Baby, ASAP - A Billionaire Buys a Baby Romance (Babies for the Billionaire Book 3)

by Layla Valentine

  I shook my mood away and took the smiling Jordan from his mother and set him on the stage. I sat across from him and booped his nose with a stuffed lion. His laugh shattered what was left of my resolve.

  “Turn toward me and smile,” the photographer instructed.

  I did so, and continued to follow his directions for the next three hours. There was one diaper-change break and one bottle break, and then Jordan’s legally allotted time was up. Just in time, too; the happy boy had fallen asleep on my chest during the final set of photos.

  His sleepy weight against my heart seemed to be the only thing holding it together, and I felt it shatter as I rolled him gently into his mother’s arms. She met my eyes with an instinctual understanding, and I nearly started to cry.

  “All right, everybody! We’re breaking for lunch…no, not you Andre! You need to reset the stage! Everybody, be back here in one hour.”

  “It’ll be another baby shoot,” Ms. Abrahms told me. “We have a little girl coming in named Destiny. She’s eighteen months, so you’ll be working with the older baby toys.”

  “Okay,” I said, my ears ringing.

  Destiny. The gray-eyed baby. The perfect nursery, just out of reach. I couldn’t do this anymore. My heart was breaking every day, and there was only one way to stop the destruction. Mind made up, I left the room in full makeup and the marketing department’s clothes and made for the elevator.

  I ran into Imogen on her way out.

  “Whoa, when did you start wearing a face full of paint?” she asked.

  “Photo shoot. Excuse me.”

  “Are you on a break? We’ve got the focus group for the freight trains today; you were part of that team. Do you want to peek in and see how it goes?”

  I couldn’t process what she was saying. All I could think about was getting upstairs and talking to him before I lost my nerve.

  “No, thanks, I really have to go…”

  “Are you okay?” Imogen probed, squinting at me hard, still blocking my path to the elevator.

  “Yes! Yes, I’m fine, just… I have to go!” I pushed past her and into the elevator.

  From the look on her face, I would definitely be hearing about this later, but I couldn’t focus on that right now. I just needed to get upstairs, say my piece, and deal with whatever happened next.

  I forcibly made peace with the idea that the next step might be an appointment to get artificially inseminated. I didn’t need his touch, I told myself firmly. I just needed his baby, and his resources. Guilt comes with cold practicality, but I had it securely tamped down by the time I stepped out of the elevator on the thirtieth floor.

  One large window overlooked the pool of cubicles in the center of the floor. The remaining walls were full of offices, and I had no idea who I was supposed to talk to if I wanted to break the barrier of the 31st floor. Nobody paid me any attention as they hustled back and forth across the floor, answering phones and making copies and such.

  “Do you need something?” one woman finally asked me, peering out from behind her thick glasses.

  “Yes, I’m looking for Mr. Dane’s secretary?”

  She jabbed a bony finger to the left, and I realized with a flush of heat that each door was labeled with the name of the secretary, as well as the name, or names, of the people they worked for.

  Bernadette Peters had only one name above hers: Mr. Jonathan Dane. My heart thundered in my ears as I walked toward the door. I raised my fist to knock, but it flung open before I could make contact.

  His silver eyes glittered in amusement. “Ah, Miss Marshall! I was just on my way to see you. Lunch in my office, then?”

  Chapter 8

  Jonathan

  “How did you know?” Kaley blurted out as soon as we stepped out of the elevator and into my office.

  “How did I know what?” I asked, amused by the tempest I saw brewing in her eyes.

  “How did you know that I would have my answer today?” She stopped, fists on her hips, glaring at me.

  I played with the idea of messing with her a little bit, making her think I was somehow psychic. It would save me the embarrassment of admitting that I was as anxious to see her again as I was for her answer. I settled on a compromise.

  “I didn’t,” I admitted. “I was simply intending to check in on you, to see how you were handling the responsibilities of spokesmodel.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her ocean eyes transforming into molten jewels. I gestured toward the lounge, where my own lunch had been set up with two places—a habit, due to occasional drop-ins and rare lunch dates, which would only support her suspicion that I was somehow reading her mind.

  I decided not to mention it. It was more amusing to watch her eyes widen and her face go pale when she saw the spread.

  “Chicken?” I offered.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not here to eat. I need to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead,” I invited. “But I hope you don’t mind if I do. I’m famished.”

  She paused, then gestured for me to go ahead.

  “I want to talk to you about the baby,” she said.

  “I assumed so.”

  “I’m ready to answer.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She swallowed hard and glanced around the office, blinked rapidly, then took a breath. She certainly didn’t look ready.

  “I, um…yes. I will have your baby, but only if you agree to a bunch of conditions, and only if we talk about every single detail before we do anything to make the baby, you know…happen.” She sucked in a shuddering breath and exhaled slowly, a meditative act which didn’t seem to relax her in the slightest.

  I leaned back in my chair to better study her face. If she was so uncomfortable, I wondered, why was she accepting?

  “Tell me your conditions,” I said, absently stroking the arm of my chair.

  “Um…first, the baby will be legally mine, all bases covered, no questions.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  “And… Oh, there were more, I just had them!” she exclaimed, frazzled.

  Her obvious conflict tugged at my heart. She was so full of emotion, so alive, so different from most of the people who sat where she now perched, that I was fascinated. She would be an excellent mother—and a unique one. At least, that was how I saw her. I prided myself on generally being a good judge of character, and hers was purely elemental.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said, leaning forward. “Go take your lunch, relax, then finish up your photo shoot. Tonight, after your shift, I’ll take you out to dinner. We can discuss all of the conditions and details on our date. How does that sound?”

  Kaley had relaxed up until I said the word “date”, then her whole body tensed and her brow crinkled. It was a bit of a blow to my ego, but I glossed over it. It wasn’t worth fighting about; after all, for as much as I craved her, this was first and foremost a business transaction. She smoothed her face with a deliberate effort, then smiled tightly.

  “That sounds fine,” she said. “Where should I meet you?”

  “I’ll meet you on level twelve after the shoot,” I told her. “That will be easier; I have a million places to be today.”

  She nodded, then stood.

  “Tonight it is, then,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll see you then.”

  She hurried to the elevator alone, leaving me behind. She was an independent sort of woman, I realized. One who holds their emotions in a tight orb around them, letting you see but never allowing you to share. That would change, I hoped. The more I saw of her, the more I wanted to see; and the more I wanted, the more frustrated I became.

  I made a mental note to manufacture a bit of want in my child’s life. Living in arm’s reach of anything you could ever desire was destructive to one’s ability to be patient. I felt in my gut that patience would be required of me, more than anything else, if I had any hope of pulling this off.

  I finished with my duties for the day before the shoot was over
, and decided to observe the proceedings for a while. The baby girl Kaley was modeling with tugged her hair and pulled at her dress, and Kaley merely laughed while gently prying the baby’s hands away. She spun the baby in her arms and cuddled her, then showed her the toy at her feet. If patience was what I needed, she certainly had it.

  I leaned against the wall, allowing my imagination to drift, superimposing the scene before me on the memory of the manor’s play room. She fit surprisingly well. Cross-legged on the floor, playing with the baby, the tall windows of the manor looking out over the gardens below. She belonged there far more than she belonged here, in this dark room with the bright lights, with a photographer barking orders at her.

  “Let’s break!” Ms. Abrahms said. “Good job, everyone. We have some usable pictures. We will see you tomorrow, Ms. Marshall. Get this set torn down, and replace it with the toddler room. Oh—Ms. Marshall, you’ll have three-year-old twins tomorrow.”

  Miss Marshall grinned at that, clearly delighted.

  Twins, hm? Would she want twins? Not that I could control the number of children she had at once, but it was interesting to imagine. I suspected she could handle twins if she needed to.

  She spotted me, then, and the smile fell from her face. It stung my pride, as well as some other part of me I couldn’t quite identify. I didn’t want to be the one who chased the smile from her face. I wanted to be the one who put it there.

  Kaley disappeared into the back of the studio, then reappeared several minutes later wearing far less makeup. She had changed her clothes, too; gone was the peasant blouse and wide-leg slacks, replaced by a soft teal dress which hugged her curves and tied at the waist. The color reflected in her eyes, making them sparkle in a way which drew my gaze.

  I was struck again by just how gorgeous she was.

  “Hello, Mr. Dane,” she greeted.

  “Hello, Miss Marshall. Shall we?” I offered her my arm, but she didn’t take it. Frowning, I followed her to the elevator. We walked to my car in silence, but I heard her gasp when she saw it.

  “It’s not exactly a family car,” I said humbly. “But it’s worth keeping around for date night.”

  She cast me a look from the corner of her eye that I couldn’t decipher, something between suspicion and interest. Maybe there was a definition of the word “date” that I was unaware of?

  I opened the door for her and she climbed in carefully, as if she were afraid to smudge the paint. It was a good paint job, I admit. A color-changing shimmer over a deep glossy black, it could catch attention or disappear with equal ease.

  “Do you have a dinner preference?” I asked as I slid behind the wheel.

  “Anywhere quiet,” she said. “Where people won’t bother us too much.”

  “I know just the place.”

  Fighting rush hour traffic did nothing good for my mood, but Kaley’s presence was like a damp cloth on my feverish road rage. She remained calm and content through each irritating moment, and I found myself reacting with less intensity the longer we drove.

  I figured it was probably just my internal chivalry taking the reins of my emotions. I would not want to put the pretty woman through the gamut of my negativity, especially since I was attempting to convince her to give me a child. Once we pulled in to the restaurant, I had regained full control of my temper.

  “Gregorio’s,” she read out loud as we pulled up to the long, low brick building. “It looks cozy.”

  “We can go somewhere else,” I said, my irritation sparking again. “I thought you wanted quiet.”

  “I do,” she said, looking puzzled. “Why do you want to go somewhere else?”

  “I chose this place, didn’t I?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to go here.”

  “Then why…?”

  It occurred to me that “cozy” might not mean to her what it meant to me, and the realization halted the next words on my tongue. Great way to start a date, Jonathan.

  “My apologies,” I said. “A miscommunication, I imagine. Nothing to worry about. Shall we?”

  “Um…sure.” She was on her guard now, which was exactly where I didn’t want her to be.

  We were greeted by Gregorio himself, and he led us back to the semi-private room reserved for his highest-tipping regulars. The lights were dimmed, the colors were dark and warm, and the table was small enough for quiet conversation. Drippy candles flickered in the center, and the music was low and romantic.

  I pulled out Kaley’s chair and she sat, her eyes glittering in the candlelight. I leaned over a little farther than I needed to, catching a whiff of the flowery scent in her hair.

  We chatted about the menu for a moment, then ordered just as the wine came. I enjoyed watching her drink, watching her uncoil like a spring over heat as the last lingering bits of tension melted from her face. I wondered what it would take to get her there without the aid of alcohol.

  “Were you able to identify your conditions?” I asked her carefully.

  “Yes,” she said with far more confidence than she had possessed that afternoon. “Would you like to hear them now?”

  “Please. Go ahead.”

  “You’ve already agreed to the first—that the baby would be legally mine. The second is…I want him or her to grow up in a loving family.” Her face softened nostalgically as she spun the stem of her wine glass between her fingers.

  “Up until the very end, my parents were very affectionate with one another. Platonic little touches during the day, no matter what they were doing, as if to say ‘Hi…I’m here, and I care about you.’ They would talk about everything and anything, and any disagreement they had was hashed out in a kind and loving manner.

  “They never called each other names—not even at the end—and they were never cold to one another. They expressed their thoughts and feelings with a pure honesty couched in kindness. I want to model that for my child. It’s important that they grow up knowing what a strong relationship looks like, even if it’s fake.”

  She glanced up at me through thick lashes, guarded and tentatively defensive in her honesty.

  “That’s a tall order,” I told her. “I can guarantee the touching. The communication will be far more difficult for me.”

  “I suspected as much,” she said quietly. “But are you willing to try? For the sake of our child?”

  Am I willing to try pretending?

  I was suddenly reminded of my father. As our food came and we thanked our waiter, I decided it would be best to give Kaley some insight at this juncture. She repeated her question with her eyes as the waiter left.

  “Did you have any impression of my father prior to working here?” I asked her.

  “Of course. Everyone did,” she replied, surprised. “He was everybody’s adopted grandpa. I liked him in photos; he looked happy and kind and the sort of jolly you associate with toy makers. But…”

  She hesitated, filling the space with a bite of food.

  “But?” I coaxed.

  “Well, I saw him in a commercial once. Something about him seemed…wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it until I began working here, but then I realized what it was. He was annoyed. Through the whole commercial, he was surrounded by children, showering them with gifts and chuckling indulgently…but his eyes gave him away. He was completely exasperated with the whole ordeal, and it put me on edge, even as a child. After that, every photo I saw seemed more fake than the last.”

  I found myself nodding as she spoke.

  “I remember that commercial,” I told her. “You’re the first person I’ve met who agreed with my assessment of it. I suppose the company executives did too, or at least one of them did; he never appeared in another TV commercial after that. You are absolutely right; the man was fake, as fake as they come. I have been very deliberate in cultivating my image to reflect the man I am at work. It backfired, obviously. The thing of it is, Miss Marshall—”

  “We’re discussing our future children. Shouldn’t we be on a first-
name basis by now?” she interrupted.

  Her question caught me by surprise, evoking a spontaneous smile.

  “Yes, I suppose we should. There again, you see…I have attempted to compartmentalize my life in such a way that my familial qualities are reserved for family. My father was a master of compartmentalization, but he did it the other way around. The doting grandfather never crossed the threshold into my house. After work, the man was severe, cold, and distant. He had no interest in raising me, and in spite of the help and the size of the house, he would frequently send my mother and I packing to the far corners of the globe on elaborate vacations which kept us apart for weeks and months at a time.

  “He had little interest in my schooling, and when my mother balked at the idea of taking me to Spain during the second week of school, he simply hired a private tutor to travel with us. I stopped asking him to spend time with me by the age of seven. I knew it would never happen.

  “The only time he took an interest in my life was when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and only then because he wanted to teach me how to run his company before he died. In spite of the hours and weeks of one-on-one time, we never really bonded. He was just my boss, and I was merely an asset.”

  I hadn’t realized how much that still hurt. The dull ache to my core, like a deep puncture wound, throbbed awake. I sipped wine to dull it, and then I saw her face.

  Pure compassion. Not pity—it was definitively distinct from pity—just open, outpouring compassion. I cleared an uncomfortable lump from my throat and tried to remember what my point had been. Right. Communication in the household.

  “The reason I bring that up is because it set my mind away from deceptive behavior. I have no doubt that you and I will occasionally disagree, and when we do, I am determined to handle those disagreements civilly. I can’t promise to model a strong romantic relationship if we are not in one, but I can promise to model a kind and respectful human relationship, if you’re willing to participate.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I accept your compromise.”