Baby Maker - A Secret Baby Sports Star Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  She entered the staff quarters, glancing furtively around her. But none of the maids batted an eyelid at her presence. A chef strode by, complaining loudly in rapid French. He coughed as his eyes connected with Aimee’s, but his gaze didn’t linger.

  Aimee marched through the hallway, searching for something to do—something to make her look natural in her environment. As she turned the corner, her thighs connected—painfully, but fortuitously—with a large cleaning cart, stocked with cleaning supplies, paper towels, and countless brushes and dusters, all sticking out at strange angles.

  She wrapped sure fingers around the handles, shoving the cart toward the elevator with ease, counting her blessings for the luck she’d had. She nodded curtly toward everyone who passed her, her blond curls swinging forward. She stabbed the elevator button, praying that Duchamp wouldn’t appear on the other side of the silver doors.

  As the elevator swept her up toward the casino offices, Aimee found herself shivering with panic. Sure, acting as a maid, she could make it pretty far through the casino. But how would she uncover secret documents whilst wearing a maid’s uniform? Maids didn’t operate management computers. Maids didn’t slip their fingers through files.

  But she’d already come so far, it was too late to back out now.

  The elevator doors opened at the fifth floor, where the bustle and lights of the casino were replaced with a humdrum office hallway. Several suited men passed by her as she pushed the cart, swinging their briefcases with confidence. They eyed her coolly, assessing her body, before turning back toward the elevator and stomping into it, scratching their fingers across their five o’clock shadows and surely dreaming of their wild evenings ahead.

  Aimee continued down the hallway and entered a large, spacious office, peppered with multiple wooden desks. The desks faced a much larger corner office, one with a panoramic view of the sea, which Aimee assumed must belong to Duchamp. Boat lights glinted in from the distant waves. Each desk was barren, save for the occasional Kleenex box, dirty coffee mug, or small picture frame.

  She crept toward the larger office, hunching her shoulders forward, feeling an ominous clench in her stomach. As she neared the office, she saw that a single lamp was on, illuminating several documents which were spread across the desk. She darted forward, sensing she didn’t have much time—that if Duchamp had left his light on, he would return to it sooner or later, and potentially find her snooping around, spying.

  Aimee found herself in the cold air of his office, then, peering down at the papers with excitement. Surely they would highlight some sort of scheme regarding Enrico’s bid. But as her eyes scanned the page, Aimee’s heart deflated in her chest; the papers were only a copy of the silent auction agreement—something Enrico surely had, as well.

  Sensing that her time would soon run out, Aimee began searching frantically through the desk, rolling drawers from their position and smacking them shut when they revealed nothing but notebooks, pens. One of the drawers had a smaller drawer hidden at the top, connected to the head of the desk. Aimee’s eyebrows furrowed as she pulled this small drawer open, revealing a miniscule key—almost no bigger than a needle.

  In that moment, Aimee heard the ding of the elevator. Panic rushed through her, causing a line of goosebumps to shoot up her arm. She shot down on the ground, hiding behind the desk in a tight ball, listening intently as a pair of feet stomped past Duchamp’s personal office, through another door in the outer office.

  As she huddled close to the chair, inhaling the scent of the ancient wood, she eyed a small compartment on the interior of the desk. She eased her fingers over it, feeling that the wood had been sanded close to the rest of the desk—almost as if this compartment was secret, hidden away from the common eye.

  Her eyebrows swept low. Her fingernail crept into the center of the compartment, where it found a single, tiny keyhole.

  Then she remembered. The key!

  She whipped up from beneath the desk, grabbing the needle-sized key from its hiding place and inserting it easily into the secret compartment. She turned it, opening the compartment’s front to reveal a small, shadowed platform. And upon that platform, a sleek black laptop sat, a small lime-colored light blinking in the darkness.

  Aimee wrapped her fingers around the laptop, tilting her head with hesitation. Why would Duchamp hide this laptop, when his desktop computer was clearly in sight—along with several others in the main office? Her instincts told her it must be hiding sensitive information, and she quickly slotted the laptop beneath layers of cleaning supplies on the cart before clicking the compartment locked once more and tossing the key back where she found it.

  Skittishly hopeful, Aimee wheeled the cart from Duchamp’s office. As she crept down the hallway, fear of being apprehended pulsed through her. The elevator was again nearing the fifth floor, and she nearly tripped upon the cart, before tossing it to the side, dipping down and grabbing the laptop, and diving toward the stairs like a football player, set on score.

  As she clipped into the stairwell, she heard the ding of the elevator, the heavy footfalls of a large man, stuffed with ego. She didn’t spin back to see whether or not it was Duchamp, she just followed her feet from one floor to the next. And then, in a moment of final panic, she burst from the emergency exit, into the cool of the Monte Carlo night.

  She clutched the laptop to her heaving chest, leaning against the back wall of the casino for a moment. Her eyes shifted toward the exit where her father smoked on, puffing one cigarette after another.

  Aimee knew she didn’t have much time. Perhaps Duchamp had already discovered his stolen laptop. Perhaps he would sound the alarm.

  She lifted her knees into a quick, calf-straining run, racing back toward Le Joueur, her hair flowing behind her beneath the off-white moon.

  SEVENTEEN

  Aimee burst through the doors of Le Joueur moments later, her breath coming in unsteady spurts.

  Again, the receptionist gave chase as she headed toward Enrico’s office. But Aimee was too quick, sidestepping the sassy brunette and revving through Enrico’s door without pausing to knock. The moment she did, Enrico jolted from his seat, glaring at her. His jaw was set, his stance dominant, and his eyes didn’t twinkle with the playfulness they had when they were playing poker.

  Aimee placed the laptop upon his desk with an assertive movement. Her eyes widened, glowing in the light from his lamp.

  “What is this?” he asked her, his voice gruff.

  “It might be what we’re both searching for,” she whispered.

  “You took this from Duchamp?” he asked, incredulous.

  Aimee shrugged slightly, acting coy. “Let’s open it.”

  “You sneaky, brilliant girl,” Enrico said, flashing a brief smile. “I knew you had it in you.”

  He reached for the laptop and opened it like a treasure case, waiting as the screen flashed up. Aimee walked around the desk and leaned behind his back, watching. As she did, his cologne wafted through her nostrils, causing memories of their night together to drift through her mind. Her eyelids fluttered with longing.

  Enrico parsed through the laptop with immense concentration. He opened the email server that Duchamp used and began clicking through messages, muttering as he did. His tone was full of intrigue, assuring Aimee that he was learning something important. She couldn’t sense precisely what, however, given that many of the emails were written in Italian, Spanish and German, in addition to French and English.

  “I didn’t realize he was so linguistically talented,” she murmured.

  “Our Duchamp is a man of the world,” Enrico said, his voice lilting slightly. “Far more than either of us realized.”

  “You’ve found something about the auction? About the tracking device?” Aimee asked. “You know that I wasn’t involved in any of it?”

  Enrico turned toward her. His eyes flashed. “That’s only the tip of the iceberg. He planned that matter-of-factly, with one of his henchmen, over a bottle of beer.
It was par for the course for him. He probably doesn’t even remember it now, since he does things like that all the time.”

  Aimee’s eyes widened. She placed her hands upon Enrico’s muscled shoulders, shaking her head. “You mean I’m not the first puzzle piece in his plan?”

  “You’re no evil apprentice, that’s for sure,” Enrico said. He gazed into her eyes, lost in them. After a moment of silence, he gestured for her to sit beside him. “As I said, there’s a lot more here to dissect. Look.”

  Aimee sat down beside him, arching her back like a cat and eyeing the bright screen as secret after secret was revealed. Enrico clicked through Duchamp’s inbox, showing her several emails—written in German—from a Swiss banker who had inquired about Duchamp’s “pension for money laundering.” The Swiss banker wondered if Duchamp might want to expand his money-laundering scheme—for a pretty price.

  And those emails were dated nearly two years before—meaning this scheme had cinched many billions of dollars since then. Aimee sizzled with anger, bringing her fingers to her chin as she remembered standing on Duchamp’s yacht with him the week before.

  “That’s not all, Aimee. The money-laundering doesn’t just involve this Swiss banker. It seems to have been an integral part of his business since these emails begin…” Enrico said, trailing off. He shook his head a few times, incredulous. “He’s been doing it for years, and I never would have known. I mean—we all had our suspicions.”

  “Well why didn’t you investigate these suspicions?” Aimee whispered, her mind shifting to thoughts of her father. He’d struggled for years with money and was currently drowning, while people like Duchamp robbed and stole their way to the top. “Why did you allow this monster to conduct his business illegally?” She felt anxious, wrapping her fingers around her neck. Her pulse quickened.

  Enrico turned toward her, his eyes filled with sadness. “It doesn’t always work like that in the casino business, Aimee. We don’t try to take one another down. At least—men like me. Men like your father. We know how this world works—we know that if we push those at the top too far, they’ll make sure that we end up with nothing.”

  “And now…” Aimee began.

  “Enough is enough. Duchamp has injured my business, and we must do something about it. An eye for an eye. A business for a business. If he cheated me out of the land I bid on, if he’s stayed at the top for so long only through illegitimate means, he can’t have his legacy. His name will grow sour.” Enrico’s eyes flashed. “And it’s all because of you, Aimee. You’re the one who helped make this happen.”

  “Who will we tell?” Aimee asked, quivering slightly. “Do you want to call the police?”

  Enrico nodded, raking his fingers through his hair. “I’ll call them first thing tomorrow morning. And I’ll guard this laptop until then.”

  Aimee inched closer. Her eyes caught his, and they shared an intimate moment, just gazing at each other. The tension seemed to build between them, until Aimee tore her eyes away, composing herself.

  “Won’t they be bothered by the way I found this information?” she breathed. “I mean. I stole this laptop from Duchamp. Isn’t that just as illegal as everything else?”

  Enrico placed his hand on hers, then, lacing their fingers together. “Please don’t worry about that. The cops aren’t going to care just how we found this information. The extent of Duchamp’s corruption is mind-boggling. It’s going to shake Monte Carlo to its core. It’s going to change the way the casinos are operated—the checks and balances. It will ensure that people like Duchamp won’t have room to rise again. It will be worth it.”

  Aimee nodded, holding tighter onto Enrico’s hand, feeling her gut clench once more. A single tear began its descent down her cheek, a result of the tension, and the electric energy between them. Just hours before, Enrico had told her that he never wanted to see her again. In that moment, she’d disgusted him. And now, latched on to him, she felt reborn. The emotion was almost too much to bear.

  Enrico reached toward her, softly stroking along her jawline. His beautiful grin spread across his face, and he laughed lightly, noting the strength of her emotion for him.

  He shook his head. “Aimee Delacroix. When I met you, just a few weeks ago, I had no idea that my life had changed for good,” he whispered. “And now, here you are, delivering a way for me to take down my enemy, and a way for Monte Carlo to flourish, without him.” He looked at her soulfully, and Aimee felt she might melt into a puddle with his stare. “I’m so sorry for ever doubting you,” he continued. “I’m so sorry I said I never wanted to see you again. I didn’t mean it. I can’t imagine not seeing this face again.” He inched closer. His soft lips shone in the office light.

  “You had every reason to doubt me,” Aimee murmured. She leaned her head toward him, her eyes dancing. “At one point, I was going to betray you.”

  “For a good cause, Aimee,” Enrico said pointedly.

  Aimee shrugged. “I regret ever agreeing to it, Enrico. I knew it was the wrong thing to do. The moment I accepted Duchamp’s offer, I sensed I was going to lose you forever. But without it, I thought I would surely lose everything else.”

  Enrico wrapped his arms around her and tugged her close to him, pulling her small frame to his. She leaned her head upon his shoulder, inhaling the essence of him, as he swept his hand over her back, kneading at the tense muscles there.

  “I forgave you the moment I understood the dire position you were in,” Enrico murmured. “You’ve been living on a knife-edge since you learned of your father’s bankruptcy. You were fighting to stay afloat, and you were willing to take out anyone who got in your way.”

  “And I’m so glad it was you who got in my way,” Aimee said, flirting now. She grinned contentedly, fueled with sudden happiness.

  Enrico stayed cool, wrapping his arms around her waist. Behind him, the Monte Carlo revelers continued their reckless partying. Lights flashed; champagne bottles popped; the world was a circus, and they were far from the madness—together in a cocoon of safety and what felt like the beginning of love.

  “My offer still stands, by the way,” Enrico began, looking at her with sincerity, with sureness. “I want to pay off your father’s debts. I want to help you. And I want to ensure that your father gets into a good rehab program to fight his addiction,” he said. “No one deserves to struggle with that each and every day. Especially when I know that the true Max Delacroix loves his hotel. He loves his daughter. He wants to protect you and the world you both have built. He just doesn’t have the tools he needs.”

  Enrico’s words were almost too perfect, and Aimee’s heart nearly burst in her chest with disbelief and awe. She nodded, her eyes searching his, before throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheeks, his ears, his forehead. In a moment, his lips were upon hers, in a beautiful, wonderful kiss.

  Aimee sighed into his embrace, marveling at how quickly the world had changed. Earlier that very day, she’d been preparing to leave for Seattle. She’d purchased the ticket and begun to plan her new life—to make her peace with it. But now, she was wrapped in the strong arms of Monte Carlo’s most handsome billionaire, who also happened to be the finest man she’d ever met. And he was going to save her.

  After several minutes of passionate kissing, of falling into each other, Enrico grabbed Aimee and spun her around by her waist. She giggled with surprise, her eyes bright.

  “What do you say we go for a walk?” he asked her. “On the beach? Catch the breeze on our faces? It’s been so long since I spent an evening outdoors, outside of the confines of my bedroom or this casino.”

  Aimee agreed, a jubilant grin spread across her face. Her fingers linked through Enrico’s, and they sauntered from his office, enraptured with each other. As they strolled down the hallway, the receptionist gave them a brief glance before turning, horrified, at the sight of a maid walking by, hand in hand with Enrico Fonti. What was she playing at?

  But the confusion seemed only to make
the new couple walk more slowly, to relish the glances, the whispers. They left the offices for the casino proper, where the crowd seemed to turn at once to Enrico, to bow their heads to him. One player removed himself from his position at the blackjack table, telling Enrico that the space was his, if he wanted it.

  “No, no,” Enrico said, waving his free hand. “I’ve had more than enough luck today.”

  The man gave him a confused laugh, eyeing Aimee with intrigue.

  But as they marched toward the main door of the casino, Aimee stopped short, her knees locking. Enrico turned earnest eyes toward her, and noted, suddenly, that Max Delacroix sat at the bar, his eyes glazed, his head heavy. He was nursing a whiskey, slurring to the bartender.