The Surprise

by Alice Ward

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  INTRODUCTION

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  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

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  BLITZED BY THE BILLIONAIRE

  THE GAMBLE

  A SNEAK PEEK

  MORE BY ALICE WARD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT AND DISCLAIMER

  The Surprise

  INTRODUCTION

  CLICK HERE to download my bestselling novel My Stepbrother, My Lover for FREE! You’ll also join my VIP Readers’ Club and be the first to know about new releases, free book offers, sales, exclusive giveaways, early sneak peeks of new releases, cover reveals and more!

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  One night. One moment in time can change everything.

  One night is all we have together before I leave the country for a year to serve as a physician with Doctors Beyond Borders-mostly to avoid real life obligations. Meeting her, being with her is like nothing I've ever experienced before... and probably never will again.

  During those few hours together, something grows between us, and although we don't even know each other's names, it takes root. It grows. Duplicates.

  I know she's the one. But apparently she doesn't feel the same. The thing is, she's not the same as the women before, who only wanted me because I'm a billionaire. She haunts me.

  When fate brings me back to the States earlier than expected, I come face to face with her. And the biggest surprise of my life. Will she allow me to be more than a stranger? Or has one mistake cost me everything?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Scarlett

  “We have two more coming up from ER!”

  I stared at Melinda in disbelief, but the charge nurse just shot me a sympathetic look and kept running down the hall of the labor and delivery unit where I’d spent the past twelve hours. And where I’d possibly spend the next who knew how long. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly seven, nearly time for my shift to end, but one thing was for sure… from the looks of it, I wouldn’t be going home for the next couple hours at least.

  A call bell rang, and I looked up to see that it was the birthing mother from hell — again. I sighed and ran an arm over my brow. I stuffed a peanut butter cracker into my mouth and downed two swallows of my Snapple Peach Tea before straightening my ponytail and heading to her room.

  Plastering on a smile, I headed to the patient’s bedside, barely able to suppress the chuckle that wanted to burst from me each time I saw how ridiculous the woman looked. It didn’t matter how elegant our most sophisticated birthing room was decorated, nothing was good enough for this first-time mom. Upon arrival, she’d had her “people” change the sheets of the hospital bed from the practical white cotton-poly mix to ridiculously expensive — and slippery — pink silk.

  “In honor of our precious daughter’s birth,” the primping diva told me when I first saw the room’s transformation as she smoothed the newly added furry white blanket with her bejeweled hand.

  Of course, it wasn’t.

  Mrs. Celine Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth — aka Cece-Gorgeous on Instagram — only thought of herself and hadn’t stopped taking selfies since her arrival ten hours ago. Her accoutrements for the glorious occasion had nothing to do with the baby in her womb. The decorations included pale pink twinkle lights that cast a soft glow around the woman — the better to selfie herself with, no doubt. The outrageously expensive looking silk gown that was going to be ruined in a few hours showed off super slim, tanned arms and breasts that were bigger than my ample ass cheeks. And silliest of all, the diamond encrusted tiara perched on the twenty-two-year-old’s head appeared to have real diamonds. The curling iron on the nearby nightstand was being carefully watched by her stylist, who checked her hair and makeup every few minutes, pulling from the suitcase of cosmetics by her side as needed.

  Mrs. Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth wasn’t a queen. Or a princess. She was worse. One of those Instagram models who made money from showing off her tits and ass… and now her baby was going to be swept down that money track too. Not that she needed it. She’d snagged an older billionaire dude who called her precious and sweedums. She was semi seriously on my list for a psych eval, but my smile stayed in place as I asked the soon-to-be momster, “How may I serve you?”

  Crap. I hadn’t meant for it to come out exactly that way.

  Mrs. HW5 didn’t seem to mind. “I think you should check me again. I’m quite certain I’m at ten. I just can’t imagine my body taking so long. I’ve been preparing for this moment for weeks, and I’m quite behind schedule.”

  I suppressed a sigh and headed over to the monitor to look at her strip. Baby looked good. Mom looked good — on paper. “I checked you just a half hour ago. I doubt there has been much change.” Not with these wimpy ass contractions, I wanted to add but didn’t. Her doctor needed to be shot for admitting her this early in labor. Especially on an evening like this.

  She raised her chin, and the reflection from one of the diamonds in the tiara nearly blinded me as it refracted the light. Her perfectly glossed pink lips pursed together. “I’m quite sure you’re mistaken. I can feel my body opening in glorious anticipation of Marie Claire’s entrance into our world.”

  This poor baby.

  I glanced at Mr. Worthington, the Fifth, who was still tapping away at his laptop. He hadn’t even lifted his head since I entered the room, his thick silver-streaked black hair shining in the pink ambiance of the lighting. He was at least forty years her senior and was “very busy with his important work” as Mrs. HW5 told me several times.

  “Celine, I—” I stopped when she raised an eyebrow, then cleared my throat, forgetting about my earlier instructions to use her formal married name. “Mrs. Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth, I—” Another call bell sounded at the nurses’ station, drawing my attention. “I’ll be right back.”

  Her overly drawn smoky cat eyes blinked rapidly at me, the long fake lashes reminding me of spider legs as they swept her bronzed and highlighted cheeks. “But, I want to be checked now.” Her cool blue eyes dropped to my shoes and crawled their way back up my pink and chocolate-brown scrubs. “And please do change before the baby’s born.” She glanced at her stylist, who jumped to attention, reminding me of what a soldier would do for a general. “Can you do something with her? Makeup, hair.” She gave a tight smile as her cool blue eyes assessed me. “Something more, um, photo friendly.” Her eyes grew large and she inhaled a great gasp, and I wondered if she was finally feeling a contraction. When she thrust a finger into the air, I realized she’d just had an idea. A terrible idea by the way she was eyeing me. “We’ll do a makeover for her! Won’t that be delightful? We’ll call it Ambush Makeover, Nurse Edition, and it—”

  I held up my hands as if warding off a slap. “Um, no. Thank you for the kind offer, but no.”

  Mrs. HW5 thrusted her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout, and I was nearly overjoyed to see the pink smear of her gloss create a semicircle on her chin. My delight lasted only an instant before the stylist swept in and whisked the gooey flaw away, then pressed some powder to her already unshiny nose.

  H
eat flooded my face. I could feel it scorch its way up my neck and to my cheeks. Not from embarrassment of how I knew I looked at the moment, but from the sheer audacity of this woman. This was New York. I had divas aplenty on this ward. But this was the diva of all divas, and I wanted to slap the stupid tiara off her hair extensions and thrust her curling iron up her tight ass.

  I wanted to scream at her. I wanted her to know that all twelve of our birthing room beds were full and that we had patients vying for an open one downstairs. I wanted to chide that she shouldn’t even be admitted yet, but because her husband pretty much owned half of New York City, her every wish had been granted by a suck-ass doctor who refused to say no when the very first contraction hit.

  I wanted her to know that, in the room next to hers, a woman was going through labor too, but would be pushing out a baby who had already died from profound anencephalies, and she and her family knew they’d never hear that first precious cry. I wanted her to know that we’d already had another fetal death earlier this week. And I’d been the one who washed the vernix from the little boy’s limbs and swaddled him like I’d swaddle any newborn, handing him over to his sobbing mother and the father who looked like a feather would knock him off his chair.

  I wanted to shout at her about the dejected thirteen-year-old down the hall, who’d be handing her baby over to the overjoyed adoptive parents also in the room—and who would be going to live at a friend’s house after discharge because her parents had kicked her out when they learned she was pregnant.

  I wanted to shout at this pampered princess that, three doors down, a mother had sacrificed her life for the sake of her child. The thirty-one-year-old woman had been diagnosed with brain cancer when she was nine weeks pregnant. She’d foregone chemotherapy and treatment so that the baby could be born healthy. She might get to spend three months with him, but probably less. She and her son would go home tomorrow morning, and her family would wait for the cruel reality of her painful death.

  But I didn’t shout any of those things, because I also knew just how much this mom deserved her special day too. Yeah, she might be over the top, by a lot. She might be annoying as hell. She might even deserve to have that damn tiara yanked from her golden head... but today was precious. And I’d do whatever it took to make sure her baby came into this world safely.

  And I don’t get my ass sued or Instagramed into the Nursing Hall of Shame.

  As an L&D nurse, I loved my job, no matter how horrible the mom or the situation. It had been what I wanted to do since I was young and pretended my first Barbie was in labor with Ken holding her hand. Of course, at that time, I thought babies came from their mother’s belly buttons. It wasn’t until I went to live on my aunt and uncle’s farm in upstate New York when I was nearly eight that I learned the truth by witnessing a black and white calf come into the world. Yes, it was messy, but I’d been hypnotized by the process. I’d loved it. From that moment on, I watched almost all the farm animals give birth. I rubbed bellies, and when I was older, the vet would let me help, guiding me through every step while answering my plethora of questions.

  Excusing myself from the room, I ran to the nurses’ station and hit the button to answer the call button for room ten, wondering where everyone was. “How can I help you?” I asked, keeping my voice as courteous as possible.

  “Can my wife have more ice chips, please?”

  I rolled my eyes but forced a bright smile on my face, hoping the action would come across in my voice. I checked the wife’s name on the board to confirm she was allowed this bit of comfort. She was. “Absolutely. Just a moment.”

  Squirting out a hand full of antibacterial foam and vigorously rubbing it into my palms and between my fingers, I rushed to the pantry and scooped up a cup of ice, still wondering where everyone was. Today had been crazy, and the night didn’t seem to be getting much better.

  There was a full moon, and I didn’t care how many people said it was an old wives’ tale, the change in moon did seem to affect amniotic fluid as much as it did the waves in the ocean. In addition to that, a significant barometric pressure shift had pressed down on the entire east coast from an incoming strain of storms. My sinuses felt it, and it seemed pregnant women near their due dates were feeling it too. Plus, it was September, one of our busiest months. Apparently, it was too cold in December and January to do anything but have sex in this town, so we always had a slew of late summer and early fall babies. And today, we were swamped with them.

  “Here you go,” I told the panting mother-to-be, handing the ice chips to a concerned-looking woman holding her hand. Ah, yes. The lesbian couple. Or was the non-laboring one transgender? I couldn’t remember, and my poor brain refused to give up the information.

  I checked the strip. Yep, she was having a contraction and was doing so steadily every three minutes. Where the hell was Olivia, her primary nurse?

  “Will my epidural be here soon?” she asked when the contraction had faded, her wife wiping the sweat from her forehead with gentle fingers.

  I took her hand in mine, giving her my best reassuring smile. “I’ll find out. We have a full house this evening, so try to be patient. Remember your breathing.” I looked at the wife. “Can you help her with that?”

  I was given a shaky smile, and I squeezed the other woman’s hand too. They both looked to be in their late thirties, and I wondered if this was their first child. I didn’t have time to look in the patient chart, which made me feel extremely guilty.

  On a normal day, I’d try to get her up and out of bed, have her walk or sit on one of the birthing balls. Maybe even take a shower, let the warm water hit her back and let gravity help with the baby’s descent. Do anything but lie in the bed and suffer the way she was suffering now.

  But she wasn’t my patient, and I needed to figure out where everyone was. I gave her hand another squeeze and a gentle pat. “Either Olivia or I will be back soon.”

  Hurrying out, I was so relieved to see Stephanie in the hallway, I nearly broke out in dance. “Where is everyone?” I whisper-yelled as I got closer to where she was tapping information into a computer on wheels.

  She wiped a sleeve over her forehead. “Olivia and Melinda are in ER, assessing the two transfers. We don’t have any open rooms, so they’re trying to figure everything out. Everyone else is with their patients. Thanks for helping with ten. What did she need?”

  “Ice chips and her epidural’s estimated time of arrival,” I told her and squirted more antibacterial foam into my hands. Some people were addicted to drugs, alcohol, gambling. Me and my nerd self had a hankering for Germ-X every time I passed it.

  Stephanie shook her head, her eyes filled with sympathy and concern. “I warned her that anesthesiology would be slow in coming around. On top of the big twelve car pileup on the interstate, there was a smaller pileup about a half hour ago. Got staff all over the hospital calling in to say they’re stuck in the resulting traffic jam. Everyone’s pulling overtime until they can get here.”

  I pressed my fingers to my temples. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish. OR and ER are filled with victims. We’re having all maternity patients diverted, but you know how that goes. Nobody wants to change hospitals or doctors. County is already full. Cameron is calling in help, so we’ll just have to hang in there.”

  Well, there goes my girls’ night out with Amy and friends.

  “How about we toss out Barbie?” I asked with a flash of my teeth. “One problem solved. No, actually two problems solved. We’ll free up a bed, and I won’t be going to jail for murder.”

  Stephanie laughed, her dark eyes shining in the hallway’s bright lights. “I wish.” She blew out a breath that made her lips flutter. “Dr. Pansy-ass would probably clear out the entire floor for Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags if administration would let him.”

  A call bell rang, and I gave her a salute before racing down the hall. I snagged my Snapple as I hit the answer button. “How can I help you?” I took a long drink of the luke
warm tea, then chugged another while I waited for someone to talk. When they didn’t, I said again, “Hello? How can I help you?”

  Nothing. Then the same call bell sounded again.

  A shiver of unease snaked up my spine, and the hair on my neck stood up. Setting down the tea, I raced to room six, shoved open the door, and… shit.

  “Bloody hell,” I yelled, unsure of why I suddenly sounded British. I jerked my head sideways to make the vision of the two people having sex go away. Too late.

  The man — not the baby’s father, who I remembered from earlier, was a tall blond dude with a nose the size of a small child — whirled around, his four-inch pecker pointing directly at me. His curly pubic hair, definitely not blond, was almost longer than his glistening midget member, resembling a worm being consumed by a bush. The mom screamed and yanked down her hospital gown, then pulled up the pillow to cover her face.

  I. Am. A. Professional.

  Lifting my chin, I cleared my throat, then reached into my pocket and rummaged past the rolls of tape, the pen light, alcohol wipes, sticky notepads, and ink pens to wrap my hand around a pair of bandage scissors in case I needed them. For limited protection. Not to offer the hairy dude a much-needed trim.

  This wasn’t my patient, but I’d helped Lorie earlier with her admission, and had a gist of what was going on.

  “Miss Patrick, do you know this man?” I was fully aware that it appeared to be a silly question given the circumstances, but one never knew. I had to make sure some random guy wasn’t taking advantage of a patient. I pointed at the guy’s penis. “Please put that away.”

  He cursed, then whirled back around, and the hiss of a zipper was the only sound in the room. I was disappointed when he didn’t catch his scrotum in the teeth and become yet another patient in our ER.

  The red-faced patient pulled the pillow down just enough to peek at me. “Yes. He… he…”

  The guy cursed, then faced me again. He actually took a few steps in my direction and stuck out his hand. I didn’t shake, for what I thought were obvious reasons, and he slowly lowered it to his side, his face turning redder by the second. “I’m sorry. I’m Mike, Mindy’s boyfriend. I’m the father of the baby. We… I… shit. Heard that, you know, doing it helped things along.”