My Secret Irish Baby: A Second-Chance, Secret Baby Contemporary Romance (Irish Kiss Book 7)

 
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My Secret Irish Baby:
An Irish Kiss Novel
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Sienna Blake


My Secret Irish Baby: a novel / by Sienna Blake. – 1st Ed.
First Edition: September 2020
Copyright 2020 Sienna Blake
Cover art copyright 2020 Cosmic Letterz. All Rights Reserved Sienna Blake. Stock images: depositphotos
Proofreading services by Proof Positive: http://proofpositivepro.com.
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.


Contents
Your free copy of the Bound duet
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Michael
Abbi
Abbi
Michael
Abbi
Michael
Epilogue
Excerpt of Mr. Blackwell’s Bride
Books by Sienna Blake
About Sienna


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Who has journeyed through the Irish Kiss series with me.
 
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Michael
I needed to get the hell out of there.
It was all such a façade, the glittery gold balloons, the black silk tablecloths, the opulent flowers that in a few hours would wither and die and rot in a dumpster in the back alley of the hotel. But if the decorations were fake, they were nothing compared to the sea of fake smiles, fake laughter, fake giving a shites.
Sophisticated jazz music from a trio on stage played over forced polite conversations delivered in gentle, hushed tones. But as far as I was concerned, everyone might as well have been shouting, “I am using you! I want to wring what I can from you and your connections and your pretty little title and then move on like a vulture moving on from a pile of picked-over bones!”
Men and women strutted around like peacocks in expensive tailor-made suits and fresh-off-the-runway designer dresses to parade their wealth and influence and hide their empty souls behind overflowing bank accounts.
I hated it all—the gilded scratching of backs, the shiny, dazzling tit for tats, the dripping-in-diamonds winks implying, “You do this for me, I'll do this for you.” Self-congratulatory, self-promoting, self-serving vampires in fucking Gucci.
Worst of all was the massive banner hanging behind the stage in the luxurious ballroom. It was a congratulations banner and it made my stomach turn. It was so loud, so gaudy, so pompous. I wanted to tear it down, rip it to pieces, and burn it with one of the hundreds of gold candelabras from around the room.
I wanted to get out of there and fast, far away from that party and everything it stood for.
The only problem was that this was a party for me.
This was my party.
That was my name up there on that banner.
And I couldn't leave.
Not that that stopped me from sipping my martini sulkily in the corner while plotting different escapes. There was the classic food poisoning. Though this was the Merrion, the finest hotel in all of Dublin, and it would be unlikely that the caviar and crème fraîche tartlets or the duck confit crostini with parsnip puree and fig or the lemon garlic butter scallops were below standard. There was the family emergency, but that would be hard to pull off considering my family was presently raiding the open bar, and the only one likely to drink enough to require an early trip home was unfortunately in Australia with the All Ireland rugby team he played for. That left me with pulling the fire alarm or quitting.
Pulling the fire alarm was a misdemeanour and quitting was out of the question. I lived for my work. I had no idea what I would do without it.
I was considering the viability of cutting electricity to the hotel somehow when Caroline, the secretary for the firm's CFO, picked her way through the crowd toward me. She was all long legs, pursed lips and no bullshite. She didn't greet me, instead pulling up a schedule on her tablet and jumping right in.
"Alright, Michael, so Bill will get up and say a few words first and then he'll invite you up onto the stage," she explained, her tablet pressed against her ribcage daring her cleavage to spill out from her black leather cocktail dress. "You have your speech prepared, don't you?"
Her blue eyes, seductive in a veil of long black eyelashes, looked up at me.
"Of course." I patted the breast pocket of my slate-grey suit.
She had no idea it was empty.
"Did you have a chance to review the final list of potential secretaries I sent you?" Caroline asked, blood-red nails typing a note onto her tablet.
Along with a salary increase, a sizeable end-of-year bonus, a company Flying Spur Bentley, a top-floor office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking all of Dublin, a Rolex Submariner, a timeshare in Monaco, and a Black Amex for “business expenses” like steak dinners at