The Millionaire and the Pregnant Pauper Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader1

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Dear Reader2

  Books by Christie Ridgway

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  Preview

  Copyright

  Powerful, prominent, proud—the Oklahoma

  Wentworths’ greatest fortune was family. So

  when they discovered that pregnant mom-to-be

  Sabrina Jensen was carrying the newest Wentworth

  heir—and had vanished without a trace—

  they vowed to…Follow That Baby!

  Michael Wentworth: For a guy

  who had everything, megarich

  Michael lacked the two things he

  needed most: a convenient bride and

  a one-way ticket out of Wentworth Oil

  Works. But when a very marriageable

  mom-to-be literally landed on his

  doorstep, would she agree to

  temporarily tie the knot?

  Beth Masterson: After huffing and puffing in

  Lamaze class with the elusive Sabrina Jensen, Beth

  felt she owed the Wentworths news of the woman’s

  last-known whereabouts. But when her good deed

  netted her a very good-looking husband—and a

  good-size case of love—she second-guessed her

  good intentions…

  Sabrina Jensen: Beth’s tip placed the pregnant

  runaway’s hideaway closer than ever. But would

  the Wentworths be the first on the scene…or

  would Sabrina’s baby beat them to it?

  * * * *

  Don’t miss

  THE MERCENARY AND THE NEW MOM by

  Merline Lovelace, the exciting conclusion to

  Follow That Baby, available next month in

  Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Dear Reader,

  The lure of the West is as strong today as it was a hundred years or more ago, when the wagon trains headed in that direction. I know I can’t resist a cowboy. And when he’s also a sheriff…! So is it any wonder that heroine Ginny Marlow finds herself inextricably entwined—and loving it!—with Quint Cutler? In The Law and Ginny Marlow, the latest in award-winner Marie Ferrarella’s miniseries THE CUTLERS OF THE SHADY LADY RANCH, you’ll see what happens when a quick trip out west turns into a lifetime of wide open spaces. You’ll also be sorry there’s only one more book to go in this wonderful family’s story.

  And if you’ve been following our cross-line miniseries FOLLOW THAT BABY—or even if you haven’t— you’ve got a treat in store with Christie Ridgway’s The Millionaire and the Pregnant Pauper. This homegrown Yours Truly star tells a romp of a tale—and takes you one book closer to the discovery of the missing Wentworth heir. Have a good time now, and next month travel to Silhouette Intimate Moments to see how the saga ends.

  Have fun, and don’t forget to come back next month for two more fun and fabulous books all about meeting—and marrying!—Mr. Right.

  Yours,

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Executive Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  The Millionaire and The Pregnant Pauper

  Christie Ridgway

  For the little boys who call me “Mom” and “Aunt”:

  Bryan, Jesse, Taylor and Paxton.

  Dear Reader,

  This is so exciting! I’m thrilled to be a part of the FOLLOW THAT BABY miniseries. The hero of The Millionaire and the Pregnant Pauper, Michael Wentworth, isn’t quite as excited. While he’s hoping the New Year will ring in some changes to his life, he can’t imagine the drastic makeover that Beth Masterson will bring to him.

  Can a millionaire playboy become a down-home family man for a lifetime? Beth sure hopes so!

  As we begin to count down to the year 2000, I’m counting my blessings, as well. I’m wife to a wonderful, romantic man, mother of two sons, and busy volunteer at my boys’ school. And thanks to you, I’m creating stories of love triumphant— what I know it to be.

  I love to hear from readers. You may write to me at P.O. Box 3803, La Mesa, CA 91944.

  All the best,

  Books by Christie Ridgway

  Silhouette Yours Truly

  The Wedding Date

  Follow That Groom!

  Have Baby, Will Marry

  Ready, Set…Baby!

  Big Bad Dad

  The Millionaire and the Pregnant Pauper

  1

  The two-hundred-year-old grandfather clock in the foyer wheezed. Michael Wentworth burrowed deeper into the library’s leather couch and counted each raspy gong…seven…eight…nine.

  Hell. Three more hours until midnight.

  New Year’s Eve. A playboy’s Night of the Year. Who would believe on tonight of all nights, instead of guzzling champagne and nuzzling beautiful women, he was counting clock chimes like Cinderella?

  But that wasn’t right. Cinderella possessed a healthy fear of midnight. Michael was more eager than a racehorse at final posting call for Baby New Year to show up on the doorstep.

  Ding dang ding dong. Michael groaned. Not the clock this time, but the stuffy, stentorian tones of the front doorbell. “No one’s home!” he yelled in the direction of the door.

  With the staff off for the evening, he’d counted on being alone all night—except for his silent pals, Jack and Bud. Daniel’s and Weiser, that is.

  Ding dang ding dong. The damn doorbell again. Probably Elijah, with LeAnne or Val, pretending they’d never gotten his last-minute message that he wasn’t going out tonight. “We’ve all gone away!” he yelled again, but got up and paced toward the door anyway. Neither he nor his friends were any good at taking no for an answer.

  Unfastening one more button of his tuxedo shirt to make it absolutely clear he’d decided against the big bash at the Route 3 Club, Michael reached the entryway just as the annoying doorbell started up again.

  “Keep your pants on, Elijah,” Michael grumbled and pulled open the heavy wrought-iron-and-glass door.

  But it wasn’t Elijah on the other side. Not LeAnne or Val, either. It wasn’t anyone he’d ever seen before. A waif stood before him, wearing jeans, a parka and a wide-eyed expression of shock.

  “I’m Beth Masterson,” the waif said in a breathy voice. Her hands tightened into fists and two white teeth clamped down on her lower lip. A moment passed, then she released a long breath. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m going to have a baby.”

  The bells and chimes had affected his hearing. “Pardon me?” Michael asked the waif. Only the dim beams of the foyer’s sconces touched her—he hadn’t bothered to turn on the outside lights—and her white-blond hair glowed like moonlight against her dark parka.

  She shifted, and the ends of her hair swept over the blue nylon. “I’m—” she started again. Her hands recurled into fists and a visible shiver ran through her body.

  “For God’s sake—” Cupping her upper arms, he pulled her over the threshold, then shut the front door. The slick fabric of her coat felt cold beneath his palms, and he spun the nearby rheostat to add the illumination of the foyer chandelier.

  She squinted against the blazing light and winced. Blue eyes. Lips nearly blue with
cold, too.

  “You didn’t walk here, did you?” Michael glanced at her feet, sensibly covered in Oklahomawinter boots. Had her car stranded her on the road?

  She shook her head, as if her voice were gone, and went strangely still. After a moment the tenseness went out of her body. “Drove my car. Heater went out.”

  “And then you had to walk the length of the driveway.” Not sure what else to do with her, Michael gestured down the marble hallway toward the library where he’d been sitting. “I heard the buzz at the gate, but thought you were some, uh, friends, come to drag me out for the evening.” It was a quarter mile of graveled path from the gate to the front door.

  She didn’t move, even though he waved in the direction of the library again. Michael shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “Well, uh, is there something I can do for you, miss? A taxi? A tow truck?” One phone call and he could get back to his solitary New Year vigil.

  Small, ringless hands crept over the parka toward her middle. “I’m really sorry, sir.” She visibly swallowed, her neck muscles working against the frayed collar of the jacket. “But I told you a minute ago. I’m going to have a baby.”

  A dozen thoughts formed in Michael’s mind, even as he ushered her to the closest seat in the foyer.

  What was a young and ringless woman doing on the Wentworth doorstep?

  She couldn’t be the one pregnant with his late brother Jack’s child. The Wentworth family was hunting for Sabrina Jensen. He’d seen her picture— had even met Sabrina’s twin—and she looked nothing like this delicate waif.

  She couldn’t be a woman he’d dated then somehow forgotten. He never went without protection, and even on a hell-raising night he wouldn’t forget that moonbeam hair.

  So why—

  Her fingers closed over his wrist. “I think—” Her voice stopped, and then grew strong like her grip on him, both reinforced by steel. “I need to get to the hospital now.”

  That galvanized him.

  Terrified him, too.

  But he’d watched enough mares give birth to know that you mostly tried staying out of a birthing mama’s way. After a couple of Y-chromosomeinduced bad suggestions—no, she did not want him to call the Wentworth family internist, and no, a Medivac helicopter wasn’t necessary—she politely asked for a lift to the county hospital.

  Oh, yeah, and they could even take her car.

  He acknowledged that proposal with the nonanswer it deserved. Within minutes he made a quick call ahead to the hospital and bundled her into his truck. With the heat on full blast and the waif at semirecline on the passenger side, his sheepskinlined coat thrown over her for extra warmth, Michael finally had a second to think through a few pressing particulars.

  “I’ve got a cell phone right here,” he said, darting a quick glance her way. “What’s the number of the baby’s daddy? I’ll call him for you.”

  Her mouth tightened and then she tried a little smile. It wobbled a bit before she gave up. “It’s 1-800-HE’S-GONE.” She made a second valiant attempt at a smile. “But if you’d call Bea and Millie at the Freemont Springs Bakery and tell them I won’t be in to work tomorrow…” Her voice trailed off and he knew another contraction had hit.

  Michael tried talking to distract her. “Freemont Springs Bakery, huh? Well, I haven’t had one of their rum cakes in too long. Do they still make those white cookies with the chocolate dot on top? My sister Josie loves their doughnut holes. And what about Millie’s crullers? Now, she makes just about the best crullers—”

  “You can stop now.”

  Michael glanced over again, and in the dashboard glow saw a sweet smile on her face this time, not a big smile, but a smile so real, so genuine, that—

  That he couldn’t wait to reach the county hospital that just this moment was looming on his right. This lady and her arriving baby and her smiles were nothing to him. Nothing beyond the Good Samaritan responsibility to get her to the delivery room on time.

  He turned into the hospital driveway and followed the glowing arrows toward the emergency entrance. Glancing over, he saw her white-knuckled fingers gripping the suede jacket across her legs. When she bit her bottom lip, his gut tightened.

  What the hell could he do for her?

  He found himself reaching over to pat her small fist.

  Cold skin. He rubbed it gently until he braked at the emergency room entrance.

  Shielding his eyes against the harsh lights, he jumped out of the parked truck. The hospital doors slid open and a staffer in scrubs quickly rolled out a wheelchair. “Baby?”

  Michael nodded, but he somehow beat the chair to the passenger door and pulled it open. The waif turned toward him, and he drew her into his arms, then placed her gently into the waiting wheelchair. He stepped back. Okay, she was somebody else’s problem now.

  The chair rolled forward. “Wait!” he heard himself say, then he grabbed the suede-and-sheepskin coat and hunkered down in front of her to tuck it around her legs.

  Her hand touched his shoulder.

  Michael looked up.

  The glare of the hospital lights washed the color from her face, but her hair gleamed like cold white fire and her eyes, blue, turquoise blue, unsettled him. “Thank you,” she said and one cold finger touched his cheek. Then the wheelchair moved toward the entry and the double doors whooshed then whooshed again to swallow her up.

  * * *

  Whew. Michael stepped back into the truck and slammed the door shut behind him. Shoulders against the seat, he took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  Couldn’t.

  The very air of the car smelled like the waif. A faint scent, though fresh and sweet. He cracked the window for a blast of Oklahoma cold, but that reminded him of the touch of her finger and the cool gleam of her moonlight hair.

  Was she going to be all right?

  He turned the ignition and goosed the gas pedal to drown the thought in the roar of eight shining cylinders. His plate had a full six courses already, without taking on anything more.

  Curse Jack. Big brothers shouldn’t die at thirty-five, especially not in a terrorist attack and explosion on an oil rig off the coast of Qatar.

  Curse Grandfather. Bent on tracking down the particulars of Jack’s death, Joseph Wentworth had headed for Washington D.C. Probably right now the old man was squelching every ounce of Christmas joy from any government official who hadn’t been smart enough to head for Vail or Stowe over the holidays.

  Curse Josie. Just for good measure Michael damned his newly married sister, too. The whole lot of them had allowed the family oil company’s responsibilities to fall onto his shoulders.

  Following Jack’s death, Michael hadn’t wanted any of it, but his grandfather, the old bastard, had a way of manipulating him. Just a few ominous rumblings from Joseph about “only a few years left” to his life followed by repetitions of “with Jack gone from the family now” made Michael beat a hasty retreat back to his oil company office before he did something stupid like sign a lifetime contract to run the place.

  The hell of it was, everyone knew Joseph Wentworth had twenty-five good years left in him and they all belonged at the helm of Wentworth Oil Works. And if they never found the answer to Jack’s death—or never found the baby he’d fathered before it—Joseph would need Wentworth Oil Works more than ever.

  And Michael needed the hell out. With Jack dead, and their sister Josie wedded to rancher Max Carter, it was high time Michael got on with his own life— and his own dream. A man couldn’t build a stable full of champion Oklahoma quarter horses from a penthouse office in the Wentworth Building.

  Michael turned the truck in the direction of the hospital exit and glanced at the time. Nine-forty-five. At least it was closer to midnight. And midnight made it almost the new year, and in the new year he hoped to God that Grandfather would refocus on the family business instead of the family tragedy.

  If only that elusive and pregnant Sabrina would show herself…

  Pregnant.
r />   The waif—Beth—popped into his mind again. And that wobbly smile of hers and the small fists she’d made to suppress her discomfort.

  It was none of his business.

  It was not his problem.

  He belonged at home with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a longneck chaser in the other, watching Dick Clark and that damn apple fall.

  Something other than his brain was in control, though. His foot stomped on the brake pedal, one hand jerked the car into reverse, back to drive, and then all ten fingers twisted the steering wheel to make the sharp left into the hospital’s parking structure.

  Some great mind at the Travis County Hospital had painted varicolored stripes on the floor that were supposed to lead visitors through the rat maze of corridors to their destination. On his way to maternity, Michael found the cafeteria four times and then the psychiatric wing.

  Keep your head down, Michael instructed himself, his gaze darting away from the observant nurse-incharge back to the rainbow-striped floor. He was crazy for following the waif into the hospital—no sense tempting fate to do something about it.

  Walls painted with pastel storks told him he’d finally found the right place. A woman wearing a badge stood behind a desk. She raised her eyebrows and looked his way when he entered the deserted waiting area. Michael hurriedly found a seat and a Sports Illustrated.

  “Waiting for somebody,” he said to the lady. “I’ll, uh, just be right here in case she needs something.” Or until he came to his senses and went back home where he belonged.

  Seconds later, a mouse of a woman in storkprinted scrubs rounded a corner and bellowed in Michael’s direction. “There you are!” A militant fire burned in her eyes.

  The fight-or-flight instinct popped him out of the chair. “What?” He tried that look-behind-him, lookbeside-him, you-can’t-mean-me move, but the mouse continued closing in.