Baby Maker - A Secret Baby Sports Star Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  Kadeen’s eyes darted to her lips, and Nicole was wondering if he would be the one to make the first move when the Sheikh’s phone rang, making both of them jump.

  He took a step back, the spell broken as he answered his phone.

  “Yes, Imogen?”

  He sounded as annoyed as Nicole felt, and she wondered again if there could really be anything between her and her wayward boss. She pinched herself subtly, trying to come back to reality—the reality where he was her womanizing boss.

  The room was quiet enough, and Imogen’s voice piercing enough, that Nicole could actually hear both sides of the conversation.

  “You both need to get back here immediately. I’ve just landed a piece that needs urgent restoration, or the client will drop us and take their business elsewhere. You need to send her back now.”

  Kadeen looked at Nicole, his expression returning to its usual poker face as he considered what the best option was. Nicole imagined she’d be on a plane later that evening, headed back to New York, her little adventure over. She wondered if Imogen was making the whole thing up just to get her away from Kadeen. It wasn’t too farfetched an idea, unfortunately.

  Imogen was still talking when Kadeen interrupted her.

  “Imogen, no one needs art that quickly. Tell them if they want a decent restoration, they’ll have to wait. Besides, we’re already working on another project, and there is such a thing as waiting in line.”

  While Imogen was in the middle of protesting, Kadeen pulled the phone away from his ear and ended the call, smiling at Nicole as he put it back in his pocket.

  “Hey, would you like to take a walk with me? I think we’ve accomplished enough for one day, and the painting will be perfectly safe here, locked up in a temperature-controlled room. You’ve done more than enough.”

  “I’d like that,” Nicole said, the corner of her lip tugging slightly as she accepted the invitation.

  She had started feeling a little hungry as they arrived at the studio, and was pleased when Kadeen guided her towards a food stand and ordered a couple of meat pies for them to munch on as they walked.

  Nicole sank her teeth into the hot flaky pastry and grinned. “This is amazing!” she said, and Kadeen smiled down at her as he swallowed his first bite.

  “I know, right? These are an Al Qazar delicacy. I grew up eating these things.”

  Kadeen led the way towards the ocean, and they strolled slowly along the boardwalk as waves lapped gently along the shore. To Nicole’s surprise, the sun had set while they were in the studio, and they found themselves bathed in muted city lights and moonlight.

  “Do you think it’s sad that your ancestor never got to be with the man she loved?” Nicole asked.

  Kadeen chewed the last of his pie, ruminating for a moment before he answered. “I suppose so, though, that’s just life, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? Maybe a couple hundred years ago, but people can be with the one they love now.”

  “I suppose that depends on your definition of love. Some people find it easier to be matched than others.”

  Kadeen held out a hand for Nicole’s empty pastry wrapper and she placed it lightly in his palm, not sure if she wanted her fingers to touch his or not. With the moonlight above and her belly full, her guard was beginning to crumble as she strolled alongside this handsome man. He looked even more striking in the moonlight, and Nicole was finding the urge to kiss him growing with each step they took. The way things were going, she wouldn’t be able to resist much longer.

  “You don’t believe love can grow? That it must be there from the beginning?” he asked.

  Nicole thought about that a moment. “I suppose it can, given the right circumstances. The people involved have to be open to the idea that it might flourish over time. Still, when I think of my wedding day, I can’t imagine not being in love with the man at the end of the aisle.”

  “How very American of you,” Kadeen observed.

  “I suppose it is. Do you think that’s foolish?”

  “I do not. That is what you were brought up to believe, and I truly feel that love is something that everyone deserves to experience. It just might come in a myriad of ways, that’s all.”

  It took a moment for Nicole to realize that they had walked all the way back to their hotel. She’d been so engrossed in their conversation she hadn’t even noticed how far they’d come.

  “We’re back,” she observed, trying not to sound disappointed.

  Kadeen looked down at her, then. They had been walking close enough to occasionally bump arms, and he was still close enough to her that she could take a chance and kiss him if she dared. She thought about how different he was when he was off his guard—how easygoing, how affable, and kind. She thought about how awful it would be if she never told him how she truly felt.

  Swept up in the romance of the Sheikha’s story, Nicole threw caution to the wind. Not breaking eye contact, she stepped closer, tilting her chin to look up at him. Slowly, achingly slowly, she lifted onto her toes and placed her lips against his.

  Kadeen’s reaction was instant. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close, kissing her passionately as though he were a man stranded in the desert and she his only drink of water. He drank her in, until she was dizzy with her own passion.

  Finally, the Sheikh broke off their kiss, and they both stood breathing hard as he placed his forehead against hers to try to quell their passions. It didn’t work.

  “Will you come up with me?” he asked between breaths.

  Unable to speak, Nicole nodded, and he took her hand before guiding her inside. When the elevator doors closed, leaving them alone, Kadeen took her in his arms again, his hands roaming her body as their lips met yet again.

  The doors dinged open on the twelfth floor and they rushed to his room, Kadeen fumbling slightly with the key before he granted them entrance.

  There, under the light of a full moon, in one of the most luxurious hotels Nicole had ever set foot in, she finally made love to the most desirable man she had ever met.

  The Sheikh’s Quintuplet Baby Surprise can be found on Amazon by clicking here

  And now, here is the entirety of my previously released book, Poker Face; enjoy!

  ONE

  When Aimee Delacroix learned of her father’s bankruptcy—via text message, no less—she nearly fainted with fear and dread. Her entire life was about to flip upside down, and she didn’t even get the decency of learning of it in person?

  The 24-year-old glared at the screen of her aging cellphone as her father’s hotel hummed around her. For a moment, her vision went white; she lost her footing and fell forward, leaning heavily against the reception desk. Bankruptcy. How could this happen?

  “Excuse me? I’m trying to check out?” A man, a 60-something gambler, pestered her as she passed through the stages of shock and grief.

  Aimee shook her head, whipping her blond hair behind her ears, and began to type furiously. She was a professional—often deemed the best receptionist her father’s Monte Carlo hotel had ever seen. “The star example,” she was often called. But in that moment, she could hardly feel her fingers, and customer service was low down on the list of her priorities.

  “So sorry, monsieur. We’ll get you checked out as soon as possible. Did you enjoy your stay at Hotel Delacroix?”

  The man’s face broke into a wide, teeth-whitened smile. His wrinkles were lined with angry, sun-drenched red. “As you know, Miss Delacroix, I always have a perfect time here. Your father really knows how to run a hotel.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, monsieur,” Aimee laughed, feeling her heart dip deep into the acid of her stomach.

  The guest didn’t pick up on her sarcasm, and Aimee maintained her plastic grin until he retreated into the sun outside, leaving her alone at the reception. Alone with the impending future, which would ruin everything she’d built. Everything she’d worked for.

  Of course, Aimee’s father, Max Delacroix, had neve
r been responsible with his funds. Despite owning a grand hotel in Monaco, and drawing some of the biggest high-rollers across the world, he had a gambling problem, which had ultimately driven Aimee’s mother, Sarah, back to the United States several years before.

  Aimee often thought that Monte Carlo and Seattle, her mother’s hometown, couldn’t be any more different. Monte Carlo, with its grandeur, turquoise sea, and bright, aching sunlight, compared to Seattle—with its grunge music and its grey skies. Since her early teens, Monte Carlo had been the only home she’d known. She’d decided to stay there when her mother had returned to the States, maintaining her unglamorous position as hotel receptionist, beneath the terribly bright, blue sky.

  Finally, she found herself texting her father back, demanding answers. She pictured him with hungover, yellow eyes, gazing out over his balcony. He’d probably lose that apartment, as well.

  How long have you known?

  The response came almost instantly, as if her father was hovering, awaiting her anger.

  Two weeks. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. The bank is foreclosing the hotel, unless I can find a way to pay back the debts.

  Aimee sighed, holding her head heavily in her hands. The clock on the wall ticked toward 11 p.m., which meant a shift change. The minute Christopher, her co-receptionist, slipped into position at the desk, Aimee darted toward a casino, Le Joueur, with the strong desire for a drink. Or maybe five. Christopher seemed perturbed at her lack of affection—or even a hello—but was soon thrust into a conversation with an angry guest, freeing Aimee from the woes of hospitality for a few more hours.

  Franc, the head bartender of Le Joueur, recognized her, waving five fingers in the air and mouthing: “The usual?”

  But Aimee shook her head, her eyelids fluttering. “I need something stronger. Whiskey. Straight.”

  Franc smirked, eyeing her coolly. He whipped the whiskey bottle upside down, pouring two shots into a glass. The liquor gleamed beneath the candlelight as he slipped it toward her, rapping his knuckles against the counter. “Cheer up, kiddo. In this industry, you can’t let people get you down.”

  “If only you knew,” Aimee said, rolling her eyes slightly. The whiskey burned as it slipped down her throat. Her normal vodka tonic wouldn’t have done the trick. Not that night.

  She slipped her hand over her lips, closing her eyes, coming to terms with the fact that her life in Monaco was probably over. Around her, the most beautiful women in the world sauntered between tables, their hair gleaming. Men tossed hundred-bills at the bartenders, assured that their world would keep spinning, the money would continue its constant stream. Their lives, whiled away on yachts, eating luxurious food, each day slipping easily into the next, had nothing in common with hers. Despite having been surrounded by this level of grandeur since the age of 14, Aimee’s father paid her nothing more than a receptionist’s wage—which meant she didn’t have any money in savings. She hadn’t needed it before. She’d lived day-to-day in a tiny apartment near the hotel, content with her simple life.

  Without savings or a job in Monte Carlo, she’d have to move somewhere else. In the back of her mind, she tried to enhance the allure of Seattle—to tell the story of the rainy, bleak city to herself in a way that would excite her. She hardly knew her mother anymore—only saw her for the occasional Christmas—and yet, she knew she would accept her with open arms, would encourage her to find comfort and love in that gloomy town.

  Aimee sighed, her head spinning. Images of her life in Monte Carlo slipped through her mind, reminding her that this was the only world she’d built for herself. Her closest friends were here. Her long days at the beach, or hiking along the coast, or sipping wine with her father—whom she truly loved—would be over, if she left. She couldn’t give all of that up.

  She had to be creative. She had to find a new job, outside the boundaries of her father’s failing business. She had years of hotel experience, and Monte Carlo was just that: hotel after hotel after hotel, burning and bustling beneath the sun. She’d speak with one of her friends, pull in some favors. Surely, someone would offer assistance; she’d find a way to keep her head above water in the world of extreme money and luxury. Perhaps, in a year, this would all be no more than a blip.

  Aimee blinked rapidly, her blood swimming with alcohol, realizing she’d emptied the glass. She arced her hand upward, alerting Franc that she was ready for another. She’d dive into the depths that night, if only to escape this revving, internal pain. And the next day, once she shook off her hangover, she’d find a way to survive the rest of her life.

  Franc bowed his head, giving her a conspiratorial look, his eyes twinkling. “Actually, Aimee, your next drink has been paid for.” He winked and directed her gaze.

  At that, Aimee whipped her head around, her blond hair gleaming in the bar candlelight. She discovered a tall, handsome man standing behind her, his dark eyes centered upon her, the cut of his jaw stark, attractive, and his dark hair and olive skin hinting at Italian ancestry. Aimee tilted her head, her eyes connecting with his for only a moment before the intensity of it caused her to search elsewhere. She swallowed, nervousness coursing through her.

  The man standing behind her was Enrico Fonti, the owner of Le Joueur, and a man she’d only seen from afar, sauntering through Monte Carlo with an unearthly air of self-assurance. He’d been the talk of the town for the last year or so, since he’d opened Le Joueur, the brightest, most successful new casino in Monaco. He was only 32 years old, a self-made billionaire who’d made much of his fortune as a banker in London. He’d been whispered to be an intense, enviable poker player, and Aimee had seen him in action just once—when he’d won a world tournament that had taken place at Le Joueur itself. Her father had been thrust from his seat rather early, she remembered, losing the best part of a million dollars in the process. And he wondered why bankruptcy rapped at his door.

  Aimee turned large eyes up toward Enrico, sliding her fingers through her hair. “Hello, there,” she said, her voice sure, steady. She worked in hospitality, and not much could shake her—be it situations or people. Not even this striking man who appeared to only have eyes for her.

  “You’re drinking whiskey,” Enrico said, his voice suave and slightly accented. “I like a woman who can handle her liquor.” His eyes flashed.

  Aimee raised a single eyebrow, lowering her shoulders slightly. Candlelight flickered on her collarbone, above her low-cut black dress. “After the day I’ve had, I don’t suppose I could handle anything else.”

  Franc set two glasses of whiskey on the bar before them, and Aimee watched, her heart jolting in her chest, as Enrico took the stool beside her. His posture was strong, sure, and his muscles pulsed beneath his immaculate suit. She’d seen him at the bar at Le Joueur before—usually with flimsy, vacant-looking women, one on each arm. He traded the women out each night, playing into his status as the ‘Playboy of Monte Carlo.’

  Aimee hated womanizers and detested that the type was so pervasive across Monte Carlo, but something within her seemed to buzz with excitement at the mere scent of him.

  “So. What brings you to the bar this evening—”

  “Enrico,” he said, finishing her sentence and bringing his hand forward and shaking hers, letting his fingers linger for a long moment. He gave her a confident grin that showed off his perfect teeth. His lips were soft, kissable, and his five o’clock shadow gave him a rugged look—one straight from the pages of a magazine. Everything about him was planned, perfected—and yet, in spite of herself, Aimee found herself brimming with lust.

  “Aimee,” she murmured, sensing she was losing her confidence. “Aimee Delacroix.”

  “Ah,” Enrico said, his dark eyebrows jolting high. “Not of the Max Delacroix name?”

  “The very one,” Aimee replied, sipping her whiskey, feeling the burn jolt down her throat. “He’s my father, actually.” She forced her face not to give away her disgust with the man who was currently tossing his, her, and several d
ozen employees’ jobs down the tube.

  “A good man. A good man. If not a great poker player, if you don’t mind me saying,” Enrico said, winking. “Although, that doesn’t measure the greatness of a man.”

  “I suppose not,” Aimee said, shrugging playfully. When Enrico smiled, a single dimple appeared on his left cheek. Her stomach jostled with nerves. She sipped her drink again, her mind racing for things to say. “But it might help his temper to be just a bit better at it.”

  Enrico laughed, passing a hand through his wavy dark hair. “We can all say that. My temper turns with the table. I wish I could say I had control over it, but I am Italian, after all. We live and die by our emotions. And what, exactly, is your heritage?”

  Aimee shifted slightly as his gaze passed over her body. She watched his eyes turn toward her curves, and she yearned for him to touch her, to wrap his fingers around her waist. She cleared her throat. “I’m half French, half American. My mother is from Seattle, and my father—well. He’s from here. But they’re no longer together.”