Having His Babies (Harlequin Presents) Read online

  She tensed and bit her lip.

  She’s sexy, successful … and PREGNANT!

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Copyright

  She tensed and bit her lip.

  “So,” he said, barely audibly. “Things have changed. You’d better tell me, Clare. Is there a new man in your life? Has someone swept you off your feet—and taken over where I left off?”

  A mixture of shock and outrage poured through her. “No,” she said intensely. What do you think I am?”

  “Changed,” Lachlan said deliberately. “You always were beautiful to my eyes, but now you’re like a rose that’s opening in all its glory. And you’re taking weekends off, lying on the beach—something’s happened to you, Clare. Is it true love? It surely has to be something cataclysmic, because nothing I ever did produced this.”

  “In a way you did, Lachlan. I…you see… I’m pregnant.”

  She’s sexy, successful … and PREGNANT!

  Relax and enjoy our fabulous series about spirited women and gorgeous men, whose passion results in pregnancies…sometimes unexpected! Of course, the birth of a baby is always a joyful event, and we can guarantee that our characters will become besotted moms and dads—but what happened in those nine months before?

  Share the surprises, emotions, dramas and suspense as our parents-to-be come to terms with the prospect of bringing a new little life into the world… All will discover that the business of making babies brings with it the most special love of all….

  Look out next month for:

  The Boss’s Baby (#2064)

  by Miranda Lee

  LINDSAY ARMSTRONG

  Having His Babies

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘I BEG your pardon?’

  ‘Well, we could do a blood test but I don’t think it’s necessary—from what you’ve told me and from this sample there seems to be no doubt. Congratulations, Clare!’

  Clare Montrose stared at her doctor, a woman in her late thirties whose bright, cheerful expression faded somewhat as she took in her patient’s stunned eyes.

  ‘You … didn’t expect or plan this?’ Valerie Martin queried.

  ‘No. That is to say, no.’ Clare swallowed. ‘Are you sure? I’m on the pill, as you know, and I’ve never forgotten to take it.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, I did prescribe a low dose, so-called mini-pill but I also explained the circumstances that can sometimes interfere with its effectiveness if you remember, Clare.’

  Clare opened her mouth, closed it and said shakily, ‘But … but nothing like that, well, not really—Oh, no,’ she said hollowly. ‘I didn’t even stop to think!’

  ‘Tell me,’ Valerie said gently.

  ‘I had a twenty-four-hour virus a while back,’ Clare said helplessly. ‘Nausea, gastric upset, but two days later I was as right as rain and I didn’t give it a second thought I was run off my feet at the time, too so—you mean that could have done it?’

  ‘It could. It’s not common but it could if it was a severe enough bout. Have you had no other symptoms? This—’ Valerie smiled a little ruefully ‘—seems to have come like a bolt from the blue.’

  ‘No. Well, I came to see you because my cycle seemed to have gone haywire but I’ve had that problem before—before I went on the pill, anyway,’ she amended, and sat back dazedly. ‘How much pregnant?’

  ‘We need to discuss a few dates but I would estimate six to eight weeks.’

  Clare pulled her diary from her purse and did some rapid mental arithmetic. ‘Yes,’ she said hollowly at last, ‘I imagine that would be about right—eight weeks. But why haven’t I had any morning sickness or—anything?’

  ‘We don’t all get it and we don’t all get it at the same time; you may be one of the lucky ones but I’d be surprised if you didn’t very shortly see some changes. Like a loss of appetite or suddenly being starving all the time. Such as feeling sleepy a lot of the time…’

  ‘Craving jam on pickles, that kind of thing,’ Clare said gloomily. ‘How could this happen to me?’

  ‘Clare.’ Valerie Martin stopped and watched her intently for a moment. And marvelled inwardly because she knew Clare Montrose quite well. They had their practices in the same building in the seaside town of Lennox Head although Clare practised law. And over the past few years this tall, quietly spoken though assured and obviously very intelligent girl had expanded the sleepy practice she’d bought to keep pace with the town’s growth and turned it into a profitable one with a growing reputation that was spreading throughout the district.

  And yet, Valerie mused, over the matter of getting herself pregnant, there seems to be a certain naiveté. Not quite what I would have expected from someone who can be as coolly competent as she undoubtedly can.

  ‘Clare …I don’t like to pry, but…is it not Lachlan?’

  Clare blinked her eyes that were the colour of the sea at certain times, a greeny blue that could best be described as aquamarine, and her face, beneath shining dark hair parted on the side and falling in a curly bob, reddened.

  Valerie looked fleetingly amused. ‘You can’t keep anything a secret in this village, my dear, but particularly not Lachlan Hewitt. His family has been in the area for generations; they’ve been shire councillors and the biggest landowners around Alstonville, Ballina and Lennox Head ever since I can remember. Besides, I didn’t think you were trying to keep it a secret.’

  ‘We weren’t,’ Clare said, gloomily again. ‘That is to say, once his divorce came through, it didn’t seem to be anyone’s business but our own, but…we weren’t exactly trying to flaunt it.’

  ‘I’m sure you weren’t. These things get noticed, though. Lachlan is the kind of man who gets noticed—as you’re the kind of woman who does, my dear. So…this wasn’t on the agenda?’

  ‘No,’ Clare said baldly after a moment.

  ‘Circumstances change cases, as I’m sure I don’t have to point out to a lawyer, but…’ Dr Martin paused ‘… I’m also sure I don’t have to point out to you that there are other—options.’

  Clare breathed raggedly and her eyes widened. ‘Oh. No, that’s not an option—the thought of it just—’ She shivered then shrugged. ‘I don’t think I could do it.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear you say so but that’s only a personal preference of mine. However, you’re—’ she glanced down at the card in front of her ‘—twenty-seven, which is by no means too old to be having a baby. But we don’t get any younger and, while it may not have been on your conscious agenda, perhaps you should take into account that it may have been on your unconscious one…’

  When Clare was back in her office, she grimaced because the thought of her biological clock ticking away unbeknownst to her was disturbing.

  She looked around, at her framed degree on the wall, at the cool eggshell-blue walls and sapphire carpet, the vast mahogany desk she was inordinately proud of—an antique she’d unearthed and had restored—at the silver-framed paintings on the wall, and she sat down with a deep sigh.

  She’d instructed her receptionist to hold all calls for half an hour and knew they’d be piling up like a tidal wave. Business was booming, and although she had an articled clerk and a legal secretary, what she really needed was a qualified solicitor t
o take some of the pressure off her—more than ever now, she mused, and gazed at one particular picture on the wall.

  It wasn’t a painting but an aerial photo of a suburban housing estate across the Pacific Highway from Lennox Head, and it was where so much had started.

  The land, originally a dairy farm, had been owned by the Hewitt family. Just before she’d bought out the practice, it had been subdivided and developed—and the unexpected plum of handling the conveyancing for the developers, the Hewitt family again, had fallen into her lap.

  She’d been unable to believe her good luck then briefly disturbed when her father, with whom she’d always had a turbulent relationship, had hinted that he’d been instrumental in getting her this coup. He had, frustratingly, refused ever to elaborate.

  But the fact of the matter was that she’d never looked back. Other estates had sprung up as well as strata title unit developments, some litigation work had started to come her way and she’d soon had more work than she knew what to do with.

  As a direct result, she now owned her own apartment in a lovely position close to the beach, she drove a magenta-coloured flashy little sports car and, when she could take the time for a holiday, she could afford the exotic and unusual.

  But it wasn’t until about six months after the plum had fallen that she’d met Lachlan Hewitt himself. She’d always dealt with his project manager although by then she’d known a lot about him and the family history: about his grandfather who had bought up so much of the country for a song. About the macadamia and avocado plantations they also owned; about the wonderful old house they lived in.

  Then, one day, when she hadn’t even had time to read through her appointments for the morning, Lucy, her receptionist, had buzzed her and announced in hushed tones that Mr Lachlan Hewitt had arrived for his appointment.

  Clare had gasped, gazed around at her littered desk then down at her person, and, in a voice unlike her own, had asked Lucy if she could stall him for a minute or two.

  ‘If you say so, Ms Montrose,’ Lucy had replied disapprovingly.

  Coming back to the present, Clare smiled faintly as she recalled her receptionist’s exact tone. And recalled how she had tidied her desk frantically, smoothed the skirt of her straight taupe linen dress with its white revere collar, reached into a drawer and studied her face in the small mirror of her gilt compact. And she’d had no more time than to run her fingers through her hair, apply a dash of lipstick and smooth her eyebrows before a discreet knock had sounded on the door.

  She remembered it as if it were yesterday, she thought, and closed her eyes as the images of that first meeting seeped into her mind…

  ‘Ms Montrose, Mr Hewitt,’ Lucy said as she ushered a tall man into the office.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Hewitt?’ Clare came round the desk and offered her hand.

  ‘How do you do, Ms Montrose?’ Lachlan Hewitt replied, with the faintest emphasis on the Ms and a slight narrowing of his eyes as he took her hand and allowed his grey gaze to inspect her from top to toe.

  Clare blinked once. She was five feet ten and not used to being towered over, but Lachlan Hewitt was at least six feet four. And those penetrating, smoky grey eyes were set in a tanned, interesting face beneath thick tawny hair with a tendency to flop on his forehead. The rest of him was well-proportioned: wide shoulders, narrow waist and more than a hint of whipcord strength beneath his casual checked shirt and khaki trousers worn with short brown boots.

  But what surprised her most was that he was younger than she’d expected—in his middle-thirties, she guessed.

  The other thing that surprised her was the hiatus that developed as they stared at each other. So that even Lucy appeared to be rooted to the spot.

  Clare decided to break it with a tinge of annoyance running through her. She did not appreciate being so thoroughly inspected even by the head of the Hewitt clan, she decided, and said smoothly as she took her hand back, ‘Do sit down, Mr Hewitt. May we offer you coffee or tea? It’s about that time.’ She smiled perfunctorily and moved back around her desk.

  ‘Something cool if you have it,’ he murmured.

  ‘By all means but I’ll have coffee, thank you, Lucy.’ Clare sat down and clasped her hands on the desk as Lucy left. ‘I presume you’ve come to discuss the housing estate with me, Mr Hewitt?’

  ‘No,’ Lachlan Hewitt replied idly.

  Clare blinked as a pause of his making developed. And felt herself grow restive and awkward as she was once again the subject of his scrutiny. But one of the things she’d taught herself over the years was the value of not rushing in, although, she thought, with some self-directed irony, she had rushed in initially.

  All the same, she managed to make herself wait with no more than a polite look of enquiry.

  ‘No,’ he said again, and smiled briefly. ‘From all reports you’ve been most competent and professional, Ms Montrose. As your father assured me you would be.’

  Clare felt her hackles rise as so often happened in the context of her father, but all she did was smile meaninglessly.

  Lucy intervened at this point with a long frosted glass of fruit-flavoured mineral water and a steaming cup of coffee. There was also a plate of biscuits and she fussed a little as she disposed of these. Then she left them alone, but her whole bearing was pregnant with curiosity.

  Clare stirred her coffee with a ruefully raised eyebrow. And decided to be honest. ‘You’ve caused a bit of a stir, Mr Hewitt. Amongst my staff and myself.’

  He looked fleetingly amused. ‘My apologies, Ms Montrose—’

  ‘The Ms is Lucy’s invention, Mr Hewitt,’ Clare broke in swiftly, annoyed again by the odd little emphasis he seemed to place on it. ‘She thinks it gives me some kind of mysterious status but I myself prefer to be known as Clare Montrose, unmarried—never married for that matter—and I don’t mind who knows it.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, and grimaced. ‘To be honest, Ms as a title always makes me think of women in limbo and I’d much rather call you Clare. I’m Lachlan, by the way, married but soon to become unmarried—and that’s why I’ve come to see you.’

  Clare’s eyes widened incredulously.

  ‘Have you ever handled a divorce settlement, Clare?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. A few. But—’ She couldn’t go on.

  ‘You’re amazed?’ he suggested. ‘Because I’m divorcing my wife or because I’ve come to see you about it?’

  ‘Both, to be honest,’ she said a touch feebly, and swallowed.

  ‘Do you know my wife, Clare?’

  ‘No, I’ve never met her, but…well, she—that is to say, I’ve seen photos of her in the local paper and—heard mention of her.’

  She stopped abruptly as images of Serena Hewitt, stunningly beautiful even in black and white, swam through her mind, and then remembered seeing Serena in the flesh one day, in the village, and realizing that her photos hadn’t done her justice.

  ‘And you can’t imagine anyone wanting to divorce her, no doubt,’ he said dryly.

  ‘I didn’t say that but—yes, I guess I’m surprised. Sorry. Uh—why me, though? I would imagine you have a family solicitor who… might be more appropriate.’

  ‘I do. I’d rather have fresh blood in this case, however.’

  Clare looked at him narrowly. ‘If I took this on,’ she said slowly, ‘I would act in your very best interests, Mr Hewitt, but if you’re looking for someone you could hide some of your assets from with a view to cheating your wife, then I have to tell you you’ve come to the wrong person.’

  ‘On the contrary, Ms Montrose,’ he returned coolly, ‘I’ve come to you because you appear to have a remarkably clear brain and excellent legal skills, whereas my family solicitor is getting old and doddery, although we hold him in great affection. He also happens to hold my wife in great affection.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was all Clare could think of to say.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Lachlan Hewitt said, ‘while I’m prepared to hand over to my wife everything
she’s entitled to by law, I am not prepared to be taken to the cleaners, which is exactly what she has in mind,’ he finished gently but with unmistakable satire.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Are you a feminist, Clare?’ he asked lazily then.

  ‘No more than most women,’ she replied coolly.

  ‘That’s not quite as your father sees you.’

  She bit her lip to stop the crushing retort that rose to mind and said instead, ‘How well do you know my father, Mr Hewitt?’

  When he spoke it was gravely but she couldn’t miss the lurking little glint of humour in his grey eyes. ‘Well enough to know that he holds extremely sexist views but, even so, can’t help being very proud of his brilliant, though uncomfortably feminist, daughter—although it’s something he may never have been able to convey to you, Clare: how proud he is.’

  She coloured slightly and looked away. ‘I’m afraid my views of feminist and his don’t agree,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘How do you know him, Mr Hewitt?’

  ‘He and my father were great friends. They served together in the same regiment in Vietnam, didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know he knew you. I believe your father died some months ago?’

  ‘It was at his funeral that your father mentioned you.’

  ‘I see. Then you mustn’t have minded the feminist tag he labelled me with.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was sexist,’ Lachlan Hewitt drawled. ‘And I did happen to know that your father saved my father’s life once.’

  Clare breathed deeply with some frustration. ‘Thus the world turns—on the head of a pin. I have to confess I would far rather have earned your conveyancing fair and square but—’ her lips curved into a reluctant smile ‘—I know how petulant and ultra-feminist that would make me.’

  Unbeknownst to her, during the short pause that ensued as they traded rather wry glances, Lachlan Hewitt was discovering himself unwittingly intrigued…

  Not, on first impressions, drop-dead gorgeous, he thought, apart from those wonderful eyes. A thin, intelligent face, pale, smooth skin and a tall, very slender but elegant figure. Otherwise nothing stood out; well, he amended, there was that shining mass of dark hair and lovely hands—but no, what was intriguing was her air of composure, uncompromising ethics and intelligence even when she was annoyed.

 
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