An Accidental Birthright Mass market paperbound - 2011

From the publisher

"Oh, please don't rebel on me now." Alison Whitman put her hand over her stomach and tried to quell the rising nausea that was threatening her with immediate action if she didn't get a hold of some saltine crackers or a bottle of ginger ale. Morning sickness was the pits, and it was even worse when it lasted all day. Worse still when you were about to tell a man he was going to be a father. Alison put her car in Park and took a deep breath, almost relieved to discover a roadblock in her path. The wrought-iron gates that partitioned the massive mansion from the rest of the world looked impenetrable. She didn't know a lot about this man, the father of her baby; nothing really other than his name. But it was clear that he was way out of her league, both financially and otherwise. Her eyes widened when she saw a man in a dark suit with security-issue sunglasses prowling the perimeter of the fence. Was Max Rossi mafia or something? Who had security detail in the middle of nowhere in Washington State? The guard, because that's what he had to be, exited through a smaller pedestrian gate and walked toward her car, his expression grim. He gestured for her to roll her window down and she complied, self-conscious of the crank handle that she had to use to perform the action. Her car wasn't exactly a new, fully loaded model. "Are you lost, ma'am?" He sounded perfectly pleasant and polite, but she knew that his right hand, which looked as though it was resting on his hip and was partly concealed by his dark suit jacket, was likely gripping a gun. "No. I'm looking for Mr. Rossi. This is the address I was given." The man's lips turned up slightly. "Sorry. Mr. Rossi isn't receiving visitors." "I'm..." She swallowed. "I'm Alison Whitman. He's expecting me. At least I think he is." The guard held up a hand, pulled a cell phone from his pocket and hit Speed Dial. He spoke rapidly in a foreign language, Italian, she guessed, before hanging up and turning his attention back to her. "Go ahead and pull in. Park your car at the front." He walked to the gate and keyed in a code. The iron monstrosities swung forward and Alison pulled the car through, her stomach now seriously protesting. She really didn't know Max Rossi; she had no assurance he wouldn't harm her in some way. Maybe she hadn't thought this through. No, that wasn't true. She had thought this through. From every angle until she was certain she had no choice but to come here and see the father of her baby, despite the fact that she wanted to bury her head in a hole and pretend the whole thing had never happened. She couldn't play ostrich on this one, no matter how much she might like to. The house was massive, its bulk partially concealed by towering fir trees. The intensity of the saturated greens surrounding her was almost surreal, compliments of the year-round rainfall. Nothing new to a native of the Pacific Northwest, but she rarely ventured outside the Seattle city limits anymore, so being surrounded by this much nature felt like a new experience. And seeing such a pristine, modern mansion set in the middle of the rugged wilderness was akin to an out-of-body experience. Of course, the past two weeks had also seemed like an out-of-body experience; first with the positive pregnancy test, and then with all of the revelations that had followed. She parked her ancient car in front of the house and got out slowly, really hoping she didn't lose her lunch in the middle of the paved driveway. Not exactly a way to make a good impression on a man. The security detail appeared out of nowhere, his hand clamping firmly on her arm as he led her to the front door. "I appreciate the chivalrous gesture, but I can make it through the door on my own," she said drily. Her escort gave her a rueful smile, but loosened his grip and let his hand fall to his side. Although she noticed he was still ready to grab hold of her if he needed to. He opened the front door for her and she had a feeling it wasn't good manners that made him allow her to go in first, but a desire to keep himself in the most advantageous position. "Ms. Whitman." The deep, velvet voice held just a hint of an accent and the sound made her already queasy stomach turn, but not with nausea. This feeling was something she didn't recognize at all; a strange twisting sensation that wasn't entirely unpleasant. She put a hand to her stomach and tried to suppress it. The sight of the owner of the amazing voice only increased the pitching sensation. She watched as he strode down the sweeping, curved staircase, his movements quick and smooth, masculine yet graceful. He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen--not that she ever spent much time dwelling on men and their looks. This man, though, demanded admiration, even from her. He was just so masculine, so striking. He would turn both male and female heads wherever he went, that was for sure. And not just because of his arresting features and perfect physique. It was his air of authority, the absolute power that emanated from him. It was compelling in a way that captivated her. His square jaw was set and uncompromising. Hard eyes, dark and fathomless, framed by a fringe of thick eyelashes, stared down at her. If not for the expression in his eyes, she might have called them beautiful, but the intense glare that he fixed on her put paid to that description. He looked familiar, although she couldn't imagine where she would have ever seen someone like him. Such an example of masculine perfection hardly haunted the halls of the pro bono law firm where she worked. She swallowed thickly and took a deep breath, hoping the infusion of fresh air would banish some of the nausea she felt. "Yes." "You're from the clinic?" he asked, coming to a stop in front of her. His posture would make a marine envious. She had to crane her neck to look at him, his height topping h