Billionaire's Seduction: BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE (Alpha Billionaire Romance Collection) (BBW Pregnancy Marriage of Convenience)

by Betsy Poole

  Yeah, this is the glamorous life of a private detective, kids, and the only reason you dream about this kind of life is because all of your other dreams have been crushed under the heel of reality. No Johnny and Joanie, you’re not going to be an astronaut or the president. You’re going to be a garbage man or an accounts payable clerk when you grow up if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, you’ll end up just like me. Trust me, I know I sound bitter, but this is the life of a modern PI. I don’t track down murderers, I don’t squirrel after missing persons. I shadow cheating husbands and wives and when I’m not doing that, I’m running background checks for large corporations who are too cheap to hire someone in house—which is most of them—to do it.

  Oh, and I think about smoking cigarettes, a lot.

  I’ve been on this particular cheating husband for a little over a week now. His name is Stephen Marsh and he’s the VP of Human Resources for his company, Myriad Software. And his wife is pretty much as I described her, except she’s closer to a size 24 as opposed to a size 12, and I can completely understand why Mr. Marsh hasn’t touched her in months. Because simply put, Mrs. Marsh is what you would call a dragon lady. Sure, she’s a bit on the hefty side, but otherwise, she’s gorgeous, at least on the outside. On the inside, well, she’s pure demon. She’s a bitch on wheels, she’s an absolute—and cover your ears if this word makes you uncomfortable—cunt, and trust me, I rarely use the C-word to describe anyone, but it fits her to a T.

  And despite what she thinks of Mr. Marsh, after a week of following him, I’m pretty sure that he’s not cheating on his wife, he just can’t stand being around her, which I don’t blame him one damn bit. However, because he’s so straight laced, my whole week has been duller than a soccer game or a football game or whatever. Mr. Marsh is very regimented in his routines. He arrives at work at around 6:30 AM—a full 3 hours before anyone else arrives—he then works until around 12:30 and walks to a sandwich shop around the corner from the office, orders the same thing—a turkey club on wheat with extra mayo—every day, then brings it back to the office. Mr. Marsh then works—only breaking once to order take out, usually Chinese or pizza—until around 8:30, and then heads home. The past four days have been exactly the same without deviation, and I’m expecting tonight and tomorrow—Yeah, the guy even comes in on Saturday—will be exactly the same. Sure, it’s easy money and I won’t be breaking up a marriage, but it wouldn’t be so bad if Mr. Marsh mixed it up a bit for my amusement.

  But, like clock work, here he came. Mr. Marsh isn’t a bad looking guy by any means. He’s around 6’3, maybe clocks in at around 200 well developed pounds—I don’t know when he finds the time to work out? I figure his company offers an onsite gym?—but there’s this quality about him that I don’t know how to describe? Maybe it’s a look of defeat, or longing, or loneliness, or maybe it’s a combination of all three? I mean, obviously his home life isn’t all that great, particularly considering who he’s married to. Or maybe it’s the same quality I find in myself: Defeat, resignation, and I can’t help but feel a bit of a bond with him because of this. Or maybe I’m doing nothing but projecting myself onto him? Maybe he’s perfectly content with his workaholic lifestyle and his raging bitch of a wife?

  I duck low in the driver’s seat of my car as he steps into his top of the line BMW—which just happens to be a company car, one of his many perks of being upper management at the second largest software developers in the world—and he goes through his usual shuffle: Briefcase in the backseat, moonroof open, fiddle with the radio until he finds the sports talk channel he listens to every night, then he’s off and heading for the exit.

  I wait two minutes, manage to kick my heap to life, and roll out behind him. Normally I wouldn’t wait two minutes to start following a tail, but I know Marsh isn’t going to deviate from his route.

  And sure enough, I spot him a block away from his office heading to the I-10 offramp. I close the gap from 7 cars to 3 once we hit the freeway. The 10 is Friday night busy, not exactly bumper-to-bumper, but slow enough that I have to ease back a bit so he doesn’t notice me. Although, considering that I’ve been following him all week and he hasn’t picked up on me, I could probably ride his bumper and he would just chock me up as some asshole. But why take that chance other than it would amuse the hell out of me for 30 or 40 seconds. Traffic moves along at 45 miles an hour, and for the first time in the 5 days I’ve had him under surveillance, Marsh makes an unexpected move and pulls off the freeway. I’m so surprised by the move that I end up cutting off a few cars to stay behind him.

  Where we pull off is mostly nothing but an industrial area. Lots of warehouses, machine shops, and vacant lots waiting to have a warehouse planted on it. Oh, and there also happens to be a half-a-dozen strip clubs. Each vibes sleazy and security as the parking lots are surrounded by chainlink and topped with concentre wire. Marsh pulled his Beemer into the lot of the only seemingly "classy" joint of the strip, a club called Cougartown. Apparently he was into ogling women his own age instead of the borderline jail bait most of these places usually featured. I have to admit, I was gaining a little respect for the guy, he wasn't as much of stiff as he let on. The lot was fairly large and there were enough cars parked in it that I could have blended in, but it also had a couple of beefy security guards doing rounds, and I imagined they would probably have a fit if I just parked, so I pulled in across the street and settled in, hoping that security wouldn't notice me.

  I figured I would be sticking it out for the long haul while Marsh unwound from his week, but 30 minutes later, I spotted him heading out of the exit and he wasn't alone. I'll be the first to admit, when I think of a "cougar" I typically think of a woman over the age of 40. But the woman who was trailing Marsh looked like she was a couple of months shy of her 15th birthday. But then again, ever since I turned 30, just about anyone under the age of 25 looked 12-years-old to me. Marsh was a gentleman and opened the passenger side door for his friend and then he jogged around to the driver's side like a marathon runner crossing the finish line, and he pulled out of the lot like a Nascar driver.

  Gotcha.

  Marsh jumped on the freeway again and headed for friendlier environs; friendly environs being a no tell motel 5 miles down the road. I love no tell's, mostly because all of them are single story and haven't been updated for the last 20 years. The place Marsh selected looked like it had been built in the 50's and had all the charm of the Bates Motel. I almost expected to see some screwy guy dressed up like his mom working the front desk. Marsh rented a room at the far end of the lot and escorted his "date" inside. I couldn't believe my luck. Sometimes that’s just how a case works out, you spend 60 hours doing nothing but sitting and feeling your ass get fat, and then everything falls into place.

  I had snapped pictures of Marsh going into the strip club, coming out of it with his little friend, and then walking into the room with her, too. But most family court judges—and most clients for that matter—want to see more than just walking to and from places. They want physical contact, they want bodies pressed against bodies, and the more explicit, the better. Which meant getting out of the car and shooting some peeper shots. I open the car door and almost fell on my face as I stepped out. Both of my legs were numb and going on pints and needles. That’s probably the biggest problem you face while doing surveillance, your body starts to atrophy. After 12 hours, your muscles turn to jelly and you aren’t much good for anything other than pushing the gas pedal and the break pedal, but if you have to make a run for it, forget about it, you’re toast.

  Luckily, I’d only been in the car for around 10 hours, so my legs had a little bit of get up and go, I just needed to rub the pins and needles out of them before I went creeping up on Marsh’s little love nest. Hopefully I wouldn’t be noticed and wouldn’t have to do any running, but you never knew. Once I was feeling somewhat normal on two legs, I grabbed my night vision lens from the trunk just in case my loving couple turned out the lights. But my guess was that Marsh only
did that with his dragon lady when he worked himself up enough to lay a finger on her, but he’d most likely want to see his “date” in all of her young and toned glory.

  I started walking towards the office, but once I was close enough to the building, I ducked into the shadows and made the slow walk down to Marsh’s unit. Every door I passed, I could hear the sound of couples getting tangled up and sweaty in sheets, or having their asses spanked, backs whipped, and God knows what else. My only hope was that Marsh wasn’t into the same kind of kink I was hearing and he was just having plain old vanilla ice cream cone sex. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

  I ducked low and crouched in front of the window of Marsh’s unit. The curtains were white and nearly as transparent as gauze. Plus, there was a 4-inch gap so I had a clear view of everything that was going on inside, and what was going on inside was freaky. The girl was actually very pretty—that is if you ignored all the tattoos and piercing, but I guess some guys are really into that look—and was fully clothed. Marsh, however, was not. Marsh was on the bed wear a baby bonnet and sucking on a pacifier. The girl stood over him strapping him into the biggest diaper I’d ever seen, and the girl was lecturing him about what a bad baby he was. I’d heard of this kind of thing on some late night cable documentary, but I never in my life thought I would see it live and in living color.

  I felt laughter bubbling up in my stomach at this ridiculous sight, but I needed to hold it together long enough to get my shots. I keep the lens low and start snapping as the girl rubs baby lotion into Marsh’s well defined chest and stomach. Suddenly, his entire body starts to strain. His skin turned a bright red, the veins in his neck bulged, and he’s holding his breath as if he’s bearing down and preparing for something. Finally, he let out a long, pleasure filled breath and begins to fuss and cry like a baby would.

  “Did you mess yourself again, baby?” I hear the girl ask as she begins undoing the diaper. “You are a very, very bad baby.”

  She unfolds the enormous diaper, and sitting right in the middle of it is a giant turd.

  I see this, and I completely lose it.

  My laughter seems to start at the top of my toes like someone is tickling me and shoots through me like a bolt of electricity and my entire body is shaking and wracked with laughter. The whole scene goes blurry with tears and I barely notice as both of their heads turn at the sound of my hyena guffaws. Thankfully, I collect myself enough to start running as Bad Baby Marsh rockets off the bed and charges out the door in nothing but his birthday suit. He’s practically right on top of me as I jump into the Toyota—which thankfully turns over with the first turn of the key—and I leave him standing in the parking lot just as God made him covered in road dust.

  After a couple of miles, I finally have to pull over so I don’t kill anyone because I’m laughing so hard.

  So I know I sounded a tad bit grumpy about my particular lot in life yesterday, and I’d like to apologize for that. Honestly, I really don’t have it all that bad. I mean, being a PI is like running any business. You have your ups and downs. You have your months where you don’t know if you’re going to be able to make rent on your office, or if you’ll even be able to afford to pay your annual license fee. But then there are other months where you’re absolutely flush and the cases just keep coming and coming, and soon enough you have so much money rolling in that you’ll be able to pay your rent 6 months in advance and put a decent down payment on a new and far more comfortable car. It’s these months that you absolutely live for. That you begin to think that you made the right decision to be your own boss instead of going to work with one of the big corporate detective agencies.

  Admittedly, these months have been few and far between since I hung my shingle a year ago, but when they happen, I feel like a God. And I just so happen to feel that way the morning after the Marsh case as I’m printing out some prime shots to give to Mrs. Marsh when I meet with her on Monday. The 12 pictures—one of which sends me into a 15-minute giggle fit—will end up netting me $6000. More than enough to cover rent for the next 3 months and buy me a wider variety of groceries other than cheap jars of peanut butter and Ramen noodles. But then again, maybe just a little of that cash will end up making it to the greyhound track. In fact, I imagine ALL of it will make it to the track.

  Okay, I lied, I obviously have more than one vice than my e-cigarettes, so sue me.

  I come from a long, long line of cops starting with my great, great grandfather back in the late 19th century in Boston when city police were little more than hired thugs and strike breakers. My great grandfather redeemed the family name once he moved west to Chicago, and ever since then, my family served proudly in one part of Arizona of another. At least until my grandfather and my dad screwed it all up and went into business with all the wrong people. Sure, they still jailed and arrested people who needed to be punished, but they would also purposely lose or steal evidence for a certain group of Mexican nationals who transported massive amounts of cocaine and heroin into the state and left dozens—if not hundreds—of bodies in their wake. They were bad, bad people, and dad and grandpa were at their beck and call.

  At least until they got caught.

  The two of them could have saved themselves and their hard fought pensions if only they’d turned state’s evidence and went into WITSEC. But the U.S. Attorney wasn’t able to turn either one of them, and they were saddled with 13 counts of possession with intent to distribute and a couple of murders. Needless to say, neither one of them are going to see the light of day outside of prison walls for the rest of their natural lives. It also completely screwed my future career goals, that is unless I wanted to go and be police in Nebraska or Kanas or some other middle America nowhere land. And chances are, that wouldn’t fly either because dad and grandpa are both doing their time in federal institutions. The thing with the law enforcement community is this: No matter where you go, you can’t run from your past, and police have very long memories.

  But for a while there—mostly in college—I still had hope. I stuck with my criminal justice major, and in my senior year I applied to every single law enforcement organization in the state, and was rejected by all of them. I even applied to the FBI and CIA and got zero play from either agency. I mean, ASU is the second largest CIA recruitment center in the country and even those dirty bastards didn’t want me. After graduation, I bummed around, worked retail jobs, waitressed, I even got my teaching certificate so I could teach high school. But every single thing I tried to do, I failed. I was born and bred to be to be law enforcement, but they wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. That’s when I got the idea of becoming a private detective.

  Of course, obtaining a PI license in the state of Illinois is just a matter of filling out a 10 page application online and paying a $250 processing fee, and once they get your money, you can print your license right out on your laser printer. The conceal and carry license was almost as easy to come by, too, except I had to attend a two hour “training”, which basically consisted of me firing at paper targets and then taking a 15 question written exam. But within two months of making my decision, I was a fully licensed and bonded PI and it’s been peaches and cream ever since.

  ***

  I was finishing up my report on the Marsh case when someone knocked on my front door. I’m not exactly what you would call a social person, so I wasn’t expecting a visitor of any kind and normally knock at my door would set my paranoia into high gear (Don’t ask why, it’s just how I am.). But I was so distracted by typing up my report that I opened my apartment door without checking the peephole, and Stephen Marsh—the big baby himself—was standing there larger than life.

  Obviously, my jaw hit the floor and I made a half ass attempt to slam the door in his face. He easily blocked and pushed his way inside. My eyes darted around my living room searching for my glock, but then remembered that I locked it up the night before in my bedroom closet. So instead, I put my body into something that I thought might resemble a com
bat stance. Marsh held up his hands in mock surrender.

  “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Yeah, how many times has someone said this and then had head bashed in?

  “How the hell did you find me?” I shouted.

  “I’m very good with numbers. I memorized your license plate number as you drove away last night. All I needed to do after that was look it up with a phone app my company is testing for law enforcement and it provided me with all of your information.”

  I should also mention that I absolutely hate smartphones. Personally, I think they’re going to be the end of the human race, and not because of apps like Marsh used to track me down, but because people constantly have their faces buried in them. And I mean buried: While they’re walking, eating, driving, screwing. There were a huge pet peeve of mine. But I did have to admit I was pretty impressed with whatever app Marsh used to track me down.

  “Would you mind if we sat down and talked for a couple of minutes?” He asked as he brushed past me and made himself comfortable in my lazy boy. Yeah, he wasn’t going anywhere, so I sat down on the couch across from him ready to bolt into my bedroom and grab my piece if things started getting hinky.

  “I take it my wife was the one who hired you?” He asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information, Mr. Marsh. Who my client is entirely confidential.”

  He smiled and eased back in the chair and propped his legs up, now completely relaxed.

  “Let’s not play games. You’re not an attorney or a licensed physiologist, so there isn’t any sort of legally binding confidentiality agreement when it comes to private investigators and their clients. So I’ll ask again: Was my wife the one who hired you?”