Count Toussaint's Pregnant Mistress

She’d almost fallen into a doze—sleep was the ultimate anaesthetic—when the door of the taxi was yanked open.

‘Where,’ Andrew Summers hissed through clenched teeth, ‘have you been?’

Abby paid the driver and slipped out of the taxi. ‘I was out,’ she said, her voice flat and expressionless. ‘Please, Dad, let’s not make a scene here.’

Andrew nodded jerkily, and Abby followed him up to their hotel suite.