The Millionaire's Pregnant Wife

The Millionaire's Pregnant Wife
Sandra Field

Multimillionaire Luke Griffin's playboy reputation is as large as his fortune and Kelsey's determined to hate him, even though she accepts the temporary job he's offering.But then Luke accidentally reads Kelsey's secret wish list, which includes a vacation and a steamy affair. Her simple dreams give Luke the chance to indulge his wildest one–he'll take her on a trip to his private resort in the Bahamas and bed her. However, he doesn't realize Kelsey's a virgin….

The Millionaire’s Pregnant Wife

Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://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 THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

IF HE HAD to deal with inheriting a mansion he’d hated on sight, he’d rather do it alone.

If he had to go through all the boxes in one room of that mansion, searching for clues to a mother about whom—to put it mildly—he felt ambivalent, he’d much rather do it alone. But it would take forever, and Luke Griffin didn’t have forever. He had a financial empire to maintain.

He needed help.

Not his usual way of operating. He’d been doing things on his own since he was too little to remember.

He thumbed through the Yellow Pages again until he found the company that had looked like a helpful lead. Organize Your Home. With a name like that, surely someone should be able to help him go through the boxes? The other choice was to haul them to the dump.

They were his only chance to find out anything about his past. Luke punched the numbers and waited for the ring.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice. A rich contralto voice, with an undertone of huskiness that managed to turn two ordinary syllables into something very close to an invitation. He said briskly, “Is this Organize Your Home?”

“You have the right number,” the woman said. “But the business is no longer in operation…sorry.”

She didn’t sound sorry. She sounded jubilant, like sunlight through the amber depths of brandy. “My name’s Luke Griffin,” he said. “I’m staying temporarily at Griffin’s Keep, and I have at least three days’ work for you.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffin—as I said, I’ve disbanded the company. Last week.”

He said implacably, “What do you usually charge per hour?”

“That’s not—”

“Just answer the question. And perhaps you could tell me your name?”

Her voice warmed with temper. “Kelsey North. Forty dollars an hour. It’s not on.”

“I’ll pay two hundred and fifty an hour. Multiply that by three days—I’m sure you can do the math.”

There was a taut silence. Then she said crisply, “What sort of work?”

“My grandmother—Sylvia Griffin—left me some papers that are of personal interest. Unfortunately they’re scattered throughout her financial records. Boxes and boxes of them, and each one has to be gone through page by page. I’m a busy man and I have to get back to Manhattan. I can’t take the time to do this on my own.”

“I see,” Kelsey North said. “Give me your number. I’ll call you back later this evening.”

He rhymed off the numbers on the phone. “I look forward to hearing from you,” he said smoothly. “Goodbye, Ms North.”

The woman at the other end banged the receiver down with a force that was not remotely professional. If she was one of his employees, she’d be taking a course on customer relations, Luke thought, idly wondering why she’d closed her business. Although with a voice like that she was wasted organizing other people’s closets.

If, when she called back, she said no, he was in deep trouble.

He’d up the rate to five hundred an hour. That’d get her, he thought cynically, and went to see if he could rustle up a cup of coffee in the archaic kitchen of Griffin’s Keep.

KELSEY GLARED AT the receiver as if Luke Griffin was standing on top of it. The nerve of the man. The arrogance. As if she was supposed to levitate six feet in the air the moment he said jump.

Organize Your Home no longer existed. Finished. Kaput. She was free, free, free!

She did an impromptu twirl around the living room, then sat down again at the table where she’d been working on her list when the phone had rung. It was a list, in bright red marker, of all the things she wanted to do now that her life was her own.

Go to art school. Travel. Paint a masterpiece. Paint her toenails purple. Have torrid sex.