Baby Fever Secrets: A Billionaire Romance

by Nicole Snow

  It's a perfect place to get this disaster over with quietly, or make one hell of a scene storming out.

  I'm the last one to show up, as usual. My parents are there, punctual as ever, seated with Monsier Creep-o himself. Ethan turns as soon as he sees them look my way, giving me his trademark half-smile, icy and off.

  “Honored you could join us,” he says, rising to take my hand for yet another unwelcome kiss. Jesus, he just always has to get his putrid lips on me.

  I mumble a thanks, take my seat, and hide behind a tall menu. It's all exotic sounding fusion dishes crafted by desperate-to-impress three star chefs who studied under four star masters.

  A tall Long Island Iced Tea, heavy on the vodka, is my first order. Dad frowns while the waiter smiles. Frankly, I don't give a damn.

  Doesn't he understand I'm doing this for him? It's a miracle I'm even here. I'm not letting the business ass-ociate he's pretending to like step all over me. I want nothing to do with Ethan Fabius or his gross kissy faces. But I'll help dad chew whatever it is he's bit off if it helps keep me out of it. What I heard them saying over the phone freaks me out.

  Why me? I don't know, but maybe I'll get some answers, if I play this right.

  I listen disinterestedly to my parents and Ethan talk France over the table, nursing my drink. Mom practices her fakest laugh, the same kind she'll be using soon on the exotic pool boys in Dubai.

  “Cheri, tell me, how are things with Mr. Shaw?” Ethan says, remembering me, shortly after our starters come out.

  Too bad he can't forget my presence. He clearly hasn't forgotten me blowing him off the other night, when I thought Grant saved me from a confrontation with this freak.

  “Just fine.” I pop an olive into my mouth and chew angrily, feeling my father's warning eyes. “You should really worry about your own business, Ethan. Sounds like you have a lot going on with dad's merger, plus the deals on your plate.”

  “Nonsense.” His wine glass shakes as he sets it down, narrowing his eyes when he senses my tone. “I simply ask because I want you to be happy. A woman with your keen zeal for life deserves many things. Most of all a chance to make dreams happen without any fool getting in the way.”

  He's talking about Grant. The creep is more right than he knows, but I'm not interested in stroking his ego by giving him any indication.

  “I'm sticking it out,” I say, carefully stuffing more olives into my mouth. Dealing with him tempts me to break my teeth on the pits. “This job isn't forever. It doesn't define me. It's good experience, like dad says, and I know I'll gain something from it to do what I'd like when the time comes.”

  Yes, something. I'm still waiting for that. So far, all I've gained is an infuriating crush with a man who wants me in his bed before he decides he's had it with his next sucker. One more conquest for him in a long string of many.

  “I hope you've thought this through,” he says, twirling his glass by the stem, giving me a half-glance. “Anytime you decide Neolithic isn't for you, come to me. I'll find a position for you, cheri. I always have a few on offer.”

  I almost gag on my Long Island. It isn't hard to read between the lines and know exactly what position this despicable man would like me in.

  “Not interested,” I tell him again, more ice in my voice than ever before. “I'm not going overseas anytime soon unless it's back to Colombia.”

  “Rebekah,” dad booms across the table. His fingertips have gone white as they pinch his fork by the handle. “Show our guest a little kindness. He's made you a good offer, even if it isn't the right one for you now. Apologize.”

  We lock eyes. He wants me to bend my knee to him and Monsier Creep-o by default, and I still haven't gotten anywhere close to the bottom of what else they really want with me.

  It doesn't make sense. I look Ethan in his ferret face, his ghostly eyes shining, hungry for a bone.

  What does he have on dad, anyway? My father surrenders to no one. He can't be so insane he'd bargain me for some kind of crazy arranged marriage...right?

  And if he is that crazy...

  No. I won't finish the thought.

  “I'm not apologizing to a man who's clearly never learned no. I can't do this,” I blurt out. Adrenaline shoots through me as I stand, throwing the burgundy cloth napkin I've been twisting in my lap down on the table. “Look, I don't know why you've latched onto me, Ethan, but I'm done playing. I meant to tell you the other day, so here it is. I'm not interested in you. I never will be.”

  “Rebekah!” A vein bulges in my father's forehead. He's about to blow. It isn't enough to stop me. Next to him, mom reaches for his shoulder. He sweeps her hand off him.

  I've had enough.

  “What's gotten into you, cheri?” Ethan blinks, feigning surprise. He tries his damnedest to sound kind, but there's nothing except icy tension in his voice. Like he's daring me to finish what I've started.

  “You, asshole.” I pause, just long enough to hear my mother gasp, and then laugh uncomfortably with her hand over her mouth. “I've tried to be nice. I've tried to let you down easy. You know I'm not interested, and yet you still keep coming every time we're in the same room with your stupid, stupid offer to leave everything behind, run off to Europe, and apparently, become your mistress.”

  It takes me a minute to realize we've become the center of attention. Too late to lower my voice. Every table surrounding us has their gaze glued to me, the lone figure next to the table, trembling slightly while I look two wolves in the eyes, and plot my grand escape.

  “Mistress...what?!” He looks shocked. Appalled.

  It's the best act I've ever seen in my life.

  Ethan stands, leering over me, his arms folded. Ignoring me, he turns to my father, who never takes his eyes off us as he brings his napkin to his forehead, wiping the sheen of sweat above his brow away. “Is this how your fussy, self-absorbed duchess always talks, Corbin? Is this a joke?”

  Dad grits his teeth. “She's talking out of turn, sir, and you have my apologies.”

  “Sir?” It drops out of my mouth like something rotten. My head is swimming in red. I can't remember the last time I ever heard dad use the word with someone else. Probably never.

  What the hell is going on here? Seriously?

  “Rebekah, kindly sit back down, and shut up.”

  No. I'm too stunned, too furious, too confused to stand here a second longer and take this abuse. Turning, my heels echo loudly through the restaurant, and I almost knock over a waiter on the way out.

  “Honey!” Mom calls after me, but I don't listen.

  I think she follows when I burst through the double glass doors leading to the curb, my phone in my hand to call a ride, and something slams me into the wall. But mom doesn't have the strength. I bang my head against the brick so hard my teeth chatter, winding me, and I lay eyes on my monster.

  Ethan pins me there, his rough fingers digging into my shoulder.

  “What the fuck is your problem, you ungrateful little cur? I've been nothing but nice. Incredibly generous with you, and your family. I'd give you the sun and the stars. Still, you stand, in front of them all, and spit in my face!”

  At last, I've met the real Ethan. Freed from the neat mask barely concealing his desperation, his cruel insanity.

  If he hits me, I'll scream. But it's happening so fast I don't know if I can. It's like the energy has been sucked out of me, and I'm biting my lip, trying not to taste the faint blood oozing from my bottom lip, grazed by my teeth.

  “Get away,” I whisper, hatefully pleading with my eyes.

  It just makes him angrier. He tightens his hold, staring me down, down, down into the wall. The concrete rubs the bare skin of my arm like sandpaper. “No one says no to me, cheri. You understand? No one. I'll grant you one more kindness, a full week to forget this, apologize, and come to your damned senses.”

  “Never!” I'm this close to spitting in his face. “Do your worst, prick. It won't happen. I'll die before I ever work for you, ever cro
ss continents, ever open myself to your disgusting lips. You're nothing to me, Ethan, and that's all you'll ever be. I don't know what you want or what you have on my father, but I'm never eating out of your palm like him. Never.”

  He stands up straight, releasing me abruptly. There's a small crowd gathered around us. They're watching in horror. Several people have their phones in hand, probably on the verge of calling 9-1-1.

  “Don't,” he says, a single simple, loaded word. Then he's gone, rushing through the crowd, into the luxury sedan waiting outside with his driver.

  “Rebekah! Are you all right?” Mom reaches me first. She throws her arms around me.

  “What did he do to you?” Dad asks, sheepish and angry, staring after Ethan's car as it roars down the road, his face a mess of strained emotion.

  I don't answer. I'm not letting him help. He's made it clear what he is.

  Too late. Too selfish. Too fucking heartless.

  Story of my whole life as his daughter.

  “Let me go!” I try not to hurt mom as I push her away, running down the street.

  I need to get out of here. I run down the darkening streets of New York, half blinded by my tears. I'm too shaken to stop long enough to call an Uber or throw myself in front of a cab.

  Flattening myself against the wall, I try to do one thing, and one thing only: breathe.

  I can't comprehend what I've just done. Jesus, I don't even get it myself.

  I'm scared, ashamed, and more vulnerable than ever. I've used up my limited courage and my luck. Most of all, I'm alone, more than I've ever been.

  But I'm proven wrong a second later when my phone starts blasting its sugar pop ringtone in my purse. It's Grant's number.

  7

  Real Talk (Grant)

  I'm breathing like a madman when she picks up, relieved it hasn't gone to voicemail like I expected.

  “Bekah? It's Grant,” I say, choosing my next words very carefully. “We need to talk. I'm sorry, gut-wrenchingly sorry, for what happened the other night. Mina's banned from every club in the city. I'll never see her again, and neither will you.”

  “Mina?” her voice cracks on the last syllable. She sounds distraught.

  Shit, it's worse than I feared. I stiffen, my back against the wall in my condo overlooking the city, eyes fixed on the Empire State building's ghostly yellow glow in the distance.

  “My problem, Bekah. No one else's. I don't pretend to be an angel. I've played hard and fast with my fair share of women. You're young, inexperienced, and it's alien, I know. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

  “That's not why I'm mad!” Her voice pours into my ear, anguished and afraid. I don't understand. “Jesus, I mean, I'm mad about it, but things could be worse, Grant. So much worse.”

  Voice fading into a silent sob, she struggles to bury the noise in her hands. Then I hear the police siren in the distance. Too loud to be indoors. She's walking the New York streets, broken by something worse than the embarrassing tirade from my ex-fling.

  “Where are you?” I ask, already heading to the door.

  “No. You helped me once, and it bit me in the face. Not doing it again.”

  “Bekah, where?”

  There's a long pause on the other end of the line. If she doesn't tell me, I have other ways of finding out.

  Like my insider at a major wireless carrier's management, who has access to some very powerful tracking technology. He owes me big after the money I laid down, funding research for new lithium battery tech last year.

  “I'm...I can't believe I'm...okay, fuck it. I'm right outside Astoria.” She takes a deep breath, and rambles out an address. I burn it into my brain and bring it up on my phone, impatiently tapping the elevator button to the parking garage.

  “Stay there. Keep me on the line, moscato. I'm coming.” I'm walking in triple time to my car, heart pumping rage and disbelief into my veins, suppressing a low growl as I throw open the door and drop into the driver's seat.

  “I can't go home, Grant. But I can't go home with you either. You shouldn't get in the middle of this.”

  “Not your problem. Worry about finding my car, Bekah. Give me ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  I risk at least a dozen speed traps as I blow through the city. I give her breathing space, trying to coax more answers out of her when she's able to speak. I know my chances aren't good until she's secure in my arms, so I focus on the road, and then start scanning for her when I pull onto her block.

  When I finally see her, she's standing against the grey concrete, a vivid red specter with sore eyes. By any measure, she's a mess, but deep down, she's no less beautiful than she looked at the club, safe in my arms, before Mina crashed everything.

  I fling my door open and run to her. Soon as my hands are on her shoulders, she bursts into tears.

  “Who did this?” I ask, but she's too screwed up to give me answers. She collapses against me, sobbing into my chest. I hold her, slowly guiding her back to the car, and help her into the seat before I get behind the wheel again.

  I spend the whole drive to my condo rolling the same question over and over in my mind. Who the fuck did this?

  I need an answer. I'm also certain it's going to invite trouble, and I've decided I don't care.

  If it was the same pompous, twig-necked Euro-fuckboy she ran from before, the man who happens to be the CEO of Fabius, my merger's probably fucked.

  And if it was her old man, the vicious, entitled twit, I'm just as screwed.

  How can I possibly do business with a man who uses his own daughter like a rug? Probably for the nasty temper I've caught faint hints of before.

  We don't say anything until we're back at my place, heading up the long elevator. “There's a guest room if you're worried,” I tell her. I can't believe I'm offering to let her sleep a whole floor away from me, especially when I lead her to my door by hand, evil urges in my balls warring with my noble heart.

  She nods weakly. We walk inside my condo, and I take her to the big seat by the window, waving toward my tall glass liquor cabinet with the wine ladder attached. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Just water.”

  Skip the booze. I head to the faucet, run two glasses from the filtered spigot for us, and walk them back to the living room, setting them down next to us, before I light the fireplace. She needs warmth. If I can't warm her, I'll let the burning gas do it for us. It's a poor substitute for the wood burning beauties back at my lodge in Chandlersport, but tonight, it'll do.

  “Whenever you're ready, moscato,” I say, watching as she drinks her fill from the glass, before I take her hands. “Forget the intern thing tonight. Forget I'm your boss. When you talk, I'm a friend, a lover, and a man who'll do whatever the fuck he needs to make it right.”

  Her eyes look reassured, but my words set her off all over again. I let her cry it out. Her tears are hot, angry, poison, but it's venom getting sucked from the wound. I'll make her better before I go after the viper.

  “What happened?” I try again, softly, pressing my forehead on hers.

  “Ethan. Dad. Weird, secretive crap I may never understand.” She pulls a deep breath from the air, quiet and thoughtful, the look on her face weighing whether she's about to tell me too much.

  “More, moscato. You have to give me more.”

  I take her hands, easing the pained lines criss-crossing her beautiful features. She sighs. “I overheard them in the library the other day. I was angry with you after what happened at the club with Mina. I was walking around the house, heard dad on the phone with him, angry and strained. He said something about how he couldn't make me do anything with Monsier Creep-o. But he wanted me to. Almost like the guy was blackmailing him or something. Then he came up to my room the next day and said we had to do dinner. I decided I'd go, try to figure this out, and tell Ethan point blank I wasn't interested.”

  “He didn't take it well?” My fingers tighten on hers. It's like I could hold her down to the bone, and it still wouldn't be tig
ht enough. Her beauty drives me mad, but knowing she's in danger punches every caveman warrior button I have.

  “Not so much.” She sucks in a deep breath, and we lock eyes. “He flew off the handle when I scolded him at dinner. Told him I'd never be his. He invited me to work in his stupid company and follow him overseas for the millionth time. We both know what he's really after. I told him it isn't happening, and he exploded.”

  “Did he hurt you?” It's a loaded question, heavy on my tongue. If the answer is yes, I'll have no choice but to find the asshole tonight. I'll hire the most brutal men in the city to help me draw blood.

  “He was rough, but he didn't do any damage. Still...he scared me. I knew he was wearing a mask, pretending to be nice, easy going, interested in business with my father. I saw the truth. There's a whole lot more he's interested in, and I don't know why.” She pauses, her gaze softening, tired and weak. “Honestly, I don't care, beyond my own safety. I'm sick of this crap. I just want a life without a stalker freak getting in the way.”

  “You'll have it,” I tell her, a promise and a reassurance. “Look at me, moscato.”

  I reach for her face, tilting her little chin up with one hand. “What happened at the club will never happen again. I've made mistakes, just like anybody else. They're behind me now. Look at me. This is the face of a man who'll do anything to keep you safe, to make sure he never hurts you again himself. I'm not your boss or your hookup. I'm your protector.”

  I feel a shiver run through her body. New tears well in her eyes as I close in for the kiss, swallowing the little rush of heat pouring from her mouth when my lips take hers.

  Goddamn, even when she's tragic, she tastes incredible.

  I keep my palm on her face and the other on her back, resisting the urge to sweep lower, to pull off her clothes and plunge into her again and again.

  She isn't fully mine tonight. She's too shaken, too wounded to be.

  I've never made a habit of fucking women who give me less than a hundred percent. With her, it's not just a terrible idea, but an abomination. I kiss her softly, running my tongue on hers with the lightest touch, pressing my forehead against her angelic brow.