Baby Maker - A Secret Baby Sports Star Romance

by Rayner, Holly

She leaned toward him, then, kissing him with abandon. The moment seemed to be lost in time, without end. Enrico latched his fingers around her back, pulling her closer to him, just as a phone on the side table began a rampant, outrageous buzzing.

  Enrico broke the kiss instantly, his eyes wide. He placed his fingers on Aimee’s shoulder, tilting his head. “Sorry, Aimee. I have to get that. They only call the emergency phone if something’s gone wrong downstairs.”

  Aimee brought her lips together, lifting herself from her straddling position and sitting atop the bed, her feet resting on the rug below. She watched Enrico lurch toward the phone and bring it to his ear. He answered with a brief, assertive, “This is Enrico.”

  As he spoke, his brow furrowed, causing Aimee’s heart to begin beating recklessly. She had to remind herself to breathe. All of the tension between them had dissipated, and she felt herself growing cold.

  Enrico set the phone back in position on the side table, looking at her remorsefully. “Aimee, I apologize,” he said, his voice deep. “Le Joueur requires an appearance from yours truly as a matter of urgency.”

  He jumped from the bed and began to leaf through his closet, quickly donning a pair of boxers, a white button-down, and an immaculate suit, pre-pressed. He turned toward her, his tongue searching for the appropriate words to say as the air between them fizzled with questions. Would he return to her? Would they be able to pick up where they left off?

  “I can’t keep you here any longer. I must go, and you can leave, as well. But please, Aimee. Please don’t give Duchamp the information regarding my bid.” His eyes were sad, but assured. “If you agree to do that, Aimee—if you keep the information secret—I will pay off your father’s debts myself. It will be a pleasure to keep you and your father in Monte Carlo, where you belong. I don’t want you owing anything to Duchamp, anyway.”

  Aimee lurched up from the side of the bed, her eyes gleaming. “Enrico that’s incredible. Thank you, I don’t know what to say—”

  She trailed off. She wanted to wrap her arms around Enrico, to declare that he was the finest man she’d met in her life. The moment seemed to stretch for days, allowing Aimee to dive into an imaginary universe, in which she spent long afternoons locked in Enrico’s embrace. She simmered with excitement.

  Seconds later, the phone on the side table began its blaring ring once more. Pulled from her fantasies, Aimee stepped aside, allowing Enrico to nab it from its position. He pushed his first finger into the air, alerting her it would only be a moment—that they could discuss this in detail soon.

  But as he spoke to the person on the other line, his eyes turned dark once more. His pupils grew wide, and his expression closed to her. Aimee took a step back, tilting her head, sensing anger in his body language. He was all tense angles.

  “I see,” Enrico finally said to the person on the other line, his voice lined with ice. He set the phone back down and crossed his arms over his chest. He cleared his throat, causing Aimee’s spine to shiver.

  “Who was it?” she asked meekly, the bones of her shoulders turning upward, toward her ears. She felt exposed, nervous, and she tucked herself back on the bed, trying to cover herself with his comforter.

  “That was my assistant,” he said. He stood up and began to pace, bringing his strong arms behind his back and locking his hands.

  “Something wrong at the casino?” Aimee whispered, her voice far away, overshadowed by his impenetrable anger. It was clear that Enrico’s brief mention of paying off her father’s debts was far, far from his mind. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

  “Actually, it was news from my accountant. You see, Aimee,” he said, turning toward her and standing with his feet shoulder width apart. “It seems that Duchamp has made an official bid on the land.”

  Aimee’s eyes grew wide. She stuttered, opening her mouth only slightly before closing it again, her mind racing.

  “Go ahead, Aimee,” Enrico said, his voice harsh. “Ask me how much he bid. Come on. I know you like to play games.” His eyes flashed.

  Aimee brought her fingers to her neck. She traced them along her skin, shaking her head like a child. “I don’t…I don’t know—”

  “3.25 billion, Aimee,” Enrico said. “Just a fraction more than I did. He’s officially secured the plot of land for himself. Monte Carlo’s next casino will be another Duchamp venture.”

  The news hit Aimee like a bomb. She felt bludgeoned, defeated. She wrapped the comforter higher up on her chest, ensuring that her skin wasn’t showing, that she could protect herself from his domineering gaze.

  “How in the world do you think Duchamp got ahold of my bid?” Enrico asked. “How did he discover such pertinent, private information, given that I kept you in here for the duration?”

  He shook his head, sighing slightly. “It’s quite remarkable of you, I’ll say. To make me believe you were falling for me, when, in the background, you continued to deceive me. How many times will I be prayed on by the likes of you?” He laughed maniacally, turning toward the wall of his bedroom, visibly shaken. “I can’t even look at you.”

  Aimee’s mind raced. She hadn’t contacted Duchamp at all—had hardly thought about him for a moment since she’d found herself falling head over heels for Enrico. She wringed her hands, searching for something, anything to say.

  “Enrico,” she mumbled. “I know it is difficult to believe this—but it can’t have been me. You took my cellphone. You took away any way for me to communicate with him. I haven’t even been able to call the hotel—and they’re surely scrambling without me!” Her eyes glazed over with panic. “Please understand. I’ve spent the last day getting to know you, without the purpose of deceiving you.”

  But Enrico only scoffed, shaking a finger at her. His nostrils flared. “Aimee, you were the only one on this earth who knew about my bid, besides my accountant.”

  “And why couldn’t it have been him?” Aimee whispered, shrugging. “Duchamp could have very well gotten to him. Why don’t you check—”

  “Because ruining me this way would end Thomas’ career!” Enrico cried, pounding the wall with his fist. The plaster shook, and the sound echoed across the room, bouncing from the windows. “I’m one of the richest men in Europe. If I say something about my accountant, he’ll never find another job. Not for as long as he lives.” His fury was unbridled.

  Aimee bowed her head, staring dejectedly at her fingernails. She felt backed into a corner, unsure. “I don’t—”

  But Enrico continued on, ignoring her, spouting anger across the room. “And the worst part of it all, is that Duchamp doesn’t even have any plans. I’ve been drawing up plans for my next casino for years. Literal years. I’ve had my team drawing up some of the most beautiful gambling rooms, with top-tier restaurants. I was planning to move there, to build a bigger, better penthouse. Perhaps one with more bedrooms. One that could house a family.”

  A flicker of sadness swept over his eyes, but he continued on, fueled with despair and fury. “Duchamp just sees me as someone to squash. Someone to destroy. Rather than someone who wants to make Monte Carlo better than it ever was before. I go to the city’s planning meetings. I speak with the mayor. I find joy in building a bigger, better future for all who reside here. And Duchamp? He finds no joy outside of his own ego. Why should I pay for his ego? Can you tell me that?” Enrico’s face grew red. He rushed from the bedroom, toward the liquor cabinet. He flipped the switch on the record player, and Aimee heard a Rolling Stones record begin to pound through the speakers.

  Aimee swallowed, drawing herself up from the bed. She sensed that nothing she did, nothing she could say would stir him to believe her innocence. She tiptoed toward the guest bedroom and zipped herself back into her ball gown—the only clothing she owned in the apartment—not wanting to retain the passionate memories of his boxers and V-neck shirt. She eyed herself in the mirror, seeing a shadow of the woman she’d viewed prior to the ball. A splotched, hurt and confused woman, with crows’ feet lin
es beginning their growth around her eyes.

  She padded back into the living room, viewing Enrico hunched on the couch, his back a question mark. She placed her hand upon her waist, uncertain, teetering slightly with the pain of the moment. She yearned to speak, to say something that might soothe him. She opened her mouth, pushing her tongue upon the base of her front teeth.

  But then, Enrico’s voice came. Cool, calm, quiet. “Listen, Aimee. I don’t know how you did it. I don’t know how you ruined this for me, but I don’t want to see you around here again. Ever.” He exhaled loudly, unable to look at her.

  His words stung her cheeks. Cold chills popped up on her skin, alarming her. She near-ran toward the elevator, slipping on her heels, holding back tears as the doors closed behind her. She waited until the elevator had come to a smooth stop at the main floor of the casino before she allowed herself to break into horrible, treacherous sobs. She shook, bringing her fingers to her cheeks and swiping the flecks of wet away.

  As she rushed from the casino, she ran toward the beach, yanking her shoes from her toes. She wouldn’t need them where she was going. She wept softly, staring out at the waves. She hadn’t felt fresh air in two days, and she inhaled it deeply with jagged breaths, tasting the salt.

  She wouldn’t feel the way she’d felt with Enrico ever again. She knew that. The realization pounded her in the gut. She swallowed, closing her eyes, making a promise that she would never again allow herself to be so open to this alarming level of pain.

  It simply wasn’t worth it.

  FOURTEEN

  After wallowing on the beach for a while, Aimee rose, her ankles sinking slightly as she strode through the sand. She stopped at a beachside stand to purchase a bottle of wine, and avoided eye contact with the seller, sensing he knew her, knew her father. She plodded toward her studio apartment, head down. But as she flung herself around the final corner before her studio, she found herself face to face with none other than her father—Max Delacroix himself.

  She blinked rapidly, her breath coming sharply. Her tongue lagged. Her father seemed near-delirious with lack of sleep. His back was hunched; his eyes were dark, searching, almost as if he didn’t recognize her. After a moment, Aimee caught his scent—a stale bourbon smell that seemed to emanate from his every pore. She realized, then, that he must have been playing the blackjack tables for the past few days, and probably hadn’t even noticed her absence.

  “Daddy,” she murmured, biting her lip. “When was the last time you went home?”

  Her father laughed, leaning heavily against the brick wall behind him. “Aimee, hello. What are you doing here? And in such a fine dress?” He laughed, his eyes dancing slightly with fatigue and drunkenness.

  Aimee’s brain hummed with what Enrico had told her: that gambling was an addiction, that she couldn’t blame her father for the pain he inflicted upon both of their lives, every single day.

  She swept her hand to his shoulder. “Why don’t you go to the hotel and grab something to eat, Dad?” She realized, with sudden disappointment, that she hadn’t retrieved her phone from Enrico—that she had no way to call the hotel to ensure that someone took care of her father. She slipped her arm through Max’s and began to lead him the opposite way, back toward the beach and the hotel.

  Her father was out of it, staggering beside her. She began telling him stories, silly ones she remembered from her youth. She painted the picture of her teenage years, of her father teaching her to fish out on the sea, of her mother giggling with her as they shopped along the Monte Carlo streets. This was the glorious past she’d been gifted—the one she would ultimately have to leave behind.

  She assisted her father in entering the back of the Delacroix, near the breakfast area, and ordered him a large French breakfast, complete with cheeses, meats and breads.

  As Max sat before her, sipping his coffee, his eyes lost, Aimee stared at her fingers. The air between them held none of the strain it perhaps should have. Aimee no longer felt anger toward him. She no longer felt resentment. She’d tried to save them—and he would never know. As her insides twisted with unrest from hurting Enrico, she felt she wanted to remain in these calm, easy moments with the man who had quietly ruined her life.

  “I almost won it all this morning,” he told her in sloppy, heavily accented words. “I almost got it, Aimee. Just another round at the Duchamp and I’ll be golden.” His eyes were bright with excitement.

  Aimee nodded, a single tear rounding over her cheek. “I know, Dad,” she whispered.

  After several minutes, after making sure her father ate at least some of the food that had been placed in front of him, Aimee stood from her chair, excusing herself and heading back toward her apartment.

  As she took the familiar route home, she sensed eyes upon her—almost as if her role in the battle between billionaires was already known, whispered about throughout Monte Carlo.

  She entered her apartment, slipping once more out of her deep green ball gown and flinging her hair into a sloppy bun. She stuffed her cafetière with coffee grounds and set it on the stove, craving the comfort of caffeine. She stood naked, glowing in the sun that burst through the window, remembering how close Enrico’s body had been to hers, only an hour ago; how he’d kissed her with those dark, supple lips.

  She was going to drive herself crazy. She sipped her coffee, trying to sponge away thoughts of Enrico. She imagined him in his apartment, hope for the new casino he’d planned draining from him. And hope for her—a woman he’d respected and liked—completely abandoned.

  She’d thought that her life would only get really difficult at the end of the month. But now it seemed that she was embroiled in a battle between billionaires. And despite being squarely in Enrico’s camp, completely against Duchamp and his shady ways of doing business, Aimee had found herself his enemy.

  As she perched on the edge of her window seat, her naked spine facing the water, Aimee clucked her tongue, realizing that for her own sanity, she needed to find out just how Duchamp had discovered Enrico’s bid. It just didn’t seem like it could be a coincidence, like he had just guessed it and bid a fraction higher. She had to call him—to ask him, in a roundabout way, how things had gone after the ball.

  She would apologize for failing to give him the information.

  Hopefully, he would want to brag—to assure her it “had worked out anyway.”

  “But how?” she’d coo.

  Her mind buzzed with this plan. She dressed quickly, donning a bright sundress, before walking down the hall to her next-door neighbor’s apartment and asking to use her phone, since Enrico still had hers latched in his safe. The woman, Jess, an ex-stripper turned bartender, nodded curtly and handed over her cell.

  Aimee found the number of the casino easily, and dialed with shaking hands. She listened to it ring just once before the receptionist answered with a curt hello. The moment Aimee asked her to speak to Duchamp—and informed the receptionist of her name—the woman told her coldly that Duchamp was not available to speak with her.

  “Perhaps in a few hours?” Aimee asked, her voice tinged with anxiety. She sensed she was pleading. She couldn’t hide from her need.

  “I’m not certain Duchamp will be available in the following week, even,” the receptionist told her, so blasé, casting her out. “Have a good day, mademoiselle.” And she hung up the phone.

  Aimee stared at the black screen in her fingers, her eyes large. Beside her, her neighbor stared at her, waiting.

  “Just one more phone call?” Aimee whispered. “Just one.”

  Jess shrugged, turning to face the TV that blared in her living room. Aimee dialed the number of Enrico’s casino, certain she could explain that something was amiss—that perhaps she’d been played in all of this, as well. But the moment she requested Enrico at the front desk, slipping her name into the fold, the receptionist informed her that Enrico wouldn’t be available for the rest of the day.

  Lifeless, lost, Aimee returned the phone to her neig
hbor and returned to her apartment. Her limbs quivered, and she once again felt shuddering tears begin their descent down her cheeks.

  She was utterly lost, confused, wronged. Without word from Duchamp, she couldn’t know precisely what had gone wrong—or, right, for him. And without being able to plead her case to Enrico, she was officially finished. She’d served her purpose; she was no longer a pawn in their game.

  And, beyond anything, she needed to move on and accept her fate. She opened her laptop and turned it on, searching flight times and prices, her heart heavy with understanding.

  The moment she returned to the States, the moment she was drowned in constant rain; the moment she found herself tucked into one of her mother’s stifling embraces, the adventure of her life would be over, for good. No more grand balls. No more luxurious ball gowns. No more picnics on the beach, watching the sun set.

  And no more watching over her father—ensuring he drank his coffee and ate his breakfast, to recover from his long nights of gambling.