so much, she could barely find her voice. “And that’s what you want, isn’t it Alexander?” What you need. A son. An heir.
“Do you know what I want?” His dark penetrating eyes searched hers. “I want you.”
She let go that breath.
He’d said want, not love, two totally different things.
But if she accepted this proposal, she would be a part-time mother of a child. Alexander Ramirez’s child. She’d given up all hope…
Her heart squeezed.
She shouldn’t even think such a thing. And just where would a marriage to Alex leave the unwed mother? Surely Bridget Davidson would want to marry the father of her child, particularly when the man concerned was Alexander.
And what of his suggestion that they have children of their own? Impossible.
Pressing the heel of her hand against her pulsing temple, she tried to think straight. There seemed a thousand ways this could go, but with only one likely outcome.
Someone would be hurt.
She shook her head, harder this time. “It won’t work.”
“Give me one good reason.”
Everything. “It’s all…too big of a gamble.”
“Life’s a gamble.”
She sighed.
How would he react if he knew he’d proposed to a woman who was considered trailer trash back home? Who’d fallen pregnant then had inadvertently caused a miscarriage. Lump on top of that the fact she was now barren and he’d hit the jackpot in women not to marry.
He wanted her?
He wanted only what she’d been willing to show of herself to the world.
He changed the subject.
“What’s your opinion on this house?” he asked, looking around.
Preoccupied by her thoughts, her reply was an automatic response. “I think it’s a stunning investment that will only increase in value.”
“You’d live here?”
“A sheikh would be happy living here.”
“Then contact the owners.”
Stunned, she stared at him. “That’s crazy.”
“You told me this is a good investment.”
“Haven’t you heard? Real estate agents aren’t known for their integrity,” she said pointedly.
His gaze intensified. “I shouldn’t trust you?”
A strange calm fell over her and she knew if she told him about her past now, everything would change in an instant. He could do way better. He just didn’t know it yet.
And the more sensible part of her—the part that adored him—didn’t want him to know.
“And if I said you shouldn’t trust me?” she asked.
“Then I’d have to go with gut instinct.”
She didn’t have time to think, to move. His strong arms were already around her, drawing her near, holding her against the pillar of the wholly masculine frame. The tips of their noses touching, he looked into her eyes, into her soul. She saw a fire flicker in their depths, then that familiar hunger and conviction leap and darken the irises more.
Time wound down as his mouth descended over hers. Her lips parted and then…
Then she was released. Or was that condemned? As he pressed closer, his tongue edging over and around hers, the kernel of desire low at her core condensed more, pulsing, burning, urging her to surrender reason and simply be.
When he gradually drew away, his eyelids were heavy, his breathing, too.
“I don’t regret my slip last night to that reporter,” he said, “because it crystallised in my mind what I want. I want a home, Natalie. It’s time I settle down. We’re good together. It can work.”
She had to push him away. Tell him now how blind and mulish he was. Instead her fingers kneaded his chest.
“Don’t do this.” He was making her head spin, working his charm until she barely knew which way was up.
His shoulders rolled back. “Wear my ring.”
Since the day they’d met, her life had seemed surreal. Men of Alexander Ramirez’s calibre didn’t inhabit her world, not the world of backwoods Tallie Wilder, anyway. When her baby had gone to Heaven that night, she’d given up on herself. She hadn’t wanted happiness. She hadn’t deserved it.
And yet how could she deny what she felt for Alexander? He helped fill that bleak cold hole inside her. When she was with him it was as if the shroud she’d worn for six years was, in part, removed.
Her more rational side knew there could be no engagement. The baby would be his and when he laid eyes on his child, Alex’s protective nature would win out and he would want to marry Bridget. Be with his child. And if Bridget needed persuading, he’d do that, too. How could she—the ‘other woman’—condemn them? Natalie only wished it was her.
“Phone the owners.”
She blinked back from her thoughts. He was still on about the house.
“It’s getting late now in Chicago,” she told him.
“I doubt they’ll mind having their dinner disturbed.”
She gauged the tilt of his mouth.
Hell, he was really serious. And if he truly wanted this house, she shouldn’t talk him out of it. There would simply be a different mistress living here than the one he imagined now.
But, given her shaky state, how well would she conduct an overseas call that potentially meant many thousands of dollars in commission for Phil’s?
She studied his implacable expression again and sighed.
Guess she’d find out.
Twenty minutes later, the delighted vendors agreed to Alex’s negotiated eight point seven-five million offer and had said to fax through the documents to their lawyer.
Thrilled, and a little shocked, Natalie slipped her cell phone into her briefcase. “That has to be the easiest sale I’ve ever made.”
“And now I’d like to see the rest of my investment.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “A little back to front.”
“Whatever works.”
Given she’d made a healthy commission and the Quintons were ecstatic, she couldn’t argue. She’d simply need to put the other, unrealistic matter out of her mind. Engagements, the possibility of being a part-time mother…
It wasn’t happening.
Gathering herself, she waved toward the back of the house. “Let’s start with the kitchen.”
“I’m not a cook. I want to see upstairs.”
He purposely brushed past and started up the stairs.