Triplet Babies for My Billionaire Boss (A Billionaire's Baby Romance)

by Lia Lee

  I hurriedly press the atomizer button, and a cloud of No. 5 mist hits my throat. Gak! I forgot to close my mouth. Not the way I want to start off—using “eau de toilette” for mouthwash a la Scarlett O’Hara.

  “You okay in there?” Lacey yells.

  “Yeah,” I say, clucking my tongue in distaste and replacing the perfume bottle on the shelf. I take one last look to appraise my appearance. Not altogether bad, but my college student beer budget is showing in the short, cotton knit cardigan I’ve tossed overtop a plain white collared blouse and a navy skirt. Too bad I gave up high heels in my junior year; some matching pumps would at least kick my sorry professional image up a notch. All the footwear my closet holds right now is ballet flats, flip-flops, and sneakers.

  I smooth down my brunette locks that have somehow gone frizzy in the muggy heat of the bathroom and heave a sigh. Familiar blue irises rimmed with dark gray stare back at me from the mirror. You’re just a lowly intern, they seem to say. I’ll likely be drowning in an oversized lab coat in the first hour; no one will see me, or my makeup, or what I’m wearing, nor will they care. And with no payday on the horizon, GeoRock Incorporated will just have to take me as I am. Whether it’s clad in flats, heels or otherwise, my foot is in the door of an international mining corporation. I’m lucky to have this opportunity, pay or no pay, and I’m really, really hoping it will lead to a permanent position. It will launch what I hope will be my career as a renowned female geologist into the stratosphere. Talk about getting a break! I can’t afford to screw up this one.

  I turn and walk into the living room of the tiny apartment Lacey and I share on the Lower East Side—the closest we could get to downtown that we could afford—to see her lounging in her big, wicker armchair reading the morning newspaper.

  “You ready for your big day?” she asks, allowing me a glance over the top of a sheet of newsprint.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, spreading my arms wide. “What do you think?”

  Lacey turns her full attention on me, assessing me up and down. “You’re internship on a stick, Mara Snow. There’ll be no mistaking you for GeoRock’s media relations maven, that’s for sure.”

  I drop my arms to my sides. “Thanks, I think. Was that supposed to be a compliment? Because I could really use one, Lace. I’m nervous as shit.”

  “Oh, don’t be,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “You look great. Everyone gets first day jitters. I know it’s your first official gig as a geologist, but that giant brain of yours earned you top honors in your graduating class. You’ll ‘rock’ their world, Mar.” Lacey throws me a gaping grin, pleased with her corny pun.

  I roll my eyes and let out a groan. “Thanks, Miss Open Mike. A little early in the day for your stand-up act, isn’t it? Save it for the stage.”

  “I don’t have a show until Thursday, you know that,” Lacey says. “But if I had an education like yours, I sure as hell wouldn’t be walking the boards in a comedy club like I do now, I’ll tell you that much. I’d be soaking up the luscious landscape of young, hot suits in a big office on Wall Street.”

  Lacey and I are about as opposite as two best friends can be. I studied rock formations and tectonic plates and earned my B.Sc. in Geology; Lacey took drama in high school and spent her summers performing in theater festivals. I’m a brunette, and she’s platinum blonde. We’re Mutt and Jeff, Jekyll and Hyde. Okay, maybe more like Beavis and Butthead.

  “And you’d be miserable,” I say. “You’d never be happy working behind a desk—you know you wouldn’t. You’re too free a spirit.”

  “Who said anything about being behind a desk? I’d be on top of it with the first corporate hottie I could grab out of the hallway. Hell, this free spirit would totally get locked down if I could work for this guy,” she says, folding her newspaper into a square and handing it over for me to see. “Your mysterious CEO has come out of hiding. And look at him! Hot as fuck, despite being out of the public eye for the last seven years.” Lacey sighs. “Mining magnate and bashful billionaire, Bastian Kingsley.” She gives a wolf whistle. “Single, too. Didn’t his wife die on him, or something? What a catch he’d be. He must be forty by now, and mysterious recluse or not, I’d sure as hell go there.”

  I look over the news story and photo. ‘GeoRock Inc. CEO Back On American soil’ reads the headline.

  “Go where?” I ask absentmindedly, fixated on the newspaper image of Bastian Kingsley caught amid a media crush. Did she say forty? Though pale and strained in the photo, Mr. Kingsley’s face was certainly an attractive one, and if this was the new forty, Lacey and me must look like prepubescent school girls.

  “You know, there!” Lacey splutters as if I am some sort of ignoramus. She grabs her crotch in a graphic demonstration. “As in, go down on that piece of sausage.”

  I laugh despite my minor gross-out at the mental picture she paints, and toss the paper onto the side table next to Lacey’s chair. “You’d go down on a Big Mac, you slut. And I mean that in the nicest way.”

  Lacey grimaces. “There’s no nice way to mean that.”

  “Honestly, you obsess over men’s looks too much, Lace. Haven’t you heard you can’t judge a book by its cover? Mr. Kingsley might have Baywatch looks, but he’s also boardroom cunning. Like a wolf; a corporate wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “Well that wolf could eat me any day of the week,” she replies, admiring the photo again. “And since we’re on the subject, you could start obsessing a little yourself, oh immutable stone maiden.” She looks up and pierces me with a knowing stare. “And I do mean maiden. Perhaps Mr. Kingsley can help you out with that when you get the meet and greet tour today.”

  I cluck my tongue in disgust and show her my rigid back as I turn to leave. I’m going to be late if I don’t get my ass out the door in the next two minutes. “Could we stop addressing that particular elephant, please? Being a virgin is not a criminal offense, last I checked.”

  “It is when you live in New York City and haven’t had your cherry popped by age twenty-two, Mar. You’re an anomaly, girl—an oddity. Kinda like those weird geodes you collect on your dresser top, instead of notches on your bedpost.”

  “I like my geodes, and my bedposts, just the way they are, thank you very much. As for Bastian Kingsley, forget it. I work in the basement, remember? There’s not a Popsicle’s chance in hell I’ll ever meet him. Even the mailroom clerks have a better shot.”

  “Mmm, too bad, so sad. Not only no pay but no perks either. Why’d you take this job on again? I forget.”

  “It’s only four months,” I remind her. “ ‘Gotta pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues,’ a famous man once said. This is my big break Lace, honest. If they like my work, I’m almost guaranteed a full-time position once the internship is over. I can’t keep sponging off my aunt and uncle forever, you know. Working for GeoRock is beyond anything I could hope for. Tons of my classmates applied for this internship, and I beat them all. I’m determined to make the most of this chance, so don’t you go dissing my choices, funny girl. Just wish me luck, will you?”

  “Okay, okay,” Lace says, holding up her hands in surrender. “I get it. Good luck. You want to make your aunt and uncle proud, and your parents too, God rest their souls. But you know they’ll love you anyway, and support you, no matter what happens.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say with a resigned nod. I wish Lacey hadn’t brought up the subject of my parents. I was only recently coming to grips with their deaths at the hands of a drunk driver. Crap, has it been ten years already? My mom’s brother Doug and his wife Tammy had taken guardianship of me after the accident; they were every bit as loving parents to me as my own had been. I am so grateful to them; words cannot describe how I feel. Damn right I want to make them proud and repay them for all they’ve done for me, even though they would never dream of accepting anything in return.

  “I gotta go,” I say, buttoning my sweater and slipping my purse strap over my shoulder. My stomach rumbles, warning me
that I haven’t eaten any breakfast, and won’t make it past coffee break without fainting—or worst case scenario—taking a bite out of some unsuspecting co-worker.

  “Whoa, I heard that from all the way over here,” Lacey says, rising out of her chair. “You’ll never make it through the morning on an empty stomach, kiddo.” She pulls a bag of apples off the kitchen counter and empties them into a bowl. After rubbing one on her jean-clad thigh, she offers me the biggest one. “Here, you can eat this on the way.”

  I feel guilty even taking it, knowing how much of our meager student income has been spent on just the few groceries we have on hand. Maybe I should have accepted a paying job, even as a waitress or store clerk, temporarily. Four months without pay is really going to keep us living on the edge. Dear, sweet Lacey spent all her tips on this week’s grub, and the bag of Granny Smiths was a veritable splurge.

  “Thanks, Lace. What would I do without you?”

  “Oh, probably starve to death,” she counters nonchalantly. “But I’m not worried. Once you snag this big-time job, you’ll be picking up the grocery bills from now on.”

  Chapter Two

  Bastian

  Out of Darkness

  Je suis absent. Je ne suis pas présent. I am not fully in the present.

  A wave of déjà vu crests over me as I pass through the double glass doors and into the expansive, marble-clad foyer of GeoRock Inc.’s New York office tower. It feels strange being back here, even though it’s a secure fortress of my own making. This is my company. My domain. So why the fuck is it damn near suffocating?

  I draw a deep breath, determined to go on; to let this bullshit feeling pass and root myself firmly in the here and now, not the ghostly realm of the past. I don’t have time for that anymore; enough years were wasted mourning the dead.

  My Nunn Bush soles echo against the gleaming tiles as I approach the tower’s security. The guards look at me with odd expressions, their eyes unwavering as I come to a stop directly in front of them.

  “Mr. Kingsley,” the head guard says, a smile of sudden recognition carving across his bearded face. “Welcome home, sir.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to be back.” It’s only a part-lie. I am happy to be back in the land of the living, but even Goliath had a weakness. Mine is my son, Mica, who I left with Celine’s family back in Roussillon. There’s an ocean between us that may only get wider in time.

  I shake off the specter of Celine once more, my face going from civil to stern in seconds, so these guards don’t forget the kind of man their boss really is.

  The head guard must have noticed the shift in my temperament because he waves off the man with the body scanner, and steps back, almost with reverence, to let me pass.

  “Have a pleasant day, sir,” he says with a nod.

  I don’t return the gesture—I’m not here to make friends with employees—and proceed to the elevators behind the security desk. The C-suite on level 49 is my stop, but I can barely remember what my office looks. If anything has changed, I won’t know it. Furniture, carpeting, even the view could be different. The Big Apple never stops growing, and in this scenario, the Apple takes a bite out of me, not the other way around.

  New York City demands my presence with the opening of the new mine site in South Africa. I’d given my Executive Board the reins in my absence, trusting their judgment on most matters, including the approval of new projects. I’d been consulted on this one, however. The entire company knew I’d have trepidations about re-entering the South African market. The guilt and pain had hung over me like a shroud since the collapse of the previous mine near Pretoria seven years ago. The one that took everything from me; my reputation, my sanity, and my precious Celine. She and sixteen others lost their lives in the disaster, and it wasn’t just the world that had screamed for answers. I had too.

  My publicists gave the media only enough to satisfy them to back off; give me time to disappear and lick my wounds. The press releases said that the causes were unknown and under investigation, and in a series of timely leaks, told the masses that Celine died of a mysterious ‘jungle fever’ born in the humid African ecosystem.

  I shake my head. Such merde the public is fed. No one knows the whole truth, and they never will, if I can help it. The success of this new North Cape mine will be instrumental in lifting the ugly cloud of suspicion that hangs over GeoRock.

  With a soft chime, the polished steel doors open before me. Suddenly the paneled cabin of the elevator reminds me of the last day I’d stepped inside the main shaft of the mine at Pretoria, and I hesitate, mild panic edging under my skin. I shrug it off and step into the cab. I have no choice but to go forward; like I said, enough time has been wasted on things that can’t be changed. I don’t have time for regret or indecision anymore.

  As the heavy doors begin to slide closed, I hear a clatter of footsteps and a voice from outside. “Hold the elevator please!” It’s breathy and desperate, and on reflex, I press the appropriate button on the control panel.

  A tiny bundle of swirling female energy appears at the entrance and practically falls into the cab, panting for breath.

  “Thanks,” she says, glancing my way hastily. “I owe you one.”

  I can’t help but smile, a whirlwind of fresh eagerness pouring off of her, like the one I used to have. Shit, that feels like it was centuries ago now. Where did I lose that along the way? I look at this young woman who’s, at least, half my age, and I suddenly feel ancient; washed up and burned out.

  The cab starts its express trip upward, and she fusses with her skirt and blouse that have gone askew in her sprint from wherever she came from. Her shiny, brunette hair skims her shoulders in a carefree style that only under twenty-fives seem to be able to pull off, then straightens and turns her face to mine. Her startling blue eyes pierce me like a Zulu spear. Their color stirs one word in my geologist’s brain… Aquamarine. Pure and luminescent like the precious stone, and ringed with a band of deep blue-gray. Their exuberant clarity is on the verge of lightening my mood when suddenly they darken and her dainty, pink-glossed lips part in surprise.

  “Oh,” she says, backing into the wall. “Mr. K-Kingsley… I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you,” she stammers.

  My own lips purse in amusement. “That appears to be the theme of the day, so far. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss...?”

  “Snow, Mara Snow,” she says, recovering a little. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, sir.” She actually blushes right in front of me, her creamy clear complexion sprouting rosy blooms on her cheeks and forehead. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen something so ingenuous. It reminds me of watching a water lily open in a hidden jungle pool. Rare, marvelous, and breathtaking to behold.

  “Likewise, Mara.” I nod in an aloof, professional manner; one that I’ve honed over a lifetime, and conveys absolutely no emotion or intent.

  “It’s my first day,” she confesses. “I’m a new geology intern here at GeoRock, and I’m a little nervous.”

  Geology intern? Didn’t see that coming. It’s almost a damn crime for such a pretty thing to be cooped up in a dreary lab, sieving and categorizing samples. There has to be some HR mix-up. How could this lovely, little sex-on-legs possibly be interested in rocks? It seems to contradict nature—a bright, showy flower condemned to the dull depths of subterranea. The proverbial canary in a coal mine. It reminded me of… No. No, I told myself. Don’t go there. I’d caught myself lapsing into visions of Celine once today already, and it’s barely eight o’clock in the morning. Even once was too much, if I had any chance of getting on with my life and saving my business empire.

  Yet this spritely nymph does remind me of her; there is no getting away from it. The same sleek brunette hair, delicate features, and a knockout figure that no lab coat in the world is going to disguise. Perky tits and long shapely legs—exquisite gams that deserve better than the sensible but unfortunate flats she’s currently wearing on her feet. A pair of shimmering s
atin stilettos would accentuate the curve of her calves. All of that wrapped around a keen, analytical brain. That was Celine to a T.

  “No need to be nervous,” I say, my eyes fixating on her upturned collar that she missed realigning over the lapels of her sweater. On instinct, I reach out and touch it, sliding my thumb and forefinger along the stitched edge and adjusting the fold. I press it neatly into place, my hand inadvertently skimming the smooth line of her jaw. She visibly shivers, and I blink to make certain I’m not hallucinating. Was that a quiver of revulsion or attraction? Something in me hopes it’s the latter. The blue jewels of her eyes hold mine for a long moment, and what I see within feels deep and untapped, like an undiscovered seam of precious gems.

  Aquamarines.

  The elevator cab slows, nearing its destination, and brings this surreal moment to an end. Then it occurs to me that the lab is in the basement. I break our oddly hypnotic connection to glance at the control panel. We’ve gone straight to the top floor without interruption.

  “Were you looking for the geotechnical analysis department?” I ask. “If so, I’m afraid you’ve gone up a few floors too many.”

  “Oh,” she says swiftly, snapping out of our mutual trance and following my gaze to the panel where number 49 has just lit up. The cab comes to a halt and the chime sounds. “Oh, yes I… Darn it.” She babbles, a look of panic mixed with embarrassment coloring her face. “I guess I took the wrong elevator.”

  The doors slide open, and I take a step forward, bracing them open with my arm. “Well, Miss Snow,” I say. “I hope the rest of your day goes better than your mastery of hydraulic lifts.”

  “Thanks… me too,” she replies, flashing a weak grin that’s both adorable and sexy as all hell, but doesn’t quite hide the mortification over her mistake. I smile inwardly, hoping she didn’t take offense to my uncharacteristic display of sarcasm. After all, she’s no security guard. I wouldn’t mind “getting to know” her more, and I don’t mean in a professional capacity.