by Alison Kelly
“You’re carrying my child, so you can forget any ideas you’ve got about cutting me out of its life.”
Reb continued, “You might not have much of an opinion of me, but you’re way off base if you think I’m going to walk away from my own flesh and blood.”
Amanda-Jayne forced herself to speak calmly and civilly. “Am I to understand that you’re determined to contribute to the baby’s upbringing?”
Reb mentioned a monthly sum he considered reasonable and she nearly staggered with surprise. “I’m afraid there’s a condition to my offer….”
Amanda-Jayne swallowed hard. “What?”
“You have to marry me to get it.”
ALISON KELLY, a self-confessed sports junkie, plays netball, volleyball and touch football, and lives in Australia’s Hunter Valley. She has three children and the type of husband women tell their daughters doesn’t exist in real life! Not only is he a better cook than Alison, but he isn’t afraid of vacuum cleaners, washing machines or supermarkets. Which is just as well—otherwise this book would have been written by a starving woman in a pigsty!
Alison Kelly
THE BABY DEAL
My thanks to Bernice for her assistance with the research, and to Bob, for knowing about ’82 Fords.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
TEARS of shame rolled down Amanda-Jayne’s face at the realisation that after years spent endeavouring to be the perfect daughter and then the perfect wife she’d spent the last few hours behaving like a perfect tramp.
She wanted to die on the spot.
No, she didn’t!
She could just imagine how the newspapers would report the circumstances of her death: DIVORCED SOCIALITE FOUND DEAD AFTER A NIGHT OF PASSION WITH HOME-TOWN BAD BOY.
The humiliating implications of that thought had her quickly but silently swinging her feet to the floor as her eyes struggled to adjust to the pitch-blackness of her surroundings. Her tears weren’t helping the situation, but unfortunately her instinctive recognition of lush, quality carpet beneath her as she lowered herself onto her hands and knees was as much another source of despair as it was a relief. The possibility that this was a hotel where she’d previously stayed and might be recognised by staff—or, worse, one of the guests—was almost as disturbing as her original fear that, in keeping with her appalling behaviour, once she orientated herself she’d find herself in some two-bit flea trap.
Seconds later, though, her night vision sharpened enough to reveal that while the hotel was obviously a five-star one it wasn’t, thank goodness, one she patronised. Now all she had to do was try and find her clothes and escape before the naked man adorning the mattress she’d just vacated woke up.
Trying to keep one eye on his prone form as she crawled on hands and knees, following the trail of her clothes, wasn’t easy. Especially not when her outraged conscience was screaming loud enough to wake the dead. Oh, dear Lord, who’d have thought giving in to her married friends’ demands that she celebrate her divorce with a ‘girls night out’ would end up like this? Certainly not anyone who knew her. At least she fervently hoped not.
Spying her bra peeking out from beneath a pair of floor-strewn black boxers, Amanda-Jayne felt her face flame in the darkness. Snatching it up, she hastily slipped it on but, rather than reassuring her, the recovery of the garment somehow made what she was doing seem even more tawdry than what she’d already done. On the verge of screaming that it was shame, not excitement generated from the memory of how she and the garment had become separated, that was causing the disturbing heat within her, she caught herself. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t afford for what modicum of sanity she still possessed to abandon her now. She had to get out of here before he woke up; now wasn’t the time for tears or self-recrimination.
Several moments of head-swivelling perusal of the nearby area revealed no sign of her panties. Where the devil were her pa—? Her belly clenched even before her eyes strayed to the tangle of sheets. Oh, no! Uh-uh. There was no way that she was going to climb back in there looking for them.
What on earth had possessed her? How could she have acted so out of character; done something so…so rash? Rash? Rash? Ha! Who was she trying to kid? Cheap was the only word to describe her actions. She must have been drunk, despite the fact she’d only had a couple of drinks… Perhaps the stress of the last year had caused some sort of abnormal biophysical reaction. That could happen…couldn’t it? Of course it could! It must have. After all, she wasn’t a big drinker, so surely if she’d drunk so much that tonight had been solely the result of alcohol consumption then by rights she should be in the last stages of alcoholic poisoning or clinically dead by now.
It wasn’t just what she’d done, but with whom she’d done it. This was a thousand times worse than waking up and finding she’d gone to bed with a well-respected businessman or even a famous celebrity or noted lawyer. Apparently she’d been so drunk she’d gone to bed with…with— No! It didn’t bear thinking about. Although she supposed she should take some comfort from the fact that by committing this act of lunacy outside the perimeters of her usual social circle she’d spared herself the risk of ever having to face him again. Unless, of course, she took complete leave of her senses, bought a Harley and started running with a group of bikers!
If only she’d declined to go ‘celebrating’ with her friends. If only she hadn’t refused to go home when Rachel and Penelope had left. ‘If only I could find my stupid dress,’ she muttered, flinging aside the male shirt she’d mistaken for her clothing.
A throaty male growl suddenly rumbled through the darkness, momentarily stopping her heart.
Then the bed base emitted several soft whimpers, suggesting movement from its occupant. Holding her breath, Amanda-Jayne remained on her hands and knees, face buried in the carpet, praying devoutly that her naked derrière wasn’t visible from the bed. Not that it hadn’t already been closely scrutinised, stroked and admired by the man in question, she mused miserably, not daring to move. If he thought she’d already left he’d probably roll over and go back to sleep. Of course it was possible he was still asleep, in which case she was wasting valuable time remaining here face down, butt up doing nothing!
Still not game to risk breathing, she furtively raised her head enough to peek over the foot of the bed at the sheet-draped nude male, only to quickly shut her eyes in a bid to discourage reminders of how intimately acquainted she and the still dozing Adonis had recently become. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep back what she would have liked to believe was a moan of despair, but the sad truth was it was more likely generated by lust—and lack of oxygen. Much as she might be feeling ashamed enough to die, there was no denying the man who’d managed to get her to abandon the morals of a lifetime had a body to die for. Not that that was any excuse for her wanton behaviour.
But what she really wanted to know was how a motorbike-riding rebel from her home town had gained entry into the fashionably chic, members-only Sydney nightclub anyway. Even she’d been on a waiting list for two years before her membership had been sanctioned. Well, she’d certainly be having something to say to the management about the lax security—
Oh, God! What was she thinking?
She wasn’t going to mention this incident, or what led up to it, to anyone! Ever. In fact…she lit the face of her watch…as of 4:51 a.m. October the twentieth, Octob
er the nineteenth had not existed this year!
CHAPTER ONE
LETHAL’S barking drew Reb’s attention to the car pulling alongside the petrol bowsers. Positioned flat on his back below the underbelly of old Mrs Kelly’s classic FJ Holden, his view was somewhat restricted, but he could see enough of the new arrival’s sporty wheels and hubcaps to know the driver wasn’t a regular customer.
Good. At 5:40 p.m. on New Year’s Eve the last thing he needed was another hard-luck story and a plea for a mechanical miracle. He should’ve closed up forty minutes ago, but he’d been a soft touch for Mrs K’s desperate appeal that he fix her exhaust so she could drive to the cemetery to picnic with her two-decades-dead husband for their anniversary tomorrow. Still, while he might have a soft spot for zany elderly locals, he didn’t feel any obligation to humour impatient tourists who kept their hand clamped on the horn, inciting Lethal to vocal mania.
‘Shut up, Leth!’ he bellowed, turning his head to view the bottom of the staircase leading to the upper-level apartment and willing his cousin to respond to the ongoing racket from dog and horn.
After several seconds of the continued ear-splitting duet and no sign of the presumably still sulking Savannah, Reb let out a frustrated curse. At this rate he’d be lucky to get out of here in time to have one beer by midnight, much less make it to Gunna’s party. Shoving the trolley out from under the car, he jackknifed to his feet.
‘Can it, Lethal! You brainless mutt!’ The barking stopped, but the dog continued to jump around on its hind legs like a demented giant rabbit then plunked his paws on Reb’s shoulders to eyeball him with a play-with-me grin.
‘Lord save me from slobbering canines and moody, petulant females,’ he grumbled, before saying, ‘Down, Lethal.’
The firmness of the command brought an immediate response, and one finger pointed in the direction of the canine trampoline sent the dog scampering there. Of course the cessation of the dog’s antics made the ongoing blaring of the horn that much more obvious and grating to Reb’s day-worn temper.
‘Yeah, right-oh, mate!’ he bellowed, wiping the grease from his hands down his overalls as he strode from the workshop. ‘Keep your shirt on! Just ’cos you drive a sports car doesn’t make you—’ His outburst was stalled by the same shocked disbelief that brought his legs to a standstill.
To say he was stunned would have been the greatest understatement since Creation. In fact the only other person he’d have been more surprised to find sitting behind the wheel of the sleek midnight-blue imported convertible gracing the driveway of the Browne Bike and Auto Emporium was Elvis. Presumably, though, Elvis was dead, which explained his absence, but not the beautiful, spoilt and extremely wealthy Ms Amanda-Jayne Vaughan’s presence.
In the minuscule fraction of time between her swinging her Titian-haired head in his direction and the almost electrifying effect of her gaze touching him, the horn was suddenly defeated by a silence so loud Reb could have sworn his body vibrated from it. He told himself the sudden increase in his body temperature was the result of leaving the semi-coolness of the workshop and the fact he was wearing heavy cotton drill overalls in the peak of the Australian summer. His brain, however, immediately dismissed that explanation as the load of bunk it was, because as usual Amanda-Jayne Vaughan looked like every man’s fantasy and Reb was unfortunately male.
Her hair was loose, restrained from her face only by the undoubtedly designer-brand sunglasses pushed onto her head, and the copper-red tresses complemented her exquisite classical beauty as Reb could imagine no other colour doing. A faint flush tinted her fair, creamy skin, but whether it was caused by irritation, the heat or self-consciousness Reb couldn’t guess—although the notion that it might be the latter was downright ridiculous. As if the Vaughans had ever been averse to being the centre of attention! More likely Amanda-Jayne was peeved because she’d had to wait for service and was embarrassed by the events and her behaviour the last time they’d met.
Unbidden, memories of that encounter drew his gaze to the subtle swell of her breasts beneath her knit vest top and sent his arousal meter soaring. There wasn’t a real lot of Amanda-Jayne Vaughan compared to the women he was usually attracted to, but for all her understated physical attributes, her highfalutin’ ways and her stuck-up attitude he had to admit that she had the hottest mouth and the smoothest skin he’d ever encountered. Just the notion of exploring them both again sent his taste buds and fingers into flashback mode.
Amanda-Jayne scrambled to remember what opening line she’d used when she’d been rehearsing this moment on the drive over, but it eluded her. So too did every other bit of the calm, businesslike request she’d come here to make. She swallowed, trying to pacify both her mind and a nervous stomach that wasn’t helping the situation. She also tried to ignore the fact that the convertible offered her no protection from the eyes of the man towering beside it on the passenger side. It didn’t work. His insultingly slow perusal of her body ignited inner sparks which had her squirming in her seat. It was only after endless seconds of his scrutiny, when she managed to pull her own gaze from him, that she noticed her sarong skirt had fallen open and was exposing the full length of her left leg.
‘Oh, my God!’ She jerked the ends of the fabric together.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t sweat it. Truth is, A.J., I could stand here all day looking at you.’ His smirk was pure lust.
‘Well, I can assure you I didn’t come here to be leered at by you!’
‘I can’t leer, huh? Damn,’ he murmured, his expression rueful as he brought it back to her face. ‘Guess that probably eliminates us having hot, torrid sex from your agenda too, huh?’
It was all Reb could do not to laugh as thick-lashed brown eyes widened in a now almost beetroot face, her sexy mouth opening and closing without emitting a word. In one respect it was a disappointment because the husky timbre of her cultured voice and precise diction fascinated him—especially since he’d discovered that years of elocution hadn’t limited her conversation to giving orders and civilised put-downs. Ah, no, the publicly polite Ms Vaughan’s vocabulary could get real earthy in the heat of passion. However, since he was about as likely to get a second exposure to that passion as he was to be nominated as the next Prime Minister, Reb would take his fun when and where he could get it. Right now that was in the driveway of his garage and it was obvious from his unexpected customer’s two-handed grip on the steering wheel and rigid posture that she wasn’t comfortable, or happy about being there.
Well, all joking aside, nor was Reb.
It irked him all ends up that the stuck-up little snob, who’d first caught his attention back in the days when she’d spent vacations from her posh boarding-school toting spoilt rich boys around town and driving poor local guys like him out of their lusting minds, could still get him all hot and bothered. Oh, sure, she was even more beautiful and sexy than she had been at fifteen, but Reb figured that, having recently received a shot of her charms, he should have been immune to her. That he wasn’t didn’t sit well with him.
Especially not when she was sitting in his driveway, in her expensive car, and looking as if she’d been thrust into her worst nightmare. Then again, having to pass through, let alone stop in this part of town was probably enough to send a Vaughan into months of psychiatric counselling.
‘Gotta say this is a surprise, A.J.—’
‘My name is not A.J.’
‘So what’s the deal? Your family just heard a bridge got put in in the twenties and curiosity had you itching to see how the other half of Vaughan’s Landing lived?’
‘No, I—’
‘Nah,’ he cut in. ‘I didn’t think so. Your lot can’t even bring themselves to acknowledge there is another half. I reckon the last time any of the illustrious Vaughans crossed into this part of town must’ve been on horseback in the 1890s, when old Walter Vaughan founded the place.’
Her expression was a combination of impatience, condescension and definite discomfort as she
flicked her gaze from the deserted road around the equally deserted petrol station. He could tell she was mentally calculating how many rungs her social status would slide if anyone happened to see her here. The urge to delay her for as long as possible in the hope that Mrs Kelly, the root of the town grapevine, would arrive to pick up the FJ while she was here was strong. But so too was the desire to get rid of her as soon as possible and once again relegate her to the deep recesses of his memory. The women at Gunna’s party might lack the cool, elegant class of Amanda-Jayne Vaughan, but they would also lack her icy, superior attitude.
‘So what do you want?’ he asked, blocking out an egotistical voice reminding him he’d once managed to very thoroughly thaw A.J. ‘Petrol or water?’
‘Neither. I’m here because—’
‘Never mind,’ he said, now spying the worn offside rear tyre on the car. ‘I can see why you’re here.’
She seemed so comically astounded by his statement, Reb was more amused than insulted by her reaction. After all, in her social circle it was automatically accepted that people of his ilk uniformly had double-digit incomes and single-digit IQs and nothing he said would ever change that opinion. Not, he reminded himself, moving to inspect the tread wear on the front tyres, that he gave a stuff about changing that opinion.
Bracing the driver’s-side front wheel in his hands, he gave it a solid shake. The action brought a female yelp of, ‘Reb!’
The sound of his name froze him rigid, all interest in the wheel’s stability instantly fleeing. His reaction was partially due to the fact that she’d finally used his name, but also because the bemused, startled tone was a blood-stopping reminder of another occasion when she’d gasped his name.
‘Reb…wh-wh-what are you doing?’
