Pursued

Pursued
Tracy Wolff

The tycoon’s enemy is now pregnant with his child! Only from New York Times bestselling author Tracy Wolff.Diamond tycoon Nic Durand’s steamy weekend with a mysterious beauty is only a temporary fling—until she admits that she’s the reporter threatening his company with an exposé. Oh, and she’s pregnant with his baby! Is it really his? There’s no way Nic will let her leave his side before he finds out the truth. Pursuing his heir means pursuing his lover—and possibly losing his heart…

Maybe she should walk away now.

Even as the thought came to her, she knew she wouldn’t do it. Partly because she wasn’t sure her knees would hold and partly because there was nowhere she’d rather be than right there, smiling up at this charming, beautiful man—and having him smile back at her.

“I’m Nic, by the way,” he said. “I’m Desi.”

“Would you like to dance, Desi?” he asked, taking the champagne glass from her hand and depositing it on a passing tray.

She should say no. She had a million things to do here tonight, and not one of them involved getting swept onto the dance floor by some hot, rich guy who had probably forgotten more about seduction than she’d ever known. But even as the thought occurred to her, even knowing that she might very well get burned before the night was over, she nodded.

He held her closer than was necessary for a first dance between strangers. One hand on her lower back, his fingers curving over the soft swell of her hip. His hard, strong chest brushing against hers with each step.

Desi felt herself melting. Felt herself falling a little more under his spell. She knew it was stupid, ridiculous, insane, but for the first time in her life, she didn’t care.

Tightening her hand where it rested against the back of his neck, she pulled him forward, pulled him down, down, down, until his lips met hers.

* * *

Pursued is part of The Diamond Tycoons duet—Marc and Nic Durand are ruthless, sexy and powerful—and only the women they love can tame them.

Pursued

Tracy Wolff

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

TRACY WOLFF collects books, English degrees and lipsticks, and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six, she wrote her first short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven, she ventured into the wonderful world of girls’ lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten, she’d read everything in the young-adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mum started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her lifelong love. Tracy lives in Texas with her husband and three sons, where she pens romance novels and teaches writing at her local community college.

Contents

Cover (#uab23eac6-a3ad-5119-9bda-fd046255ee06)

Excerpt (#u23d411a0-6397-563e-b618-8982a378d4a6)

Title Page (#u1e82a814-5ebe-51bf-9ae4-c70a261b4ca6)

About the Author (#u02c1d047-93e3-5da3-ae9d-5e724fa349aa)

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One (#ulink_c64bc5db-19cf-57d7-a897-7369d1757d43)

He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

Desi Maddox knew that sounded excessive, melodramatic even, considering she was standing in a room filled with beautiful people in even more beautiful clothes, but the longer she stood there staring at him, the more convinced she became. He. Was. Gorgeous. So gorgeous that for long seconds he blinded her to everything around her, even the glitter of gems and flash of high society that under normal circumstances would be impossible to ignore.

But these were far from normal circumstances. How could they be when his emerald gaze met hers over the sea of people stretching between them and her knees trembled. Actually trembled. Up until now, she’d always thought that was a cliché best saved for chick flicks and romance novels. But here she was in the middle of a crowded ballroom and all she could do was stand there as her heart raced, her palms grew damp and her knees actually trembled with the force of her reaction to a man she’d never seen before and more than likely would never see again.

Which was probably a good thing, and knowing she wouldn’t see him again was exactly what she needed to remind herself why she was here among the best and brightest of San Diego’s high society. Scoping out hot men was definitely not what her boss was paying her for.

More’s the pity.

Shaking her head in an effort to clear it, Desi forced herself to glance away from his mesmerizing gaze. Forced herself to check out the rest of the fancy gala, and the fancier people, she was currently stuck in the middle of. And the people were fancy, some of the fanciest she’d ever seen. Even he—of their own volition, her eyes moved back to Tall, Dark and Much Too ­Handsome—was fancy, in his five-thousand-dollar tuxedo and the flashing diamonds on his cuff links. She couldn’t hope to compare.

Not that she wanted to. This was so not her scene, and once she’d paid her dues, her boss would recognize that fact and move her somewhere else. Somewhere where she could actually make a difference to the world. After all, what did it matter if the wife of the mayor of San Diego was wearing Manolos or Louboutins on her dainty, pampered feet?

It mattered too much, she told herself wryly as she looked around the crowded ballroom. To a lot of people, it mattered too much. Which was why, on her next sweep of the room, she made herself take her time, made herself study—and identify—each face that passed by. As she did, she didn’t know whether to be pleased or horrified that she recognized nearly every person there. It was her job, after all, and it was nice to know that the hours she’d spent poring over old newspaper articles and photos hadn’t gone to waste.

After all, unlike the rest of the people here, her role wasn’t to drink champagne and drop a lot of money on the charity auction. No, her role, her job, was to stay on guard and pay attention to what everyone else was doing so she could write all about it when she got home. If she was lucky—if she kept her eyes open and her mouth shut—and the stars actually aligned, someone would say or do something really scandalous or important and she’d have the chance to write about that instead of the food, the wine and whatever designer was currently “it” among Southern California’s social elite.

And if she wasn’t lucky, well then she still had to pay attention. Still needed to record who was dating whom and who had made a fashion faux pas and who hadn’t…

And yes, her job as the society-page reporter for the local paper really was as boring as it sounded. She tried not to let herself dwell on the fact that she’d spent four years at Columbia’s School of Journalism only to end up here. Her father would be so proud of her—that is, if he hadn’t been killed six months ago while embedded with troops in the Middle East.