Baby Maker - A Secret Baby Sports Star Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  “Well. While you figure out how complicated the real world is, I’ll prepare a life for you here,” her mother said firmly. “Just let me know when your flight arrives. I’ll pick you up from the airport.” She paused, her motherly words echoing over the line. “And Aimee?”

  Aimee exhaled from her nose, trying to quell her anger. “What is it?”

  “You won’t be disappointed about changing your life. I’m not. And I used to think Monaco was the whole world.”

  Aimee hung up the phone after a brief goodbye, her fingers shaking with confusion and unrest. A small, aching part of her understood that her mother was right—that Monaco wasn’t the entire world, that the allure of billionaire lifestyles, of yachts that stretched beneath the constant summer sky, would hold no room for her, especially when she grew beyond her mid-20s and into her 30s and 40s. That would be the end of her Monaco lifespan, if she even made it that long. Her mother had made it into her late 40s, and yet, happiness had long fled from her face. Loneliness had been her bedfellow as Aimee’s father had been persuaded by the blackjack tables to ruin their marriage, their family.

  Perhaps her offer was the only lifeboat Aimee would find. But that burn of desire, that feeling that she would never grow old—the electrifying hours she’d spent with Enrico the previous week—kept her tied to Monaco.

  Suddenly, the reception phone began to ring. Aimee sighed, sensing her mother’s temper flaring back over the ocean. Ever the diligent receptionist, she pushed her shoulders back and lifted the phone, finding her customer service voice.

  “Good morning, you’re through to the Delacroix. How may we assist you?” She glanced around the lobby, watching a single chef march from the kitchens out toward the glimmering sunshine. Otherwise, she was alone.

  “Hello?” she spoke once more, sensing a bad connection. She swallowed, spinning a pen in her fingers. “Is anyone there?”

  Finally, a voice came through the speaker. “Aimee Delacroix. So good to hear your voice.”

  Aimee frowned, her eyebrows lacing close to her eyes. How did this man know her name? Was he a regular?

  “Yes, sir. Can I help you? Would you like to make a reservation?”

  “Oh no, darling. No. I have no interest in making a reservation.”

  Aimee tilted her head. The man sounded older—perhaps one of her father’s gambling friends. Perhaps one he owed a great deal of money. Her heart began to flutter.

  “How can I be of service, sir?”

  “Actually, Miss Delacroix, my employer would like to request your presence at the marina this evening.”

  Aimee turned around, her eyes darting toward the marina, visible through the massive lobby window. Sailboats, hitched to the docks, shifted lightly in the morning breeze. She swallowed, sensing that something was about to happen—that the world was tilting for her.

  “Could you tell me who your employer is?” she asked, her voice wavering.

  “Unfortunately, I cannot,” the man rasped, his voice filled with secrets. “But I can tell you that this evening, at sunset, he plans to make you an offer you won’t be able to refuse.”

  Aimee’s lips parted in shock, her mind swimming with questions. “You can’t tell me anything else?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Her heart jolted. All at once, the mysterious, handsome face of Enrico slipped through her mind, a reminder of the very real tension that had built up between them on that fateful night, only days before. She inhaled sharply, suddenly realizing it wasn’t over between them. She couldn’t escape her want for his hands around her waist, for his lips over hers.

  “I’ll be there at sunset to meet your employer,” she whispered, her voice sizzling. “And I won’t be late.”

  No sooner had she spoken the words, the phone emitted a click, alerting her that the mysterious caller had hung up the phone. She clung the receiver close to her chest, her eyes lifting toward the ceiling. The morning sun swept over her cheeks, and a grin crept over her face, revealing her dimples. Her mood instantly lifted; she felt blissful.

  An offer she couldn’t refuse. That was what he’d said. She hung up the phone as her brain buzzed with curiosity, with lust. As she stood, zombie-like, a gaggle of maids rushed through the lobby, an elevator boy stomped sullenly toward his post, and several gamblers wandered in from their all-nighters in the Monaco streets. The Delacroix was days from dipping beneath sea-level for good, and yet: she had a single, glimmer of hope with the billionaire, Enrico.

  She thought back to what her mother had said. That she couldn’t continue living this daydream without building a future for herself. Her days in Monte Carlo were numbered; life as she knew it was ticking toward doomsday. And, with this dangling, last-ditch opportunity with a billionaire before her—she knew she needed to cling on to every last chance.

  Aimee whizzed through the rest of her morning responsibilities easily, responding to emails, pushing back the reality that her responsibilities at this establishment were coming to an end. Her father called her cell a few times at lunch, but she opted to ignore it, knowing that her anger would bleed through every syllable she spoke. She focused on just one thing that day—her desire to see Enrico again, to feel his touch on her skin, his strong arms around her shoulders, his warm lips upon hers.

  They had unfinished business, and she ached to rush to the marina that evening and fix that. Even if her daydream life in Monaco was coming to a close, she yearned for one final opportunity to live in its fantastical environment.

  FOUR

  Aimee scooted from her position at reception at around five that evening, her heels clattering across the gleaming floor with reckless, life-affirming speed. She slipped from her shoes as she burst into her apartment, taking a quick glance at her reflection in the mirror, giving herself a brief grin.

  She yanked her closet door open, grazing her fingers over the fabrics, knowing that her only options were the black dress she’d worn the previous week, along with a simple, slinky white dress which highlighted every curve and accentuated her hourglass figure. She grabbed it from the hanger and shrugged off her hotel uniform, standing naked and gazing whimsically out the window. The sun swam lower towards the horizon, casting orange ribbons across the sea.

  She slipped into the white dress, thinking of how it reminded her of her mother, thankful for how it showed off her legs—tanned, long and strong from hours and hours of standing at the desk. She swept eyeliner over her eyelids and donned red lipstick, giving herself a final, anxious smile. She had mere minutes until she was meant to be at the marina. Each second seemed to tick away too quickly. Soon, she’d be out of Monaco, back in Seattle—living out the cold, mundane years that would be the rest of her life.

  Shaking the drama from her mind, Aimee rushed down the steps, turning her eyes toward the sea, which always calmed her, made her center. The marina was only a five-minute walk away—part of the allure of her small, somewhat basic apartment.

  She swept a glance over the many people roving near the water, searching for Enrico. The scene was cinematic, coursing with millionaires and billionaires, each of them with a skinny, Botoxed woman strapped to his arm. Aimee recognized several of them as patrons of her hotel; as the invisible receptionist, she was the spy who saw the affairs, the parts people thought no one noticed. Working at such a high-end hotel was like peering around the other side of a curtain, viewing the sometimes-ugly reality of the richest people in the world. Often, the truth was exhilarating.

  As she neared the sea, she grew nervous, sensing her hands sweating. She couldn’t see Enrico anywhere. She spun on her heels, her eyes dancing toward both Le Joueur and the Delacroix, but catching no familiar faces. Behind her, she heard the creaks and groans of the many sailboats lining the docks.

  An older man, around her father’s age, shuffled by her then, a cigar dangling from his mouth. His belly erupted from the top of his pants, pooling above his belt. He gave her a once-over, his eyes dead. “Hello, darling,” he rasped.
“I don’t suppose you have anywhere you’re planning to go this evening? All dressed up like you are.”

  Aimee frowned and brought her shoulders high, arching her back. “As a matter of fact, I have plans,” she said, her voice haughty. She had to be confident, especially when being looked at like a piece of meat.

  “That’s too bad,” the man said, puffing on his cigar. His eyes stayed on her breasts, seemingly unable to look at anything else. “I’m free for the night. The lady’s gone back to Paris, and I haven’t yet found a companion. You’ll call me, won’t you, Miss—”

  “Julie,” Aimee lied. She shivered. “And no thank you.” She wanted to tell him she’d never be seen with him. Not in a million years. And yet—what, exactly, was she up to, out at the marina, anyway? She felt lost, unsure of herself. She should run home, take cover in her apartment, think about her future plans.

  But she’d sensed something real between her and Enrico, she told herself, her mind buzzing. She’d felt an immediate, primal attraction. She flipped her hair, watching the tubby stranger strut back toward the casinos, on a hunt. Her stomach stirred with panic.

  Suddenly, Aimee felt a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around, her eyes large, and found herself staring at a grey-faced man who stood, crooked, his eyebrows raising with intrigue as he looked her up and down. Aimee recoiled back, angry, ready to hiss insults at him. But something gave her pause. He lifted a single finger to his lips, giving his head a single shake, and beckoned toward her, his fingers curling in a come-hither pattern.

  Aimee shifted her weight on her right foot, anxious. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” she whispered. The man made her skin feel cold, clammy.

  “I’m to bring you to your appointment,” the grey-faced man answered. He jerked back toward the dock, and Aimee followed him, her pulse racing.

  A smell of moldy floorboards crept into Aimee’s nose, and she chewed at the skin inside her cheek, realizing she should perhaps have brought some kind of defensive weapon with her. What kind of pickle had she gotten herself into?

  The man jumped down onto a small boat, which still hummed, its motor an unending drone. He gestured for her to hop on as well, and she did, nearly toppling over, her heels slipping sideways. She grasped onto the side as the grey-faced man pulled the rope from the dock and zipped the boat out into the open water, toward the horizon.

  “Where are we going?” Aimee called to him, the wind whipping her hair around her face. She spit several hairs from her mouth and felt tears forming in her eyes, which she fought back, attempting to keep her composure as much as she could.

  “We’re nearly there,” the man yelled, sweeping the boat still further from the marina.

  Neither of them spoke for a few minutes as the boat hummed through the water, the ocean becoming darker, deeper, more ominous as they went. Aimee felt her tongue go dry in her mouth.

  Just when she began to consider leaping from the boat and swimming back to shore, Aimee saw something on the horizon. She gasped, the sound squeaking from her throat. There, before them, was the largest yacht she’d ever seen. The last of the evening sunlight glimmered across the top, and light music twinkled from the top deck.

  “Is that where we’re going?” she asked.

  But the grey-faced man didn’t answer. He lurched the boat as close to the yacht as he could, and a moment later, a ladder appeared for them. The man pointed a stern finger toward it, gesturing for her to climb, and with a mad gulp, Aimee strapped first one heel, then another, upon the ladder’s rungs, and carefully made her ascent, her hips swaying as she crept upwards.

  Finally, she reached the first deck and stumbled ungracefully on board the yacht. Her eyes bolted wide open, shocked. On the deck before her stood a man she recognized immediately: Jean-Claude Duchamp, an old gambling associate of her father’s, and one of the most prosperous casino owners in all of Monaco.

  FIVE

  Aimee stood before him, her hands upon her hips, feeling rather foolish in her slinky white dress. She didn’t speak, suddenly feeling just like the little girl she’d been years before, hovering around her father as he lost one million after another to Duchamp. They’d spoken quick French over her head, slowly burrowing their relationship in the sand. As far as she knew, they hadn’t spoken in years.

  “Aimee,” Duchamp said, then. He walked towards her, arms open, a sly smile on his face. A cigarette glowed in his mouth as he puffed swirls of smoke from his lips. “It’s been years since I last saw you. And shall I say? You look ravishing. Much like your mother as a young woman.”

  Aimee hesitated. She bit her lip, taking a slight step toward him. “Mr. Duchamp. Couldn’t we have met back in Monte Carlo? At your casino, perhaps…” Her voice quivered.

  “Unfortunately not, Aimee,” Duchamp said, his eyebrows high. “And I will get right to the point. I know you’re quite nervous, but you shouldn’t be, my dear. I wouldn’t bring you here to harm you.” He snapped his finger in that moment, alerting a bartender in the interior of the yacht to deliver two whiskeys in a flash. The glasses gleamed in the rising moonlight. Aimee accepted her drink and sipped it languidly, relishing the bitter taste that coursed over her tongue.

  “It seems you’ve found yourself in the company of one of my greatest rivals,” he began, sipping his own drink. They hadn’t bothered to clink their glasses together.

  “Oh? And who is that?” Aimee asked, playing coy, already knowing the answer. Duchamp had long held a very public distaste for Enrico Fonti—the new casino owner and successful businessman that threatened to steal away a great deal of his profit.

  “My dear, I’m sure you’re aware of the great tragedy between Enrico Fonti and me. The moment he arrived in Monte Carlo, I offered him my protection and friendship. And he rejected it—foolishly making me an enemy.” He swallowed, his eyes turning toward the horizon. “And unfortunately, the tension between us has grown to a point that I must now take action.”

  “And I suppose that’s where I come in,” Aimee whispered, her voice ragged. Her shoulders slumped. The alternate reality, in which she kissed Enrico upon a yacht as the sun set behind them, descended into nothingness. She felt the weight of a world that had never been hers—a world of high rollers, of money, of land.

  Duchamp smirked as he continued. “I’ve recently learned that Enrico is planning a new business venture. It seems he’s putting a secret bid on a large piece of land which has just come up for silent auction, in a highly desirable location. New plots rarely come up for sale in our small town, to the extent that only one new casino has been built in the past five years—Le Joueur. Fonti has kept the amount he has bid incredibly close to his chest, and understandably so. But I have eyes everywhere. And now, I’m asking you to become those eyes.”

  Aimee took another sip from her drink. Her brain buzzed with desire to run; her feet twitched. “You want to outbid him,” she murmured. “But what makes you think I’ll help you?”

  “Well, my dear, as I’ve told you—I have eyes everywhere,” he continued. “I know the details of your father’s troubles. Never was a great poker player, that man. And now, he’s gone and bankrupted his hotel. And with that, there goes your life in Monte Carlo. There goes your job. There goes everything you’ve ever worked for.” His eyes flashed. “And of course, there goes any chance you have with Enrico Fonti.”

  Aimee’s eyes burned. Her heart jolted. Her misfortunes—the reasons she tossed and turned throughout the night—burst from Duchamp’s mouth without concern.

  “But not to worry, dear. For I have a plan for you,” he continued. “Something that will rip the terrible burdens from your life and allow you to live freely once more.”

  Aimee bit her lip. She was about to set out on what could be a very treacherous path, and there would be no going back.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “First, you’ll get yourself invited to Fonti’s penthouse. I don’t care how you do it. Use whatever means necessary.” He gestured towa
rd her, his eyes pausing at her breasts. “What you do once you’re up there is up to you, of course.”

  Aimee shifted uneasily in her heels. She stared at the melting ice in her half-empty glass.

  “You’ll find Enrico’s bid. Search his computer, his phone, or find a diary—it has to be there somewhere. You’ll tell me how much money Enrico is bidding for the new plot of land. And in return, my dear, I’ll pay off your father’s debts and save the Delacroix from foreclosure.”

  Duchamp said the words steadily, without a drip of emotion, almost as if he were ordering a cup of coffee.

  Aimee’s throat nearly closed with fear. She stuttered. “But my father owes millions…” she began, her heart aching. “Surely it isn’t worth it to you. Surely beating Enrico couldn’t mean that much to you—”

  Duchamp began to laugh, then. He dropped his head back, revealing yellowing teeth in a cat-like grin.