Mountain Man's Accidental Baby Daughter (A Mountain Man's Baby Romance)

by Lia Lee

  “Oh, shit.” She bent down to assess the damage. The dresser feet on the left side had snapped off at the base. “Looks like we got a little too rowdy for this thing.”

  He grinned mischievously, brushing his nose against her cheek. “I’ll replace it. It was my fault.”

  “Our fault,” she corrected. After a moment, she added, “Well…mostly yours.”

  They shared a grin that made her feel like they’d been together for years.

  Chapter Nine

  Adrien cracked open an eyelid. Sunlight poured through gauzy fabric from the window nearby, framing the broken dresser as though an art feature at a museum. He shifted and felt empty space beside him. Turning over, Clara was gone. Light tapping sounded from beyond the worn tapestry dividing the apartment.

  He swallowed, tongue finding a sour taste in his mouth. They’d whiled away the night giving and receiving orgasms, so much that they never even made it beyond her bed. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d had such an explosive sexual chemistry, not to mention all the fun and laughter that accompanied their sex.

  He groaned as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. After so much physical exertion, the extra sleep was necessary.

  Pulling on his boxer briefs, he pushed past the tapestry. Clara sat cross-legged on the couch in the middle of the room, bent over her laptop. She looked up at him, smiling.

  “Morning, champ.” She shut the laptop, placing it aside.

  “Good morning.” He bit back a yawn. “Is it still morning?”

  “Got about another hour left.” She patted the couch beside her. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Surprisingly. I normally don’t sleep well in new places.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” She tucked her knees into her chest as he sat on the couch. The springs creaked beneath him.

  “How long have you been up?” He draped his arm along the back of the couch, dragging his fingertips along the exposed part of her neck. Goose bumps erupted in their wake.

  “A couple hours.” She shrugged, yawning. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to get started on the hunt.”

  “You’re that eager to marry me off.” His eyes wandered along the curve of her neck, over the lines of her jaw. She cast him a wry glance.

  “Well, it’s my job now. I have to earn my paycheck.”

  “You never told me how much it will be.”

  “Whatever you think is adequate.” She fingered a stray fiber on the couch.

  “Is this how you’re going to negotiate pay raises when you start working at the academy?” He gave her a wry smile. “Come on. What are your services worth? I’m a venture capitalist. Convince me to part with my money.”

  She bit back a grin, color flushing her cheeks. “Fine.” She took a deep breath, studying the ceiling for a moment. “I promise to find a consistent group of potential wives on a weekly basis. At least 4 blind dates per week, ranked on categories such as profession, awards and recognition, attractiveness, etc.”

  “Go on.”

  “Four new women each week, for a period of four weeks. Then we can extend the period, if needed. I’ll arrange everything—I’ll set up the dates, the places, the reservations, all of it. I’ll send you the information as I arrange it, based around your schedule once you tell me what times are generally good for you throughout the week.”

  “Okay. Price?”

  She bit her lip as she studied the ceiling again. “Five to seven hours a day…maybe up to seven days a week…I’d say my base price is fifteen hundred dollars per week.”

  He nodded, impressed by how she’d stepped up to bat. “Very good. You lowballed yourself, though. Always give a higher price and negotiate downward. Don’t start with the minimum that you’ll accept. I’ll give you twenty-five hundred a week.”

  Her eyes shot open. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course.” He pinched her arm. “Now let’s have breakfast somewhere.”

  “That’s like, fifty dollars an hour.”

  “I know.” He stood, stretching. “This is an important task. I’ll give you a bonus for finding the right match, too.”

  She nodded, reaching for her laptop. “That sounds appropriate. I like that.”

  He grinned, sauntering toward the bedroom. “Good. Think of a new place for us to eat this morning. I want something American.”

  Adrien grabbed his phone from the nightstand before he made his way to the bathroom. New messages awaited him, mundane updates from the security detail and work colleagues. A couple missed calls greeted him, all with the Luxembourg area code. He sighed, tossing the phone on the bed. Turning to leave for the bathroom, the phone vibrated against the rumpled comforter.

  Luxembourg. Calling again. He gritted his teeth, debating on ignoring it once more. If there were this many repeated calls, it was something serious. His parents almost never called his personal phone anymore. He snatched it up, answering before he could think twice.

  “Hallo?”

  “Adrien.” His father’s rich tenor rumbled jovially from halfway across the world. The good mood was another red flag. “Comment allez-vous?”

  “Trѐs bien.” He paused, unsure where to begin. “Why have you called so many times?”

  “La bonne nouvelle.” The good news. His stomach sank. “Your wedding date has been chosen. The plans have been made. You will marry the Archduchess Francesca in five weeks.”

  “I’m not marrying Francesca.” Adrien knew fighting it was futile, but he couldn’t just swallow the news without hiccupping a bit. “I refuse.”

  “You can’t refuse and you know it. Your family will be there, with or without your presence, to celebrate your hand in marriage with the archduchess. Contact your mother for further plans and arrangements. We expect to see your shining face in five weeks.”

  His stomach knotted. The time limit was real now. “I want nothing to do with her, or with continuing the monarchy.”

  “That doesn’t matter now.” His father’s voice grew gruff. “Your opinion is the least of our concerns. Good day, Adrien.”

  The connection went dead and Adrien squeezed the phone, the bad news leaving a sick taste in his mouth. The arrangement with Clara couldn’t have come at a better time. He just hoped that she could deliver.

  He stormed into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. Five weeks to either find a wife or resign himself to a nationalistic destiny that felt foreign and vicelike. Five weeks to enjoy the last dregs of freedom with Clara, however he could, before his life took a turn for the strange and restricted.

  Emerging from the bathroom, Clara watched him curiously. “Who called?”

  “My father.” He locked his hands behind his head, pacing the far wall in front of the window.

  “Your French is sexy.”

  He smirked. “Thanks. Did you understand any of it?”

  “I heard the name Francesca, I think. Was that in there?”

  “It was.” He grimaced, pausing to observe the muted commotion of the street below. Pedestrians paused around a cart of fresh fruit. Shady types lurked around parked cars, glancing up and down the street. “A wedding date has been set.”

  There was a long pause. He turned to face her.

  “How much time do you have left?” Her voice came out small.

  “Five weeks.” He joined her on the couch, sighing as he sat down. “We’ll have to work fast.”

  She nodded, lazily tracing the keys of her keyboard. “I have a couple leads already. Hopefully I’ll have you set up for some dates in a few days.”

  “Great.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose, sensing a stress headache arriving. “I can’t wait to meet the future Mrs. LaCroix.”

  Chapter Ten

  A few days later, Clara had an idea of how this whole gig was going down. She’d amassed a healthy spreadsheet of potential suitors, organized by categories like career, personal history, social media presence, past scandals and drama, political affiliations, and then an internal rating sc
ale devised by Clara that accounted for both her personal preference and what she imagined would be Adrien’s.

  The spreadsheet was massive, and the result of too many hours of work. But Adrien’s first deposit showed up in her bank account—“the seed fund,” he’d said—and suddenly the work felt much more important. If only the gig could last forever. Then she might have a real shot at getting out of debt.

  The temporary release of the money claws was a welcome change. She splurged at the grocery store that morning, and called off a catering shift so she could spend more time hunting for princesses. Between music playlists, hummus platters, and her laptop, she was a woman on a mission.

  By Monday afternoon, her first list of blind dates was ready for Adrien. His preference was for dinner dates, with multiple dates in a day only in times of extreme necessity or urgency. His first dates were for Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday that week. She sent over the list of days, times, names, and executive summaries with a triumphant click.

  Adrien called moments later. She answered the phone with a grin. “Hello?”

  “This is fantastic.” His deep voice soothed her from across the city. Butterflies swarmed her belly. “I had no idea this could be so thorough.”

  “I’m a scientist. I use methodologies.” She admired the spreadsheet on her laptop as they talked about it, like a proud mother. “Do you like the color coding?”

  “Absolutely.” He whistled. “And you left Friday open for us, right?”

  “Just like you asked.” The way he’d said for us made her blush. She bit back a smile. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t forget your most important date of the week.”

  “Good. How does it feel to be dating a known womanizer?”

  She laughed. “Excellent, especially since I’m in control of the womanizing.”

  They chatted for a little longer before Adrien had to run to a meeting. She continued her work, glowing from the high of their conversation. Dating a womanizer. It was hilarious, and strange, and made a funny feeling simmer inside her. Somewhere between Friday night and now, they’d started dating. There was a title to it. One that Adrien coined himself.

  They’d been in constant contact, and now, on Monday evening, it marked only a full day out of each other’s presence. Though they were scheduled for Friday, she was already dying to see him again. More dangerous by the day.

  Rationalizing helped. She figured that if she were to have a better chance at success and meeting the deadline, she needed to know as much as possible about Adrien. Which would include, feasibly, a detailed knowledge of his personality, his likes, his dislikes, sexual preferences. Otherwise, she might pair him incorrectly, and he’d be doomed to marry the archduchess. Maybe, if she learned enough about him, she could write an algorithm to help make more accurate matches.

  So that meant sleeping with him was for the best. She nodded at her computer, typing more furiously as she Googled a new lead. Definitely had to continue sleeping with him, even though, only days ago, not sleeping with him seemed the wisest course of action. But hey, things change when you start dating a prince.

  Butterflies erupted in her belly again and she reached for a pita chip from the bag beside her. Dating a prince was strange enough, but their inevitable end was a curious aspect to the situation, like starting a story after reading the last line of the book first.

  And what would it be like to hear about all his dates? Maybe he wouldn’t tell her. Or maybe he’d be slowly falling in love with a woman as they continued their dead-end affair. She shivered. Her life had taken a strange turn since last week, and she wasn’t entirely sure where this phase would spit her out at the end. The only way was forward, by doing what felt right.

  And to her, doing Adrien felt extremely right.

  ***

  Later that night, she’d dozed off in the middle of her research. A phone call startled her awake. Adrien.

  She snatched it up. “Hello?” She blinked against the low light of the room, struggling to make sense of the clock on the opposite wall. 10:30 p.m.

  “Good evening. How are you?”

  “Fine.” She yawned. “Just wrapping up some more research.”

  “Don’t burn yourself out.” He tutted through the phone. “I pay handsomely, but that doesn’t mean you need to become a zombie.”

  “I just want to do a good job,” she said, picking at the couch. “You have a time limit. It makes me nervous.”

  “You and me both. Which brings me to why I called.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The girl tonight was a dud.”

  “Oh.” She frowned, pulling open the spreadsheet. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll make a note of it on my end.”

  “Good.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing much. She was terribly bland, and already talking about matching his-and-her nightgowns.”

  “Jesus. OK, I’ll have to tweak my screening.”

  “Maybe you could come show me what you’re doing.” Adrien’s voice took on a sultry lilt. “I’d like to see behind the scenes. Check out the work of my mad scientist.”

  She grinned, tingles running up and down her spine. “You want to fraternize with the mad scientist?”

  “Desperately.” His voice came out as a low growl.

  “Are you gonna send Mr. Pike?”

  “I already did. He’ll be there in ten.”

  She couldn’t fight the grin. “Let me get my things around then. I’ll see you soon.”

  Chapter Eleven

  On Friday afternoon, Adrien was tired of the blind dates. Four duds down and a long list of potential duds to wade through, while the clock ticked. The only consolation was Clara, who worked tirelessly to find interesting matches. Their own date night was the high point in his week, something he’d insisted on while knowing that the cycle of strangers would wear on him.

  But the unexpected aspect to the blind date barrage was that Clara had been spending the night. A lot. Every night, in fact. After inviting her over on Monday, the days had seamlessly blurred together until suddenly it was their date night and she’d spent every single night in his arms.

  Coming home to her each night was another bright spot amid the tense hunt. And when he returned from each date, she was there, ready to talk it over with him, learn more about what he liked and didn’t like, tweaking accordingly. It was certainly the strangest living situation he’d ever encountered in his life, but somehow it worked.

  He and Clara had agreed to meet at an upscale diner on the pier that night, so they could have some good grub and take a walk afterward. By the time Mr. Pike rolled up to the restaurant, Clara was already there, glowing and gorgeous on the sidewalk.

  Stepping out of the car, he grabbed the sides of her arms and gave her a soft kiss. She blinked up at him. You could look at me like that forever, Clara.

  “Hey there.” She lifted a brow. “Quite a greeting for the public arena.”

  “I couldn’t help myself.” He offered his arm and they strolled inside. The air was boisterous and bright inside the diner, the smell of grease mingling pleasantly with fries and sweets.

  “Oh, man.” He sighed softly, surveying the restaurant. “Lots of start-up people here.”

  “We did pick the trendiest diner in the city for tonight’s dinner,” she reminded him. “It’s okay, though. Who cares if you have to talk a little shop?”

  “I’m off the clock. I don’t want to be pulled away.”

  She grinned, nudging him with her elbow. “How sweet of you. Even sweeter because you don’t ‘clock in.’ Thanks for using language I can identify with according to my socioeconomic status.”

  He watched her, a grin overtaking his face. She batted her eyelashes sweetly at him. “You are so strange.” And I love it.

  They found an open booth near the back and settled in, immediately locking hands over the tabletop. A server brought them two menus, which she left at the end of the table and disappeared wordlessly.

>   “I already know what I want,” he said. “The juiciest hamburger.”

  “I love how you say juiciest.”

  “What, is it my accent?”

  “Yes.” She giggled, squeezing his hands. “It doesn’t come out to play very often, but when it does…”

  He smirked. “If it weren’t for the accent, I’d have almost nothing at my disposal for attracting women like you.”

  “Oh, you think it was the accent that snagged me at the charity benefit?” She lifted a brow. Her tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth, which made his cock stiffen.

  “If it wasn’t the accent, what was it?”

  She watched him a moment. “I’m not gonna say.”

  “Now you have to.” He leaned closer. “Don’t make me start guessing.”

  The server appeared again to take their orders. While Adrien rattled off his needs for the hamburger, Clara scanned the menu. After the server disappeared with the menus, Adrien snagged her hands again. “Now tell me.”

  “Nope.”

  “My hair.”

  She snorted. “Nope.”

  “Pheromones. You could immediately sense our sexual chemistry.”

  She drew in a low breath. “No, but that’s not entirely baseless.”

  “My incredible, sexy pout.”

  Laughter escaped her. “Nope.”

  “Fine. Want to know what snagged me about you?”

  Her eyebrows lifted, surprise shimmering across her face. She hesitated. “Sure.”

  He reached across the table to trace her jawline, down the sweet curve of her neck. “This. I want to draw you. If I knew how, that is.”

  “Why don’t you commission a famous Italian painter or something?” She winked at him, a blush creeping across her cheek. “You could always have a bust of me made, and then never tell your future wife who I am.”

  “I’ll consider that.” He sipped at a glass of water.

  “With all the money you have, I wouldn’t be surprised if you could resurrect da Vinci.”

  Delight rippled through him. He loved their banter, their conversations—everything about their time together. Only a week in and he craved more. “I’m a billionaire, not a sorcerer.”