Dream Vacation Surprise Baby Read online

  From young, free and single...

  ...to pregnancy shock!

  A “gifted” dream holiday is Aubrey Trusedale’s perfect chance to seize back her life after a near-fatal illness. In Florence, Michelangelo’s David impresses her, but the gorgeous Aussie standing beside her is something else! Millionaire Sean Malone is so compellingly her opposite, Aubrey can’t resist falling into a crazy holiday fling with him...except Sean’s past makes him as unprepared as she is for their resulting baby bombshell!

  A Fairytale Summer!

  Can the magic of friendship lead to love?

  Once upon a time...

  Jessica, Daisy and Aubrey left a Copenhagen music festival as lifelong friends after coming to the rescue of an adorable dog and his eternally grateful owner. What they didn’t realize is that they’d also left the festival with...

  ...a fairy godmother

  CEO Vivian Ascot has watched over the three women ever since their extraordinary act of kindness. And it saddens her to see how they’ve gradually lost sight of their dreams over the years. So, this summer she anonymously bequeaths each of the girls a special gift to nudge them toward...

  ...happy-ever-after

  They just need to find the courage to believe that each of Viv’s gifts could bring them a lifetime of happiness—and to embrace fun and romance along the way!

  Discover Jessica’s story in Cinderella’s New York Fling by Cara Colter

  Read Daisy’s story in Italian Escape with Her Fake Fiancé by Sophie Pembroke

  And find Aubrey’s story in Dream Vacation, Surprise Baby by Ally Blake

  All available now!

  Dear Reader,

  My books always begin with the tiniest idea. A funny opening line. Some small situation that tickles my fancy. This one was no different.

  The original concept of this story was no more than an image of a young Australian woman standing before the statue of the David in Florence when a man steps up beside her, says something, and she realizes he’s Australian, too. That’s it! A single moment. One I jotted down ten years ago.

  The idea finally found its purpose when I was asked to contribute to a trilogy alongside wonderful writers Cara Colter and Sophie Pembroke. A Canadian, a Brit and an Aussie author—it had to be an international travel fest, right? And hadn’t I once had an idea about a girl in Florence? I think ideas find their own moment. My young Australian woman, Aubrey, would not be the same joyful, indomitable character she is without the time spent brewing in Cara’s and Sophie’s delightful stories first.

  So snuggle in and let me whisk you away to Florence! And if you don’t also have a crush on the David by the end, well, then there’s more of him for me. ;)

  Love,

  Ally

  Dream Vacation, Surprise Baby

  Ally Blake

  Australian author Ally Blake loves reading and strong coffee, porch swings and dappled sunshine, beautiful notebooks and soft, dark pencils. Her inquisitive, rambunctious, spectacular children are her exquisite delights. And she adores writing love stories so much she’d write them even if nobody else read them. No wonder, then, having sold over four million copies of her romance novels worldwide, Ally is living her bliss. Find out more about Ally’s books at allyblake.com.

  Books by Ally Blake

  Harlequin Romance

  The Royals of Vallemont

  Rescuing the Royal Runaway Bride

  Amber and the Rogue Prince

  Hired by the Mysterious Millionaire

  A Week with the Best Man

  Crazy About Her Impossible Boss

  Brooding Rebel to Baby Daddy

  Harlequin KISS

  The Rules of Engagement

  Faking It to Making It

  The Dance Off

  Her Hottest Summer Yet

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Dedicated to Em. For the bit about the horse.

  Oh, and the trips to Byron, the alternative creative outlet, the seat next to me at the movies, the hugs, the friendship, the true love, the village—all that stuff, too.

  But mostly for the horse.

  Praise for Ally Blake

  “I found Hired by the Mysterious Millionaire by Ally Blake to be a fascinating read... The story of how they get to their HEA is a page-turner. ‘Love conquers all’ and does so in a very entertaining way in this book.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Italian’s Unexpected Heir by Jennifer Faye

  PROLOGUE

  MY DESK BUZZED.

  Or, to be precise, the fancy intercom my gung-ho interior designers had embedded into my new desk.

  So embroiled had I been in the utterly delightful photographs my private detective had sent me, I might have flinched. Which, as I am nearly seventy-six years of age, could be a health hazard.

  My assistant’s voice followed, carrying the slightest hint of defeat, as if it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to rouse me. “Vivian? Ms Ascot? Your ten o’clock is here.”

  I swiped crooked fingers over the hidden touchscreen, in search of the appropriate button with which to answer.

  “All these new-fangled technologies,” I muttered, rolling my eyes at my little dog, Max, who peered up at me from his personal, antique chaise longue beside my office chair. “In the olden days a simple knock at the door sufficed. Yet another sign the world is overtaking me.” Then, to my assistant, “And whom might my ten o’clock be?”

  A whisper through the speaker, tinged with a hint of hauteur, replied, “The ghost writer.”

  “Oh! Excellent. Let him up.”

  I had been approached more than once over the years to write my autobiography. “Your life!” those in charge of such things had expressed. “Your charitable work! Your support of the arts! A woman—” gasp! “—in charge of such a stupendously successful company!”

  But this was the first time I’d entertained the idea. The first time I’d felt as if I had something of worth to share. I was quite looking forward to their shock when they realised it had little to do with my net worth.

  Knowing it would take a minute or two for the writer to make it up the lift to my office high atop the Ascot Building in central London, I went back to enjoying the photographs of my lovely young friend, and most recent recipient of the Vivian Ascot Scholarship to Life—a delightful Australian girl named Aubrey Trusedale—arriving safely and stepping off the plane in Rome. First stop on the international adventure my scholarship was funding.

  “You remember Aubrey, right, Max?” I said. “And Jessica and Daisy? They are the ones who rescued you when you leapt from my arms at the annual Ascot Music Festival when it was held in Copenhagen. Stopped you from being trampled to death.”

  Max’s delightful little ears pricked. Perhaps at the thought of being trampled to death, but I chose to believe he was remembering the good part. The way those three girls had fawned over him. The way they didn’t make me feel silly for being so upset when I thought he’d disappeared for good.

  I paused the slide show on one photograph. Sat forward. Squinted. Not sure how much worse my eyes could get before my glass lenses became so heavy they’d make me hunch.

  Back when we first met, Aubrey had been a little on the wild side. With a mass of head-turning auburn waves and the trust the world would catch her if she fell. The result—I felt—of having three burly older brothers who adored her to pieces.

  As I look at her now, beneath a hat too big for her head, the auburn hair poking out beneath was more a shaggy bob. She seemed a little lankier, too. Chin up, grin plastered across her elfin face as she traipsed through the airport, hands gripped tight to the straps of her battered backpack. All joy, gumption and grit. But changed.

  No wonder, after all she’d been through.

  I could only hope the infusion of funds from the Vivian Ascot Opportunity Legacy—better? Or too much of a mouthful?—would give her the chance to find her feet again.

  “Max,” I said, a strange kind of melancholy coming over me, “is it wrong of me to envy her? Not for her youth, or her loveliness, or her excellent eyesight. But for the fact she is about to experience Italy for the first time. The impossibly green hills of Tuscany, the ancient architecture of Rome.”

  And the men, I said, only this time to myself. For Max was a sensitive soul. Nowhere else in the world makes men quite like those of Roman blood.

  Max’s greying muzzle twitched as he looked up at me, limpid brown dachshund eyes a little rheumy, pitying even. I could all but hear him saying, Vivian, dear, it’s not like you to be so schmaltzy.

  Well, he’d feel schmaltzy too, if he was finding himself looking back more than he was looking forward. Such as now, as I found myself drowning in the bittersweet memories of a single summer spent under the Chianti sun.

  It was why the Vivian Ascot Endowment Fund for Most Excellent Young Women had been born. Yes, I quite like that one!

  The reason I’d endowed those young women with the means to achieve their dream? Instinct.

  I couldn’t see the future, or sense the lotto numbers, or lead police to dead bodies like that lady on the television. But I could sense what people needed, if they needed it enough. Not need as in a little extra deodorant wouldn’t go astray. But deeper. Transformative. That one thing that would make a person feel whole.

  Whole, I thought, my hand going to my chest. To the strange bittersweet sensation that had taken up residence therein the moment I had seen the first picture of Aubrey in Rome.

  I’d been twenty or twenty-one when, in a trattoria in Florence, I’d found myself face to face with the most beautiful man I’d ever met. Tall, dark, Italian. He’d smiled at me, as if he’d known exactly how he’d affected me—

  I shook it off.

  It was a long time ago. I had no regrets.

  I might never have married, or had children of my own, but I’d travelled and laughed and imbibed and inhaled and delighted and felt great wonder. My life was, and had been, wonderful. People wouldn’t be throwing so much money my way to hear about it otherwise.

  Not that I needed the funds. I had amassed a fortune the likes of which no one person could ever hope to spend. None of which I could leave to Max as I fully planned on outliving my darling boy.

  And so the endowments to the lovely Jessica, Daisy and now Aubrey. I had been biding my time, waiting for the right moment to pounce. I mean help. Nudge—gently, generously, benignly—towards that which might allow them to shake off the fears holding them back, so that they might truly thrive.

  “Ms Ascot,” my assistant called through the speaker in my desk. “Your ten o’clock is here.”

  “Let him in.”

  The door opened with a soft click and an electronic whir. All this technology really was a bit ridiculous. Just another sign that perhaps my time in the corporate world was coming to its natural end.

  “Hi?” the writer called, his head poking around the door. Hand-picked from one of the few glossy magazines still in print, he was young enough the whiskers on his muzzle were golden and sparse. “I mean hello there, Ms Ascot. I mean... Sorry.”

  I pushed back my chair, moved around the desk, and held out a hand. “Call me Viv.”

  “Viv,” he said. “All right. Though I’m not sure I’ve ever been quite this star struck.”

  “Star struck?” I repeated, quite liking that. I gave Max a look, to find he was pretending to be asleep.

  “You are the Vivian Ascot,” the writer intoned, arms spread wide. “Head of Ascot Industries. Benefactor of the Ascot Music Festival. Ascot Music Awards. More galleries and performing arts scholarships and publishing endowments than we likely even know. You, ma’am, are a true patron of the arts.”

  “You have done your research, young man.”

  The young man smiled, and I saw a flicker of determination behind the soft face. “Why?” he asked.

  “Why do I spend such a large portion of my hard-earned money on pursuits in the arts? Because without art, without beauty and invention and elegance and verve, what is there to live for?”

  “No, I mean why do you want to write a book?”

  Because I had a story to tell. A story of kindness, and hope, and love.

  “Well,” I said, “the idea came to me the weekend I met three lovely young women at my music festival in Copenhagen...”

  CHAPTER ONE

  AUBREY TRUSEDALE HAD imagined this very moment—meeting him for the first time—more times than she could count.

  She’d known her fingers would tingle as they did now, imagining how he’d feel to touch. Her blood rushing heedlessly around her body. Heart skittering in her chest. Spotting him across the crowded room; his size, his infamy, his sheer masculine beauty taking her breath fair away.

  At over five metres tall, all marble, muscle and might, the David did not disappoint.

  After around her seventeenth sigh, Aubrey glanced behind her to find the tour group who’d been milling about when she’d arrived had moved on.

  Leaving her alone.

  With him.

  Growing up, her three older brothers had had pictures of cars tacked to their bedroom walls. While she’d had notes, sketches, and printouts depicting paintings by Monet and Waterhouse.

  But the poster of the David had had pride of place right over her bed.

  Yep. A naked man on her wall. Among her mates, it had been quite the coup.

  Now, he was so close. This infamous study of the male form: shadows, indents, veins, muscles, strength, shape... He was honestly the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. If she fell down dead, right here, she’d die happy.

  Not that she planned to fall down dead. A lot of clever people had spent the past two years of her life making sure that would not happen any time soon. So, she was pretty determined to stick it out.

  Aubrey took a step closer. And another. Till she was all but leaning over the surprisingly small barrier. It wouldn’t take much to reach out and touch—

  She curled her fingers into her palms.

  The number one rule in these places was no touching. Longevity, future generations and all that. But the guy had survived outdoors for nearly four hundred years before he was moved into this space.

  Would he feel cold? Rough? Dry? Surely a fingertip couldn’t hurt. Maybe a gentle sweep of her palm over his—

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Mario the security guard strolling by. Heat creeping into her cheeks, she gave him a wave.

  Mario grinned back. And hid a yawn behind his hand. He’d worked at the Galleria dell’Accademia for nearly seven years. He had four teenaged daughters. All of whom made it difficult for him to get to sleep at night.

  She knew because they’d chatted for a bit when she’d first stepped inside the gallery doors. People opened up to her. Always had. Made them happy to do things for her. Go the extra mile.

  Like the time at the Ascot Music Festival in Copenhagen when she’d first met her very best friends in the entire world, Daisy and Jessica. After rescuing a cheeky little sausage dog from being trampled by thousands of unknowing feet they’d also taken care of Viv—the dog’s owner—when it turned out she’d twisted her ankle, badly, in trying to chase little Max down.

  While everyone else fretted over Viv, off Aubrey went, found a guy with a golf cart who was meant to be ferrying around VIPS, and convinced him to schlep Viv away to the medical tent instead.

  Crazy to think they’d only just this summer discovered that their friend Viv was none other than Vivian Ascot, billionaire head of the Ascot Industries and sponsor of the music festival!

  Ask questions, and actually listen to the answers and you never know what might happen. Such as two years later waking up to a legal letter telling you that you had been gifted a bottomless, all-expenses-paid, first-class world trip by that very same billionaire, who would not take oh-my-gosh-you-are-so-lovely-but-I-can’t-possibly-accept for an answer.

  Something her brothers could learn—the asking, the listening. It was a wonder any woman had married them. Much less had their children. Their gorgeous, roly-poly cherubs. Thinking about how much her beautiful nieces and nephews would grow while she was away had been the one thing that could have stopped her from going.

  And yet, some time away from those beautiful babies, all that they represented, all she’d never have, was the very reason she’d had to go.

  Realising she was on her tippy toes, Aubrey let herself sway back onto her heels. Consoling herself with the knowledge that the air she breathed had wafted over the David. It was enough. Unless she planned to be arrested for fondling a priceless piece of art before being extradited home on day one of her magical fantasy trip, it had to be.

  A couple came into the room, took one look at the David, and kept walking. Philistines.

  Knowing her one-on-one time with the love of her life was too good to last, Aubrey plonked herself down on the floor, stretched open her backpack, pulled out a sketch pad and the stub of a fine charcoal pencil, looked back up at the David, and breathed.