A Baby to Bind His Bride

by Caitlin Crews

  Claiming his wedding night!

  Presumed dead after a tragic accident, billionaire CEO Leonidas Betancur does not recall the vows he made four years ago. But after he is tracked down by his wife, Susannah, fragments of his memory reappear. He denied her of a wedding night, and now he is ready to collect!

  Abandoned in her bridal gown and believing herself a widow, Susannah now wants Leonidas to reclaim his empire so she can be free. But he is more untamed and dangerously attractive than she remembers! With a single touch she surrenders her innocence... And now the consequences of their passion will bind them together forever!

  “I understand that you’re used to ruling everything you see, but I took care of your company and your family and this whole great mess just fine when you were gone. I don’t need you. I don’t want you.”

  “Then why did you go to such trouble to find me?” Leonidas demanded, and the force of it rocked Susannah back on her heels. “No one else was looking for me. No one else considered for even one second that I might be anything but dead. Only you. Why?”

  And Susannah hardly knew what she felt as she stared at him, her chest heaving as if she’d been running and her hands in fists at her sides. There were too many things inside of her then. There was the fact that she was trapped, in this marriage and in his family and in this life she’d wanted to escape the whole time she’d been stuck in it. More than that, there was the astounding reality of the situation—that there was life inside of her. That she’d found her husband on a mountaintop when everyone had accepted that he was gone, and she’d done more than save him. They’d made a life.

  One Night With Consequences

  When one night...leads to pregnancy!

  When succumbing to a night of unbridled desire, it’s impossible to think past the morning after!

  But with the sheets barely settled, that little blue line appears on the pregnancy test, and it doesn’t take long to realize that one night of white-hot passion has turned into a lifetime of consequences!

  Only one question remains:

  How do you tell a man you’ve just met that you’re about to share more than just his bed?

  Find out in:

  A Child Claimed by Gold by Rachael Thomas

  The Consequence of His Vengeance by Jennie Lucas

  Secrets of a Billionaire’s Mistress by Sharon Kendrick

  The Boss’s Nine-Month Negotiation by Maya Blake

  The Pregnant Kavakos Bride by Sharon Kendrick

  A Ring for the Greek’s Baby by Melanie Milburne

  Engaged for Her Enemy’s Heir by Kate Hewitt

  The Virgin’s Shock Baby by Heidi Rice

  The Italian’s Christmas Secret by Sharon Kendrick

  A Night of Royal Consequences by Susan Stephens

  Look for more One Night With Consequences coming soon!

  CAITLIN CREWS

  A Baby to Bind His Bride

  USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award–nominated author Caitlin Crews loves writing romance. She teaches her favorite romance novels in creative writing classes at places like UCLA Extension’s prestigious Writers’ Program, where she finally gets to utilize the MA and PhD in English literature she received from the University of York in England. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest, with her very own hero and too many pets. Visit her at caitlincrews.com.

  Books by Caitlin Crews

  Harlequin Presents

  Undone by the Billionaire Duke

  Castelli’s Virgin Widow

  Scandalous Royal Brides

  The Prince’s Nine-Month Scandal

  The Billionaire’s Secret Princess

  Wedlocked!

  Bride by Royal Decree

  Expecting a Royal Scandal

  One Night With Consequences

  The Guardian’s Virgin Ward

  The Billionaire’s Legacy

  The Return of the Di Sione Wife

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  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

  EXCERPT FROM THE INNOCENT'S ONE-NIGHT SURRENDER BY KATE HEWITT

  CHAPTER ONE

  “THEY CALL HIM the Count,” the gruff man told her as he led her deeper and deeper into the wild, wearing more flannel and plaid than Susannah Betancur had ever seen on a single person. “Never a name, always the Count. But they treat him like a god.”

  “An actual god or a pretend god?” Susannah asked, as if that would make any difference. If the Count was the man she sought, it certainly wouldn’t.

  Her guide shot her a look. “Not sure it really matters this far up the side of a hill, ma’am.”

  The hill they were trudging up was more properly a mountain, to Susannah’s way of thinking, but then, everything in the American Rockies appeared to be built on a grand scale. Her impression of the Wild, Wild West was that it was an endless sprawl of jaw-dropping mountains bedecked with evergreens and quaint place names, as if the towering splendor in every direction could be contained by calling the highest peak around something like Little Summit.

  “How droll,” Susannah muttered beneath her breath as she dug in and tried her best not to topple down the way she’d come. Or give in to what she thought was the high elevation, making her feel a little bit light-headed.

  That she was also breathless went without saying.

  Her friend in flannel had driven as far as he could on what passed for a road out in the remote Idaho wilderness. It was more properly a rutted, muddy dirt track that had wound deeper and deeper into the thick woods even as the sharp incline clearly indicated that they were going higher and higher at the same time. Then he’d stopped, long after Susannah had resigned herself to that lurching and bouncing lasting forever, or at least until it jostled her into a thousand tiny little jet-lagged pieces. Her driver had then indicated they needed to walk the rest of the way to what he called the compound, and little as Susannah had wanted to do anything of the kind after flying all the way here from the far more settled and civilized hills of her home on the other side of the world in Rome, she’d followed along.

  Because Susannah might not be a particularly avid hiker. But she was the Widow Betancur, whether she liked it or not. She had no choice but to see this through.

  She concentrated on putting one booted foot in front of the other now, well aware that her clothes were not exactly suited to an adventure in the great outdoors. It hadn’t occurred to her that she’d actually be in the wilderness instead of merely adjacent to it. Unlike every person she’d seen since the Betancur private jet had landed on an airfield in the middle of nowhere, Susannah wore head-to-toe black to announce her state of permanent mourning at a glance. It was her custom. Today it was a sleek cashmere coat over a winter dress in merino wool and deceptively sturdy knee-high boots, because she’d expected the cold, just not the forced march to go along with it.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to change?” her gui
de had asked her. They’d stared each other down in his ramshackle little cabin standing at lopsided attention in an overgrown field strewn with various auto parts. It had made her security detail twitchy. It had been his office, presumably. “Something less...?”

  “Less?” Susannah had echoed as if she failed to catch his meaning, lifting a brow in an approximation of the ruthless husband she’d lost.

  “There’s no real road in,” her guide had replied, eyeing her as if he expected her to wilt before him at that news. As if a mountain man or even the Rocky Mountains themselves, however challenging, could compare to the intrigues of her own complicated life and the multinational Betancur Corporation that had been in her control, at least nominally, these last few years, because she’d refused to let the rest of them win—her family and her late husband’s family and the entire board that had been so sure they could steamroll right over her. “It’s off the grid in the sense it’s, you know. Rough. You might want to dress for the elements.”

  Susannah had politely demurred. She wore only black in public and had done so ever since the funeral, because she held the dubious distinction of being the very young widow of one of the richest men in the world. She found that relentless black broadcast the right message about her intention to remain in mourning indefinitely, no matter what designs her conspiring parents and in-laws, or anyone else, had on her at any given time.

  She intended to remain the Widow Betancur for a very long while. No new husbands to take the reins and take control, no matter how hard she was pushed from all sides to remarry.

  If it was up to her she’d wear black forever, because her widowhood kept her free.

  Unless, that was, Leonidas Cristiano Betancur hadn’t actually died four years ago in that plane crash, which was exactly what Susannah had hauled herself across the planet to find out.

  Leonidas had been headed out to a remote ranch in this same wilderness for a meeting with some potential investors into one of his pet projects when his small plane had gone down in these acres and acres of near-impenetrable national forest. No bodies had ever been found, but the authorities had been convinced that the explosion had burned so hot that all evidence had been incinerated.

  Susannah was less convinced. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that she’d been increasingly more convinced over time that what had happened to her husband—on their wedding night, no less—had not been any accident.

  That had led to years of deploying private investigators and poring over grainy photographs of dark, grim men who were never Leonidas. Years of playing Penelope games with her conniving parents and her equally scheming in-laws like she was something straight out of The Odyssey, pretending to be so distraught by Leonidas’s death that she couldn’t possibly bear so much as a conversation about whom she might marry next.

  When the truth was she was not distraught. She’d hardly known the older son of old family friends whom her parents had groomed her to marry so young. She’d harbored girlish fantasies, as anyone would have at that age, but Leonidas had dashed all of those when he’d patted her on the head at their wedding like she was a puppy and had then disappeared in the middle of their reception because business called.

  “Don’t be so self-indulgent, Susannah,” her mother had said coldly that night while Susannah stood there, abandoned in her big white dress, trying not to cry. “Fantasies of fairy tales are for little girls. You are now the wife of the heir to the Betancur fortune. I suggest you take the opportunity to decide what kind of wife you will be. A pampered princess locked away on one of the Betancur estates or a force to be reckoned with?”

  Before morning, word had come that Leonidas was lost. And Susannah had chosen to be a force indeed these past four years, during which time she’d grown from a sheltered, naive nineteen-year-old into a woman who was many things, but was always—always—someone to be reckoned with. She’d decided she was more than just a trophy wife, and she’d proved it.

  And it had led here, to the side of a mountain in an American state Susannah had heard of only in the vaguest terms, trekking up to some “off the grid” compound where a man meeting Leonidas’s description was rumored to be heading up a local cult.

  “It’s not exactly a doomsday cult,” her investigator had told her in the grand penthouse in Rome, where Susannah lived because it was the closest of her husband’s properties to the Betancur Corporation’s European headquarters, where she liked to make her presence known. It kept things running more smoothly, she’d found.

  “Do such distinctions matter?” she’d asked, trying so hard to sound distant and unaffected with those photographs in her hands. Shots of a man in flowing white, hair longer than Leonidas had ever worn it, and still, that same ruthlessness in his dark gaze. That same lean, athletic frame, rangy and dangerous, with new scars that would make sense on someone who’d been in a plane crash.

  Leonidas Betancur in the flesh. She would have sworn on it.

  And her reaction to that swept over her from the inside, one earthquake after another, while she tried to smile blandly at her investigator.

  “The distinction only matters in the sense that if you actually go there, signora, it is unlikely that you’ll be held or killed,” the man told her.

  “Something to look forward to, then,” Susannah had replied, with another cool smile as punctuation.

  While inside, everything had continued that low, shattering roll, because her husband was alive. Alive.

  She couldn’t help thinking that if Leonidas really had repaired to the wilderness and assembled a following, he’d been trained for the vagaries of cult leadership in the best possible classroom: the shark-infested waters of the Betancur Corporation, the sprawling family business that had made him and all his relatives so filthy rich they thought they could do things like bring down the planes of disobedient, uncontrollable heirs when it suited them.

  Susannah had learned a lot in her four years of treading that same water. Mainly, that when the assorted Betancurs wanted something—like, say, Leonidas out of the way of a deal that would make the company a lot of money but which Leonidas had thought was shady—they usually found a way to get it.

  Being the Widow Betancur kept her free from all that conniving. Above it. But there was one thing better than being Leonidas Betancur’s widow, Susannah had thought, and it was bringing him back from the dead.

  He could run his damned business himself. And Susannah could get back the life she hadn’t known she wanted when she was nineteen. She could be happily divorced, footloose and fancy free by her twenty-fourth birthday, free of all Betancurs and much better at standing up for herself against her own parents.

  Free, full stop.

  Flying across the planet and into the Idaho wilderness was a small price to pay for her own freedom.

  “What kind of leader is the Count?” Susannah asked crisply now, focusing on the rough terrain as she followed her surprisingly hardy guide. “Benevolent? Or something more dire?”

  “I can’t say as I know the difference,” her guide replied out of the side of his mouth. “One cult seems like another to me.”

  As if they were a dime a dozen in these parts. Perhaps they were.

  And then it didn’t matter anyway, because they’d reached the compound.

  One moment there was nothing but forest and then the next, great gates reared up on the other side of a small clearing, swaddled in unfriendly barbed wire, festooned with gruff signs warning intruders to Keep Out while listing the grisly consequences of trespassing, and mounted with aggressively swiveling video cameras.

  “This is as far as I go,” her guide said then, keeping to the last of the trees.

  Susannah didn’t even know his name. And she wished he could come with her, since he’d gotten her this far already. But that wasn’t the deal. “I understand.”

  “I’ll wait down by
the truck until you need to go down the hill,” the man continued. “I’d take you inside...”

  “I understand that you can’t,” Susannah said, because this had all been explained to her down in that ramshackle cabin. “I have to do the rest of this alone.”

  That was the part that had given her security detail fits. But everyone had agreed. There was no way that Susannah could descend upon some faraway compound with an entire complement of Betancur security guards in tow when it was likely her husband was hiding from the world. She couldn’t turn up with her own small army, in other words. Even a few hardy locals would be too much, her guide had told her, because the sort of people who holed up in nearly inaccessible compounds in the Rocky Mountains were usually also the sort who didn’t much care for visitors. Particularly not if said visitors were armed.

  But a young woman who called herself a widow and was dressed to look as out of place on this mountain as Susannah felt was something else entirely.

  Something wholly nonthreatening, she hoped.

  Susannah didn’t let herself think too much about what she was doing. She’d read too many thrillers while locked away in the Swiss boarding school where her parents had insisted she remain throughout her adolescence, and every last one of them was running through her head on a loop this afternoon.

  Not helpful, she snapped at herself. She didn’t want to think about the risks. All she wanted—all she’d ever wanted—was to find out what had happened to Leonidas.

  Because the sad truth was, she might be the only one who cared.

  And she told herself that the only reason why she cared was because finding him would set her free.

  Susannah strode toward the gates, her skin crawling with every step she took. She knew the video cameras were trained on her, but she was worried about something worse than surveillance. Like snipers. She rather doubted anyone built a great fortress in the woods like the one she saw before her, sprawling this way and that, if they didn’t intend to defend it.

 
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