The Billionaire’s Unwanted Baby
French Conquests, Book 3
No babies. Ever.
That was the promise Shaundra and Nate made to each other before they married. A clean, simple agreement that felt foolproof.
Until it wasn't.
When Shaundra discovers she's pregnant, Nate does the unthinkable: he walks away. He returns months later, desperate to win back his wife, but refuses to acknowledge the son she's carried alone. He won't hold Benjamin. Won't look at him. Won't admit he exists.
Shaundra is torn between the husband she loves and the child she would die for. She's made it clear: they come as a package deal. No exceptions.
But Nate is drowning in demons he's never shared. Secrets rooted in a childhood of unspeakable pain have convinced him he's incapable of being the father Benjamin needs. As his walls threaten to shatter their marriage, Shaundra must decide if love is powerful enough to save him, or if she needs to save herself instead.
She was no longer terrified. Shaundra was just pissed off. “What the hell, Nathanael!” Her annoyance was palpable, and tinged with the unsettled feeling that came with seeing the man who had walked out on their four year marriage almost the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant. Since then, his visits were sporadic and cursory, merely caretaker visits to make sure the bills were paid and everything at the house was running. To add even more insult to her injury, he determinedly acted as if their son, Benjamin, didn’t exist.
And now here he was, taking the place of her driver? She couldn’t decide if she was more angry or shocked. “What the hell are you doing in my car?”
“Our car, wife,” he reminded her. “Not yours, not mine, but ours.” Even though he’d grown up in the States, his French accent was discernible. You can’t shake your history, he used to say when she teased him about it.
Now, she wished she could reach over the seat and give him a good shaking. “Why are you here?”
He glanced up at her in the rear-view mirror, his face carved out of stone, his neatly trimmed beard and moustache failing to hide the determined set of his jaw. “Where are you off to?”
“I asked you a question first!”
“And who are you going with? Dressed like that?”
She looked down at herself, taking in as if for the first time her black satin shift dress, which was as glossy and iridescent as an oil slick and barely hid the tops of her shapely breasts. The long, curvaceous chestnut-brown legs, shaved just this afternoon, gleamed with her favorite skin product. Black heels, designed for strutting. She looked good, dammit, and why she was dressed that way was none of his damn business. So she told him so.
He snorted. “It is my business. I’m your husband.”
It was her turn to snort. “Really? Because my empty bed tells a different story. The fact that I hold our baby in my arms every day, knowing that his father doesn’t want him, says different. You’ve been gone from the house for almost a year, without an explanation. So remind me, darling, why do you consider yourself my husband?"
