Pregnancy of Revenge Read online

  "Are you pregnant, Charlotte?"

  "Yes, I am," she said bluntly. She was thrilled and excited at the prospect, but also frightened, and she wanted nothing more than for Jake to take her in his arms and tell her it would be all right. But by the look on his face she doubted he would.

  Jake was madder than hell. It was so obvious she had put him squarely in the frame as the father.. .but was he? No woman had enraged and inflamed him as comprehensively as Charlotte. He had tried to put her out of his mind, but his body would not let him—a galling admission to make, but not one he intended to act on. He had no intention of being conned by a blue-eyed little gold digger—however desirable, he amended, his hard eyes sweeping back up to her lovely face.

  Jake stiffened, and he was back to his cool, arrogant best, all trace of emotion gone, more like the Jake she knew so well. "There is nothing ideal about bringing up a child without a father. So we will get married as soon as it can be arranged."

  ISBN 0-373-12502-X

  PREGNANCY OF REVENGE

  First North American Publication 2005.

  Copyright © 2005 by Jacqueline Baird.

  All rights reserved. Except for use In any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part In any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters In this book have no existence outside the Imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

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  Printed in U.S.A.

  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 ONE

  'EXCUSE me, Charlotte.'

  Ted Smyth, the owner of the pres­tigious London art gallery, gave the woman at his side a smile. 'But the prospective Italian purchaser of "The Waiting Woman" has just arrived. I must speak to him and get him to sign on the dotted line.'

  'Of course.' Charlotte Summerville, Charlie to her friends and daughter of the artist whose works were being exhibited at the gallery, watched Ted vanish into the crowd and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  Alone at last. She glanced longingly at the exit. The bald old man who leered back at her must be the Italian purchaser Ted was chasing, she thought grimly. In fact, the whole event was grim to Charlie. Mingling with the top echelons of the London art world was not her scene, and she won­dered how soon she could decently leave. Now would be good, she suddenly decided, and edged through the crowd towards the exit.

  Jake d'Amato exited Ted Smyth's office having concluded a deal on a painting he had been determined to obtain from the moment he had discovered it existed. He had arrived in London a few hours ago from Italy, and gone directly to a business meeting. But as he'd checked into his hotel after­wards he had glanced over a stand of leaflets advertising forthcoming events, and the name Robert Summerville had caught his attention. He had unfolded the pamphlet an­nouncing that an exhibition of the late artist's work was to open that evening, and an image of his foster-sister Anna had assaulted his vision. Filled with cold black rage, he had determined to prevent the showing.

  A call to his lawyer had informed him that the artist's estate owned the copyright, and legally he could do nothing. Frustrated, he had realised he was too late to stop the portrait going on display, but he had made an immediate call to the gallery owner and reserved the painting.

  By the time he had arrived at the gallery he had control of his temper. He knew Summerville had a young daughter, and the executors of his estate were entitled to sell the paint­ings for her benefit.

  But Jake had been surprised to discover from Ted that the same daughter had opened the exhibition. What had re­ally captured his interest was the fact she was not the young girl Anna had described to him as a spoilt little selfish brat, but a shrewd businesswoman. It had been her decision to sell the paintings. Robert Summerville was dead and beyond his reach, but a mature daughter put a very different com­plexion on the situation.

  'So which lady is the artist's daughter?' Jake asked Ted with just the right amount of curiosity in his tone. 'I'd very much like to meet her and offer her my condolences on the sad loss of her father.'

  And ask her what she intended doing with the exorbitant amount of money she was going to inherit, if the price of the picture he had just bought was anything to go by, Jake thought cynically. Not that he needed to ask—greed, plain and simple, had to be her motivation. Why else would she expose her late father's lovers to public scrutiny without having the grace to inform them first?

  He hated Robert Summerville, although he had never met the man. But at least Summerville had had the decency to keep the paintings a secret. Not so his daughter. Jake could have forgiven a young girl for being influenced by the ex­ecutors of the estate. In his experience most lawyers would sell their own grandmother if the price was right. But for an adult female to have so little respect for the women in­volved, and one in particular, Jake found disgusting.

  His dark eyes narrowed. He could do nothing about the exposure the painting had already received. But he was go­ing to put the woman down verbally and publicly, so neither she nor the assembled crowd would be left in any doubt as to his low opinion of her.

  Charlotte Summerville deserved to be shown up for the avaricious bitch she was.

  No trace of his tine feelings showed on his hard dark face as he watched Ted look around and then point to a woman at the far side of the room.

  That's Charlotte, the blonde over there in black—stand­ing by the portrait you've just bought, as it happens. Come on, I'll introduce you. I can remove the painting at the same time and have it sent to your home as we agreed.'

  Musing on the vagaries of the artistic world, Charlie was totally unaware of the interest she had aroused in one par­ticular male patron of the arts.

  In life her father had been a modestly successful land­scape artist, and it was only after his death that his private collection of nude portraits had come to light. Suddenly Robert Summerville was famous—or perhaps infamous was a better word, as it was rumored he had been the lover of all the ladies he had painted.

  It was probably true. Because, much-as she'd loved her dad, there was no escaping the fact that he had been the most self-absorbed, self-indulgent man she had ever known. Tall, blond and handsome, with enough charm to woo a nun out of her habit, he had lived the life of the bohemian artist to the full. But he had never truly loved any woman.

  No—she was being unfair. Her father had loved her, she knew. After her mother had died when she was eleven, her dad had insisted she spend a few weeks' holiday every year with him at his home in France. And he had left her every­thing he owned.

  Charlie had known about one of the nude portraits, but she had discovered the rest when clearing out her dad's studio with Ted. It
had come as something of a shock, but no great surprise. That was partly because, on her first visit to her father in France after the death of her mother, she had met Jess, his then lady friend, and liked her. But when Charlie had walked into his studio uninvited one day and found her dad naked with Jess, and saw the portrait he was working on, her dad had reacted with shame and fury. From then on he had always sent his current lover away when Charlie spent time with him. For a man of his morals to be so protective of his daughter was ironic, to say the least.

  Ted had taken one look at the portraits and suggested arranging an exhibition. He'd advised Charlie to open it, to add human interest and help the sale of her father's work even more than his sudden death at the age of forty-six had done.

  At first Charlie had flatly refused. She did not need the money. She had earned her own living for the past six years, when after the death of her grandfather she had taken over the running of the family hotel in the Lake District that had been their business and her home for all her life. But she knew thousands of people who did need the money.

  Eventually she had spoken to Jess and offered to give her the painting she had posed for. Jess had been in favour of the pictures being exhibited, and approved of Charlie's idea to give any money made to charity, and Charlie had finally agreed to Ted's proposal.

  At least something good would come out of her father's death, she thought with a tinge of sadness as she proceeded towards her goal.

  Almost at the exit, the last canvas arrested her attention for a moment. The lady portrayed had incredibly long dark hair curving over one shoulder and falling almost to her thigh. But it was the face of the woman that really disturbed her. The artist had captured the love, the need in the dark eyes to a point it was almost painful to see.

  Poor fool, Charlotte thought with a rare cynical smile twisting her full lips. How had the woman never realized what a philanderer Robert Summerville had been? Of the thirty paintings in the gallery, ten were nude studies of women. With a wry shake of her head she turned to walk away.

  Jake d'Amato's narrowed gaze never wavered from the woman Ted had indicated as he moved through the elegant crowd at Ted's side.

  She was about five eight, he judged: shapely with long legs, a simple black wool dress moulding her figure, outlin­ing high, firm breasts and the gentle curve of her hips and thighs. Her hair was ash blonde and swept up in a twist on top of her head. Jake's dark eyes glittered with primitive male appreciation, and surprisingly he found himself draw­ing in a stunned breath. She wore little make-up and yet she was quite beautiful. She had obviously inherited her father's good looks but in an innocent, understated way.

  Then his body tensed, and his dark eyes flared with barely leashed rage. Anna had been right. Charlotte Summerville had refused to meet Anna in life, and in death her disdain for her father's last lover was obvious in the knowing cyn­ical smile that twisted her full lips, followed by a dismissive shake of her head as, with a sexy sway of her hips, she turned away from the portrait. As for innocent—he doubted a woman with a body like hers even remembered the mean­ing of the word.

  'Charlotte, darling.' Ted's voice rang out loud and clear. 'I have someone here who wants to meet you.'

  Charlie stiffened, cursing under her breath. Dwelling on the past, she had left it too late to escape. Reluctantly she lifted her head, resigned to wasting yet more time being polite to some wealthy fat old man who got off on looking at paintings of nude women. All in pursuit of the great god Mammon. Bare mammary glands were obviously a great money-spinner. Her lips curved up in a naughty smile at the thought.

  'Allow me to introduce you to Jake d'Amato. He is a great admirer of your father's work, and has just bought this painting.'

  Charlie's blue eyes, still lit with humour, met Ted's. 'Yes, of course.'

  Privately she thought the man must be mad or blind. In her opinion her dad had been a much better landscape painter than portrait—apart from the last one; that did have character in the face. But she let nothing show on her face as, lifting her hand, she raised her eyes to the man at Ted's side.

  There her gaze stuck as though hypnotised by the sheer physicality of the man. He wasn't the fat old man she had thought—anything but.

  From his bronzed skin taut over high cheekbones to the straight nose and the firm mouth beneath, and finally to a hard, square jaw, the man was devastatingly attractive. Tall, something over six feet, and broad of shoulder, he exuded an aura of supreme confidence and masculine power that eclipsed every other man in the room. With his well- groomed black hair falling casually over his broad brow and his dark good looks he was clearly of Mediterranean de- scent. He was the most compellingly attractive man she had ever seen, and he was smiling down at her.

  'Charlotte. I am delighted to meet you, and may I say how sorry I am at your sad loss?'

  Somehow Charlie found her small hand enfolded in a strong male grasp, and he did not let it go. Not for him the brief handshake; and the piercing quality of the dark eyes that held hers was almost frightening in its intensity. She felt the power of his overwhelming masculinity like a blow to the heart, and her breath lodged in her throat.

  A black brow quirked in amused enquiry as the silence lengthened and belatedly Charlie managed to respond with a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. 'Thank you, Mr d'Amato.'

  'Oh, please, call me Jake. I do not want to stand on for­mality with you.' He lightly squeezed her hand. 'I too have recently lost a member of my family and I know exactly how you feel.'

  Charlie fervently hoped not, because the warmth of his hand holding hers was sending an incredible surge of aware­ness through her whole body. But along with her purely physical reaction, she could not help being impressed by his sympathy. Her blood tingled and a curious spiraling ex­citement sizzled through her that made her even more tongue-tied, and she simply stared at him.

  'But it must be a great consolation to you that your father has left you such a remarkable body of work.'

  Body being the operative word. Charlie had the irreverent urge to giggle, and she could not prevent her lips parting in a broad smile.

  'Yes, thank you,' she agreed, and tore her sparkling eyes from his to stare down at their joined hands. For heaven's sake, get a grip, she chided herself, and strove to control her erratically beating pulse. Finally she made a tentative effort to withdraw her hand from his, a responsive quiver lancing through her as he tightened his grip. In that moment she knew she would happily have held onto the man for ever, so fierce was her response to Jake d'Amato.

  Jake noted her brilliant smile and it only added to his anger, but he let nothing show on his impressive features. 'It is my pleasure,' he said softly, and, bending his dark head, he pressed a swift kiss on the back of her hand, before finally releasing it. 'It is an honour to meet you. And now, please, you must give me your honest opinion on the paint­ing I have purchased.' Placing a guiding hand at her waist, he turned her back to look at the portrait. 'Lovely, don't you agree?' Jake was determined to make her look at Anna's face—a woman she had insulted in life, but was happy to exploit after death.

  The sound of Jake's deep, melodious voice sent another responsive quiver through Charlie, and his hand on her waist and the warmth of his great body seemed to envelop her. For the first time in her life she experienced the bone- melting awareness at the touch of a man, a sensation that overwhelmed her, and she knew with a feminine instinct as old as time that this man could be her destiny.

  Charlie frowned. She wasn't given to flights of fantasy and it scared her, plus her intense awareness of him was tempered by the distaste she felt that he had bought the nude. Gathering together the shreds of her control, she said, 'Lovely, yes,' then added dryly, 'if you have a penchant for pictures of naked ladies.'

  'You show me a man who does not. Charlotte, and I will show you a liar,' he said teasingly, his heavy lidded eyes sweeping over her beautiful face and lower to linger on the provocative thrust of her breasts. 'Though I must admit, I muc
h prefer the live variety.' The brown eyes darkened, an unmistakable message in their depths, leaving Charlie more flustered than ever.

  She could not believe it. Jake d'Amato was flirting with her. She didn't know how to respond so she simply smiled like some idiot teenager. She felt her nipples harden beneath the lace of her bra, and, hopelessly embarrassed, she blushed scarlet and was lost for words yet again.

  Jake d'Amato stilled. The sexual attraction visible in he brilliant blue eyes plus the invitation in the tight nipple: starkly outlined beneath the fabric of her dress had an unexpected effect on his powerful body. It had been a long time since a woman had so instantly aroused him. That it should be this woman would have shocked him rigid—if he had not been rigid already for a much more basic reason.

  He did not like it. He had had every intention of putting her down in public. Revealing her as the selfish, money grubbing parasite she was, and leaving. But suddenly that scenario no longer held such great appeal. Instead he found himself imagining what her lush lips would taste like—the high, firm breasts in his hands, in his mouth... and the only place he wanted to put her down was naked on a bed under him.

  He must be going crazy. The Summerville family was responsible for the untimely death of Anna Lasio, and for the grief of her parents. Embarrassing Charlotte was nothing compared to the turmoil the Summervilles had caused it, what was the closest thing to a family Jake possessed. Given that Charlotte Summerville was not the young girl he had been led to believe, but a mature woman who should know better, a much more satisfactory course of action sprang to mind.

  He was here on business, with meetings lined up over the next fortnight. For once in his life combining business with pleasure held great appeal. Without conceit, he knew he was a good lover and it would be interesting to slowly seduce the lovely Charlotte until she was desperate to share his bed, as her father had done his foster-sister...