Baby Be Mine

  BABY BE MINE

  Spinsters & Casanovas Series: Clarice & Hunter, Book 1

  Rosie Praks

  Rosie Press

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Other Books in the Spinsters and Casanovas Series

  Also by Rosie Praks

  About the Author

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Copyright © 2017 by Rosie Praks

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book was self-published by the author Rosie Praks. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without agreement and written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  The author can be reached at: www.rosiepraks.com.

  For Alexia & Chloe,

  SUPPORTERS, MOTIVATORS, & SISTERS

  Thanks guys for your support and motivation.

  Chapter 1

  When the door opened, a naked torso faced Clarice. Not just any old torso, but a hot, muscled, six-pack naked torso. She blinked and blinked, and then she blinked some more. She couldn’t understand why a grown man would be wearing a towel, just a single white, fluffy towel wrapped around his waist, to answer the door.

  He was leaning against the doorframe, one hand supporting his tall, lean, muscular body that, Clarice noted, any female would want in her bed, including her. Not that she’d bedded any male, of course, since she was still a bloody virgin, for God’s sake.

  As her eyes traveled up to his face, her heart decided to do a disco dance, moving in time to the sound of the very popular music currently playing in the background somewhere inside the man’s house.

  She felt a little breathless and lightheaded. Her cheeks flushed the same shade as the bouquet of scarlet roses in her arms. Not that she was a florist or a delivery person. No, the florist was one of her best friends, Elise, and the delivery person was too sick with influenza. So being the great best friend that she was, Clarice offered to help.

  Elise had begged because this was her VIP client. Elise herself was too busy preparing for the many orders for Valentine’s Day, which was tomorrow, so the job was thrust upon her with little room for argument. And Clarice herself had succumbed to Elise’s bribery of free roses, which she really loved.

  Now here she was, knocking on the door of 99 Summerson Street in Herne Bay, one of the wealthiest suburbs in Auckland. At the moment, her eyes were busy blinking rapidly at the half-naked male specimen standing before her. But my oh my, did she almost forget she was holding on to the bunch of roses because, heaven help her, this man was G-O-R-G-E-O-U-S. That slightly wet, dusted-corn hair had a sparkling golden sheen beneath the afternoon sunlight. The man looked so hot she couldn’t help ogling at him.

  Putting all the symptoms together, which included the pronounced asthma-induced breaths, the after-the-marathon heart rate, and the light-as-a-feather feeling inside her head and stomach, Clarice concluded this condition was due to the fact that she had never seen a naked man in the flesh in her whole twenty-nine years of life. If she had counted the time she had seen her young nephews during their bath time, however, then yes, maybe she had seen the male species displaying their valued male anatomies. But for the likes of men like this one, so well-toned, so well made, and with so much testosterone, then the answer would be a definite no. Those arms looked so strong, so muscular, so—

  “Can I help you?” he asked, drawing her senses back to reality, breaking the spell, and making her blink a few more times before she became aware of the mission she came to accomplish.

  “Umm.” Suddenly, she realized she’d lost her voice. Her throat was dry as dust. She tried to speak, but the only sound that came out was, “Umm…” again.

  Knowing any attempt to speak again would only make her sound like more of a complete idiot, she resorted to using hand gestures. Clarice practically shoved the bouquet right in his gorgeous face. That took him by surprise and he moved backward.

  “So… sorry,” she croaked. There, finally, she’d found her voice. Even though it didn’t sound anything like her natural voice, at least she could pass her message across verbally.

  “No, that’s fine. Just a little startled, that’s all.”

  Gosh, this man has such a nice voice, she couldn’t help thinking.

  “Darling, what’s taking so long?” A singsong voice traveled from somewhere inside the house. “Come back to bed.”

  The hottie turned to smile at whoever it was, then said softly, “Be back soon.”

  He has such soft eyes, Clarice thought when he turned to smile at the woman she assumed to be his wife. They were azure blue, like a clear, cloudless summer sky.

  Dear heaven! Why are all good and handsome men taken? They were like car parks. All the good and available ones were taken, whereas the ones that were available were the ones you had to parallel park to get. Damn my parallel parking.

  His attention suddenly shifted back to Clarice, and what she saw written on his face she did not like. His once soft and subtle azure eyes that had spoken of gentleman breed had now completely vanished. In its place shone a glittering spark, those pupils exuding a strong, wicked gleam, like the devil about to play with his toy. His once broad and friendly smile had also been completely wiped away. Instead, the corners of those lips quirked up to form a devilish grin.

  Danger! Danger! Playboy alert! Clarice’s radar screamed at her when those wicked eyes started undressing her, causing her scarlet cheeks to burn even more. But before she could take a step back to assess her situation, the man caught hold of the bouquet, capturing her hands in the process.

  “Hey, let… let go.” She struggled, trying to remove his tight grasp.

  “Naaaoooohhh.” He shook his head, that devilish grin still plastered on his face, his eyes still sparkling with mischief.

  Clarice tried harder to release his viselike grip, but it was no use. His fingers were like dental clamps, wrapped around her hands so securely one would require pliers to release them.

  “I said… ” Clarice couldn’t finish her sentence, as she almost stumbled backward when the man suddenly released her.

  “Why—” She was about to give him a piece of her mind when he interrupted her yet again, and she was struck speechless.

  “You like what you see?” he asked, posing even more seductively on the threshold of the doorframe, contorting his body as if he were a model out of Vogue magazine.

  “Huh? Excuse me?” Clarice asked, puzzled.

  “Obviously you came here to give me these roses,” his voice drawled out huskily. “You must like me; otherwise you woul
dn’t be here. And Valentine’s Day isn’t until tomorrow.”

  “I…” Once again her speech was interrupted when she saw a blonde entering her field of vision, striking a pose as fashionable as the man before her.

  The woman leaned onto the man and gave him a peck on the cheek, oblivious to Clarice’s presence. The woman proceeded to move down to the man’s lips, making a sucking sound like a fish out of water, then to his Adam’s apple, until the man cleared his throat, drawing her attention to the fact that they had a guest.

  Clarice’s eyeballs almost dropped to the floor when the blonde turned to face her. She too was only dressed in a loose towel, covering just enough for her breasts not to spill out.

  The woman eyed her briefly. Then sensing Clarice had the same significance as the potted plant displayed on the front porch, she turned back to her man.

  “Hunter, honey,” she whined and then kissed Hunter right in front of her again. “You took way too long, so I had to come and get you.”

  Hunter didn’t look like he was interested. His eyes were roaming elsewhere, and Clarice just happened to be their target.

  Gosh, get a room, you two! Clarice wanted to yell at them for being this intimate in broad daylight. And why am I still here anyway? Her job was done. She should get going. But somehow, though, she wanted to get even with this blasted Hunter, who was still grinning at her flirtatiously.

  As if on cue, the blonde turned to her, giving her an evil glare. She said, “Why are you still here? Who are you and what are you doing here, kid?”

  KID? All right, that did it. Clarice snapped. Who was this chick calling her a kid like she’d just been born yesterday? She was almost thirty, for God’s sake. This bimbo was clearly her junior by almost a decade and had no right whatsoever to insult her. After all, she was very sensitive about her age, and her pride just couldn’t take it when someone called attention to it.

  Clarice wanted to growl. This younger generation, they just didn’t show respect to their elders. She really needed to set the record straight.

  With that thought in mind, she clenched her fists tight in self-determination, lifted her head to meet their eyes, and said, “I’m here—”

  “To give me roses for Valentine’s Day.” Hunter grinned.

  That did it.

  “You bitch!” the blonde screeched, like an angry cat running its claws across a chalkboard, grating her eardrums. If Clarice were to stay around listening to this bimbo for another second, she could guarantee she’d lose her auditory senses.

  What to do? she thought. That was when she saw Hunter’s eyes again. There was that wicked gleam again. That was when it came to her. She knew why he’d said all that stuff before about the roses and Valentine’s Day. This blasted man wasn’t this bimbo’s husband. They were merely playmates.

  Oh, what was she saying? Why use euphemism? They’d practically just had sex moments before she knocked on the door, and now, if she suspected right, Hunter wanted to break up with the blonde and he was using Clarice as his outlet.

  Not so fast, you handsome beast. You’re not getting away this easy. Before the blonde could do further damage to her eardrums and before her hot temper exploded like a boiling kettle, she threw the bouquet in Hunter’s face, grabbed both their towels, one in each hand, and yanked them off their bodies, exposing his and her anatomies to the black cat sitting on the fence, birds in the trees, the bees sucking nectar from flowers on the porch, and whoever happened to glimpse them at that moment.

  The blonde screamed, the man growled, and Clarice twisted on her heel and ran for her life, sprinting like the devil had taken chase. Of course, she knew the devil would never come chasing after her in his naked state. But she did stop to catch her breath when she was halfway down the block because her limbs refused to take another step for fear of her lungs collapsing.

  Wow! Clarice couldn’t believe she’d just done that, yanking off their towels like that. Then she began to laugh—so hard her stomach hurt. Once she managed to calm down, she thought it was a shame she’d been too busy making her escape to clearly see his male glory.

  Stop thinking stupid thoughts this instant!

  What was with her and her sudden fascination with the male anatomy anyway? Was it because her biological clock was ticking, telling her it was almost time for her to start thinking about producing some babies? Good Lord, she wasn’t looking forward to her big three-zero.

  How was she supposed to make babies if her forbidden door downstairs had yet to be unlocked? And worse yet, where was she supposed to find the right key for her door?

  A naughty thought ran through her head. Maybe Hunter had a secret key to unlock my door. Then her heart did a little somersault.

  Ah! She messed up her hair in her thought process. Calm down, my dear heart. She placed her hand upon her chest to stop the thrashing beat of her heart. Otherwise, she might have gone into cardiac arrest, and there was definitely no hospital near this part of town.

  Once her heart settled again, her thoughts returned to the blond-haired, azure-blue-eyed Hunter. What was she thinking that he might have the right key for her door? That beast was a playboy, a Casanova, who saw women as nothing above a piece of bacon. That shaggy dog man-beast, eyeing her like a steak, wanting a piece of her. Well, he wasn’t getting a piece, even if this steak was getting old—like tough leather old.

  Clarice sighed in defeat. There was no point in sulking over matters like this now. She must call Elise tonight to apologize for the turn of events. Elise might lose one VIP client, but it was better for her staff not to be harassed or taken advantage of by that Casanova Hunter.

  Shelving the thought for later use, Clarice turned to walk back to her car, her shoulders slumping, mentally counting down the days until she would meet her doomsday.

  But that particular day came faster than she expected.

  Chapter 2

  Clarice wanted to cry. Right in front of her was a cake, a beautiful, delicious white chocolate and strawberry cake, topped with thirty candles—no more, no less—just thirty straight candles illuminating the entire room that was once shrouded in darkness.

  The sound of her family and two best friends, Elise and Whitney, singing that birthday song should have turned those tears into streams of joy, yet the one that came trickling out of her eye right now was of sadness, of a sense of failure, as her entire thirty years of life was reflected right before her eyes, like an open storybook.

  “Clarice, darling. Let go of your mother’s skirt and come over here.” Her father called her over to him, speaking to her in fluent Khmer, her mother tongue. But she didn’t budge from her spot, her little fingers still clinging to her mother’s skirt for dear life, too afraid to look at all the strangers’ faces staring at her.

  Who are these people? she thought, eyeing the many strangers through her small spectacles perched upon her nose. They came to welcome her when she got off the plane. They looked just like papa, with blond hair and blue eyes, the likes of which she had never seen before in the Cambodian refugee camp in Thailand.

  “Welcome to New Zealand, my dear.” One lady leaned in, smiling.

  Then another one came and crouched in front of her and asked her with a pretty smile, “How old are you, little missy?”

  Clarice didn’t know what to do. They were talking to her, but she couldn’t understand them.

  Her father came over and translated in Khmer. She held out both of her hands and made the number six to the strangers.

  “Does she not know English?” the old lady asked her father.

  “It’s my fault. I only taught her basic greetings. We conversed in Khmer all the time in the camp,” her father said.

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll adjust and come to fit in school just fine with all the other children,” the young lady said.

  School! Now that word she knew. Papa had taught her that word in the camp.

  “Go back to your own country, you four-eyed monster.”

  “Yeah, pa
ncake face. Go back to where you came from.”

  “We don’t want you here. Go away.”

  Clarice cried when the others at school wouldn’t stop their bullying. She couldn’t understand what they meant, but the physical abuse they bestowed upon her, pushing her and pulling her pigtails, sure hurt her little wee heart. That night she cried on her mother’s lap.

  “Chantee, my dear, don’t cry.” Her mother smoothed her hair while she cried her eyes out. “You have to be brave and strong.”

  “But they pulled my hair on the first day of school,” she complained. “I hate those people. Why can’t they be nice? I don’t like this place. I want to go back to the camp.”

  “Chantee, I know you’ll meet nice people soon. And who knows? You might even be friends with them for life. There are many great people here in New Zealand. And when you meet them, you’ll know how lovely this country is.”

  Clarice’s mother was right, because the very next day at school, when she was in the middle of being bullied again, a girl appeared, jumping off the monkey bars and announcing to the whole school that from now on, this little Asian-Caucasian girl would be under her protection. The girl who saved her was named Whitney, a boisterous girl that was like a hot air balloon.

  Clarice’s first real friend was a sight to behold, dressed all in black, with the palest skin, like a sheet of paper. She was a little witch, casting deathly spells on anyone who dared hurt her and her little friend. And now that Whitney had taken her under her wing, Clarice was no longer afraid of anyone.

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you participate in today’s sport, Clarice.”

  Clarice wasn’t happy. She’d been looking forward to this day for ages and now that it had finally arrived, she wasn’t allowed to participate because of her shoes.

  What could she do? It wasn’t her fault her shoes had more holes than the number of craters on the moon. Her PE teacher said it was unfit for sport. Simply speaking, it may cause her injury.