Free The Curvy Vet and the Billionaire Cowboy (He Wanted Me Pregnant!) by Victoria Wessex Page B

putting his hands flat on my gently swelling belly. “Attagirl,” he said.
     
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    If you liked The Curvy Vet and the Billionaire Cowboy, you’ll probably like other stories in my “He Wanted Me Pregnant!” series .
     
    I’ve included an extract from He Wanted Me Pregnant! The Curvy Waitress and the Billionaire French Count below.
     
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An Extract from
    He Wanted Me Pregnant!
    The Curvy Waitress and the
    Billionaire French Count
     
    Broke, stuck in a dead-end job and uncomfortable with her curvy body, New York waitress Holly thinks life can’t get any worse…until she accidentally whacks a customer with a tray, breaking his nose.
    But the customer, now unable to speak, is the personal translator of drop-dead gorgeous Erard, a billionaire French Count who speaks no English. When he discovers that Holly is fluent in French, he takes her with him as his interpreter.
    Thrown into a world of luxury and wealth, Holly learns that her new boss finds her curves delicious. But will he be able to convince her she’s perfect the way she is? And can she accept his brand of hedonistic, carefree lovemaking: no inhibitions, no fears…no condoms?
    Erard led me straight across the corridor. In front of us, two huge wooden doors that looked as if King Kong might be imprisoned behind them. He marched in without knocking, pushing the doors wide.
    Oh. My. God. I was flying.
    The meeting room was double height, the ceiling maybe twenty feet above me. Somewhere vaguely behind me, I remembered that there was a door and a corridor, but they were forgotten because all around me was… sky.
    We were in one corner of the very top floor of the skyscraper and two entire walls were glass. It felt as if the floor was floating in mid air, fifty stories up.
    “Tell them I’m sorry,” Erard said. “My translator was injured in an accident, and you have kindly stepped in as a replacement.”
    My eyes were still locked on the view. I could see Central Park. I could see cars and buses and tiny dots that must be people. I finally looked at Erard. “Hmm?” I asked, my eyes wide.
    He smiled at me, amused.
    It clicked that he’d asked me to say something and I mentally rewound. I became aware of the other people in the room, eight of them, all gathered around a conference table, some of them still getting to their feet. They all stood up when we walked in, I realized. No, when he walked in. Who was this guy?
    I translated what Erard had said into English and everyone nodded apologetically and offered their understanding and hopes for a speedy recovery. Erard sat down at the head of the table and indicated that I should sit next to him. I sank into the plush leather chair, casting worried glances at the other people at the table. There were five men and three women and every one of them was dressed in a suit that cost at least a month of my rent. They were all desperately trying to look nonchalant, but I kept catching them glancing at me, mystified. What’s a waitress doing at our meeting?
    I was wondering the same thing. I only knew that, every time I looked at Erard, at those lips and cheekbones, strong and elegant at the same time, I knew that I would happily walk into a biker bar if it meant being close to him.
    He’s not interested in you, I told myself again.
    “Please remind them that this is just an introductory meeting to discuss terms,” Erard said in French. “Nothing is binding. Nothing is absolute.” His