The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride: A BWWM Romance

by Imani King

  The secretary—who knew how to walk in a tight pencil skirt and impossibly small high heels, let me tell you—pushed open the large, brick red antique wooden Chinese doors and ushered me inside.

  The room looked like a rose court. The conference room had an unmistakably female touch. There was a single white rose in a glass vase in front of every chair around the conference table. In the middle was a fantastic bouquet of white flowers. Lilies. Roses. Of the twenty other kinds of flowers, those were the only two I recognized. It billowed out over the table like a cornucopia of feminine power.

  “Take your seat,” a cold, confident, and calculating voice snapped.

  I looked up to find an elegant older woman sitting on what can only be described as a throne. Except instead of the stereotypical gold it was silver, and instead of red cushions they too were white.

  I take my seat at the opposite end of the conference table.

  “No, next to me so I can see you,” the voice instructs from behind the gigantic white bouquet.

  I do as I’m told. It is the kind of voice you do not want to hear say something twice. I start walking around the room, closer to the woman. She starts shaking her head when I get about three chairs from her. I take my seat, figuring that means she doesn’t want me to get too close.

  Her silver hair is swept back in a tight, elaborate knot. Eyes the same complicated blue as Preston’s glare at me. However, her gaze has significantly less nuance. I know exactly what she’s thinking, and it isn’t good.

  “Tachell Jones I presume?”

  “You presume correctly,” I respond.

  Her eyes narrow into lethal slits. Shit, did I just insult her? I was trying to class up my response!

  “So you are the one carrying my grandchild,” she states. “Or, I am to believe it is my grandchild. There will be a paternity test after birth. I don’t like waiting, but in this case it is unavoidable. I will do nothing to jeopardize the health of a future Easterbrook.”

  “Alright. A test is fine with me,” I tell her honestly. Maybe I should be offended, but I’m not. Hell, even I don’t know if it’s for sure Preston’s, I’m just taking his word on it. And apparently his word is based on something I said before I started running around like a chicken with its head cut off, which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, if you ask me. Which, no one up until this point has.

  Priscilla Easterbrook didn’t seem to expect me to acquiesce to her request immediately. And, apparently, unexpected assent also pisses her off. “I heard you had amnesia.”

  “Well, yes. I do.”

  She studies me for a moment, and during that moment I really wish I’d picked out something better. Yes, my cream sweater was cashmere, but it had been picked up at a thrift store. I’d rolled my eyes at my mother when she told me I should really iron my navy slacks before leaving. “They look good enough,” I’d told her, but they weren’t good enough. Not even close. Yes, this was how intimidating Priscilla Easterbrook was—I was worrying if the articles of clothing she could not currently see were up to snuff. I felt like an old, stubborn wine stain on an otherwise pristine white tablecloth.

  After a long moment, she announces, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, the diagnosis doesn’t require your belief in order to be true,” I reply.

  Alright. I have a bit of an attitude, and I’ll be the first to admit it has gotten the best of me this week. I’m sure it also got the best of me in the numerous previous weeks as well, but I can’t remember so I can’t say with certainty.

  Oh man, her pupils are hot iron pokers she wants to stab into my chest. I think she would, too, if doing so wouldn’t potentially compromise the health of a possible future Easterbrook.

  “Let me make one thing clear,” Priscilla Easterbrook begins, “If that child is indeed my son’s, it will be raised as an Easterbrook. My grandchild will be raised properly.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” I ask slowly.

  Her nostrils flare. “I know what you’re doing. You have manipulated my only son. Maybe it is through trickery. In fact, I have reviewed the situation and ascertained it must have all been a calculated move on your part—however, I cannot discount the possibility that all this was all due to one reckless mistake made after another. Well, at least without proof I cannot discount it. In any event, it does not matter. You have already damaged my son’s heart. I will not have you hurting him any more. And, even more importantly, I will not allow my precious grandchild to be used as a pawn in your selfish schemes.”

  She pauses, as if she’s expecting me to say something. Well, alright, I will. But there is really only one thing I can say to all of that. “What?”

  “Don’t you dare try to lie to me,” she says. “I know your kind. Young and beautiful. ‘Artistic.’ You probably squat over a canvas and squirt paint all over it in some manner that resembles your menses, and then proceed to sell the monstrosity to wealthy men so burdened by their ennui that they are able to force their broken, desperate minds to find meaning in anything.”

  Um…what? WHAT?!?!?! What kind of art was this lady looking at?

  Her lips thin. “I know you think you will receive more in a divorce settlement, but you needn’t bother. I simply will not allow Preston to get married without a prenuptial agreement. If the child is my son’s, I am willing to overlook your character, but only for the sake of my grandchild. In exchange for granting us custody, you will be receive a generous stipend and visitation rights. I think that one weekend every quarter shall be sufficient, excluding holidays, of course, which the child will spend with the Easterbrook family. You will be expected to visit whether you want to or not—I will not have the child thinking you abandoned him or her. However, at the same time, I do not want them to become overly attached.”

  Under the table, my hands are trembling. “You expect me to give you my child?”

  She regards me dismissively. “It is best for both of you. You may continue with your artistic…well, I don’t want to call them ambitions, but I suppose I must. Still, you will be able to live out your life in luxury which is what you wanted in the first place, wasn’t it? Here.” She groans as she tosses a mountain of paperwork almost as big as the bouquet on the table. “Sign this.”

  I grit my jaw. “No.”

  Her perfect eyebrows rise. “No?”

  “No. I’m not even going to look at it.”

  She crosses her legs. “Maybe you should. This offer will not last forever. If you try to marry my son, I will make your life a legal hell.”

  “I don’t think you understand. I appreciate your concern for my child’s welfare. And, should he or she be Preston’s, I have no doubt you will be a formidable grandmother. But while my child may grow up with the privilege of an Easterbrook, he or she will also grow up with the love of a Jones.”

  “Are you suggesting I do not love my own?” Priscilla Easterbrook sneers.

  “No. That’s not what I’m suggesting. However, I don’t think that you have the right to get an attitude with me when you are the one who invited me here, and it was just to condescend my family, question my motives, and doubt my love for my child.”

  She studies me again. “You do not fool me. This isn’t over.”

  “I didn’t think it was,” I say, standing.

  Just then, the door bursts open. The most beautiful blond haired, blue eyed young woman I’ve ever seen bursts through.

  “Oh God, mother,” she exclaims. “Preston and I both told you not to contact her on your own! You’re lucky I found out before he did.”

  Priscilla Easterbrook glares back at her daughter. “Kate, You and Preston do not control my behavior. And besides, gentlemen are not allowed in the Rose Court.”

  “If Preston knew you had her cornered in here, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be acting like a gentleman.”

  “Yes, well, that shouldn’t surprise me.” She sighs as she looks at my belly. “It’s the reason why we’re in this mess to begin with.” She
then raises her eyes to my own. “Think over my offer. Take the paperwork with you.”

  “Yeah…I’m gonna pass,” I tell her.

  Kate glances at the other bouquet on the table. “Oh no. You didn’t.”

  “I did only what was necessary,” Priscilla defends.

  “That was never necessary.” Kate grabs my hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before my brother catches wind of this and challenges whatever that is in the middle of the table to a duel.”

  “This isn’t over,” Priscilla says, following us to the door. “Regardless of whether or not you sign—”

  “She’s not signing that,” Kate interrupts.

  Priscilla takes a deep breath and starts again. “Regardless of whether or not you sign, you’re expected at your baby shower next week. That is not a request”

  I almost trip. Baby shower?

  “We can have another later,” Priscilla continues, “But, after all that nonsense that was printed in the papers, it is important to introduce you property to society as soon as possible.”

  I shudder.

  Kate squeezes my hand. “Alright mom! Will do. Now, we’re going to leave.”

  “Why are you leaving together? What can you possibly have to do with her?” Priscilla scowls.

  “Shopping, if you must know,” Kate responds.

  Priscilla’s lip turns up as she glances over my outfit. “That is a good idea. She’ll definitely need something suitable for the shower, and a few town outfits. I will not allow the woman carrying my grandson to look shabby.”

  And with that, Priscilla dismisses us by closing the doors of the Rose Court.

  Chapter 12

  “I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Kate whispers, looking over her shoulder one last time at the Easterbrook Garden Club before hopping into the town car.

  “You don’t have to keep apologizing,” I reassure. “She’s just worried about her son and her grandchild. Maybe some of her concerns are misplaced, but I can’t say I blame her. She doesn’t know me.”

  “Still…” Kate shudders. “All that paperwork freaks me out.”

  “I know, right? What was even in all of it?”

  “I think it’s best for us to never know,” Kate laughs. She then gives instructions to the driver and we’re off.

  When the town car stops, I feel like pinching myself. I’d only met Kate thirty minutes ago. At first, this doesn’t sound too strange. I have amnesia, so I feel like I’m meeting everyone in my life for the first time. But Kate is different from everyone else because thirty minutes ago was also the first time she met me.

  She didn’t drop that bomb immediately, though. First, she dug for dirt, asking me if I remembered anything about Preston yet. I explained that even though I didn’t, I apparently used to call him Easterbutt.

  “That is brilliant!” she’d laughed. “You’re a genius.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, but in all honesty.

  “It’s a good thing I didn’t know you when we were kids,” she said. “I never would have stopped calling him Easterbutt.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh again. It was just so silly. “So…if I didn’t know you when I was a kid, when did we meet, Kate?”

  “One second…” she looked at her watch, “about thirty minutes ago?”

  Shit!

  “Oh, don’t go white darling. I’m not going to make you sign a form to be my friend.”

  That wasn’t what I was worried about. I suddenly remember how I’d made her give me the foil wrapper from her bubblegum after we first got into the town car so I could fold a paper crane out of it. Totally would not have done that if I’d known she was a stranger! I glare at the little crane sitting on the seat in between us. “I assumed you were one of my friends!”

  “Oh, I am! It’s just that neither of us knew we were friends yet,” she smiles. “Now come on. Let’s get you some clothes.”

  I didn’t want to buy clothes, but Kate wouldn’t hear of it. And, after notifying me that if her mother saw me parading around town in what I had on, I’d never hear the end of it either. “She already called the newspapers to ask if they could cut and paste a different shirt into that RELUCTANT PREGNANT BRIDE article. The thing’s already been printed! Poor mum doesn’t know how image manipulations software works—or printing presses, for that matter.”

  I shiver as I get out of the town car, searching the street for paparazzi but they are nowhere to be found. All I find are people carrying large white shopping bags, businessmen on cell phones and tourists taking pictures.

  “I’m not nearly as interesting as my brother,” Kate whispers.

  I think about all the bodyguards. “You know, that isn’t a bad thing.”

  “There may be one or two people following us,” she continues, “But I think they’re all swarming Easterbrook Tower.”

  Poor Preston!

  “And don’t you dare think about feeling sorry for my brother,” Kate continues. “The world is full of wealthy men—even good looking ones—and the majority of them do not command the public’s attention. Preston dug his own grave by chasing so many singers and models and any other hot up and coming piece of ass.”

  I frown. Do not be jealous, Tachell. Jealousy is ugly, especially unwarranted jealousy. You weren’t dating. You had no claim on him. Still, I can’t help but ask, “So he’s…a bit promiscuous?”

  “I guess you could say that,” Kate scoffs. Then, she looks back at me, eyes wide. “Oh no. Don’t worry about any of it. My brother has been obsessed with you for years.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true!” she tells me. “It’s why he refused to leave Eaglebrook. Mother wanted to send him to a better prep school. He always put it off, but when she enrolled him he said he’d emancipate himself before going to school there. He said it was because he didn’t want to leave his friends, but I knew that wasn’t it. I’d found his composition notebook.”

  “Composition notebook?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Preston wrote a lot of love poetry to his muse—a dark, mysterious princess who beckoned his soul with the scent of lavender. He’d tried to conquer her heart by offering her a white rose, but she thought it was too proud and forever turned her back on him. It was really melodramatic. I think he was channeling the powers of every emo teenage boy in the state.”

  “That’s…” I don’t even know how to feel about that. I think back to all the times he’s offered me lavender. There’s always been a white rose in there, too. Maybe because he’s still trying to find a way to get me to finally see him.

  “Yeah, my brother’s a pretty sensitive, romantic guy,” she mumbles. “But he’s also a manwhore. Let’s pick out something for tonight that will blow his mind.”

  She grabs my hand, pulling me forward.

  “Uh…Kate? What’s tonight?”

  She looks over her shoulder, grinning. “A charity ball, of course! And you’re gonna bring down the house!”

  Before I have time to respond, Kate’s already got us in the first shop. “Hey Tina! This is the infamous Tachell.” She looks at me, giving me a devilish smile. “Do your worst!”

  Chapter 13

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  No, make that I can’t believe I’m doing this while wearing this.

  The limo pulls up to the building. It looks like the White House, with large pillars stretching into the sky and thick brick pathway leading to the gigantic black doors. All around are beautiful men and women dressed in their finest.

  After one turn around the driveway, the door to the limo opens. A butler offers me his hand.

  Alright. I’m not ready for this. Maybe we can just keep driving in circles all night?

  “Go!” Kate whispers, giving me a “gentle” nudge from behind.

  I take the butler’s white gloved hand and step onto the sidewalk. He’s careful to make sure I avoid the puddles. Kate gets out after, giving me a grin as her mother shoes me aside. “Don’t
dawdle!”

  Priscilla Easterbrook isn’t happy that I’m here. However, as Kate explained to her, I need to present myself to society and the annual charity auction and ball for the firemen of New York City is a perfect place to do it.

  After we’re out, we enter the swell of the crowd walking up to the mansion. Cameras flash around us like disco lights. After marching up the stairs for what seems like forever, two more men dressed in black uniforms with small billed hats open the doors and we’re ushered inside.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Everything is sparkling and white. The white gold chandeliers above making everything in the room dazzle. A string quartet plays beside a fountain. There’s even a freakin’ cherub pouring water out of a vase. I’d entered a completely different world.

  Impeccably dressed Waiters dance between groups of people, serving water chestnuts wrapped in bacon, shrimp cocktails, and drinks on silver platters.

  Kate grabs a few water chestnuts and hands me one. “These are soooo good.”

  I put it in my mouth. The chestnut is a hard and crunchy. The bacon was cooked to perfection—not too crispy, not too soft—just full and bursting with apple cherry smoked flavors. I moan as my teeth sink into it, releasing the flavors.

  “Get me away from these,” I tell Kate.

  She laughs. “You wanna eat them all?”

  “No, I seriously will.” I glance around. ‘Far, far away.” I was kind of afraid of tackling a waiter and stealing his tray.

  “You can have as much as you want, you know—”

  “No, she can’t,” Priscilla Easterbrook interrupted. Her lips thinned as she looked down at me. “Control yourself. You are to be an Easterbrook. Act like one.”

  Oh man. Pissed off the matriarch.

  Kate hands me a glass of white wine. “Let’s go find Preston.”

  Priscilla Easterbrook frowns. “Is that really necessary?”

  “If she doesn’t say something to him, people will think something’s wrong!”

  Priscilla sighs. “Fine. Be quick.”