This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
HITMAN’S SURPRISE BABY: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance copyright @ 2017 by Kathryn Thomas and E-Book Publishing World Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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HITMAN’S SURPRISE BABY: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
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
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
BO’S BABY: The Burning Angels MC
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
EPILOGUE
DEVIL’S BABY: The Carnivores MC
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
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
OTHER BOOKS BY KATHRYN THOMAS
HITMAN’S SURPRISE BABY: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
By Kathryn Thomas
MY BLIND DATE IS A HITMAN. AND HE JUST PUT A BABY IN MY BELLY.
It all started with a lie.
I’m terrified of how it’s going to end.
Because I let myself fall for the hitman…
And now I’m pregnant with his baby.
LILY
He said he was my blind date.
I guess I just wanted to believe him.
He was tall, dark, handsome – and dangerous.
So I let him take me to bed.
But the best night of my life turned into the worst morning.
Because Roman is gone…
But he left his baby in my belly.
ROMAN
A gorgeous girl alone at a bar?
I’ll be whoever she wants me to be.
It’s not the first time I’ve lied.
And it sure as hell won’t be the last.
Because lies are my profession.
I hurt.
I torture.
I kill.
Compared to all that, lying is the nicest thing I do.
Lily doesn’t have to know all that, of course.
After all, she’ll only know me for a night.
I plan to disappear as soon as the sun’s up, never to be seen again.
But when I end up on her operating table a month later with a bullet in my shoulder,
I realize what I left behind with her.
From now on, I won’t let her out of my sight.
She belongs to me now.
Chapter One
Lily
I stand in the bathroom of the restaurant/bar, in front of the mirror, staring at myself and feeling very uncomfortable in this tight-fitting dress. I don’t usually wear makeup, and tonight I’ve made no exception. Never mind that Carol has gone out of her way to set this date up. I never asked her to. I would’ve pulled a double, a triple shift, knees-deep in the trenches of nursing, scrubs fitting snugly and comfortably around me. So my face is white tinged pink, with a youthful glow around it, but more like I’ve just walked in from the cold as opposed to any sort of sexy freshness. My eyes are huge, hazel, so big they seem to dominate my face. I have a cleft in my chin, which I’ve never been able to decide if I like or not. Hair flares from the top of my head in a strawberry-blonde high ponytail. I try grinning at myself. No, I’m not nervous, not one bit.
The grin falters, and then disappears. I mutter under my breath: “I wish I was cauterizing a wound right now.” And then I return to the restaurant.
I walk through the bar—a modern place, all sleek surfaces and sleek people and me feeling spectacularly unmodern and out of place—and sit in one of the modern, stylish, high stools, rest my elbows on the sleek bar, and wait for the cool-looking barwoman to come and serve me. The place is busy, so it takes a while. I think of Carol, my co-worker, my friend, and my doppelganger: Carol looks almost exactly like me, so that the inattentive doctors often get us mixed up. So when she stood over me in the breakroom and harangued me it felt almost as if I was being bullied by myself.
“Look, I get it . . . you’re a darned good nurse, the best nurse in Vegas, okay? Is that what you want to hear? Well, you’ve got it. You are. No question.” Then she held her hands up, as though I was forcing her into this, when in fact she’d charged at me from across the room like a frantic bull. “But you can’t be married to your job, Lily. You just can’t. There are other things in this world. So I’ve set you up on a date.” I sighed, but she swooped in before the sigh could turn into anything more threatening. “Yes, yes, I know. But I want to get you out—yes, out, there is such a thing as out—really, I want to get you laid. And I know! Don’t look at me like that!” and with that, and a theatrical flourish of her hand, the deal was made.
Finally the barwoman reaches me. I order a vodka and coke and go and find a seat. Apparently, this Sam guy will find me. Twenty-three years old, and here I sit like a nervous twelve year old, knee jumping, foot tapping. I note that my drink has somehow halved since I bought it. Carol wouldn’t tell me what this Sam guy looked like, or much about him, apart from his gender and his occupation. She said the surprise will heighten the frisson , and when I asked what frisson meant, she giggled and told me I was a sweet child.
After around twenty additional minutes—which means Sam is twenty-five minutes late—a man approaches me from across the bar, pushing through the dance floor. At first, I’m not sure that he’s approaching me, but as he gets closer I see that his steps are aimed directly at me. I lean back in my chair, observing him, heart beating like a hectic drum in my chest.
The man is older than me, I think, but not by much. Perhaps around thirty. He is tall, and his muscles are well-defined and tight. He wears a short T-shirt, so I can see the flaming yin-and-yang he has tattooed on his bicep, which shifts with each movement of his massive muscle. His nose is strong, slightly crooked, and his clos
e-cropped hair is golden-brown. He looks rugged, but also as though he takes some pride in his appearance. Carol mentioned that Sam was a realtor. I’m surprised. This man does not look the least bit like a realtor.
When he reaches me, I find myself jumping to my feet and thrusting my hand out at him. I regret this immediately. Not only is my hand shaking, but it’s also coated in a fine layer of sweat. It’s strange how you can be covered in blood in some grisly nursing scenario and not tremble or sweat like this, and yet something as simple as introducing yourself can have this bizarre effect.
“I’m Lily,” I blurt. “You must be Sam.”
He cocks his head at me, a small smile on his lips. His face is clean-shaven. For a moment I wonder what it would be like to run my hand across his strong jaw. I push that thought far down. What’s come over me?
“Uh, sure,” he says. “But my friends normally call me Roman.”
I return to my seat and after a moment of standing there and watching me, he takes the seat opposite me. From the other side of the restaurant, music plays, and the small dancefloor that the staff has created by clearing tables and chairs is swiftly filled with drunken people, all falling on top of each other, all writhing, as though caught up in some collective spell. Vegas, I reflect.
Sam—no, Roman, I remind myself—raises his hand and beckons over a waitress. He orders a beer, and raises his eyebrow at me. Before I even give it any thought, I’ve tossed back the rest of the vodka and coke and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “And another for the lady,” Roman grins and orders for me. He also asks for some food menus, which the waitress promises to bring. The waitress’ eyes linger on Roman’s arms. I feel a completely inappropriate pang of jealously. After all, I’ve just met this man. But I’m glad when she leaves.
“So, Lily, what do you do?”
“Carol really told you nothing?”
We have to raise our voices to be heard over the music, but we are far enough away so it’s not obnoxious.
Roman grins like this is the funniest thing in the world. “Carol? No, Carol didn’t tell me a thing.”
I give him a brief rundown: I’m a nurse at a busy hospital; some of the girls call me Nurse Sherlock because I always seem to know what’s going on with my patients; and I always know when someone is lying to me.
Roman squints, and then chuckles. “Shit, then I guess I better be on my guard, eh?”
“That won’t make any difference,” I say, smiling. The smile is almost against my will. My cheeks tighten, my lips raise, and all without my say-so.
“Maybe I’ve got some skills of my own,” Roman says.
“Oh yeah?” I sit up in my chair, lean closer to the table, place my sweaty hands flat on the cool surface. “So what is it you do?”
Roman waves a dismissive hand. “Lots of things,” he says vaguely.
“Carol says you’re a realtor.”
“I was, for a while,” he replies, without missing a beat. I look into his face for any sign of deceit. When I was a girl, I got good at this. I saw that people, normal people, usually look away, or fidget, or blink too much, or over-embellish when they lie—or a dozen other methods I’ve picked up over the years. But Roman seems to be telling the truth. At least, I don’t notice any sign of deceit. After a moment, he says: “Lily, would you stop lookin’ at me like that? You’re making me nervous.”
“You don’t sound nervous,” I shoot back.
Who is this girl? Vodka and coke is a powerful elixir.
“Inside, I am nervous as hell, let me tell you. Inside I’m so nervous it’s a wonder I’m even sittin’ here talking with you now. But I’m an actor, Lily. That’s my profession, if you have to know.”
“What have I seen you in, then?” I prompt.
He tilts his head sideways, a real arrogant cock of the head, and then grins at me. “You ask too many questions,” he says after a pause.
The waitress brings over the drinks and we order food. Roman orders a burger and fries, and I get a caesar salad and grilled chicken with a side of onion rings.
“Strange, that,” he comments. “Going in for the salad but still getting the rings.”
“Better than rings and steak,” I say. “I’m a nurse, remember—”
“Who could forget Nurse Sherlock?” the man interrupts.
I glower playfully at him, which might be the first time I’ve ever glowered playfully at a man. “You still haven’t told me what you do.”
“I talk to beautiful women in restaurants,” he says. He stares at my face and for the first time I notice how startlingly blue his eyes are, bright, almost glinting. Wolf-blue. He leans forward, placing his elbows on the table, and stares deeply at me. I feel whispers move over my body, whispers I have not felt since I was a girl and puberty first hit me, whispers I thought years of double-shift nursing had stolen from me. “And then I eat dinner with beautiful women . . . and then I take beautiful women to bed.”
Slap him, I tell myself, or snap at him with some sassy comment, or roll your eyes and tell him he’s the cheesiest man who’s ever lived. But I do none of this. Instead, I glance down at the table and feel my already-crimson cheeks flare red, a red so hot I imagine the whole restaurant can see. My inner thighs, bare in the dress but warm in the Vegas June, tingle with desire. I bite down on my lip and then release it at once. I don’t want to let him see what effect he’s having on me.
I sip my vodka and coke. When I finally look back up at him, I see that he’s smirking at me. That smirk . . . it’s so cocky, so arrogant, so at ease. I’ve been on dates with men before, of course, and I’ve always hated how staged the entire thing has felt. I always get the sense it will take ten more dates to get to the heart of anything substantial. Sitting here with Roman, I know that’s not the case. He leans back, folds his arms, and waits.
“You know,” I say, after a ludicrous amount of time, “you shouldn’t say things like that to a lady.”
“Maybe you’re a lady in your day-to-day life, Lily,” Roman counters. “But I don’t reckon you’re one tonight.”
I don’t answer, because he’s right. I don’t feel like a lady tonight. I don’t even feel like a nurse tonight, which is the first time that has happened in years. No, tonight I just feel like . . .
“A woman who wants to let go.”
For a moment, I don’t know if it’s Roman or me who said that. Then I realize it was me, and Roman is grinning and leaning forward and his arms are tight and his hands are large and strong-looking, and, and . . . My mind soars, my body aches, so when he asks me, “What’d you say to me renting us a room in this fine establishment? I’m sure you know it’s a hotel, too, right?”
I swallow. “Yes,” I mutter.
“Sorry, Lily. Was that ‘yes’ to my first question, or my second?”
I feel myself smile again: that inexorable, life-of-its-own smile. “Both,” I say, feeling wild.
Roman stands up, goes over to the desk. I stretch my legs out beneath the table. Every movement provokes a series of buzzing sensations throughout my body, as though an invisible, static sheet is being trailed up and down my skin.
When Roman returns, the food has arrived. We talk more as we eat, but about inconsequential things. Mostly, we can’t keep our eyes off each other. I watch his arms go tight as he picks up pieces of food, and I see his eyes go to my chest, staring openly at my breasts now. I should be embarrassed, or angry. But we both know where this is going, and so the way I see it, he can stare at my breasts as much as he likes.
I see myself in my head for a moment. Not how I am tonight. But Nurse Sherlock, dressed in scrubs, stern. “Are you really going to go to bed with this man? Are you really going to fuck a complete stranger? Are you really that attracted to him?”
“Yes,” I say aloud.
“Good,” Roman says. He’s standing over me, I realize. Bills lay in the payment tray, and Roman is offering me his hand.
“Pardon?” I say.
He laughs easily.
“I said, ready to go?”
I take his hand, which is warm and promises pleasure. “Then I’ll stick with my first answer. Yes.”
What am I doing? What the hell am I doing? I ask myself over and over as we ride the elevator up, holding hands. There is another couple in the elevator so we just stand here as the tension mounts between us. This stranger, a man named Roman, massaging my knuckles with his thumb. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life by somehow just rubbing my hand. But it’s what the hand promises: the infinite pleasure of this random encounter. I swallow, nervous and excited at the same time. This is something Carol would do, not me, not good-girl Lily.
We enter his room together, but then he lets go of my hand to lock the door. “Don’t want to be interrupted, do we?” he says. I know this is my only chance to back out of this. Not because I don’t trust him—strangely, perhaps stupidly, I do—but because I know that once the door is locked, I won’t be able to stop myself. My body is roaring at me with pleasure, with desire. My nipples and my clit are working against me; my reason will not win out in this situation, no matter how Sherlock-like it might usually be.
Click , the door locked, he turns to me. Heavily muscled, handsome as hell, with dark desire in his glinting blue eyes.
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