Four Secret Babies - A Second Chance Billionaire Romance (San Bravado Billionaires' Club Book 7)

by Layla Valentine

  The meal of the evening was New Orleans-style gumbo. Right in the middle of prepping the shrimp, tunes piping into my ears from my headphones, I felt the pressure of two hands on my shoulders.

  “What the—” I cried out, nearly jumping out of my skin.

  I spun around on my feet and was face-to-face with Jordan. He had an impish smile on his face, pleased to see that he’d given me a shock. I yanked the earbuds out, ready to give him a dressing-down.

  “Jordan!” I shouted. “You scared the living crap out of me!”

  My heart raced, and I needed a few deep breaths to calm down.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “You seemed so distracted that I couldn’t help it.”

  “Good thing I wasn’t busy with a knife or something,” I said. “I might’ve ended up adding a few fingers to the pot.”

  “I saw you were in the middle of pulling off shrimp tails,” he said, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms across his toned chest. “I’m not that crazy.”

  “You’re a little crazy,” I said.

  Once my heart slowed down, my shock was replaced by pleasure at seeing Jordan.

  “What’s on the menu tonight?” he asked, taking a look over my shoulder.

  “Gumbo,” I said, stepping away from the counter and letting him get a look. “I figured I’d been doing a lot of fancy French stuff recently, and something more American influenced might be a nice change of pace.”

  “Anything I can try?” he asked.

  “Not unless you’re into raw shrimp,” I said. “Or uncooked rice.”

  “Those happen to be two of my favorites,” he said.

  I smirked.

  “Does your being here mean that you’ll be joining your dad for dinner?” I asked, secretly hoping the answer was yes.

  “No,” he said. “I have dinner reservations with a few friends down at Oceanside Tavern.”

  I knew the place—very trendy, very exclusive. And as much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t help but wonder if any of these friends happened to be beautiful women.

  “So you decided to come into the kitchen and scare me half to death before heading out?”

  “No,” he said. “I came here to ask if you had any plans for tomorrow night.”

  Now I was curious.

  “Just the usual,” I said. “Making dinner for your dad and heading home after that.”

  “Home alone on a Friday?” he asked. “That’s no good.”

  I hadn’t really thought about my evening, but I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be too different than most of my weekend nights—a glass of wine or two, maybe stream a movie, and hit the sack early.

  “I’ve just been so busy,” I said. “All I can think about when I get home is chilling out and relaxing, getting ready for the next day.”

  “Well, I have something else in mind, unless you really need your beauty sleep, that is.”

  “Let’s hear it,” I said, intrigued.

  “There’s this party tomorrow night—more like a ball, actually.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “A ball?” I asked.

  “Yep,” he said. “Tuxedos, gowns, all that kind of stuff. I have a plus-one, and I was thinking that you’d be the perfect company for the evening.”

  “That sounds…fun, actually,” I said. My mind was already swimming with images of the evening—glamorous men and women lavishly dressed in a gorgeous hall, a band playing jazz, and waiters zipping around carrying glasses of delicious champagne.

  “It will be,” he said. “You can trust me on that. So, is that a yes?”

  “It is,” I said.

  But then a thought occurred to me—I’d been working casual-dress jobs for so long that I didn’t have a single thing that would be even remotely appropriate for a ball. I must’ve let a worried expression cross my face because Jordan picked up on my distress.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “No. I mean, I don’t really have anything ball-appropriate in my closet.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You and I can do some shopping after you’re done here. I know an awesome dressmaker who can have something ready for you by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Perks of being a billionaire, I guess.”

  “Something like that,” he said. “Then we’re on?”

  “We’re on,” I said.

  “Awesome,” he said. “I’ll be downtown, so meet me at Blue Line at, say, seven? The dressmaker and tailor are right in the area.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  He flashed me another gorgeous smile and bid me good night.

  I popped my earbuds back in, a broad smile on my face. My eyes and hands went back to the gumbo, but all I could think about was my day ahead with Jordan. I’d never been to a ball before, and I couldn’t imagine a better man to be on the arm of than Jordan King.

  The rest of the dinner went well. Alfred and his guests loved the gumbo, along with the profiteroles I made for dessert.

  The time until my shift was up passed so slowly I could hardly stand it. I ended up leaving early, Alfred and his guests retiring to the study for brandy and cigars soon after dinner. Figuring I could grab something to eat at the coffee shop before Jordan showed up, once there, I bought a latte and a croissant and sat down with my book. My eyes could barely focus through my excitement.

  Jordan showed up at seven on the dot, strolling in, as always, like he owned the place.

  “Evening, chef,” he said, sliding in the chair across from mine like he had the first time we’d met here.

  “Evening,” I said with a smile.

  “You ready to do this?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” I said.

  I popped the last bit of my croissant into my mouth and washed it down with the final sip of the latte, and we were off. The two of us stepped out into the warm weather of another perfect San Bravado evening and headed down the block.

  To my surprise, Jordan crooked his arm toward me, his expression indicating that we wanted my arm in his. I was happy to do that and slipped my arm around his. Jordan’s body was warm and solid, and I loved every second of our walk.

  “Here we are,” he said, stopping in front of a small storefront with nothing on the façade but a door made of dark, rich wood.

  “This is a shop?” I asked. “Doesn’t really stand out much.”

  “When you’re a tailor who’s this good, you don’t need to advertise.”

  “I’m intrigued,” I said. “And there’s a dressmaker here, too?”

  Jordan nodded. “Husband and wife team. They’ve been in this business for decades. I wouldn’t trust another pair of hands with a suit.”

  He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. I stepped into the store, which was a warmly lit, cozy place with walls lined with various bits of clothing, ranging from full suits to accessories like bow ties and cufflinks, all arranged carefully and attractively.

  There was a second room further down, this one the space reserved for dressmaking. Swatches of gorgeous fabric were on display. Three dresses, probably the most beautiful I’ve seen in my life, were fitted onto three pearl-white mannequins.

  Once in the dressmaking room, I reached out to touch the fabric of one of the dresses but pulled back at the last moment.

  “Don’t worry about it, dear,” came a melodic voice with an accent that sounded vaguely Eastern European. “You’re going to be wearing a dress like that, so you ought to know what it feels like.”

  I turned my head and saw an attractive, middle-aged woman dressed in simple but elegant clothing.

  “Linda Liszt,” she said, extending a slim hand toward me.

  “Chloe Sanderson,” I said, taking her hand and shaking it gently.

  “You’re here with Mr. King?” she asked, raising one perfectly shaped, dark eyebrow.

  I glanced over to the first room and saw that Jordan was busy speaking with a baldheaded man in a dark suit. The two
of them were going over fabrics, speaking in low tones that I couldn’t make out.

  “I am,” I said, really liking the sound of that.

  “Perfect,” she said.

  But before we could get started, Jordan called out from the other room.

  “Everything she gets goes on my account,” he said. His gaze turned to me. “No ifs, ands, or buts.”

  I didn’t utter a word of protest.

  The dressmaker set to work, taking my measurements and giving me a look over with a very professional eye.

  “Slim but shapely,” she said. “Nice full bust, good little rear, too.”

  I blushed at her description of me. Before I could say anything, a look of realization crossed the dressmaker’s face.

  “But where are my manners?” she asked. “Let me get you something to drink—something nice and bubbly.”

  She vanished, returning with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. After popping the cork, she handed one glass to me and one glass to Jordan, who was also into the process of having his measurements taken. I sipped the champagne, the bubbles dancing on my tongue.

  “I like to think of a new dress as a celebration,” she said. “And you can’t celebrate without champagne.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said, the fresh, fruity taste washing over my palate.

  The dressmaker set to work. She finished taking my measurements and once she was done with that, sat me down to go over material. After taking my time, I settled on a lovely, off-white charmeuse. After this, we went on to form. The dressmaker suggested something long and elegant, with a low-cut top.

  “You’d be a fool to keep a bust like that hidden,” she said with a smile.

  My face went red again, and I glanced over to Jordan, a smile on my face. He gave me an expression that seemed to say, “She’s got a point.” I went with her advice, figuring she knew what was best.

  After this, the dressmaker brought out some gorgeous heels, the same color as the fabric. Everything was so wonderful and perfect that I felt like a princess being decked out for a royal ball.

  An hour later, after another glass of champagne, the process was complete. I changed back into my clothes and met up with Jordan.

  “Everything go well?” he asked.

  “Perfectly,” I said.

  “And all on the King account, correct?” the tailor asked.

  “That’s right,” said Jordan. “And we’ll need these to be ready by tomorrow afternoon.

  “We’ll make them our top priority,” the tailor replied.

  Jordan and I said our farewells before stepping back out into the city streets. By now the evening was well on, the air cool and pleasant and the stars glittering above. The shops of downtown San Bravado were busy with evening customers, and there was excitement and electricity in the air.

  “I don’t think I’m ready to call it a night yet,” said Jordan, taking my arm again.

  “I feel the same way,” I said. “What’d you have in mind?”

  “I think I’ve been in the city for too long today. How would you feel about going for a drive?”

  “That sounds very nice.”

  The two of us started down the road, the bubbly giving me a perfect buzz and the cool air wonderful on my skin. Eventually, we reached a small valet stand, black-clad valets rushing here and there, taking and dropping off cars. Jordan gave them his name, and one of the valets hurried off to fetch the car.

  Minutes later, the valet pulled up in a sleek, cherry-red sports car—just the sort of ride I’d expect a guy like Jordan to have. Jordan opened the passenger door for me, and I stepped in, taking my seat on the plush leather. The interior of the car reminded me of a spaceship, all lights and digital displays.

  “Shall we?” asked Jordan as he slid into the driver’s seat.

  “We shall,” I said.

  Jordan pulled out onto the street, and we were off. I had no idea where he was planning on taking me, but if the rest of the evening was any indication, it was going to be fantastic.

  We drove out of the downtown area, the streets more and more empty as we drove. Eventually, we reached a lonely road that looked out over the ocean, the waves a dark silver under the light of the moon. There was no sound but the low roar of the engine, and a broad smile spread across my face as we went on.

  Jordan pulled into a small parking lot and killed the engine, the still quiet of the evening surrounding us. He got out and opened my door.

  “Come on,” he said. “There’s a great view up ahead.”

  He took my hand and helped me out of the car. The lot led to a small path, which itself led to a clearing on the edge of a tall cliff that overlooked the ocean. Jordan took a seat near the edge, and I joined him.

  The view was amazing, to say the least. The high vantage point afforded a spectacular overlook of the beach and the water, the ocean stretching out into forever. There wasn’t a soul around, just Jordan and me and the infinite ocean.

  “You’d think this place would be full all the time,” said Jordan. “But it never is. It’s like my private little getaway.

  “It’s so nice,” I said. “So relaxing after being in the city.”

  Jordan slipped his arm around me, his body the perfect heater against the slight chill of the late November air. I rested my head on his shoulder, and for several moments the two of us said nothing, simply enjoying one another’s company.

  Without thinking, I turned my head to face Jordan. He turned too, looking down at me with those gorgeous eyes, brilliant and striking even in the dark of the night. I licked my lips slowly and parted them, my heart racing at his nearness.

  Jordan knew what I wanted. He leaned in and placed his lips on mine, kissing me softly and slowly. The sensation of his lips on mine was so intense that I thought I might melt right then and there. My heart beat even faster, and my whole body tingled.

  I kissed him back, opening my mouth enough for his tongue to slip past my lips. His taste was heavenly, and I savored it as carefully and eagerly as any dish that I’d prepared. Jordan’s hands moved onto my hips, holding me close to him as our kiss became more and more passionate.

  I dragged my fingertips over his body, feeling the outlines of his toned body through the thin cotton of his designer shirt. I wanted more and more the longer we kissed, and though my head was wild with delight, I knew that if he wanted me at that moment, he could’ve had me—playboy or no.

  But instead, he took his lips from mine. He gazed at me with a heated stare, as if burning the image of my face into his memory.

  Then he pulled me close again, and together, the two of us turned our eyes back to the gorgeous sweep of the ocean ahead.

  Chapter 7

  Chloe

  The kiss was the last thing on my mind before I went to sleep, the subject of my dreams, and the first thing I thought about when I woke up the next morning. After my alarm sounded, I turned it off and lay in bed for a time, my eyes closed and the memory of the kiss playing in my head over and over again.

  I couldn’t believe how turned on I was. No man had ever had the effect on me that Jordan King did. He was gorgeous and gentlemanly and seductive all at once, and I wanted was to be back by his side, his strong, thick arms wrapped around me, his body warm and inviting.

  I’d nearly drifted back to sleep, back to more dreams of the kiss, when the vibration of the phone jolted me into the waking world. Through my bleary vision, I saw the word “King” on the screen. This was enough to pull me up and cause my hand to shoot over to the phone, as though under its own control.

  But when I brought the phone to my face, a wave of disappointment washed over me when I saw that it was a call from Alfred King, not Jordan. My disappointment was soon replaced by curiosity—it wasn’t like Alfred to call me so early.

  “Hi, Mr. King,” I said, sitting up and running my hands through my curls.

  “Good morning, Chloe,” he said, his voice as rich and commanding on the phone as it was in person.
“Sorry to be calling you so early.”

  I checked the time and saw that it was after seven.

  “It’s no problem at all,” I said. “I was up anyway.”

  “Good,” he said. “I would’ve hated to have woken you. Anyway, I wanted to call to let you know that I’m going to be taking an unexpected trip out of town tonight. I’ll be off to New York to meet with a friend of mine about a, ah, business matter.”

  “I see.”

  “So, that, of course, means that I won’t be requiring your services for tonight and Saturday. I’ll be back in on Sunday, but it’ll just be me so you won’t need to fuss too much about dinner. And I’ll be paying you for your days off. You are on salary, after all.”

  “Thank you, Mr. King,” I said. “And thanks for letting me know this morning.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I figured you’d want to know you had the weekend off as soon as you could, so you could make other plans.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Anyway,” he said. “I’ll let you go. Have a good weekend, Chloe.”

  “You too, Alfred. Safe travels.”

  He hung up, and I tossed my phone onto my bed. A big smile spread across my face as I realized that this meant that I’d have more time to get primped and ready to go this evening. I shot out of bed, ready to start my day.

  My roommate Amy was seated at the kitchen table, a bowl of cereal in front of her and her phone in her hand.

  “Someone’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” she said. “Big plans for today?”

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “You have no idea.”

  I plopped down into the chair across from Amy and told her all about what had been going on.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, waving her hands in the air, her brown her flopping at her shoulders. “You said that this is all with Jordan King. As in, the Jordan King?”

  “You know of him?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding?” she said, her blue eyes wide in disbelief. “Everyone knows who Jordan is. And there isn’t a girl in this town who hasn’t been hit on by him—at the very least.”

  A knot began to form in my stomach. I’d been trying to put out of my mind Jordan’s playboy nature, but here I was, getting another reminder.