Billionaire Baby Daddies: A five-book anthology

by Connelly, Clare

  “Then why don’t you come?”

  She hadn’t realized, until then, that she’d spoken the words aloud. “Come?”

  “If you are so anxious to be parted from him, come to Tuscany.”

  Grace lifted her eyes to his, doubts filling her. “Really?”

  “Certamente.” He crouched beside her. “It complicates things, slightly, but if you are so anxious then of course. I have no doubt it would be better for Ben to have you there.”

  Gratitude was the last straw. Tears danced on her lashes and he made a short noise of frustration and stood again, spinning away from her, dragging a hand through his thick, dark hair until it spiked at odd angles.

  “Thank you.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the water against the marbled coping of the pool, and the occasional tweet of a nearby bird.

  “Here.” He pushed a box towards her. Small and velvet, Grace’s heart sank. She knew what would be inside this little object, delivered with such an astounding lack of ceremony.

  She clicked it open, her heart squeezing at the sight of a large diamond solitaire with a circlet of pale blue gems.

  “I have told my family we are to marry. They’ll expect you to wear a ring.”

  She nodded – what was the point of arguing over such a small detail? It fit perfectly. She slipped it onto her ring finger, her eyes studying the crenulations of the band.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  It was. A stunning ring for a far from perfect union.

  “My family believes our engagement to be a happy event,” he said, turning to face her fully, his hands braced on his hips. “I wanted to protect them from the truth of this as much as possible.”

  Remorse was now her constant bedfellow. She was not surprised by the sense of shame that burst through her but she was almost made breathless by its intensity. “Fine. Whatever you’d like.”

  Marco ground his teeth together. He couldn’t say why her submission angered him, but it did. Her broken, depressed, miserable demeanor was beginning to grate. For two weeks he’d watched her mope around the villa and make an art of avoiding him, and an urge to shake that loose was growing.

  But it wasn’t his place.

  He no longer cared about this woman. If she was miserable, then that was her choice.

  “We’ll share a bedroom.”

  Grace’s eyes flew to his and remembered passions burned the edges of her nerves.

  But his smile was dismissive. “Obviously I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  Grace’s mouth was dry, her throat thick.

  Marco continued. “We don’t have to speak, but when my mother is around, or my sister, we’ll pretend to like one another. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  He expelled a breath; a loud, angry noise that drew her attention. “What is it?”

  “This doesn’t bother you?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I have any right to be bothered. I kept Ben from you – from all of you. However you want this to go is fine by me.”

  It was the right answer! It was just as she should have felt. But it infuriated him.

  “And if I kiss you, Grace?”

  Her eyes were huge in her face, her lips parted. But she made an effort to visibly calm herself.

  “I’ll know it’s just for their benefit.” She looked away determinedly. “I’ll understand.”

  * * *

  “He is just like you!” Rosa Dettori was tall and slim, wiry, with dark grey hair that shimmered in the afternoon sun, flicking as the breeze whispered past them on the wrap-around balcony. She had bright red lips, enormous brown eyes and skin like caramel, smooth and golden.

  Marco grinned. “He’s my son.”

  “He is, he is.” Rosa cackled, reaching down and pinching Ben’s curls between her fingers. “Spirited?” She directed the question at Grace, who’d felt like a complete bystander the entire afternoon. An outsider. If she’d thought Ben was like Marco, then seeing him with Rosa was even more confronting. She was beginning to feel as though she’d simply incubated the Dettori heir.

  “Intensely spirited,” Marco supplied with a smile that turned to a grimace as he lifted his attention to Grace.

  She shook herself mentally. They were supposed to be acting like a couple, and instead Grace might as well have come from the dentist’s. The smile she forced to her face felt false but she hoped it would do the job.

  “Yes, just like his father,” Grace heard herself say, the words normal enough.

  Marco’s eyes met hers and she blinked away.

  “May I lift him?” Rosa asked, clearly itching to do just that.

  “Of course.” Grace bent down and picked Ben up, squeezing his round little body to her chest before handing him to the older woman. He looked hesitant for a moment but then his attention was caught by the gold earrings Rosa wore and he was completely captivated.

  “Da!” He said excitedly, pointing to one of the dangly things.

  Rosa laughed. “He is heavy, too! He has a good diet?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Grace nodded. “He loves food.”

  “Do you? Oh, well, your nonna is going to spoil you, young man.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead and he laughed at the smacking noise.

  Two bright red lines were left across his young skin and, in the mood Grace was in, she felt like he’d been marked. Marked and branded: Property of the Dettori.

  It wasn’t a nice feeling. She looked away, the smile dying on her face.

  “Your sister will be here for dinner, Marco. I told her to come in time to see Ben. I hope she makes it.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “Why don’t you call her? To be sure? Perhaps she doesn’t know that children go to bed early.”

  “She’s not that clueless.”

  “Still…”

  “Okay, okay,” he grinned, standing and reaching into his pocket for his phone. He moved away from them, further down the balcony, propping his wrists on the edge and staring out at the gentle, rolling hills of Tuscany.

  “So,” Rosa moved to one of the wrought iron chairs and sat down, perching Ben on her lap. He’d transferred his attention to her bangles now, his fingers rifling over them with unapologetic curiosity. “You are the reason for my son’s transformation?”

  “His transformation?” Grace parroted, her eyes trailing over Marco’s back as he spoke into the phone.

  “From womanizer to saint.”

  Grace silently rebuked the term; Marco was definitely no saint. But she could hardly say so to his mother. “For two years he has been out of the papers, no women, no scandal, no flighty supermodels on his arm. This explains it.”

  Her heart thumped hard and fast against her ribs, demanding attention. She didn’t know what to say, and so stayed quiet.

  “I wonder that he never mentioned you.”

  “Our situation was complicated,” Grace said quietly, after a moment. “The timing wasn’t right.”

  She winced inwardly at the description, for the injustice it did Steven. “I see.” Rosa pressed another kiss to Ben; this time to his curls.

  “I knew there must have been someone special in his heart, however. For a man like my son to live as he has, virtually as a monk… and now it makes sense.”

  Grace tilted a glance at the older woman. She was obviously mistaken. It was true, Marco hadn’t been in the gossip rags, but it didn’t follow that he’d been celibate for two years. How absurd.

  Still, the idea played on her mind. Later, when Ben was ‘helping’ Rosa set the table for dinner, and Marco had just stepped out of the shower, Grace approached him distractedly. She’d changed into a black dress with a high neckline that fell to her knees, and had teamed it with a chunky gold necklace and a pair of heels.

  He let his gaze drift down her body, lingering on the curve of her breasts in a way that darted hot arrows beneath her skin.

  “What is it?” He aske
d after a moment, the towel knotted loose on his hips, his broadly-muscled chest a feast Grace wanted to enjoy with her hungry gaze.

  “I need to ask you something.” She cleared her throat. “Something personal.”

  “Go on.”

  Her teeth massaged her lower lip. “Your mother seems to think… I mean, she must be wrong, but she seems to think that you haven’t been … that …”

  “Spit it out, Grace,” he drawled.

  Grace nodded and cleared her throat once more. When she spoke it was barely a whisper. “She seems to think that the last two years you’ve been…”

  His face was carefully blanked of emotion. He stood impassively, waiting for her to finish.

  “That there hasn’t been anyone else for you. Since me,” she said lamely. “Why would she think that?”

  He reached down and undid his towel, dropping it to the floor between them. His nakedness was as perfect as her dreams remembered. She stepped back when every nerve in her body had wanted to propel her forwards.

  “Why does it matter?” He shrugged.

  “I … don’t know. I just … wondered.”

  His smile was sexiness personified. “Do you believe it?”

  “Of course not. I told you, I know it couldn’t be true…”

  “Yet you’re asking me about it.”

  “It was just a strange thing for her to say, that’s all. She thinks I changed you in some way.”

  “My mother is trying to make sense of all this. She has written a love story in her mind, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  Grace turned away clumsily, moving back to the bed and reaching for the sheer scarf she’d chosen to loop around her neck.

  But his hands gently pressing her hair over one shoulder stilled her. His touch was gentle and familiar. He dropped his lips to the flesh on her neck, kissing her so that her stomach lurched and a moan escaped her lips.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” He brought his hands lower, to cup her breasts from behind and his fingers tormented her nipples through the fabric of her dress, stoking her to life. She arched her back, without realizing it, and then Marco’s fingers were finding the hem of her dress, inching it higher, up her legs, until it was over her backside and he had access to more of her.

  He dealt with her underpants easily, removing the scrap of fabric and groaning as he ran his arousal across her back.

  “Bend over.” The husky command made her veins hum. She knew she should say something. But words were no longer possible. Being touched by him was so right. So perfect.

  She did as he said, pressing her head to the crisp white duvet. His hands spread her legs, and then he was inside her. It wasn’t gentle nor was it slow.

  This was need. Pure, blinding need. He pushed into her, hard, fast, swift, and then he withdrew, before thrusting deep inside of her.

  Grace groaned, her fingers curling into the fabric of the bedlinen as she cried his name out and he tormented her by giving her everything she’d always wanted. Physically, at least.

  As he moved inside her, his urgency apparent, his fingers moved back to her nipples and he twisted them through her dress, through her bra, until she was melting. She was unprepared for the speed of her orgasm. It burst over her like a flash flood, a deluge of sensation she was powerless to resist.

  And she didn’t want to resist it.

  Like this, with him, everything was so perfect.

  He pulled out and she instinctively pushed backwards, not ready to relinquish the thrill of possession even as her body was shivering from the ebbs of her arousal.

  “Lie down.”

  She would do anything he asked of her. She climbed up onto the bed but he made a noise as she went to lie on her stomach.

  “No, no. Turn over. I want to watch you.”

  She flipped onto her back and saw the triumph in his face. She saw something else there too. Something like arrogant mastery that she knew she should object to but couldn’t.

  “Do you really think you have any right to ask me about the other women in my life?” He demanded, striking a finger inside of her as he asked the question, so that only part of her brain was functioning. The rest of her was a live-wire, reverberating at his command.

  “Well, I am marrying you,” she pointed out, groaning as he added a second finger and swirled over her still-tormented cluster of nerves.

  Something like a smile ghosted on his features.

  “You melt when I touch you.” He brought his mouth down to hers, kissing her hard, and she groaned into the kiss, lifting her hands to curl around his neck. But he instantly pulled away, his eyes clashing with hers.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “What?” Confusion was a fog surrounding her. “What do you mean?”

  “We are not making love. I am … pleasing you. This is different.”

  Grace felt the distinction and the pain was severe. “Why can’t we do both?”

  “Because we are not a couple. We’re using each other, remember?”

  “I’m not using you.”

  “Of course you are. You’re using me to be in Ben’s life. I understand that.”

  He removed his fingers and trailed them down her leg, to her knee. Then, he lifted her dress fully, pushing it up, over her head and then off the bed. She heard it rustle to the floor.

  “Was it like this with him?” He pushed the cups of her bra down, then brought his mouth to her naked breasts, his stubble was hard on her smooth flesh and his mouth was warm and moist. She made a keening noise.

  “Did he make love to you with my child inside of you?” The question was accompanied by another thrust of possession. This time, his arousal moved inside of her and she arched her back, her body thick with lust.

  She shook her head and called out Marco’s name, and once more her hands lifted to his chest but he growled and caught them in one of his larger hands, pinning them above her head.

  “Don’t. Touch.”

  She bit down on her lip, need raging inside of her. “I want …”

  “You want to feel this, and I’m going to let you.”

  To let you.

  The primal sense of ownership wasn’t something she enjoyed, but her body responded as though separate to her brain.

  “But first I want you to beg.”

  She froze, her eyes jarring to his.

  “To … beg?”

  “I want you to tell me no one’s ever made you feel like I do.”

  “I…”

  “I want you to tell me that every time he touched you, you wished it was me.”

  “Marco…” A whimper. A sound of pain. A lashing of her heart.

  “I want you to tell me you want me. That you need me. And then I want you to beg and plead.”

  “No,” she groaned, her brow fevered, her heart racing.

  He pulled out of her then, but dragged his mouth to her nipples once more, flicking them with his tongue. The desertion was an ache that spread like wildfire through her tense body. She was wound tighter than a spring, poised to burst, and only he held the key to move her. To release her. The ache was, perhaps, strongest of all in her throat, where unshed tears caught and pricked at her flesh.

  His eyes held hers, mocking and somehow desperate. She understood.

  “Please,” she whispered, from gritted teeth.

  The word was a poisoned chalice – to both of them, but in that moment, he took it; she gave it. “Please. Please.”

  “Tell me you need me.” A graveled plea. However much she needed him, he needed to hear that more. Her heart understood.

  “I need you.”

  He rewarded her by moving to her core once more, thrusting deep inside and she released a primal scream of deliverance. She tried to lift her arms but he held them where they were. She was his prisoner in every way. And she didn’t care.

  “Tell me you want this.”

  Yes, she understood his need. But rebellion was stil
l alive in her, even as her body recognized his total control over her. She pushed up as far as she was able and kissed him then. “Shut up.” The words were a plea, though; she was still begging. “Shut up.”

  His laugh was thick and hoarse. He swore in his own tongue and kissed her back, hard, pushing her head to the bed as he moved into her.

  Warm tears glided down her cheeks, splashing onto the bed linen. She didn’t check them; she barely even noticed them.

  “I hate that I want you,” he said, and she knew that was true. She understood. He hated her, didn’t he? He’d said as much.

  Grief was deep inside of her, a weed she couldn’t trim. But pleasure almost drowned it out. Her breathing was rushed, her voice cracking as again and again she begged him for more. For more.

  He knew what she wanted, though. He knew her body better than she did herself.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” She groaned as finally, finally waves began to build inside of her that promised sweet, sweet fulfillment.

  “You did it to me first,” he responded, and he let her hands go then, bracing himself on either side of her head and kissing her. “You did it to me.”

  She didn’t understand what he meant, but she had no power left to interpret it. She was his slave; his prisoner. He moved as she needed, as she’d always needed, and she shattered apart, her sanity and her self broken beyond repair by the power he wielded over her.

  He pushed up on his hands, watching her, his own breath torn from his body as he stared at her in the throes of passion. She went to cover her face but he shook his head. “No.” His hands caught hers and pinned them to either side, spread-eagling her arms. “No. I want to see what I make you feel.”

  Even the words added extra fuel to the eroticism of that moment. She was burning up and he was both her salvation and her flame. She ground her hips and he echoed the movement. She shook from head to toe as the orgasm split her in two.

  Only he wasn’t done. Even as the wave was breaking around her, he moved, and he caught her ankles now, lifting her legs over his shoulders so that she was practically folded in two. He was deeper and the pleasure was almost an exquisite form of pain. Her body was already too sensitive and the touch was a form of torture. Blissful torture.