The Billionaire's Secret Baby (Silhouette Desire 90's)

by Carol Devine

  The moment Meg pushed open the thick glass-and-brass doors of New York City’s poshest and most exclusive athletic club, she realized she had made a mistake. It was one thing to show up without an appointment at Jack’s Wall Street office. It was quite another to confront him here, far from the trappings of executives and professionals.

  Her smart navy business suit clashed with the fluorescent glare and neon graphics of the club. Behind a metallic reception desk stood a cute and bouncy girl who wore a brilliant green polo shirt with the club’s insignia stitched above her name. “May I help you?” she asked brightly.

  Debbie’s short sleeves showed off muscular biceps and veins that bulged on her forearms. Intimidating arms they were, too, especially to a woman who was in a crisply tailored jacket, slim skirt and the highest of heels. “Do you happen to know where I can find Jack Tarkenton?” she asked.

  Debbie’s bright smile disappeared. “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to give out the names or whereabouts of our members.”

  Meg tucked her purse under her arm and approached the desk. “What do you do in case of emergencies?”

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “It is urgent that I speak to Mr. Tarkenton, yes.”

  Debbie put her hands on formidably narrow hips. “You would not believe how many women come in here claiming they know him. I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to even confirm the fact that he’s here.”

  “I know he’s here. I’m his secretary. It is urgent that I speak to him as soon as possible.”

  “If you’re his secretary, why didn’t you just call him direct?”

  It figured with Jack’s active social life, he’d carry a cell phone. “This matter is a rather delicate one,” Meg explained, hoping the conversation wasn’t being monitored. “It really would be best if I talked to him face-to-face.”

  “One of those matters, huh?” Debbie gestured Meg closer. “I’ve heard he has a bedroom suite in his office. Mirrors, waterbed, hot tub, screening room, the works. True?”

  Meg wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Before coming here, she went to the address on his business card. It led to a modern office building—gray with granite and sleek with reflecting glass.

  However, the pepper-haired receptionist for Tarkenton, Inc., was far cagier and more protective than this young woman, refusing to either confirm or deny whether Mr. Tarkenton was even in the country. Consequently, Meg hadn’t glimpsed anything beyond the reception area.

  Tastefully decorated in rich rosewood and brass, it was classic and brooding and lawyerlike. Which fit. Like his sister, Amanda, Jack had followed in his father’s footsteps long enough to obtain a law degree.

  When Meg failed to track him down at the office, she recalled Amanda mentioning this club as one of her brother’s frequent haunts.

  “Tell you what,” Meg said to Debbie. “I’m not allowed to divulge anything about Mr. Tarkenton, either. But if you let me deliver my message, I’ll have him autograph something for you.”

  “He won’t give autographs. He won’t even sign our register. See?” Debbie showed a clipboard holding a lined sheet scrawled with names and membership numbers.

  “Debbie, I’m his secretary,” Meg said dryly. “I can get him to sign anything.”

  “I better not get into trouble over this.”

  “You won’t,” Meg assured her, wondering if she’d ever strung so many lies together in her life. “If there’s a problem, I’ll explain the situation to your boss myself. After I see Mr. Tarkenton, that is. The sooner he gets this information, the better.”

  Sighing, Debbie picked up the desk phone and punched a few numbers. “Hi, Ben. Uh, I need to check on Mr. Tarkenton’s whereabouts. Do you see him down there?” Pause. “By himself? Okay, thanks.” She hung up the phone. “He’s in one of our squash courts, practicing. If I let you go down there, you have to promise to come right back after you deliver your message.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. I have no intention of staying any longer than necessary.”

  “He didn’t get somebody knocked up, did he?”

  Even Meg wasn’t prepared for that bombshell of a question. Utterly speechless, she blinked in disbelief.

  Debbie waved a placating hand. “I know you won’t tell me. I’ve always been curious, though. With all the women he has, you’d think he’d have a kid here or there, you know?”

  Meg knew only too well, and fixed Debbie with a genuine glare. The young woman immediately apologized and wrote out a temporary membership card allowing free access to the club.

  Shaken, Meg had to use both hands to pick the card up. The worst part was, she would have to get used to it. The man attracted this type of gossip and speculation wherever he went.

  Meg glanced at the club doors, wishing there was someplace where the Tarkenton arm didn’t reach. There must be people in the world who hadn’t heard of Jack Tarkenton, people who didn’t know anything about him.

  But people the world over knew of his father. In the thirty-plus years since his death, Senator John B. Tarkenton had attained martyr status. Revered for his ethics and character, he had rallied the nation with his youthful vigor and visionary leadership in a last-minute campaign for the presidency of the United States. The triumph of his election ended before he had a chance to take office, in the tragedy of his assassination.

  Jack might be his father’s polar opposite in character, but the Tarkenton name still carried enormous weight. In a world hungry for leadership, too many people wanted to believe Jack possessed the same talents and integrity as his father.

  Meg knew she couldn’t fight a belief, especially when it was cherished by people who most needed it to be true. People who wanted to live with hope in their lives, who wanted to believe in the future. Meg counted herself one of those people. She wanted Katie to be one of them, too.

  Meg passed row after shiny row of exercise bikes, rowing machines, treadmills and stair climbers, torturous-looking contraptions all, and decided that ten thirty on a Monday morning was not the peak time to exercise. She imagined the place after work hours, though, jam-packed with bodies. Sweating bodies.

  Jack was no exception. She spotted him in a glassed-in box of a court, dressed in sleek bike shorts and a gray T-shirt that was dark at the shoulders with sweat. Lithe as she remembered, he stroked a blur of a ball with a thin-necked racket, thwacking a regular rhythm against a scuffed backboard.

  The nearer she came, the more she noticed the maleness of his body. Her steps slowed. His shirt hung loose, shaping the broad width of his shoulders. If anything, he’d gained muscle over the years. The bike shorts banded thighs honed by hard and steady exercise. Confirmed by calf muscles that flexed and flared as he moved from one side of the court to the other, he challenged himself on every shot, stretching to cover the entire court. The clear, see-through walls had to be made of super-durable acrylic. The velocity of the ball he hit would have cracked glass.

  Above his left hand, the hand that held the racket, two sweatbands encircled his wrist. So that’s where it came from. Katie was left-handed, too.

  Despite her promise to deliver her message promptly, Meg halted in her tracks and watched for long minutes, her throat too dry for words. She knew next to nothing about the game of squash. She understood pure physical aggression, however, and the advantage a supremely focused individual had over those who were mere mortals.

  He never missed.

  To the world outside, he projected the image of the rich and idle playboy. The bronzed good looks, the lazy charm that reflected the relaxed savoir faire of a man who had seen and experienced all. In recent years he had even gone on record with the most lurid of tabloids, claiming to have little ambition other than to enjoy life and have fun.

  Yet there were many people who discounted those claims, calling them a mandate for the future, honest and modest, like father, like son. Once his days of “sowing his wild oats” were over, destiny dictated that John B. Tarkenton Jr. would enter into
the world of international politics as his father had. And like any prodigal son returning to his true destiny, he’d be exalted and redeemed.

  Everyone knew his background. Everyone knew the tragedy of his father’s death. He’d grown up in the media spotlight, shadowed by the specter of what might have been. Even Meg was drawn in by the sheer power he embodied. The swiftness of his feet matched a steadiness of purpose that went beyond the physical. He played to win, win at all costs, and a piece of the puzzle that made up Jack Tarkenton fell into place for Meg, a piece that had, before this moment, put terror in her heart.

  She had thought he wanted to punish her for some reason, using their daughter as bait. But that was too predictable a strategy for such a fierce competitor. Jack wouldn’t waste his time unless he cared about Katie, cared on some level. Which meant he did have a weakness, as the perky gossip Debbie so aptly demonstrated. Nobody in their right mind would think him an appropriate role model for a child, especially a four-year-old girl who had just lost the only father she had ever known. Jack might have plenty of friends in high places and the money to use them, but two could play the game of the media.

  Rejuvenated, Meg rapped on the Plexiglas door. Caught in mid-swing, he lofted the ball and turned.

  As always, her stomach dropped when their eyes met. Disheveled and unshaven, he appeared far more dark and dangerous now than the last time she had seen him. But Meg ignored his effect, ignored it in a way she hadn’t been able to before. She waved as though her sudden appearance was an everyday occurrence.

  He held up his racket as if to defend himself, then, with boyish charm, he opened the door. “What an unexpected surprise, Meg. The two-week deadline doesn’t expire for five more days. I am impressed.”

  “I thought it would work to my advantage if I came to talk to you early,” she replied. “Throw you off your game, so to speak. May I come in?”

  He raked a hand through his hair, spiking it into tawny, leonine ends. “Certainly there are better places to meet than a squash court. How about upstairs in the club lounge? Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll meet you there after I shower and change.”

  Fifteen minutes for Jack Tarkenton to hatch a defense? No way. “Actually, this is fine,” she said, and gestured at the open court.

  “Don’t be silly, Meg. There’s a room nearby that personal trainers use when consulting with their clients. It’s got a table and a couple of chairs, and it’s very private. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there.”

  “But I’m not looking for comfort or privacy, Jack. At least not the kind afforded by a small room. I especially like this Plexiglas.” She rapped on the clear surface. “People can see in and I can see out, all while the door is closed. It’s the perfect spot for a private tête-à-tête with you.”

  His grin widened and he held the door open, inviting her in with a flourish. “Come in, then, said the spider to the fly.”

  She sailed by him. “Thank you.”

  He closed the door and settled back against it. “I didn’t realize you were a member of the club.”

  “I’m not,” she admitted. “I told the woman at the front desk that I was your secretary.”

  “Lying for us again, Meg? Does that mean you’ve decided to take me up on my offer?”

  “That depends. I have a number of conditions.”

  “And what might those be?” He wiped his brow with the hem of his shirt, showing off abdominal muscles that were as fit and sculpted as the rest of him.

  Meg put her hands behind her back, taking the time to steady herself. He was not going to throw her, not this time. “I concede that you have a right to know your own daughter. I will also concede that it is vitally important to me that Allen retains his rightful place as the father who has raised her. Given the media scrutiny you are subjected to, I understand why a marriage between you and me makes a certain amount of sense. Before I’ll consent to your proposal, however, I want two years. The first to properly grieve the death of my husband, and the second to give Katie a chance to know you. Our families will also need to see us together over an extended period of time before they’ll accept us as a couple. The second year will provide time for a proper courtship.”

  “Courtship. What an old-fashioned word.”

  “Despite the way our relationship began, I happen to be old-fashioned in a number of ways. Since this won’t be a match made in heaven, I want the ceremony to be brief. A justice of the peace is fine with me. You should also be made aware that I will not sign a prenuptial agreement that leaves me destitute should the marriage end prematurely. I know my brother signed one when he married your sister, but his financial situation was far more stable than mine. Allen was young enough to think life insurance wasn’t necessary. I need to be sure Katie’s future is assured.”

  “How intelligent of you to plan ahead, Meg.”

  “Last but not least, there is one other matter that needs to be discussed. Please listen carefully, Jack, because I will say this only once. We will not be sleeping together. If I discover that you have been less than discreet with any of your affairs, I will file for divorce and take you for every penny I can get. You won’t be allowed to taint my life or the life of my child with scandal or your less-than-savory reputation. Is that understood?”

  “But, Meg, I’ve spent thousands of hours in backbreaking labor to establish that reputation. You can’t seriously believe I would abandon it so easily.”

  “This isn’t a joke. I will not allow you to treat me or anything I say as less than important. I have told you I will tolerate some of your habits. Disrespect is not one of them.”

  “The matter of my sexual habits is hardly a joking matter. Neither are yours, especially if you are going to be my wife.”

  “I think I have made my position clear. If you wish to pretend you don’t understand what my reaction will be should you ever darken my bedroom door, that is your problem, not mine.” Meg tucked her purse under her arm. “You’ve been to my house. If you need my phone number, Amanda and Bram have it. You may also find it under the listing for Allen Betz.” She reached around him to open the door.

  His hand closed around her wrist. “Your conditions are not acceptable to me, Meg.”

  She didn’t flinch. “My conditions are not negotiable. You made your proposal, I made mine. It meets the requirements you presented to me. If you want to go back on your word, I can’t stop you. But you should know that if you do make that choice, the offer I made today is null and void, and I will opt for a public custody battle.”

  “If you do, Katie’s picture will be plastered on the front page of every newspaper in the country.”

  “It would be devastating, I agree. Having her exposed as a Tarkenton, particularly an illegitimate Tarkenton, is not something I wish to contemplate. But the truth is preferable to having you dictate how my child and I will live our lives. Though Katie will be enormously confused should joint custody be granted, I will not be blackmailed. And when Katie is old enough, she will know exactly who and what her father is. To paraphrase your words to me, her best interests must always be kept in mind.”

  She jerked the door open. Jack let her pass and tracked her march across the gym, seeing determination in every stride.

  He could stop her, he knew. He could blow her cover and have it out here, in full public view. With the lunch crowd filtering in, there were plenty of witnesses to create a huge scene. Then the tabloids would pick it up and the talk shows and the networks, and in the end, she’d be forced to name him as Katie’s father. But that wouldn’t give him much satisfaction, nor much pleasure, either. Not where the Widow Betz was concerned.

  She’d just drawn a line in the sand. Separate bedrooms, separate lives. If he was going to sacrifice his long-standing bachelorhood, he wasn’t sacrificing everything that went along with it. With his daughter came his wife. A wife in every sense of the word.

  Meg might need some artful persuasion, but he’d made artful persuasion his career in life.
She’d fallen for him once. She would fall for him again.

  Katie was one challenge, her mother another. Playing with Meg was getting more and more interesting.

  And a helluva lot more fun.

  Three

  “This is an ambush.”

  Seized from behind by a very large man, Meg burst out laughing. In front of her, the day-care receptionist’s eyes widened, and Meg knew she wasn’t the only one to recognize her brother, Bram Masterson, otherwise known professionally as the Beastmaster.

  Katie came running across the playroom, where she’d gone to retrieve her coat. “Mommy, Mommy, it’s Uncle Bram!”

  “How’s my favorite girl?” Bram asked, picking Katie up in mid-flight and tossing her above his head.

  Katie giggled in answer. Catching her, Bram set her in the crook of his thickly muscled arm. Meg marveled at his easy strength. All three of her brothers were good-size men, but Bram had the bigness and brawn of a professional athlete. Which he was. His opponents might have monikers like the Bulkster and Six Billion Dollar Man, but what he did inside a pro wrestling ring made him one of the biggest stars of pay-per-view television.

  “It’s the Beastmaster!” a little boy cried.

  Swarmed by a dozen preschoolers, Bram got down on his knees, wrestling with them, pretending to let them take him down. His gentleness was as great as his size, and seeing Katie jump on top of him made Meg smile in genuine delight, something she hadn’t done in weeks.

  “I see Katie’s been captured. How about you?”

  At the sound of Jack’s voice, Meg’s smile abruptly died, while the poor receptionist went absolutely boggle-eyed. The Beastmaster was small potatoes compared to the unique and elite celebrity who represented the American version of royalty, the Tarkentons.

  “Why, hello, Jack,” Meg said evenly. “This is a surprise.”

  “A pleasant one, I trust.”

  Unlike her brother, Jack was dressed one step above casual, one step into serious chic. The sienna shirt had no collar and probably no label, either, it fit so well. His sand beige linen jacket also looked custom-made. As an expert in the art of textiles; she certainly recognized the fabric. Woven in Damascus by hand, it was among the costliest in the world. She raised an eyebrow. “How long has it been since we last saw each other? Surely no more than a couple of days.”