Reclaiming His Pregnant Widow Read Free

him.
    Reaching the top of the stairs, Brand paused. The long gallery was crowded. The sparkle of jewels and riot of color was blinding. He fought an unexpected wave of claustrophobia as the crowd enveloped him.
    Perhaps he should’ve called ahead, let her know he was coming home…?.
    But with the worst of the long and dangerous trek through the mountains bordering northern Iraq behindhim, he’d wanted to get the less risky journey back to the United States done. Sure, there’d still been the chance that he could be arrested for carrying a fake passport. And, beneath reason, there’d lurked the blind terror that calling Clea might jinx everything.
    Too late for second thoughts now.
    Brand scanned the throng crammed between glass display cases holding priceless ancient treasures and tables loaded with canapés. Still no sight of the woman he sought. He edged past a trio of gossiping older women, their hungry eyes incessantly sweeping the packed room for fresh fodder before they turned to each other and cackled. His lips started to curl…then relaxed into a rusty smile. In the past he would’ve dismissed them as social hyenas; but now, after his months of deprivation, any laughter was a welcome sound.
    He met the heavily mascaraed eyes of one of the group. Saw the disbelief as recognition dawned. Marcia Mercer. Brand remembered that she used to pen an influential society column. Perhaps she still did. “Brand…Brand Noble?”
    He gave her a nod in brief acknowledgment before advancing with ruthless determination, ignoring the turning heads, the growing babble that followed in his wake.
    And then he saw her.
    Brand’s mouth went dry. The cacophony of rising voices faded. There was only Clea…
    She was smiling.
    Her mouth curved up, and her eyes sparkled. A shimmering ball gown clung to her curves, her arms bare except for a gold cuff that glowed in the light from the opulent chandeliers…and on her left hand the wedding band he’d chosen for her glinted.
    Brand sucked in his breath.
    For an instant he thought she’d cut off the riot of curls he loved. But as she turned her head he caught a glimpse of curls escaping down behind her back from where the dark tresses had been pulled away from her face. He let out the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding in a jagged groan. She looked so vital, so alive and so stunningly beautiful.
    Longing surged through him and his chest expanded into an ache too complex to identify.
    Clea’s hand reached out and touched a jacketed arm. Brand’s gaze followed. The sight of the bronze-haired man she was touching caused Brand’s eyes to narrow dangerously. So Harry Hall-Lewis was still around. When she tipped her face up and directed the full blast of her smile at the man, Brand wanted to yank Clea away. To pull her to him, hold her, never let her go.
    Mine.
    The response roared through him. Basic, primal…and very, very male.
    â€œChampagne, sir?”
    The waiter’s interruption broke his concentration on Clea. Brand helped himself to a glass from the tray with hands that shook, and he gulped the golden liquid down to moisten his tight, parched throat.
    Then he set the empty glass down and drew a steadying breath.
    He had his life back…and he had no intention of spending another moment away from the woman who had lured him back from beyond the darkness with the memory of her smile.
    There was no time to waste.
    Yet, when he looked across the room again, Clea and her companion had vanished.
    Â 
    After a terse exchange with her father near the Egyptian room, Clea then sneaked behind a tall pillar while Harry ventured into the crowd to fetch her a drink. Leaning against the cool column, she shut her eyes. If her father saw her he’d lecture her about duty, about the importance of networking and getting out in front of all the television cameras in attendance. Clea pursed her mouth in a moue of