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

by Lia Lee

  It was bloody heaven, and it made me want more, much more. I’d felt a freedom being with her that I hadn’t with other women. I got the sense that she accepted me for what and who she knew me to be at the time, and accepted herself and her own desires without shame or remorse. No apologies. I know she enjoyed it as much as I did. So why the closed door? The deafening silence I can hear from across an ocean?

  Street after street flows by my windows as I’m lost in thought, but I snap to attention as I almost blow a red light. I slam on the brakes, and a symphony of car horns blast from the knotted mass of vehicles all around me. I exhale a tense breath as the Escalade’s tires squeal to a stop. Pay attention, Faris. Get yourself killed your first day in America. That would get a laugh from the old man. Save him the trouble of doing it himself.

  My fingers drum on the wheel as I look around the intersection while waiting for the green light. On one corner stands a bank, and on another is a petrol station. Kitty corner from them is a church; not a big, ostentatious one, but a gable-roofed, community sort of church with a brick exterior and a tall spire sprouting a simple cross from its peak. I can’t quite make out if it’s Methodist, Presbyterian or what. More horns honk as the light turns green. Oi, keep your knickers on, mates.

  I hit the accelerator and cruise through the intersection when suddenly a light bulb goes on in my head. Church. That’s it. Church and something—wait—it was a play on words—Church and State. Uh, no. Church & Strait. I smile as the revelation unfurls, and my mood takes an unexpected upswing. I have a way to find Mila.

  When I get settled into my new digs, I intend to look up the design firm of Church & Strait. Mila may or may not want to see me but, either way, I plan to make her an offer. Hopefully one she can’t refuse.

  Chapter Seven

  Mila

  What Happens in Oz, Follows Me Home

  The whirring of brewing machines and milk steamers and the comforting smells of aromatic beans greet me as I step inside Lump & Grind, the upscale coffee boutique that is Church & Strait’s newest client. Though I’ve already presented my design comps to the owner for review, I thought it was only fair I should patronize the company and sample their product in the meantime.

  Problem is, I shouldn’t be drinking coffee. Not in my... condition.

  I decide to order something decaf; at least this kind of decision is an easy one. Not so much everything else in my life. I’m six weeks pregnant. Meaning I have a four-week window to decide what to do about it. As awful as the option is, my doctor says a termination can be done prior to ten weeks, but I can’t bring myself to make that kind of choice—not yet.

  The alternative, of course, is to continue with the pregnancy. It certainly wasn’t part of my plan. My dream of opening a design studio in the heart of New York has become a reality. It’s been my passion and my life’s ambition. Having a baby would throw a major wrench in the machine; everything I’d worked for would have to take a back seat, and it wouldn’t be fair to dump all that extra responsibility on Claire. We’d have to hire extra staff, a nanny at least, and I’m not certain our budget could withstand all of that right now.

  But there’s one fact I can’t ignore. I miss having a family. I was only ten years old when I lost my dad to a workplace accident. Mom never really recovered from it. No amount of insurance money could compensate for him not being there, to be a husband and father. She put on the bravest face she could for my sake, but a deep depression gripped her after his death. The most crushing blow of all came with the diagnosis of a brain tumor twelve years later. Mom fought a brave two-year battle but ultimately lost the war.

  Tears burn the back of my eyeballs as I think of how thrilled Mom would’ve been to have a grandchild. I could have a family again. My own family. Suddenly all the doubts and weighty problems seem to lift from my shoulders. I know what my choice will be.

  I’m going to have this baby.

  The line-up for coffee is moving slowly. I grab a newspaper from a nearby rack to pass the time. In a twist of evil serendipity, a photo practically leaps off the page at me. It’s Derric again, smiling for the cameras, and my heart accelerates as I hurriedly read the accompanying story.

  The arrivals level at JFK swarmed with spectators and camera crews earlier this week for a glimpse of FOX network’s new Australian affiliate station executive producer, Derric Faris, son of venerable Sydney media mogul, Steven Faris. The younger Mr. Faris is in New York for the next several months to oversee the network launch of ROO-TV, the first Australian-based live streaming channel, scheduled to premiere September 1.”

  No freaking way! He said he came to the States sometimes, but... I had no idea it would be this soon. September is six months away. He’ll be here all that time? My mind cycles through the ramifications of this; if I contact him and tell him about the baby, I don’t know how he’ll react. It might negatively affect his work and compromise the network launch. Worse, he might turn right around and catch the next plane back to Oz. On the other hand, if I don’t tell him, my baby bump will be very visible by September. There’s no way he won’t notice.

  The third option settles over me like a dark cloud. Stay away. Make no contact at all. Can I trust myself to do that? With a pang of horror, I recall the rumors about Derric and Belle Luna. Is that part of why he’s here—to reunite with her, make a big media splash with an engagement announcement? That would boost the network ratings... and rip my heart out at the same time. I wouldn’t put it past him; he’s been born and raised in the entertainment business, after all. I close my eyes as all these unpalatable possibilities flood my brain, stalling it like a car engine, unable to move forward or back.

  “Yes, ma’am?” The clerk’s voice startles me, and I realize I’ve reached the front of the line. I place my order for a decaf low-fat milk latte and force myself to read the rest of the article.

  When questioned about his relationship with popular music star Belle Luna, and a rumored wedding engagement, Mr. Faris was elusive and quoted as stating he was “just here to get a new network off the ground.”

  His clever dodge of a direct question confirms my hunch. He’s just dangling the carrot; practicing his ingrained craft of misdirection, suspense and leaving the audience guessing. Well, there is no guessing about my situation. I wonder how the media would respond if they knew that Derric Faris, Australian media golden boy, was about to become the father of an illegitimate child? Not with a pop star, but with a nobody American girl he had a random fling with to top it off. Ha. If it’s headlines he wants, that one would take first prize.

  I fold the paper into my handbag as I grab my coffee order and leave the shop. In my heart, I know I couldn’t do that; potentially ruin Derric’s career with that kind of scandal. But what about my career? Just because I’m not famous or a billionaire doesn’t mean I should sacrifice my hopes and dreams, either.

  I trudge the few blocks to the studios of Church & Strait, no closer to solving my dilemma. I wish Claire were in the office today. Maybe talking with my best friend and partner will help me get some clarity… but she has appointments all morning. At any rate, I know what she will say. Tell him. Make him man up and take responsibility.

  ***

  My stomach growls irritably as I sit hunched over my computer. Glancing at the clock I see it’s almost noon, and I’ve barely moved from my ergonomic office chair all morning. Typical me; diving into my work to block out things I don’t want to think about. Things that are unpleasant or painful. Like the death of my parents. It’s more than a coping mechanism; it’s almost become therapy for me. But my current situation won’t change no matter how much or how hard I work.

  My gut rumbles again, reminding me I need to eat. Whether I want to eat or not is a different issue. My appetite swings between ravenous one day and unable to even look at food the next. Today feels somewhere in between. As I reach for my purse inside a desk drawer, a soft knock sounds on my office door.

  “Come in,” I say, knowing the
only other person in the office is mine and Claire’s shared assistant, Terri Thompson.

  Terri’s brunette head pops through the partially open door, her Harry-Potter-esque eyeglasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose. “Mila? Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment. Did you want to meet with him or should I tell him to come back later?”

  Huh? This is odd. We don’t get much walk-in traffic in our type of business. “What does he want? It’s not a salesman, is it?” I ask, wincing.

  “I don’t think so. He doesn’t talk like any salesman I’ve ever heard. He says he needs ‘creative inspiration’.” Terri air-quotes. “For a business venture. And that he’s an old acquaintance.”

  My eyebrows raise in suspicion. An acquaintance? I have no idea who it could be, but I’m not about to turn away potential business. Especially when it just walks through our door unsolicited. We’re going to need all we can get. “Um, okay. Send him in.”

  “Sure thing.”

  So much for lunch. Hopefully, this meeting won’t take long and that my wonky stomach will stay quiet for the duration. I close my desk drawer and stand to greet this unexpected visitor, smoothing out any wrinkles in my jacket and skirt. I look up as the door opens wider, and nearly fall back into my padded chair at what I see. I touch my fingertips to the desktop to steady myself. I can’t tell if I’m dizzy from standing so quickly or from the sight that greets my eyes.

  Heaven in a suit.

  It’s Derric.

  “Surprise,” he says, and the sound of his saucy accent and the sexy grin on his handsome face are enough to melt my panties. His once bed-head surfer-dude blond locks are expertly trimmed and styled, and he looks hotter in his designer suit than any human male has a right to. The fit and color are perfect, accentuating his broad shoulders and slim hips. He looks as though he’s stepped right off the cover of GQ and into my office. I blink to make sure he’s not some kind of optical illusion or holographic projection.

  His expression turns curious, and he tilts his head slightly. “Hello?”

  “Hi,” I say, realizing I’ve been silent and rigid as a stone statue. I’m dumbstruck in his presence. I can’t believe he’s really here, in person. “C-can I help you?” I stammer.

  Derric’s brows knot in an expression of amused confusion. “I certainly hope so. May I come in?”

  “Oh... yes... yes of course,” I reply, color rising to my cheeks. I shake myself out of my temporary stupor. He’s a customer, after all. “Won’t you sit down?” I gesture at the guest chair facing my desk. I grip the edge of my desk as I take my seat, watching him swing into the chair opposite with easy, athletic grace. Images of the gorgeous, ripped body I know is beneath the tailored suit flash in my mind, and my knees go weak. Dammit.

  “You look wonderful, Mila. How’ve you been?” His searing blue gaze scours me up and down. I feel naked in spite of the clothing that covers me. Does he still want me that way? Or is this strictly a business call? I don’t trust the emotions that are coursing through me—joy, fear, jealousy, desire—all converging at once. I struggle to be professional and keep my expression calm.

  “I’m well, thank you. And you?”

  I curse silently at my inane, trite response. I’m speaking like a robot, as though he’s a complete stranger. Nothing could be farther from the truth. He’s the father of my child, and I want so badly to tell him everything. But I can’t, not until I know what he’s feeling, and why he’s really here.

  He smiles, and I come undone as a faulty zipper. Why does he have to be so goddamn good-looking?

  “At the moment, disappointed,” he says. “I really hoped I’d hear from you. But since I didn’t, the only thing I could do was come to you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Derric

  An Offer She Can’t Confuse

  “Sorry, I’ve been really busy,” Mila explains, not quite meeting my stare. “That’s the trouble with vacations; the work just piles up, and you’re farther behind than when you left,” she chatters on. “I didn’t mean to offend you by not getting in touch.”

  I lean my elbow on the arm of the chair as I study her. She seems nervous and hesitant. Not at all like the confident, sensual, bronzed goddess I remember. Her tan has faded and, in fact, she looks a tad pale. But it doesn’t diminish her attractiveness. My fingers itch to rake through those bouncy brunette curls and bend her head back so I can ravage those pouty pink lips. I want to see desire flash in those alluring brown eyes—the way it did for me that first night—and caress every soft curve of that luscious body currently hidden under dull, business-casual attire.

  “I said disappointed, not offended. What happened—did you lose my card?” I tease.

  A rosy blush brings some color to her cheeks. “No. Like I said, a lot of work to catch up on, in addition to trying to build up new clientele. We’ve been very focused on growing the business.” Finally, she meets my gaze straight on. “What brings you to New York?”

  “My father and I are launching a new affiliate network here in the States, and I’m here to oversee operations. We’ll need a good creative team behind us, and I remembered that you ran a graphic design studio. Since you’re looking to expand your business, the timing is perfect. Perhaps we could... mix business with pleasure, yeah?”

  Mila takes a deep breath and folds her hands together on her desktop. “Mr. Faris, this is my place of business, and I’m a professional. If you wish to be a client, fine. But in that case, I’m afraid there won’t be any ‘pleasure’. Except for a job well done, of course.” She opens her palms in a quizzical gesture, and her tawny eyebrows arch upward. “Which shall it be?”

  I can’t help but smile. She’s her own woman, as I knew from the beginning. It’s part of what attracts me to her—her independence, and self-awareness. It’s damn sexy. I can find another designer, but I won’t find another Mila. She’s making the choice simple for me.

  “Point taken,” I say. “If we forget the job, can I take you out to lunch?”

  Her eyes flicker back and forth, sizing me up again. Her cheeks redden further, and I’m hoping I’ve made at least a tiny crack in the cool facade that masks the lioness I know truly lurks behind. I’m looking forward to unleashing that incredible wildcat again, but my rising lust dampens with three little words from her.

  “No, thank you.” She pushes her chair back as though preparing to leave. “It’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

  “Hold on,” I say, raising my hand in defeat. I’m not giving up that easily. “Fine. Job’s back on the table, then. Will you allow me to take you to lunch in a strictly professional capacity?”

  Mila exhales, and her eyes roll heavenward. “Derric, I know you’ve traveled a long way, but I’m not sure I can work with you...”

  “Why not? Does Church & Strait have a problem with signing a fifty-thousand-dollar contract with ROO-TV?”

  “Fifty... thousand...” she echoes, her gaze snapping back to me. I can practically see the financial wheels turning behind them. “In Australian dollars?” she asks. “Or American?”

  I start to laugh. Good on ya, kiddo. “Fifty thousand crispy, smelly, green United States Benjamins. All yours. What do you say?” No start-up in the world would turn down a fat television contract like this one, and not only because of the money. The prestige and reputation that comes along with it will launch Church & Strait into the stratosphere of the design industry. They’ll have high-profile clients coming out of the woodwork after this. She’d be crazy not to accept.

  Mila’s jaw works a bit, like she’s chewing on her next words, then gives a slight nod. “Pending consultation with my business partner, I accept your offer. I look forward to working with you,” she says, extending her hand. I take it and humor her with a businesslike handshake to seal the deal.

  “Brilliant. Now, where’s good for lunch?” I ask. “It’s your town.”

  Mila f
lashes a wry smile. “Wasn’t that my line?”

  “The very same,” I reply, drawing her to the door with her hand still clasped in mine. “Lead the way.” We walk through the front of the shop, past the inquisitive young receptionist on our way out.

  “I’m out for lunch, Terri. Claire should be back any time now, but call my cell if you need me,” Mila says.

  “Sure. Have a good one,” Terri replies, pushing her oversized eyeglasses further up her nose as though not believing what she sees. I feel her lingering stare on us as we exit. We walk hand in hand down the street to a place Mila knows and get an outdoor table.

  “I come here all the time,” she says. “They serve a fantastic Reuben sandwich, and the beer is always cold.”

  “Perfect,” I say, pulling her chair out for her. “I could use a cold one.”

  “Me too.”

  We order two sandwiches and drinks. As the server leaves, I look at her quizzically. “You recommend the beer, but order bottled water. Something I should know about?”

  Mila glances up, a strange expression on her face. “No,” she says quickly. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you said it was cold, but didn’t say it was good.” I chuckle. “Is the house draught going to give me some unwanted side effects? I’d hate to be incapacitated for the rest of the afternoon—have you take advantage of me,” I tease, leaning back into the lightweight plastic chair that threatens to bend under my weight. The spring sunshine brings out highlights in her hair, the adorable curled strands lifting in the slight breeze. I picture her lounging on the sand at Bondi beach... in the nude.

  “In what way?” She laughs. “I think you have the advantage here, Mr. Faris.”

  “Oh, I meant in a professional way, of course. Ply me with alcohol to negotiate for a higher fee, future contracts, etc.”

  “I’d be a fool to try taking advantage of a seasoned television executive, don’t you think?”