Baby Maker - A Secret Baby Sports Star Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  Who would take care of him? Her brain asked in a rallying cry. What would happen to him, without her there?

  Aimee opened a new tab to view her bank account, and logged in to look at her sad, small balance. She had barely enough to scrape together a ticket home for the following week—to get out while the Delacroix boat was sinking, rather than get sucked beneath it.

  She bowed her head, crossing her fingers, and said a small prayer in her head before clicking the ‘buy’ button. The flight was purchased. The rest of her life would begin, now. And she would forget about Enrico, the one that got away, about ideas of love, or what might have been.

  FIFTEEN

  No sooner had the ticket gone through, Aimee jumped from her desk and began pulling suitcases from their hiding places deep within the closet. She folded dresses, shirts and skirts and tucked them neatly within the bags, even as tears continued their trek down her face. As she marched through her apartment, deconstructing the small world she’d built for herself, she found old photographs of her standing with friends, the sun and the sea in the background. She found one of her and her father sitting on a picnic blanket, their legs stretched lazily out before them. She couldn’t have been more than 16 at the time, meaning that her mother had probably snapped the shot—cinching this moment in time.

  As the day stretched on, Aimee consciously avoided a single, solitary item in her room—one with a fate unknown. As she spun a zipper around a suitcase, her eyes fell upon it once more, turning her stomach over.

  The green ball gown was still stretched upon her bed, where she’d flung it when she’d returned from Enrico’s. She knew it still smelled of his cologne, his scent. And for that reason, she wanted to keep it—to retain this simple, physical element of the memory, even as she returned to the States.

  She sighed and marched toward the bed, lifting the dress into the air. The beadwork shimmered in the sunlight that swept through the window, highlighting the meticulous artistry of the designer. Aimee frowned and spun her fingers toward the center, searching for a tag that would reveal the artist’s name.

  As she searched, her fingers brushed against something tiny and rock-hard within the lining of the dress. With quick movements, she brought both fingers around it, turning the item over and over. Something within her mind seemed to stir. Questions rallied. The item didn’t seem connected to the dress—nothing required at point of sale, and certainly nothing necessary for the ball.

  The night of the ball, Aimee hadn’t had a gown to her name. And so, Duchamp had kindly offered, lending her a stunning, expensive dress—and including something special, something that would ensure his defeat of Enrico, regardless.

  Aimee stabbed her nails into the fabric and tore at it, ripping the perfect gown to reveal the interior lining of the dress. The black, plastic item slipped into her open hands, staring up at her with malice. Her heart pummeled in her ribcage with immediate worry and understanding. The item was a bug, a listening device which had obviously allowed Duchamp to listen in to every moment of her time with Enrico.

  Her face grew red with anger, with embarrassment. She’d been a Trojan horse. Even though she had ultimately decided not to betray Enrico, the moment she’d said the words: “Three billion,” while seated, spying, in his office, she’d told Duchamp the amount. She’d sent the terrible information straight to the wolf. And he hadn’t required anything from her, after that.

  Regardless of the fact that she’d been caught, regardless of the fact that she’d come to fall for Enrico, Duchamp had gained the relevant information and had probably already forgotten her name.

  Perhaps he hadn’t ever truly planned to assist her father with his debts. Perhaps he’d always assumed that Enrico would capture her—that she wouldn’t get away with it.

  The unfairness ripped through her. She wrapped the fine fabric of the dress in her hands and tore it once more, anger rushing through her veins. She stuffed the remnants of the gown into the trash can, huffing, before realizing that this could be the very evidence she needed to reveal her innocence to Enrico.

  Suddenly fueled with a sense of purpose, Aimee grabbed the dress once more and burst from her apartment. Her legs stretched madly, propelling her toward Le Joueur, back from whence she came. She felt electric, as if the world was finally spinning in her favor.

  ***

  A few minutes later, Aimee burst through the glass doors of Le Joueur, gasping for breath. She clutched the tracking device, along with her ripped dress, her eyes searching the foyer. The same pack of glamorous women, on the arms of billionaire men, strolled through the doors, tossed their hair in the glittering light of the sunset that burst above the sea.

  Aimee didn’t have time for their world. She strutted toward the front desk. Having been in Le Joueur countless times, she knew Enrico’s office was just past the front desk, through another hallway. She’d seen his massive windows from the street before, viewed him speaking on the telephone and gazing out over the water.

  As she marched past the receptionist’s desk, the woman manning it jumped after her, calling her name. “Aimee! I don’t know what you think you’re doing—”

  Aimee ignored her; a receptionist herself, she recognized that the woman was anxious—but also, that she couldn’t really do anything. She stormed forward, through the hallway, her breath coming in spurts.

  “Aimee, don’t do this—” the receptionist continued, stomping behind her. “You know he’s busy…”

  But Aimee revved toward the final door, knocking curtly before thrusting herself into the office, which was a filled with a steamy mix of oranges, pinks and shadows, from the setting of the sun. Aimee blinked rapidly, trying to adjust herself to the strange light.

  The moment she did, the sight of Enrico before her took her breath away. His feet were lifted to the desk, one crossed over the other at the ankle. His black hair was swept back, as if he’d been swiping his fingers through it all afternoon, in deep frustration. His dark eyes turned toward her, but didn’t lift with any sort of excitement. His skin was pale, stripped of its healthy olive tones, its life.

  He as if his entire life had been ripped out from beneath his feet.

  Aimee cleared her throat, quickly shutting the door to prevent the receptionist from following her. The woman’s pleading voice cut out immediately, leaving her and Enrico in awkward silence.

  Finally, Enrico’s dark eyebrows rose high on his forehead. He gestured for her to sit, then shrugged. His voice was filled with sarcasm. “Aimee. What a glorious surprise. Do sit down.”

  “I’m sorry—” Aimee began, her voice suddenly lacking the confidence she’d charged into his office with. She closed her eyes, nervous, scared to speak. “I know you said you never wanted to see me again. And trust me. I understand. I have the ticket purchased back to Seattle already. I’m on the path to leaving you alone, for good.” She felt her heart grow heavy, while Enrico didn’t show a single expression on his face but annoyance. “But I wanted to show you what I found.”

  She flung the dress on his desk, beside his feet. She gestured toward the rip, and then lifted the tracking device into the air in a dramatic motion. She rattled it. “I found this in the gown I was wearing the night of the ball,” she whispered, her voice harsh.

  Enrico shrugged slightly, his muscled shoulders lifting. He rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t you understand what this means?” Aimee said, bulging her eyes at him intensely. “It means that Duchamp bugged me so he could find out your bid. It means that no matter what happened—no matter if you caught me or not—he was going to learn the amount. And because you held me in your apartment after you caught me, I had nothing to do with this.”

  She felt breathless. She leaned toward Enrico, her face pleading. She yearned to tell him that he’d made her feel a passion, a need she’d never felt before. She yearned to explain that this shouldn’t get in the way of their feelings for each other. But beyond anything—even if he couldn’t find it in himself to l
ove her, too—she yearned for him to forgive her, to understand that she hadn’t wronged him in the throes of getting to know him.

  Slowly, Enrico brought his feet from the top of the desk. He drummed his fingers upon the wood, his eyes upon Aimee, without acknowledging the dress.

  “Aimee,” he finally spoke, licking his lips. “You know, I’d love to believe you. I’d love to believe that you weren’t responsible for selling me out to Duchamp.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Aimee whispered, her lips quivering.

  “Because I just got off the phone with the man himself,” Enrico said, rising from his chair. He swept his muscled arms behind his back, linking his hands. “Naturally, he called to gloat—as anyone would in this situation.”

  Aimee pushed her lips inward, feeling hesitant. Where was he going with this?

  “He’s really quite proud of himself. He told me the moment he knew I was interested in you, he knew he could use you for his plan. He’d had several women in mind—several of the most beautiful women in Monte Carlo. And yet, he’d arrived upon you. Somehow, he knew I wouldn’t suspect you. You are, after all, connected to a pillar of Monte Carlo, through the Delacroix. You are one of our own.”

  Aimee felt her eyes well up, laced with tears. She felt she couldn’t fight any longer, that Enrico’s mind had been made up.

  But he continued, his eyes dark. “He told me he bugged you—that it was your idea, just in case things went sour. He knew that we’d sleep with each other—said that you wouldn’t miss an opportunity like that, especially given that the moment you whispered the bid into the tracking device, his plot would be complete.”

  Aimee felt horrified. Her throat constricted, and she gasped for oxygen. She smashed her hands upon the desk, shaking her head violently.

  But Enrico held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear another lie from you, Aimee. Like I said in my apartment, I don’t want to see you again. And the very fact that you’ve come in here, trying to sell me on this strange, ridiculous version of the truth, shows me that you’re not worth my time, anyway.” His words were harsh, laced with anger.

  She shuddered, and closed her eyes, her brain humming. She spoke a final, begging sentence—one that sounded dead in her ears.

  “Enrico, I’ll do anything—anything in the world—to convince you that I didn’t know about the bug,” she said.

  The words echoed across the room, against the enormous window that offered a final portrait of Monte Carlo at night—of the final sliver of the sun, the beginnings of the humming nightlife. Aimee blinked, waiting for Enrico’s answer.

  Enrico placed a firm hand beneath his chin, still standing before her. The tension between them was palpable. His dark eyes were filled with judgment. “Do you really think there’s anything in the world that could convince me?” he said, his voice gruff.

  Aimee shrugged slightly, feeling shaky.

  Enrico huffed. He turned his head toward the window, showing his perfect, strong profile. After a long hesitation, he spoke.

  “I’ll give you a single out, Aimee. Tomorrow morning, Duchamp is set to sign the paperwork for the new site at the town hall. If you can get into his offices and bring back proof that he was spying on both of us using this device, violating the terms of the silent auction, you and I will be even.”

  Aimee bowed her head, her mind racing. She’d hoped that simply delivering the tracking device and dress to Enrico’s office would open his arms to her, would save her. But she now felt chilled, rattled.

  She began to nod, a “yes” hissing from between her lips. “I’ll do this,” she whispered. “But you have to understand that I might fail.”

  “Then I cannot forgive you,” Enrico said, his voice haughty. “You screwed me over, Aimee. Regardless of whether or not you knew about the tracking device, you set out to ruin me that night.”

  The air between them turned sour. He sat upon his chair once more, turning it from her with a final whirl, dismissing her without words.

  Aimee backed toward the door. “I’ll find proof,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I won’t let you down again, Enrico. I won’t.”

  In a moment, she spun from the room and back into the hallway, past the receptionist, who gave her a demonic glance. And she ran from the casino, collapsing against the brick wall outside, bringing her head into her hands. Tears dribbled down her cheeks. In the distance, the crack of fireworks swept over the sea. The glorious celebration of simply being in Monte Carlo went on, unchanged, and on constant rotation, like the Earth around the sun.

  Get ahold of yourself, Aimee’s mind chided. She pictured her suitcases, piled upon one another in her studio, expecting her to flee. But before she did, she had a final chance to prove herself. She had a final moment in the Monte Carlo sun, a final opportunity to show the man she could have loved that she did not betray him, even when her whole existence was at stake.

  She stretched her long legs away from the grounds of Le Joueur, a plan forming in her mind. She had nothing to lose. She’d already lost everything else.

  SIXTEEN

  As the moon began to rise above the sea, Aimee rushed toward her father’s hotel, knowing full well that she wouldn’t be allowed into Duchamp’s casino without some kind of disguise.

  Even though she was swiftly becoming persona non grata all over her small town, Aimee was grateful for the years of experience of Monte Carlo hospitality which she could draw on to sneak in as far as Duchamp’s office—which, unlike Enrico’s, was on the fifth floor, far from the bustling hubbub of the casino below. She had one, ultimate option in mind: she would dress up like a maid, assume a false accent, and slip into the offices without anyone suspecting a thing.

  Aimee swept into the lobby of the Delacroix and zoomed toward the front desk, where Christopher stood, agape. He stuttered, pushing his fingers through his gelled hair. “Aimee, where the hell have you been?” he rasped.

  At the desk, guests waited impatiently, eyeing their bejeweled watches, leaning their suitcases heavily against their calves. They gave Christopher and Aimee impatient, annoyed looks.

  But Aimee swept past him, through the reception area.

  “Aimee—you can’t just leave me like this!” Christopher called, his voice manic. “You haven’t been here in days! I’ve been working 20-hour shifts. Aimee! I’m going to call your father!”

  Aimee hesitated, her heart aching with sadness. She turned back toward her coworker, placing her hands upon his sweating shoulders. “Christopher, I’m so sorry. I’ve been working my ass off to try to save this place,” she said. “But I haven’t been able to.” She swallowed, her throat dry. “If you need a recommendation for your next job, look no further than me or my father. You’ve been remarkable, truly. Now—please, just keep it going a little bit longer,” she breathed.

  Christopher gaped at her, clearly without comprehension. The many workers at the hotel hadn’t yet learned of its impending closure.

  He tried to reach out, to nab her as she rushed away, but Aimee was too swift, leaping out from the reception area and down the side hallway, which led to the housekeeping offices.

  Aimee flung herself through the doors, saying a brief and bright hello to the maids, who all recognized her. She gave them a crooked smile, murmuring something about “taking a few uniforms for deep cleaning.” The women shrugged, pointing toward the side closet, where dozens of maid’s outfits hung in neat rows.

  She chose a small size before mouthing a brief thank-you to the women, who waved to her, and rushing toward a restroom to change. She left her sundress in a heap upon the floor, briefly thinking to herself that it didn’t matter—she’d have no use for it in Seattle.

  After a final glimpse in the mirror, Aimee left the hotel and walked briskly toward Duchamp’s casino—where, she knew, her father probably still sat, flipping coin after coin into a sad pile, hoping for relief.

  Le Cercle du Roi was large, hulking, and without any of the chic, modern beauty of Fonti’s ca
sino. The building featured in 100-year-old photos of Monte Carlo, making it a stalwart of the town. Its tall construction contained several gambling floors, along with a fine-dining restaurant, and a penthouse that belonged to Duchamp himself, though he was rumored to spend most of his time in a sprawling mansion outside the city’s limits.

  As she marched closer to the casino, Aimee’s stomach grew sour with unrest and anger. When the entrance came into view, her heart lurched at the scene in front of her. There, outside the glass doors, was her father. He was smoking a cigarette, swinging with drink as he spoke to the doorman in rapid French.

  This wasn’t an unlikely scene. Rather, it was a necessary, immediate reminder that Aimee could be noticed anywhere—and that she had to act quickly if she was going to survive at all.

  Aimee hid behind a marble pillar, suddenly anxious. She needed to find a better way in, one where she wouldn’t immediately be recognized, throwing her scheme into disarray. As she peered out over the dark horizon, her mind rolling, she caught a glimpse of two waiters, trudging in from their smoke breaks. They entered through a side door, marked with the word ‘staff’. A lightbulb popped on in Aimee’s brain, and she headed after them, her skin fizzing with anticipation.