The Curvy Waitress and the Billionaire French Count (He Wanted Me Pregnant!)

He Wanted Me Pregnant!

The Curvy Waitress and the Billionaire French Count

by Victoria Wessex

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?

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Also by Victoria Wessex on Kindle

He Wanted Me Pregnant…

The British Nanny and her Billionaire Employer

The Lawyer and the Outlaw Biker

The Stewardess and the Billionaire CEO

The Intern and the Senator

The Maid and the Billionaire Prince

The Cocktail Waitress and the Card Shark

The Lady and the Pirate (a double length special!)

The Nurse and the Soldier

Other Popular Series I Write

Taken
(women indulging in dark fantasies with multiple men)

Cuckolded
(women having sex while their husbands are forced to watch).

Be warned that both are much more explicit than HWMP!

Blurbs and free extract at the end of this book!

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The Curvy Waitress and the Billionaire French Count

I never meant to break the guy’s nose.

I didn’t even know he was there. I was squeezed between two tables, reciting a coffee and cake order back to a table full of grinning hipsters and trying to ignore the one staring at my cleavage. Ever wonder what’s going on in your waitress’s head? Mine looked like this:

- I told that guy we have the pecan pie but now I’m not sure and he won’t tip if I’m wrong.

- That guy is still staring at my breasts.

- If I don’t make another $47 by Friday I’m not going to make rent.

I wonder who’s standing behind me?
didn’t even make the list. And then I heard the guys on the table to my left. I only heard one word,
ass,
but I only needed to.

My rear gets a lot of comments, especially when it’s squeezed into the hideous pink and white waitress uniform we have to wear at the diner. It’s part of the 50s retro-cool thing that allows the boss to charge double what any other place would for mediocre coffee and limp salad. It’s all very cute when you look like a stick. When you’re a little larger, though, it’s…
tight.

I bristled but didn’t turn around. If I got angry at him, I’d lose any chance I had of a tip from that table.

A guy at the hipster table told me I’d got his order wrong. I hadn’t—he’d changed his mind for the third time. But I smiled sweetly, crossed it out on my pad and re-wrote it.
Breathe, Holly. Breathe.
I was done. I started to turn towards the kitchen.

“Are they real?” asked the guy who’d been staring at my breasts.

“I—
What?!”
I couldn’t believe he’d actually asked that. I mean, it wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, but it usually came after the fourth margarita. I felt the flush rising up my face, as if
I’d
done something wrong. As soon as someone drew attention to my shape, the shame set in.

“Shh! You asshole!” The guy’s friend punched him in the arm, a white knight riding in to save me. “Sorry,” he told me.

I relaxed. For a split second.

“Of course they’re real,” the “knight” whispered to his friend. “Look at her. She’s just big.”

My teeth ground so hard they hurt. The flush in my cheeks turned red hot. I knew exactly what I was, huge and ugly and unlovable, and I didn’t need him to tell me. I spun on my heel to stalk off , my gleaming metal tray out in front of me—

Crack.

I blinked. A thin man in a suit was staggering backward, blood gushing from his nose.

I looked at my tray. I looked at the man.
Oh, shit!

The diner had suddenly descended into a shocked hush. The bleeding guy’s feet skittered under him on the tiles and he almost went down on his ass. He was caught at the last minute by someone behind him and hoisted back to his feet.

I ran forward. The guy’s snow-white shirt was rapidly turning red.
“OhMyGodI’mSoSorry!”
I gabbled. “Do you want a doctor? An ambulance?” I grabbed a handful of napkins and thrust them at him. “Here!”

The guy was upright now, still supported by whoever was standing behind him. He recovered just enough to say,
“Merde!”
Which was a bad luck/good luck kind of a thing.

Bad luck, because I’d just cracked open the nose of a foreign tourist, the lifeblood of overpriced, tacky places like the diner. I could see the TripAdvisor review now. Good luck, because French was the one foreign language I spoke—and spoke well, as it happened. I’d been raised bilingual, my French dad reading me as many kids’ books in French as my mom did in English. Bad luck, because he’d skipped town with another woman six years ago, when I was fifteen, and French was a reminder. He offered me money, occasionally, which I refused on principle.

“I’m so sorry,” I told him in French. “I didn’t see you. I’m clumsy. I’m an idiot. Would you like me to call an ambulance?”
Please don’t ask for an ambulance,
I thought desperately. Visions of lawsuits and medical bills swam before my eyes. The guy didn’t respond. He just stared at me in horror.

“He’ll be alright,” said a voice from behind the man, and suddenly everything seemed to slow down.

The voice was low—it almost seemed to make the air throb. And it was smooth like molten gold, with a delicious rough edge in the “Rs” that sent a little tremble down my back.

I looked up.

And up.

I hadn’t paid any attention to the man who’d caught my victim. I realized then why that was: he was tall enough that his face was actually out of my eye line, a good head taller than his friend or me. And while my victim was thin, seemingly composed entirely of bone and joints, his friend had wide, powerful shoulders that slimmed down to a tight, narrow waist. He had short brown hair just a shade darker than mine, but while mine was always frizzing out and tangling, his was
tousled.
Not many men can do
tousled.
This one could.

He was in a light gray suit with a crisp blue shirt—so far, he seemed to have managed to avoid getting any blood on it—and the color set off the cool gray-blue of his eyes. A full, sensual lower lip, kissably soft, and a strong jaw, darkly stubbled…
God, he’s gorgeous!
Those rough Rs sparked something in my mind…something that traveled rapidly downward and didn’t stop until it was between my legs. I could imagine him growling. Growling things like—

Stop it!

--like, “
Get on the bed,”

Stop it!

It clicked that he, too, had spoken in French.
Oh God, imagine him growling in French!

I closed my eyes for a second, coughed, and got a grip on myself. “I’m really sorry,” I said again, in French.

He smiled.

That doesn’t really describe how it happened, though. It started as a smirk that made a bright little explosion go off in my chest. Then it widened into a smile and it was as if a roller blind had lifted, warm sunlight flooding into me. Suddenly, I saw my whole day so far for how cold and lifeless it had been.

“Please don’t worry,” the man said in French. “Henri has had much worse, although not often from a woman. I am Erard.”
Erard
was a double-strength attack of rough Rs that made my head spin. He reached out for my hand and I offered it, thinking he wanted to shake.

He didn’t. He took my hand in his big, warm fingers and lifted it—

Wait. Oh God, he’s not really going to—

He bent his head and kissed the backs of my fingers. Tingles radiated outward from the spot he’d kissed, rushed up my arm and slammed into my brain.

It should have been cheesy…but somehow, from him, it absolutely wasn’t. I think it was because of how he did it. It wasn’t done in a lascivious way and it didn’t feel like a player’s smooth moves to pick up a girl in a bar. It felt…
reverent.
As if he was the one who wasn’t worthy, instead of me. Which was so upside down it was almost funny, given that he looked like he’d walked off a movie set and I was…me.

I blushed and it wasn’t the usual red-faced, hot geyser of shame I felt when someone said my ass was big or commented on my boobs. It was light instead of heavy, if that makes any sense, as if it was lifting me up instead of weighing me down. I didn’t actually giggle, but it was a close-run thing. “Holly,” I managed to say.

Henri turned and said something in French. At least, I think it was in French. It was so garbled from his bloody nose that it could have been in Klingon.

“Henri says he’s perfectly alright and will go to the hospital,” Erard told me in French.

A baleful look from Henri told me that
perfectly alright
wasn’t really what he’d said, but if Erard wanted to spare my feelings I was absolutely going to let him.

“That does leave me with a problem,” said Erard. “I don’t speak any English and I’m in town for a meeting. Henri was my translator. Do you think you could take his place?”

I blinked.
No, of course I can’t.
I mean, my French is pretty good but it’s a little rusty in places. And I’m certainly no translator. I couldn’t hope to sit in a meeting and translate on the fly—I was a waitress, for goodness sake! I couldn’t say
yes,
no matter how fantastically hot he was.

“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Yes, of course.”

What?! What did I just do?

“I have to work, though,” I blurted.
There—that’s a way out.

Erard reached for my fingers again, took them in his big, strong hand and led me through the diner to the counter. He gave my hand a little squeeze on the way and my heart suddenly swelled and lifted. I felt almost lightheaded.

We met my boss, Clark Hooper, coming the other way. He likes to think he looks like Clark Gable. He doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry for what happened,” he told Erard in English. “Is your friend okay?”

Erard turned to me. “Please tell him that I need to borrow you for the afternoon,” he said in French. “I’ll pay him five hundred dollars for your time.”

My eyes bulged but I translated. Clark’s eyes bulged too, and he babbled his agreement. I think he would have happily sold me into slavery for $500. Erard thrust five crisp hundred dollar bills at him and led me from the diner, barely giving me time to grab my handbag. “Don’t I need to get changed?” I asked. I hadn’t been to anything you’d call a business meeting, but I was pretty sure translators didn’t wear retro 50s waitress uniforms.

“We have no time,” Erard told me in French. “I have told Henri he can take the car to the hospital, so we’ll have to walk. Luckily, it’s only a block away. We were just stopping at your restaurant for coffee before we went in.” He stopped, just at the doorway of the diner. “Also, your outfit is”—his eyes traveled down my body, leaving a burning trail behind them. Under the cheap cotton of the uniform, I felt my nipples tighten, a squirming, molten heat ignite between my thighs. His eyes tracked back to my face and there was a dark, gleaming heat in his eyes. “Fine.”