by Claire Angel
Billionaire's Secret Baby
A Billionaire Romance (Tempting Billionaires Series Book 3)
CLAIRE ANGEL
Contents
Title Page
Billionaire’s Secret Baby: A Billionaire Romance
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
How to connect with me!
Books In This Series
Books By This Author
Copyright © 2020 by Claire Angel
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on life experiences and conclusions drawn from research, all names, characters, places and specific instances are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. No actual reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or inferred.
BILLIONAIRE’S SECRET BABY: A BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE
Billionaire’s Secret Baby: A Billionaire Romance
BLURB:
LAUREN STYLES
‘When I started in the business, I was all starry eyed and ah shucks at the level of wealth and privilege of this strange new world, but I soon discovered that people were just people, no matter how much money they had.’
The world of high-end events was my stomping ground, and I was damn good at it.
I refused to be intimidated by anyone.
Then I met Billionaire, Chris Carter and broke all my rules.
His money was of little consequence to me. I wanted his gorgeous body, whether it was wise or not.
Life is never what you expect, and when it comes to love, nothing is what it seems.
CHRIS CARTER
‘For once, the legend of a woman’s beauty wasn’t exaggerated. Lauren was so hot, I had to watch my every word, just in case I gushed like a pimple-faced teenager.’
I thought it would be a one-night-stand with a gorgeous green eyed goddess, but I was wrong.
Lauren was nothing I expected. Drinking tequila like a pro, was just one of her many talents.
Driven, funny, smart, and addictive.
Then she was gone.
My tough, Texan roots assured me I would be able to handle anything she threw at me.
Boy, was I delusional?
***
Chapter 1
LAUREN
As I flopped into my plush seat on the transatlantic flight from New York to Paris, I let out a much-anticipated sigh. Diane had dropped me off at a crowded and deafening JFK in her familiar ‘last minute dot com’ flurry, and left in as equal a rush. The ride was crammed with her swerving and cursing all the way to the airport at the ‘stupid assholes’ hogging the road. My best friend from childhood had a heart of gold and a mouth like a sailor—I wouldn’t have it any other way. She was the Thelma to my Louise when the proverbial hit the fan, which happened often in my busy line of work.
I would have driven myself, but the engine light on the dashboard of my car kept winking at me, and not in a friendly way. There was no missing the flight to Europe’s most romantic city, or I’d be carless and jobless, all in one foul swoop. Sadie was a tyrant. Ever since she took over as general manager of Platinum Events, where I wielded my magic event organizer’s wand, the staff shook in their boots whenever she graced us with her presence.
The woman was positively Herculean in stature—an Amazon Woman with a temper to match. It wasn’t in my nature to back down from a fight, but when it came to Sadie, I picked my battles carefully. Fortunately for me, she had very little reason to blast me with her dragon breath, as I was very good at my job, unlike Sandy. The poor thing was reduced to a puddle of whimpering tears the day before, when she’d dropped the ball on a new client’s account. The girl was a goner for sure.
Ah, Paris! Once a year I packed my trendiest clothes, and my skimpiest swimsuits, for three weeks of work with just a pinch of cheeky R&R. It was a shame not to take advantage of my firm, five foot seven, twenty-seven-year old body, according to my friends that is, so I decided to rock it in my tightest designer garb. I learned to speak French when I was a young girl. My aunt lived in Lyon, so naturally I looked for any excuse to holiday with her during my summer breaks from school. There was something very special about France—honest, romantic, elegant. I planned to hop on a train from Paris to Lyon, armed only with a baguette and a good bottle of red wine once our event was done and dusted. My aunt was very excited to see me, and I couldn’t wait to catch up.
The speakers overhead came alive as the pilot welcomed us on board in a gregarious voice. It was time to settle into my seven-hour flight. Once we were safely in the air, I pulled a file from my hand luggage and flipped through the prospectus of our new client, for arguably the hundredth time. There was no such thing as over-prepared in my universe.
I preferred live corporate events rather than virtual ones—the thrill of seeing my handiwork up close and personal was the carrot that drove me onwards. I’d moved steadily up the ranks to head-coordinator for the annual Executive Retreat Event for Carter Global Inc. I did my homework like a pro, familiarizing myself with the who’s who of the organization, paying particular attention to the likes and dislikes of the company’s big wig, Chris Carter. It wasn’t often that people impressed me, but I had to admit that the thirty-year-old Carter seemed to be a force of nature.
Everything billionaire Carter, CEO of one of the most influential and successful corporations in the US and abroad touched, turned to gold. Such men intrigued me, and I looked forward to meeting him. That was, of course, if he deemed me worthy of his time. It could go either way with billionaires—I knew that from experience. Old money, or new money, billionaires lived by their own set of rules, especially handsome ones like Carter.
“Excuse me, Miss. Can I get you something from the bar?” An immaculately dressed flight attendant stooped over me, waiting patiently for me to make up my mind. He was a looker alright, not that I was surprised—first class had its perks, plenty of tight buttocks and charming smiles to go around.
“Tequila and orange juice, please.” I read somewhere once that tequila had the lowest sugar content of all the spirits, so naturally it became my drink of choice. I preferred it neat, but drinking it that way seemed barbaric, so when the sun was out and I wasn’t jiggling my ass on the dancefloor, it would be toned down with orange juice. The two seats beside me were empty, what a great start to my trip.
When my drink arrived, I kicked off my shoes, pulled a magazine from the seat pocket in front of me, and settled down. Soon I’d hit the ground running, so I planned to enjoy my short stint of peace and quiet. I closed my eyes and imagined the steam rising from the freshly baked french patisseries and the sounds of Charles Tenet’s La Mer drifting through the street cafes. Manifique!
***
CHRIS
I wasn’t exactly blown away by the events company we’d used the year before. Actually, that was an understatement—they put on a piss poor show. It was one excuse after another, until I kicked
their asses to the curb—I had no time or patience for incompetence. A colleague of mine referred me to Platinum Events, based in New York, and so far, they impressed. Usually I left the organizing of such things to the army of PA’s who swarmed our offices in Paris. However, after the last debacle, I thought it best to keep a hairy eyeball on the events company’s progress myself.
I stood on the balcony of my penthouse apartment on 7th Arrondissement, enjoying the view of the Eiffel Tower. No matter how many times I gazed at the magnificence of the wrought-iron structure with its four immense arched legs and majestic height, I never got enough of its splendour. At night when the city came alive with lights and music, she bathed us in amber light. Truthfully, the tower exemplified all that was Paris.
My phone rang as I took the last sip of my coffee.
“Good morning, Janet,” I answered.
“Bonjour, Mr. Carter.”
Janet was not only my housekeeper, but my rock. Behind my multi-billion-dollar empire, was a man like any other. I killed in the boardroom, juggled a myriad of balls simultaneously, and was formidable when it came to negotiations and business decisions. But if you left me to my own devices in one of my mansions or villas, I couldn’t burn toast or change a light bulb to save my life. What Janet lacked in height, she more than made up for in moxy—she was a lot of woman in a small space. The outspoken French pocket rocket was all over me like white on rice when it came to keeping my domestic shit together. A drill sergeant she was, and I adored her for it.
“And what can I do for you today, my little Napoleon?” I asked and heard her chuckle at my smartass chirp.
“I’m calling to remind you, Christopher, that I’m taking the week off to visit my Chanel in Sète. I’ve left Suzanne in charge of the villa while I’m away. She is more than capable of standing in for me, but if there is an emergency, please feel free to call me.”
Janet was the only one who called me Christopher, apart from my mother that was, and Mom usually did that when I was in trouble.
“Thank you, Janet. I’m sure there’ll be no need to disturb you. Unless, of course, I’ve lost a sock or burned down the kitchen fetching my coffee.”
“I’m sure you're right, but just in case, you know where to find me.”
“Please give Chanel my best. Bet you can’t wait to see your new grandchild. Try not to whip the poor newborn into shape too soon,” I commented.
“Keep out of trouble, young man. I’ll see you in a week’s time. Oh, and thank you for the extra something you left me for my trip. You’re too good to me.”
“You’re worth it, Janet. Who else would keep me on my toes like you do?”
“Somewhere out there is a woman who’ll tame the cowboy in you, Christopher Carter, somewhere.”
And with that she hung up, and I went inside to dress for my busy day ahead. Growing up in Texas prepared me for all sorts of challenges. Texans were tough as nails, and it served me well in the cut throat world of finance. I hadn’t been to my hometown in far too long, so I planned to visit my folks in a few weeks’ time. The big open spaces, and the sounds and smells of our family’s ranch just outside Austin, was truly my happy place. Not to mention the foxy Texan fillies in cowboy boots and tight jeans.
But that would have to wait. The next two weeks were set aside for company bonding and enjoying the fruits of my labor. The five-star retreat was spectacular, and thanks to Platinum Events, things were shaping up to be a damn sight better than the year before. I had a feeling the week ahead would be one of new adventures.
I called Pierre, my business associate, from my car. He was overseeing a deal we were working on, and I wanted to touch base with him before my crazy day got away from me.
“Hi, Pierre. What you got for me? What’s the latest on Aubert?”
I could tell when Pierre was nervous. His voice kicked up an octave or two, and he spoke faster than usual.
“Uh, good morning, Chris. I was just about to call you. Aren’t you on your way to the resort yet?”
“What’s wrong, Pierre?” I asked, cutting off his attempts at small talk.
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just taking longer than I anticipated closing this bitch of a deal with Aubert. His legal team is throwing everything they can at us, including the kitchen sink, in an attempt to get more out of the deal than they deserve.”
“Come on, buddy. We haven’t come this far by being pussies, now have we? Call Bertram, he’ll scare the shit out of them. I want results. No excuses.”
“I’m on it, Chris. Will keep you posted.”
“Thanks. We’ll chat later. Oh, and don’t forget to swing by the resort later for a drink,” I said and ended the call.
Aubert was a perpetual pain in my ass, but the deal we were working on was too big to screw it up in the death throes. I wasn’t about to piss away a cool 50 million just because Aubert’s tight-ass legal team was throwing a shit fit. Getting what I wanted was my superpower.
Paris’ traffic was unpredictable, so I usually left for work early in the mornings. The city was truly gorgeous, but the smell left much to be desired. It was a combination of cigarettes and cigar smoke, car exhaust fumes, and urine. With the windows closed and the aircon blasting, I negotiated the twists and turns of the main arteries, trying my level best not to knock a cyclist off a bike. I remembered a hair raising, rogue cyclist incident once when I was in Holland for a conference—I thought for sure they’d lock me up and throw away the key. No one valued their cyclists more than the Dutch. I learned that the hard way.
After traveling for close to an hour, I drove into the gates of the five-star resort, set in a large, lush estate. Thus far, the venue delivered what it had promised, and more. Visually, anyway. Double volume, glass dome, leisure rooms, plush accommodations, an eighteen-hole golf course, tennis and squash courts, and a river adjacent, provided more than enough to occupy the outdoor enthusiasts, myself included.
Our guests would arrive around noon, so I met with the concierge and went through a few last-minute details. The problem with being a billionaire, as condescending and trivial as that sounded to most, was the glut of ass kissers I encountered on a daily basis. The fact that my face appeared often on the cover of financial magazines didn’t assist in my feeble attempts at anonymity. It was a necessary evil that I learned to live with. I simply had to suck it up. It was what it was.
As always, I fully expected to have a spittle covered ass before nightfall.
Chapter 2
LAUREN
I arrived at the resort at around 8 PM on Sunday evening and hit the hay straight after dinner. My favorite part of my chosen profession was experiencing the fairytale world of the super rich, up close and personal. When I started in the business I was all starry eyed and ah shucks at the level of wealth and privilege of this strange new world, but I soon discovered that people were just people, no matter how much money they had. A rich prick was the same as a poor one. And when it came to the fairer sex, a skilfully wielded tongue was sharper than a Samurai blade.
My room was barely doable by billionaire standards, but I adored every inch of it. White with gold trim, a Queen sized bed with a pale blue down duvet and puffy pillows, an en-suite bathroom with a free-standing clawfoot bathtub, and an antique chaise lounge, completed what was to be my little corner of paradise for the duration of my stay. Not that I’d spend much time there. My schedule promised to run me ragged. I opened the window and smiled as the fragrance from the rose garden permeated my room.
I awoke on Monday morning to the sound of the phone ringing on the nightstand next to the side of the bed I slept on.
“Hello…” I answered in a wispy voice.
“Ah, bonjour, Mademoiselle Parker. This is your wakeup call. Would you like me to send some coffee and croissants?” The bubbly voice grated that early in the morning. I was never an early bird, and without my morning coffee I tended to be a bit snippy.
“Yeah, hi. Thanks.”
“Oui, bien,” the
happy smurf retorted, then left me in peace to return to my solitude.
I hung up, and rolled onto my back. In the light of day the ornate ceiling looked like something out of a French design magazine. Chubby cherubs with bows and arrows floated on clouds, while lovers paired off when pierced with the arrows of love.
It was just before 6 a.m. when the breakfast cart arrived at my doorstep. My heart sang when I lifted the silver dome and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted up to meet me. After savoring the dark elixir, I felt human again. I checked for emails on my phone, had a quick peek at my social media accounts, and inhaled two buttery croissants before I hit the shower and dabbed on a touch of makeup. My olive complexion, dark hair, and deep green eyes didn’t call for much in the way of artificial color; I had my mother’s genes to thank for that, and my tight denim jeans for everything else.
Okay, Lauren. Time to get your ass in gear. Let’s impress the hell out of Mr. Carter and his posse.
Bad news traveled fast in the corporate world, and once an event coordinator screwed up on a major account, the earth may as well open up and swallow that poor sod whole. Such disaster befell the coordinator who made a royal cockup of the last Carter shindig. I had no intention of following them down that rabbit hole, so I brought my A-game.
Dressed like the true professional I was, I checked myself in the mirror one last time before I headed out to meet the rest of our team downstairs. The Platinum Events’ foot soldiers arrived a few days before I did. I trusted every last one of them to follow my instructions to the letter, and as always, they came through with flying colors. My phone rang as I closed the bedroom door and pushed the button on the elevator.
I answered quickly when the theme song to ‘How to Train Your Dragon’ filled my ears. “Good morning, Sadie, or shall I say good evening.” The woman was a vampire. Didn’t she ever sleep? It was after midnight in New York.