The Rules Of His Baby Bargain (Mills & Boon Modern) Read online

  LOUISE FULLER was once a tomboy who hated pink and always wanted to be the Prince—not the Princess! Now she enjoys creating heroines who aren’t pretty push-overs but strong, believable women. Before writing for Mills & Boon she studied literature and philosophy at university, and then worked as a reporter on her local newspaper. She lives in Tunbridge Wells with her impossibly handsome husband Patrick and their six children.

  Also by Louise Fuller

  Kidnapped for the Tycoon’s Baby

  Surrender to the Ruthless Billionaire

  Revenge at the Altar

  Demanding His Secret Son

  Proof of Their One-Night Passion

  Craving His Forbidden Innocent

  The Terms of the Sicilian’s Marriage

  Passion in Paradise collection

  Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

  The Rules of His Baby Bargain

  Louise Fuller

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-1-474-09863-2

  THE RULES OF HIS BABY BARGAIN

  © 2020 Louise Fuller

  Published in Great Britain 2020

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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  Note to Readers

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  To Alison Porter.

  For staying so sane and strong among the crazies!

  Thank you for being such a good friend.

  Twenty-eight years and counting. X

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  UMBRELLA IN HAND, Dora Thorn stopped walking and gazed up at the number on the imposing black door, her heart pounding in time to the raindrops hitting the glistening London pavement.

  With fingers that trembled slightly she pulled out her earbuds, her choppy blonde hair flopping in front of her eyes as she turned her head and glanced back down the street.

  This must be it.

  Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the letter, scanning the address even though she had read it a hundred times already on the bus journey over.

  120 Gresham Street

  Her eyes darted back up to the number, her pulse beating out of time, and then she saw it. Tucked away, barely visible in the dull March light, was a discreet brass plate that said Capel Muir Fellowes.

  This was definitely the place.

  She took a breath, pressed the buzzer beneath the nameplate, and waited for a heartbeat as the door clicked open.

  Pushing aside a rush of nerves, and the feeling that at any moment she was going to be asked to leave, she walked swiftly across a polished concrete floor towards the two young men sitting behind an elegant reception desk.

  As she stopped in front of the one nearest to her, he looked up and smiled. Not quite a come-on—he was clearly too professional for that—but there was a definite glint in his eye—

  ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Dora hesitated, then smiled back.

  For the last seven weeks the only male in her life had been one who wore nappies and only had eight teeth, and she had actually forgotten that adult men could look attractive. And clean. Archie was always so sticky, particularly now that he wanted to feed himself.

  Before—before everything had changed—she would have flirted. She might even have fallen in love, and then out of love just as quickly. After all, life was for living. Or that was what she’d used to think.

  Her shoulders tensed, bracing her against a wave of misery.

  ‘My name is Dora Thorn and I have a meeting with—’ she frowned and, shifting her umbrella beneath her arm, glanced down at the letter ‘—with Mr Muir.’

  She stared at the man in front of her, confused, when his eyes widened with a mixture of shock and panic. Beside him, his colleague glanced up at her furtively.

  ‘Of course. I’ll get him right away. Would you like to take a seat, Ms Thorn?’

  Nodding, she made her way over to a group of expensive-looking armchairs, and sat down, feeling a queasy mix of relief and sadness.

  Over the last few weeks there had been so many letters and emails from people she didn’t know or had never met, and then finally, three days ago, there had been a name she’d recognised.

  Capel Muir Fellowes were her father’s lawyers—or at least they had been. And she’d had a missed call from him on her phone the evening before the letter had arrived.

  Dora felt her chest tighten. She hadn’t seen or heard from her father since Della’s funeral. Given his track record, she hadn’t really expected him to stay in touch, and it was hard to give him credit for reaching out now.

  But maybe losing one daughter had reminded David Thorn that he was still the parent of another.

  Her mouth twisted. Doubtful.

  More likely he felt some kind of responsibility for his grandson. Financial responsibility anyway. He’d opted out of hands-on parenting a long time ago.

  Of course it was just a hunch. David, being David
, hadn’t left a message to tell her any of this himself. But getting some third party to deal with her was just his style, and logically it was the only explanation.

  She breathed out softly. After all, why else would his lawyers—or any lawyers, for that matter—get in touch?

  It wasn’t as if there was anything left to take away from her.

  Her throat tightened, and she swallowed against the pain that had not been blunted by the seven weeks that had passed since that appalling morning when two police officers had turned up on her doorstep.

  She’d only just gone to bed, and she’d been dazed and stupid with lack of sleep, her head still spinning with one too many tequila shots. She’d assumed that she must have done something stupid the night before.

  Because it would have had to be about her, of course.

  Not for a moment had it occurred to her that the police might want to talk to her about Della. But then, why would they have?

  Della had always been the perfect big sister. A bit bossy, but conscientious, kind, hard-working and always so very, very sensible. The sort of person who waited for the green man before crossing the road and even then would look both ways—twice.

  It just hadn’t seemed possible that anything could happen to her.

  But it had.

  Impossibly, devastatingly, her wonderful, brave, stoic sister had been knocked off her bike on the way to work. She had been pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.

  Dora felt tears jump into her eyes.

  In the few seconds it had taken for the police officer to say those words everything had been sucked out of her. She had known she was still alive, but her life had changed for ever, broken into a million tiny, irretrievable pieces.

  She felt her muscles tense as the memory of that morning crept back into her head.

  Losing Della had been like losing a limb—a sharp, searing pain, followed by a dull ache that just wouldn’t fade. Dora hadn’t been able to see, much less speak to anyone, for fear of breaking down. Her heart had felt like a stone. All she’d wanted to do was crawl into bed and hide away from everyone—hide from a world where something so terrible and unfair could strike at random.

  And if it had been just her, that was exactly what she would have done.

  But she’d had to take care of Archie.

  Her heart contracted. If the shock of losing her sister had been like hitting an iceberg head-on, then the realisation that she was in charge of bringing up her eleven-month-old nephew had been like trying to navigate an endless sea without a compass.

  She loved him so much it hurt—but it terrified her too, being a grown-up. There was so much to sort out and learn—and not just day-to-day baby stuff.

  Della had left no will.

  Dora’s throat tightened sharply. That was only the second time in her life that her uber-organised, efficient sister had acted out of character.

  The first time—more improbable by far—had been just under two years ago, when Della had fallen in love with the billionaire gambling tycoon Lao Dan.

  Lao Dan had been more than twice her age.

  He had also been her boss.

  And Della hadn’t just fallen in love. She had got pregnant too. With Archie.

  Letting out a breath, Dora dragged her thoughts back to the present.

  Leaving no will—or dying intestate, as she now knew it to be called—didn’t just mean that her sister hadn’t left any instructions for how she wanted everything to work on her death. It also introduced a layer of complication and a mind-blowing amount of paperwork to an already fraught situation. Dora even had to apply to become Archie’s guardian.

  Her stomach tensed and she stared down at her hands, guilt momentarily swamping her.

  Would she have acted the same way if Della had actually appointed her in her will? Or was she just looking for an excuse?

  ‘Ms Thorn?’

  Standing in front of her was a middle-aged man in a dark pinstriped suit, his silvery hair gleaming only slightly less than his teeth. Grateful to change the path of her thoughts, she stood up.

  ‘What a pleasure to meet you—and thank you so much for coming in today. I’m Peter Muir, one of the senior partners.’ He took Dora’s hand, and shook it briskly. ‘And on behalf of the firm I’d like to offer our sincere condolences for your loss. Such a terrible accident.’

  She felt her smile freeze over as his hand squeezed hers sympathetically.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quickly. She didn’t want or need comfort from a stranger, but in some ways it was a relief to know that her hunch had been right. Clearly her father was behind this. How else would this lawyer know the details of Della’s death?

  Ignoring the curious glances of the receptionists, she let Peter Muir guide her towards a sweeping staircase at the end of the hallway.

  ‘I thought we’d use the partners’ lounge. It’s a little cosier than my office.’ His face creased apologetically. ‘I’m afraid Mr Law is running a little late, but he’s on his way and should be with us very soon.’

  Dora nodded politely, hoping her own face wasn’t betraying her ignorance and confusion. Since she had no idea who Mr Law was, his lateness was immaterial to her. But clearly she wasn’t about to tell Mr Muir that.

  ‘Here we are.’

  She blinked. Clearly he had a very different idea of ‘cosy’ from hers. The room was larger than the whole of her downstairs at home, with huge bay windows and a selection of comfortable sofas and armchairs. Above the period fireplace a huge rectangular mirror ran the entire length of one wall.

  ‘Would you like some refreshments? Coffee, tea...?’

  Thanks to Archie’s molars, she had overslept and hadn’t actually had time to eat or drink anything that morning. What she really wanted was a couple of Danish pastries.

  ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ she said quickly. ‘Milk, no sugar, please.’

  ‘Ah, Susannah.’ Mr Muir turned as a glacially beautiful blonde straight out of a Hitchcock movie appeared in the doorway, one perfect eyebrow raised in anticipation.

  ‘Some coffee for Ms Thorn, please. If you’ll excuse me a moment, Ms Thorn, I’ll get the paperwork.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Left alone, she sank back into a smooth velvet-covered sofa and then instantly sat up straight. If she started to relax she would to fall asleep. She needed to stay alert, to concentrate.

  With Della gone, she was the grown-up. And if that wasn’t terrifying enough to keep her awake, she wasn’t just responsible for herself, but for Archie too.

  It made her feel young and frightened, and yet her sister had made it look so effortless—not just with Archie, but after she’d been left to raise Dora after their father had left.

  Remembering her younger self, Dora grimaced. She had been a typical teenager. Stroppy. Lazy. Always complaining that everything was unfair or boring.

  But their home had always been tidy.

  There had always been food in the fridge.

  And Della had certainly never felt so overwhelmed that she’d looked into putting Dora up for adoption.

  The silence in the room was suddenly stifling, and she stared dully at the grey sky outside the window, feeling the guilt she had tried so hard to stifle bubbling up inside her.

  She had made that call at the end of last week. After a particularly difficult few days.

  Ever since Della’s death Archie had been understandably unsettled and clingy, but Dora usually managed to distract him and calm him down. This time, though, nothing she’d done had worked.

  He had been inconsolable, red-faced and furious.

  Exhausted, desperate and defeated, she had finally been forced to acknowledge what he was clearly feeling and admit what she had known right from the start.

  She could never be Della.

  She could never replace
her sister—his mother.

  She was an imposter who could barely take care of herself, much less a baby.

  What Archie needed—what he deserved—was to be looked after properly by someone who knew what she was doing.

  It had been a relief to make the call the next day, and the woman at the adoption agency had been very kind and calm, not judgemental at all. But even before the interview had been over Dora had known she could never let Archie go.

  Yes, life with him was going to be challenging, and time-consuming, and exhausting sometimes. But without him it would be unbearable.

  He was her flesh and blood, the last link she had with her sister, and when she’d picked him up from the nursery she had held him close and sworn to do her very best for him, just as her sister had done for her.

  Whatever sacrifice needed to be made, she would make it. Even if it meant being a glorified waitress with a smile glued to her face.

  Serving cocktails at Blakely’s, a casino in the West End, was hardly her dream job, but the tips were good, and right now she couldn’t even contemplate looking for something else.

  Besides, whatever she did it wouldn’t—couldn’t—be what she really wanted to do.

  But she wasn’t going to think about that now, and with relief she watched as Susannah reappeared holding a tray. As well as a pot of coffee, she had brought a plate of biscotti, and as she slid it onto a low table, Dora had to clench her hands in her lap to stop herself from grabbing one and stuffing it into her mouth.

  ‘Thank you. This looks lovely.’

  Susannah smiled perfunctorily. ‘Mr Muir asked me to tell you that Mr Law has just arrived and they will be up shortly.’

  Dora nodded. This Mr Law must be some kind of senior partner for everyone to be so excited about him.

  ‘It’s quite funny if you think about it...being called Law and being a lawyer. It’s like being Mr Bun the Baker.’

  Stop babbling, she told herself. But the other woman’s poise and perfect skin were so intimidating it was making Dora feel nervous all over again.