Baby Maker - A Secret Baby Sports Star Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  “Your mother returned to America?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What made you stay here?”

  Aimee half-smiled, nudging him slightly with her right elbow. “Why would anyone leave this sort of paradise?”

  He leaned toward her, then. She could feel the heat of his breath upon her cheeks. His eyes were penetrating as he whispered toward her. It seemed that the entire room had halted its breathing, that the music had come to an abrupt stop in her ears. She swallowed.

  “I felt just the same when I came here from London, nearly six years ago. I bought a yacht that day and gazed out across the sea, the sunshine warming my cheeks. I had no wish in my mind beyond making this vacation last the rest of my life.”

  “And you did it,” Aimee whispered, biting her lip. “You opened this casino, and you never left. You make a mockery of dreamers. You live their dream, all the time.”

  “As do you, Aimee. Don’t forget that,” Enrico said. After a pause, he knocked the rest of his whiskey down and rapped his knuckles against the bar, alerting Franc to his empty glass. Franc scurried, rat-like, and poured whiskey into both of their glasses. He looked frazzled, without the sure confidence Aimee was used to seeing in him when his boss wasn’t around.

  “I’m growing rather tired of drinking at the bar. What do you say, Aimee? Do you want to get your hands dirty?” Enrico’s dark eyebrows rose high, and he cocked his head, egging her on.

  “Play the tables?” she asked.

  But Enrico had already stood from his stool and begun his march toward the nearest blackjack table. The crowd seemed to part like the Red Sea before him, sensing his presence. And Aimee, his girl of the night, followed him demurely, conscious of the eyes upon her. She swept her shoulders back, attempting to maintain her hard-earned confidence. But inwardly, she felt befuddled, filled with anxiety and lust for this strange, handsome man.

  Enrico gestured toward the seat beside him at the table, alerting Aimee that it was hers to take. She sat, fluffing her hair and flitting her eyes toward the dealer. The 40-something man had dark brown hair, round cheeks, and a jaded expression. His tie cinched too tight at his neck, squeezing his skin, and his eyes glazed across Aimee’s for only a moment before dismissing her.

  “This is where it all happens, Aimee,” Enrico said, his voice animated. He rubbed his palms together as the dealer snapped the first card face-down on the table. Around them, a small crowd had formed, an excited hum buzzing from their lips. Watching the casino owner play his own tables was a real treat—a reason to extend their time at Le Joueur.

  Aimee turned her eyes toward the dealer’s fast fingers as he snapped another card, face-up, above the first card. The appearance of hers, a nine, fizzled her brain with confusion. Her thoughts of the next steps felt scattered. She didn’t like to play the tables— she deemed them a risky way to spend her wages, and now, they were the very reason her life was sweeping down the drain, per her father’s lack of foresight.

  She turned her gaze toward Enrico’s card. The jolting appearance of his, an ace, caused the crowd to gasp, aching with the sense that they were small fry in the shadow of this great, illustrious man.

  “How do you do it?” Aimee whispered, a flirty smile flickering across her face. Her eyes danced as she searched his, but Enrico’s concentration never shifted from his cards, from the dealer. He lifted his hand and then smacked his palm on the table, which elicited another gasp from the crowd.

  “Another, sir?”

  “Hit me,” Enrico said cockily.

  The dealer flipped the card over, then, revealing an eight. He turned toward Aimee, who frowned, weighing her options. She flung her fingers through the air, hopeful that the man beside her had gone over 21, and told the dealer she was finished. Kaput. At least, that’s what it seemed she should do.

  “Let’s see what I have,” she said, grinning. She bit her lip, her eyes wavering downward, away from the crowd that burned holes in her confidence with their intent, anxious gaze.

  The dealer shrugged slightly, his thick shoulders creeping toward his earlobes. He flipped her facedown card upward, revealing a Jack.

  Aimee exhaled comically, giving Enrico a saucy expression. “What do you think of that?” she said, tossing her head back. “Eighteen. Not so bad, for a novice, eh?” She fluttered her eyelashes, secretly glad the game was finished.

  Enrico bowed his head. “Your abilities are not to be messed with, Miss Delacroix,” he said warmly.

  “Let’s see what Enrico has!” someone from the crowd yelled, causing the others to cheer. “Let’s see her beat!”

  Aimee gestured toward the ace, the eight, and the facedown card, tossing her hair. “I can’t imagine you didn’t go over,” she teased. “I’ve been around the tables enough to know.”

  “Oh, have you, Aimee?” Enrico countered. Was he mocking her?

  He rapped a knuckle on the table, and a rush of excited chatter swept through the crowd. The towering dealer pushed his hand forward and flipped over the facedown card, revealing an incredible, unrealistic three of hearts, bringing the total to 21.

  The crowd gasped, their cries echoing around them. The dealer turned toward Aimee, his pupils twinkling as if to say: “That’s how it’s done.”

  But Enrico just shrugged his shoulders and tipped his whiskey back, gulping it down in one. He wrapped his left arm around Aimee’s waist, tipping his fingers into her skin slightly. She felt a jolt of electricity and turned her nose toward him, inhaling the musky scent of him, feeling passion course through her veins. She swallowed and closed her eyes, feeling Enrico’s nose inch closer toward her, their lips an inch away from colliding. But, in a split second, he yanked back, jolting from her.

  Aimee’s eyes flew open. She sensed she was being played with, toyed with. She stuck her finger up, catching the eye of the bartender, who pushed another whiskey toward her. She was edging toward drunk, bleeding with the pleasure of forgetting her name, of forgetting that she was a humble receptionist on the brink of being jobless, and not the Enrico-clinger she was currently playing. As Enrico turned his lips toward her ears, she shivered, hearing his words:

  “What do you say we find a more private table? I’m tired of playing.”

  “You are?” she whispered, her eyes dancing, taking in every feature of his perfect face.

  “Just of blackjack. Not with you,” he said, smiling at her like she was the only person in the world.

  He led her toward the back corner of Le Joueur, grasping her fingers with his large hand. Aimee righted her posture, sauntering confidently on her heels, as she sensed the whispers following them. Enrico had just won over 10,000 euros in a single round at his own blackjack table, and yet he allowed for no pomp and circumstance. This was just another roll of the dice, another hour, another moment in the chaotic, sun-drenched life of a billionaire. And, for some reason, Aimee found herself wanting to go along for the ride.

  TWO

  As they sat in the back of the casino, Enrico snapped his fingers for one round of whiskeys after another, turning his eyes toward Aimee’s face and leaning inward, as if they were exchanging secrets beneath the loud pulse of the DJ’s beat.

  “I think you’re extremely beautiful,” he whispered to her, lifting his finger to her cheek and swiping it downward along her jaw, appreciating the tender, angelic quality of her skin. “I’ve never seen an American with such beauty.”

  “American and French,” Aimee corrected, easing into a light smile. She felt her words slurring, the whiskey drying her tongue. She sensed the night could get messy, yet she didn’t care.

  “And me?” Enrico said, his eyes like a cat’s. “Do you like sitting here with me? One of the Monte Carlo billionaires that I’m sure you spend your life hating?”

  Aimee huffed, rolling her eyes. She couldn’t help but grin at his insight. “Am I so transparent?”

  “Perhaps slightly,” Enrico said, arrogance clearly expressed on his face. “I can’t hel
p but observe that you didn’t plan on meeting me. You didn’t count on sitting with a billionaire tonight, like so many other beautiful women—your peers—make it a mission to do.”

  “Not quite my peers,” Aimee giggled. “The women I check into the hotel every day. The women I watch saunter back to the hotel with their men at night. I don’t consider myself a part of their pack.”

  “And maybe that’s what I like about you,” Enrico replied. He leaned toward her, tipping his nose toward hers once more.

  Aimee forced her mind to clear, willing thoughts of her father’s ruin, of a new life in America, to fall away, leaving her with the overzealous, irresistible personality of this billionaire Italian. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, catching his in a deep kiss that made her stomach clench, her muscles tense with lust, with need.

  They held the kiss for only a moment, allowing their tongues to tangle, to slip over each other. Aimee felt a small groan emit from her throat. And then, they broke the kiss, their eyes locking in a moment of unconscious understanding.

  They rose from their seats, and Aimee grasped his fingers, leaving her half-full glass of whiskey abandoned on the table.

  Enrico took sure steps toward the rear of the casino, where a private elevator sat waiting. He inserted a small silver key into the lock, and the doors opened slowly to reveal a large elevator car, the interior completely covered in mirrors. Aimee caught a glimpse of her long, tanned legs, her flushed red cheeks—highlighting her drunkenness. She swayed alongside the billionaire, trying not to stumble on her heels.

  “Is this where you live?” she whispered, leaning against one of the mirrored walls as the doors closed.

  “The penthouse on the top floor, yes,” Enrico said, taking a step toward her. He looped his arms around her shoulders, feeling the tension of the muscles with his thumbs as nipped her neck with his teeth, making her stir with pleasure, with expectation.

  But as the elevator flew up, toward the penthouse, Aimee felt the stinging realization that something was wrong; that she wasn’t acting like herself. She lurched back from the man before her, gazing into his eyes, passion and lust still pulsing through her veins.

  “I’m sorry—” she said then, her voice harsh. “I have to go. I need to leave.”

  Enrico’s eyebrows shot up high. He took a step back, his body language suddenly angular, closing off the space where her body had been only a moment ago. “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t sleep with you tonight,” Aimee explained. Her mind was racing, trying to understand her own reasoning. She couldn’t have a one-night stand with the youngest billionaire in Monte Carlo; in the tiny remaining bit of her rational, sober mind, she knew this wasn’t who she was. She’d spent years seeing fake women sleep with men just because they were rich, going back to hotel rooms with them, booze-soaked, slurring, stumbling. Sure, Enrico was handsome, intelligent, and charismatic, but she was drunk, and she didn’t want to be just another nameless girl for the playboy to forget the next day.

  She gave the mysterious, electrifying man a slight smile and spun around, pressing the button for the first floor. They reached the top floor and Enrico got out, motioning to Aimee as if still asking her to join him, but she stood her ground and waited for the doors to close, sure in her decision.

  Enrico crossed his arms, shaking his head in what seemed to be bemused disbelief. “This has never happened to me before,” he said, laughing slightly. His cheeks were red with drink, and his eyes showed just a hint of confusion. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around, Aimee.”

  “Au revoir, sir,” Aimee whispered, smiling. She raised her hand in a small wave as the doors closed, and maintained her posture, shoulders high, lower back curved, as the elevator quickly descended, spitting her back into the roaring casino.

  Aimee made a swift exit from Le Joueur, her mind reeling with the realization that she’d never get another chance with Enrico. She walked the few blocks back to her studio apartment, and slipped the heels off her aching feet before flinging herself onto her bed, certain that she’d made the right decision in coming home, while aching for the pleasure that had surely awaited her in the penthouse suite.

  Despite her father’s terrible mistakes, and despite the new reality of her flipped-over world, she had to cling to the one thing that no one could take away from her—her sense of self. No matter how much she wanted to stay in Monaco, she wasn’t about to try and do that by becoming a gold-digging bimbo.

  THREE

  Almost a week after her encounter with Enrico, Aimee was at Hotel Delacroix, standing at reception, her brain feeling like mush. She was exhausted from yet another sleepless night in her apartment, tossing and turning in her pajamas. She hadn’t dared show her face at Le Joueur since her night with Enrico; she’d wanted any gossip to die down before making a return. Since she assumed Enrico had already met and seduced at least five new women since that fateful evening, she knew it was only a matter of time before everyone forgot about their brief encounter. Maybe, she would even forget about it herself.

  She flicked through a Monaco job listing, her heart heavy in her chest. Despite having sent in a few dozen applications in the last few days, all to hotels and restaurants in the Monte Carlo area, she hadn’t heard back from a single one. Monaco was saturated—she knew this perhaps better than anyone—and had ultimately sent many others like her away, without hope for a position. Her father’s hotel would close its doors in less than two weeks, and the world of Monaco would continue spinning without her.

  Aimee checked the clock on the wall behind her; it was almost seven in the morning, which put Seattle at 10 p.m. of the previous day. It was a slow morning, and she didn’t expect any patrons to arrive for at least half an hour, so she lifted the reception phone to her ear, dialing the familiar number. She listened to the ring blare out across the ocean, across the prairie. And then, she heard the raspy voice of her mother.

  “Darling,” she said, coughing slightly. “I didn’t expect you to call.”

  “Hi, Mom,” Aimee whispered.

  Her heart stung with pain; she’d lost her closeness with her mother since that fateful day when she’d decided to remain in Monaco. They’d had a great relationship, almost like friends—dancing on the beach, doing their makeup, swimming in the sea. Her mother had taught her to love Monaco, and then, she’d taught her that loving something wasn’t always enough.

  “How are you?”

  “Just fine, Aimee. The café’s doing real well. It’s a bit chilly these days, now we’re almost at the end of September. But I imagine that’s prime weather over there.”

  Hearing her mother’s smile through the phone, Aimee wiped a single tear from her cheek. Her eyes danced toward the hotel entrance, imagining her mother twirling through it in her white beach dress, taking off her sunglasses to reveal her bright blue eyes.

  “It’s gorgeous. I don’t have to tell you that. Don’t you miss the sun? Even a little bit?”

  “You know I don’t, Aimee,” her mother said, laughing slightly. “The sun became synonymous with my anger. And that hotel—I couldn’t take the stress of it anymore. I always felt like we were moments from going under.”

  Aimee swallowed, her throat tight and dry. “Mommy. That’s actually why I’m calling.”

  She felt weak, dilapidated, and she yearned for the comfort of her mother’s embrace. She hadn’t wanted to see her father in the week since she’d learned of the bankruptcy. With her eyes closed, she found flashes of memories; the three of them walking the beach at dusk, orange light dancing on their faces.

  “Don’t tell me the bastard has really done it?” her mother asked harshly, suddenly angry. “He’s given it all away, hasn’t he?”

  “It’s not his fault—” Aimee whispered, sensing, at first, that she needed to protect the man her mother had divorced years before. “He has a problem.”

  Her mother scoffed. She muttered slightly, under her breath, and then went back to mom-mode. “Don’t worry
, Aimee. My darling Aimee. You don’t have to stay in Monaco forever, you know. Come to Seattle. Go to college and get an education. You’re such a smart girl, honey. Don’t throw it all away for a daydream, not like I did.”

  “But you were happy, Mom,” Aimee whispered.

  “But that doesn’t always last forever. And when I left, I didn’t have anything to fall back on. The world is hard enough without people like your father gambling all they have away.” Her mother paused, breathing heavily, agitated. “Aimee, I never should have left Monaco without you. I knew that bastard would ruin everything—I couldn’t care less about him, but for you to have to go through this!”

  “I wanted to stay, Mom. And I still do,” Aimee retorted, anger bubbling within her. “I just have to find a way to make it work.”