Mountain Man's Baby Surprise (A Mountain Man's Baby Romance)

by Lia Lee

  “G’day,” he murmurs, blinking.

  “G’day,” I reply, a contented smile curving across my face. “Sleeping beauty.”

  His lovely blues close as his lips form a sleepy grin. “I think that’s my line, love.” He chuckles.

  My belly hums in renewed beginnings of arousal at his adorable, sleepy countenance. I feel like I could wake up next to this man until the end of time and never get enough of that sweet, dimpled grin and husky bedroom voice.

  “As I recall, Sleeping Beauty was awakened with a kiss,” he says, touching the tip of his finger to his lips.

  “Is that what you’d like?” I ask.

  “For starters,” he says, drawing me to him. I feel the comforting, steady beat of his heart as our bodies meet. His fingers slip into the hair at the nape of my neck and pull my face within kissing range. “Then we’ll see what comes next.” He captures my mouth in another of the sweetest, most powerful kisses I can ever remember. His lips on mine sweep me into the center of a perfect, blissful storm of contentment yet unrequited desire, of a desperate longing for something I know I can never have.

  Him. Body and soul.

  Our lips part and I close my eyes, clinging onto the emotion, the scents, the tactile sensations of skin and soft cotton that surround me, so that I can never forget them, nor this moment.

  “And what’s next?” I whisper.

  “Breakfast,” he whispers back. “What d’you American girls fancy for brekkie?”

  I start to laugh. Not the answer I was expecting, and my stomach rebels at the notion of food. Though I hadn’t consumed anywhere near Claire’s level of alcohol, my head was definitely on an altered plane of cognizance.

  “I’m not sure I’m up for food just yet.”

  “I’ll bet a little tucker will set you right. Let me fix you something,” he says. He reaches up to brush a stray coil of my unruly brunette mop from my forehead and then cups my chin in his palm. “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

  I don’t feel at all beautiful—knowing my forest of hair is probably bristling out in all directions from my mascara-stained face. But my heart leaps to hear him say it. I feel an uninvited blush rise from my neck to blossom on my cheeks. I smile and rest my head on his chest as he continues to stroke my hair.

  “Last night was fantastic,” I say. “Thank you for the tour.”

  “Just the tour? Was that the only highlight?”

  “No, of course not.” I giggle. “It was a wonderful way to remember my Australian holiday. Thank you.”

  “No worries. It beats a koala keychain, I hope.”

  “Totally. But a keychain I can tuck in my pocket. Not so much you.”

  He wraps me in a hug and kisses the top of my head. A few speechless moments are broken with his massive inhale that raises my head a few inches.

  “Let’s get some food in you,” he says, nudging me from my position across his broad torso. I reluctantly roll over, allowing him to leave the bed. The sight of his sculptured, naked butt is more tantalizing to my taste buds than any meal.

  As he disappears, presumably into the kitchen, my eyes take the time to actually see the room I’ve slept in. It has a high ceiling and very modern fixtures. The furniture is clean-lined, high-end designer pieces. In fact, the entire decor is not unlike something me or Claire would design. Neutral, classic shades punctuated with rich jewel-tone accents.

  A pair of lamps with bases made from kiln-fired blue and green beach-glass sit on sparkling chrome night tables that frame the bed. A stunning steel and beach-glass metal sculpture commands an entire wall. The carpet is made from a luxurious and finely woven wool. Whose apartment is this? It smacks of an executive rental, or... perhaps belonging to someone else entirely. A horrible thought crosses my mind. Swank apartment. Drives a Ferrari. Could the hunky lifeguard be some sort of kept man? A wealthy widow’s salaried gigolo? I shiver at the notion.

  I reach for my skimpy dress—thrown to the floor in lustful haste the night before. I feel guilty for abandoning Claire; I should get back to the hotel and check on her, though I’m sure she’s still sleeping off the effects of last night. Should I even tell her what happened between Derric and me? She’d be so hurt.

  I wander out of the bedroom to find Derric putzing about the galley style kitchen. The delicious smell of brewing coffee wafts across to me. I could really use a cup. He’s setting out plates and reaching in and out of the fridge, completely unconcerned that he’s naked as a newborn. I certainly don’t mind; the view is spectacular. Nearly as spectacular as the one that beckons to me from the adjacent floor-to-ceiling windows. I move toward them and gape in awe through the glass at the magnificent vista of Bondi beach far below us.

  The sun’s rays streak across the waves as they roll lazily to shore. The tops of myriad office and hotel towers nearby, shrouded in early morning mist, form a hazy jagged staircase down to sea level. I feel like I’ve woken atop a cloud. It’s both breathtaking and surreal. This is no beach bum’s bachelor pad. This is serious real estate.

  “You fancy the view?” he asks, stepping up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. He plants a gentle kiss on the skin between my neck and shoulder. He’s managed to pull on a robe while I’ve been standing transfixed at the window.

  “I do,” I say, snuggling into his embrace. I want to savor what I know must be the last minutes we’ll have together. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Couple years. It’s convenient for work.”

  I laugh aloud. “You can say that again. The beach is like, right there.”

  “No, I mean close to work. My office is a few minutes’ drive downtown from here.”

  I twist to face him, breaking his grasp. “Since when do lifeguards have offices?”

  Derric frames my face in his hands and flashes a sheepish smile. “Come sit and have some breakfast.” He leads me to a seat at the kitchen bar and sets a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast in front of me. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” I decide to risk a popping a piece of fruit in my mouth, something my wobbly stomach can handle.

  He pours two mugs of the rich dark brew and settles onto the bar stool next to me. “I’m not really a lifeguard. At least, not all the time.”

  “There’s a shocker. This apartment, your car?” I shake my head. “You’re no surfie. Who are you, really? What do you do? Is your name really Derric?”

  He laughs and takes a thoughtful sip from his steaming mug. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. Yes, my name is really Derric. Derric Faris. Of Faris Media.”

  “Faris Media?” I swallow my piece of melon with difficulty.

  “I don’t imagine the name would ring a bell. My father, Steven Faris, owns every newspaper in New South Wales and stations TEN-10 Sydney and TVQ-10 Brisbane on Australia’s Network 10. I’m the VP of operations and executive producer.”

  “What?” I gasp, my coffee cup halted halfway to my lips. “You’re a TV executive? What the hell are you doing babysitting a bunch of sun-bathing tourists?”

  “Because I like it. I like helping people in trouble—especially when they’re as pretty as you.”

  I roll my eyes, even though I’m deeply flattered by his constant declarations of my beauty, it leads to an obvious conclusion. “Oh, I see. The lifeguard thing is only about snagging pretty women. And when you save their lives, they have no choice but to fall in love with you.”

  Derric’s twinkling blue eyes fix on me as he takes another sip of coffee. “Is that what’s happening to you?” he asks, after setting his mug down.

  Now he’s making me blush again. I’ve as good as admitted how attracted I am to him. “Just an observation,” I say, covering my tracks.

  “Right. Well, it’s good PR, too,” Derric says. “Giving back to the community, being a good corporate citizen. When you’re involved in the media, you’re under a lot of scrutiny.”

  “I can imagine. Performing heroic deeds would distract the public from the millions of dollars you
rake in every year.” Now I’m curious. I’ve just slept with possibly one of the wealthiest men on the continent. A millionaire at least. Or a billionaire even. “How much money do you make?”

  “Ah, now that’s classified info. Would you tell me how much your business makes?”

  I lower my eyes to my breakfast plate. “It’s not as much as I’d like it to.”

  “See, there you go. But give it time,” he says, folding his perpetually-tanned and perfectly-muscled forearms on the counter. “You have a website?”

  “Yes, churchandstrait-dot-com. Why?”

  “I’ll check it out. See if I can give you some tips on your SEO and media marketing strategies.”

  “Um, thanks,” I say, tackling a bite of scrambled eggs. The conversation seems to be veering toward shop talk, and it makes me think of Claire. I should be getting back to check in on her soon. And start packing. Unwelcome reality is creeping in. I’m way out of my league. It’s preposterous to think Derric Faris is actually interested in me, or my fledgling business venture

  “Thank you again for last night. And breakfast,” I say, gesturing to my plate.

  “This sounds ominously like an exit line, Miss Churchwood. Are you binning me?” he asks, feigning injury. As if he wouldn’t be ditching me within the hour; I know this is at best a one-night stand. As stupendous as it was, it can’t be more than that.

  I shrug in apology. “I do have a plane to catch, Mr. Faris.” I slip as gracefully as I can off the seat and touch my feet to the marble floor.

  “So you do.” He rises from his chair. His robe conveniently falls open, exposing his deliciously ripped body and oh-so-ready cock. My stomach flutters at the sight. I’d like nothing better than to march him straight back to that bedroom and…

  My thoughts slip away as he steps in close and wraps his arms around me. His stiffening member grinds insistently against my belly, as though trying to convince me to stay. Oh, how I want to.

  “You were bloody fantastic last night, love. A goddess. I hope you’ll remember your holiday fondly. I know I’ll never forget it.”

  He tips my chin upward so that I can’t miss being swallowed by those intense baby blues of his. My knees tremble as he leans down and kisses me. A goodbye kiss. It’s sweet and gut-wrenchingly sad at the same time.

  “I don’t think I could,” I say.

  He smiles, and I feel as though I’ll melt into a helpless puddle on the polished floor as he releases his hold on me. “Y’know, I do get to New York on business every so often. Maybe we could see each other again.” He steps across to a coffee table and plucks something from a holder. What? He’s seriously offering to keep in touch? Or is the gesture just for show… a little token of hope, so a girl doesn’t feel completely used? How many times has he said this line?

  Derric hands me a business card. It has the Network 10 branding along with his name and several contact numbers. At least this part is true.

  “That is, if you ever want to. Maybe your plan is to get the hell out of Oz as fast as you can and never look back, I don’t know,” he says with a rueful chuckle. “But here. Ball’s in your court if you’d like to call me. Or text me. Add me on What’s App, whatever’s convenient.”

  I stare unbelieving at the card clutched between my thumb and forefinger. It seems as precious and rare as a thousand-dollar bill to me, but I can’t let him know that. I’ll give it a few days. A week at least. Two weeks.

  Then I’ll call him. Maybe.

  Chapter Four

  Derric

  Dealing with the Devil

  “G’day Mr. Faris,” the Network 10 c-suite receptionist says with a sunny smile. I should remember her name—since I fucked her in the station bathroom once or twice, but at the moment it completely escapes me.

  “G’day, you’re looking lovely this morning, darlin,” I say, flashing my own signature smile. Damn, still drawing a blank.

  “Always the flatterer,” she says, tossing me a wink. “What have you done this time that you need to personally pay a call on Mr. Steven?”

  She refers to my father like he’s some sort of plantation overlord, and I’m the upstart runaway field hand being called in for disciplinary action. Most of the time she’d be right, but she’s out of line to say so.

  “Keep it up, sweetheart. They can always use new acts down at the comedy club.” I lean one arm on her polished desktop. “Actually, the old man’s asked to see me, not the other way ‘round. Be a dear and let him know I’m here, will you?”

  “Certainly,” she replies, appearing to shrink away from my physical presence and back into her professional but subservient place.

  I continue on my way to Dad’s office, down a hall that feels more like a mausoleum chamber with its depressingly dark wallpaper. Despite being in command of a multi-billion high tech media enterprise, the pruny bastard still liked to keep things old school.

  I don’t wait to be announced. He’s expecting me. I twist the brass handle of the oak door that separates him from the rest of the real world and barge right in.

  “About fucking time,” a voice growls out from the far corner of the room.

  “Nice to see you too, Dad,” I say. I’ve long since learned not to rise to his bait. I plant myself into one of his oversized and ostentatious armchairs while I wait for him to declare what’s on his mind and the reason I’ve been summoned.

  A derisive grunt suffices for a greeting. “I’d say make yourself comfortable, but I see you’ve already taken the liberty,” Steven Faris says, rising from his padded seat behind a massive gumwood desk that looks like it would have to have been assembled inside the room. His iron-gray hair is as thick and bristly as ever, harshly trimmed to resemble some kind of flat-topped battle helmet. Despite my indifference to both his personality and authority, he does cut an impressive figure at the age of sixty-three, his tall frame still trim and broad-shouldered. It’s been said more than I’ve cared to hear that I’m the spitting image of the man in his younger days.

  And the knowledge I am likely staring into a mirror of the future burns like indigestion in my soul.

  “I might as well be comfortable when I face the firing squad,” I say.

  This actually gets a laugh out of him. Or rather, an amused snort that passes for laughter.

  “Just when I was beginning to like you, you’re still a sarcastic little bastard.” He plucks his eyeglasses from the bridge of his nose and folds them into his breast pocket as he saunters over to join me, lowering himself into the couch opposite my chair. “I suppose you’ve got every reason to expect a thorough lashing. But you bring it on yourself, you know. Can’t keep your pants zipped or your wallet closed.”

  “My pants are none of your fucking business, zipped or unzipped. And I don’t keep a wallet with me on the beach, Steve. It’s where I’ve been most of the summer in case you haven’t noticed. Acting in the public service.”

  “Oh, but I have noticed,” Steven says, crossing one long, trousered leg over the other. “In fact, it’s why I called you here. I’m afraid you’ll have to hang up your lifeguard whistle for a while.”

  “What? Why? I thought you agreed it was good for my public image.” The bastard would just be that much of an asshole to change his mind. Pull the strings a little tighter, make me dance to his tune at any old time, like every other sycophant he surrounds himself with.

  “Yes, and it paid off. No tabloid headlines, no arrests for public drunkenness, no property damage claims for nearly two months—a record if I’m not mistaken. Frankly, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  I scoff. “Always inspiring to know you have such confidence in me.”

  “Alright, shut it. Before you go off on one of your ‘daddy never loved me’ tirades, shut the fuck up and listen. We’ve just gotten the go-ahead for Network 10’s U.S. affiliate station.” He leans forward to deliver the famous Faris death glare. “You understand what that means?”

  I divert my gaze. The look has long lost its fir
epower for me. “Yeah, it means you’ll have your head even further up your arse and sitting even higher on your horse than usual. What’s it to me?”

  “You’re the goddamn executive producer, that’s what,” he snarls out. “Time you earned your fucking paycheck.” The old man stabs a gnarly index finger straight down on the antique coffee table between us. “This is a huge move, into the biggest market in the world. It’s important, Derric. To the network, to the family. And I won’t have you be an embarrassment to the family any longer. You’ll be leaving for New York at the end of the month to handle the launch.”

  For a change, I have no acid retort to fling back at my father. Network 10 has been trying to crack the American market for years. It really is a milestone; one I never thought the old man would accomplish. And I’m shocked as hell he’s actually giving me a shot at it. There must be some catch, if I know the bastard at all.

  “Family? Since mum passed, we’ve hardly been a family. Why send me? Why not one of your other pet executives—ones you can trust not to screw it up like you obviously think I will.”

  Steven sinks back into his seat. The lines of personal history on his face seem etched deeper than the last time I saw him. His years of being a corporate, not to mention paternal, tyrant might finally be catching up with him. Maybe there’s even a sliver of regret as I mention my mother.

  “As disappointing as it may be for both of us, you are still my son. It’s imperative that Network 10 is represented by family,” he states matter-of-factly. “The Faris name must have a face in order to succeed in a youth-worshipping, celebrity-crazed environment. And my sorry mug isn’t going to cut it. You’re the face, Derric. You’re goddamn Helen of Troy. We could launch a thousand networks with it. So don’t you fuck it up. For your own sake. And her memory.”

  It’s the first time he’s spoken of mum with any kind of reverence, and I’m taken aback. He’s serious. He genuinely wants me to succeed in this venture. It occurs to me it has the added benefit of putting thousands of miles and two oceans between us.