The Billionaire's Secret Marriage (The Limitless Clean Billionaire Romance Series Book 1)

by Tamie Dearen

  “Thanks.” Laurie lifted her chin, accepting the accolades. “I try.”

  Steph laughed and then fell into contemplative silence. “Finn offered me a job.”

  Laurie sucked in a loud breath, turning to face her. “Carina got you fired?”

  “Not yet. But I can tell from the weekend, I won’t be able to stay if they get married.”

  “I’m sorry, Stephanie. Even though you call it a crush, I think you’ve been in love with him a long time. It has to hurt.”

  Steph threw her hands up in the air, in an effort to appear blasé. “Nah. I was never serious. I knew it was only a pipe dream.”

  “Maybe he won’t marry her. He could still support the baby, even if they weren’t married. Especially if he doesn’t like to be around kids.” Laurie put a comforting hand on her shoulder, which only served to make tears spring to her eyes.

  “It’s possible.” Steph swiped her sleeve across her face. “But Finn thinks he’ll feel obligated to marry her.”

  “Branson might listen to you, though. He trusts you. Maybe you could suggest they shouldn’t get married. You shouldn’t have to give up your job.” Laurie angled her head. “By the way… where would we be moving if you took the job with Finn?

  “New York City.”

  “New York?” Laurie danced a seated victory jig, pumping her hands in the air. “I’ve always wanted to live in New York. That’s awesome. My classes are online, so I can live anywhere. We’d have so much…” Her voice trailed off. Her lips turned down, and her brown eyes turned puddly. “Sorry. I know you don’t want to leave Branson. We’ll just pray they don’t get married.”

  Steph nodded, swallowing her tears, as a surge of nausea hit. “I think the stress may be getting to me, because my stomach feels terrible. Or maybe it’s something I ate.”

  “You could have a stomach virus.” Laurie wrinkled her nose. “Ellie threw up all day yesterday.”

  “Oh no.” The meager contents of her stomach rolled around to confirm the diagnosis. “The school nurse warned us there was something going around, but I thought we’d escaped it. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You know I would’ve called if it had been a respiratory bug. But I knew her CF didn’t make a stomach bug particularly dangerous.”

  “Poor thing. Can’t believe she’s so peppy today. She didn’t even mention being sick.”

  “It didn’t last long. She was feeling better by bedtime and was fine when she woke up this morning. Maybe a twelve-hour bug. Ran a little fever. I guess you’ll know all about it, soon.”

  “I hate throwing up.” Stephanie clamped her hand over her mouth. “This is going to be a long night.”

  Laurie disappeared into the other room and emerged with a white spray bottle. “Here goes the Lysol, again.”

  “I hope you don’t get it, too.”

  “You and me both.” Laurie looked like she was considering drinking the Lysol. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go hide out in my suite. But I’ll come over in the morning and get Ellie ready for school, so you can sleep in.”

  “Sounds good.” Steph barely got the words out before limping to the bathroom, her only comfort in knowing she would have another day before she had to face Bran.

  Branson fumbled about in the huge kitchen, grumbling that nothing was where he remembered it. He shouldn’t be surprised, since he hadn’t cooked anything for himself in the past two years. At two a.m., all his culinary employees were sound asleep, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. He had to do this alone.

  He’d been lying in bed awake when Stephanie’s text came in. Stomach virus. Will take sick day tomorrow.

  He’d immediately fired back a text informing her of his intention to bring her a cup of ginger tea for the nausea. She protested, but he was determined. He was equally determined to make it himself, without any help from the staff. This meant smelling each box of tea to locate one with ginger flavor.

  After every open package failed the sniff test, he considered calling on his cell for a late-night grocery delivery.

  He fumed. Sixteen different flavors of tea in the drawer, and none of them are ginger. Then he remembered the cook’s special tea tin inside the pantry. Fortune smiled on him as he opened the lid and breathed in. Ginger!

  Filtered water in the electric pot took a few minutes to boil—enough time to locate a mug. In the back of the cabinet, he felt his special cup, a textured mug he’d acquired from New Zealand when he’d done his first bungee jump.

  Still waiting for the pot to whistle, he considered Stephanie’s text. In the two years since she’d started working, she’d never been ill enough to miss a day of work. Though Ellie had frequent health issues, Steph had a strong constitution and a stronger work ethic. If she hadn’t been so utterly honest, he’d have suspected she made up the stomach flu story to avoid working with him the next day.

  The pot whistled, and he poured the hot water over the tea bag, using a thumb to feel when the cup was full. He set a timer, removing the tea bag after precisely three minutes. Satisfied that his nausea remedy was as perfect as possible, he made his way down the west wing corridor, around the corner, counting until he reached the tenth doorway on the right. A quick inspection of the Braille numbers on the door told him he’d reached the right suite. Afraid he would wake Ellie if he knocked on the door, he sent a text to Steph.

  I’m in the hall outside your door. Have ginger tea.

  A few seconds passed before Steph’s response came. Too sick to let you in. Told you not to come.

  Have a master key. Can open door.

  A short pause followed, then another text. No. Not dressed.

  Doesn’t matter. I’m blind.

  A minute passed, and he thought she might’ve fallen back asleep. Maybe he could let himself in and leave the ginger tea on the table. Then his phone vibrated with another message. Hugging toilet. Leave tea outside.

  As he thought of her on the bathroom floor, suffering all alone, he sent a final text. Coming in. Be right there.

  He ignored the phone, which vibrated angrily in his pocket, while he opened the door and slipped inside, carrying his magical ginger tea concoction. Uncertain which direction to go, he stopped to listen. He was soon rewarded for his efforts when he heard a coughing sound straight ahead. As he navigated slowly down the hallway, his white cane checking for obstacles, he strained his ears to locate her.

  At last he came to the end of the hallway, where another series of coughs filtered through the closed door. He tucked his cane under his arm and tested the door handle. It swung open, and he stepped inside, noting the familiar sour odor of bile. Though he was particularly sensitive to smells, his concern for Steph outweighed his stomach’s response. A low groan came from his left.

  “Why are you here?” she rasped.

  “I’m going to take care of you.” He used a don’t-argue-with-me tone, though she sounded too weak to put up much of a fight, anyway.

  Probing with his cane, he located the vanity counter, glad he’d chosen to make the layout of each guest suite identical. As he set the tea down, he heard gagging noises. He ached to make her feel better, hating his powerlessness.

  “Do you have a cool, wet cloth for your face?” he asked.

  “No,” she croaked. “Branson you don’t have to do this.”

  “I want to,” he replied, as he probed the vanity cabinet. “This is empty. Where are your washcloths?”

  “In the laundry,” she replied. “It’s okay. I don’t need a rag.”

  “Yes, you do.” He ripped his clean T-shirt off, wetting it in the sink.

  Another groan. She must be hurting. He hastened his efforts.

  Steph’s face burned, but not with fever from her flu. She wasn’t sure which was more embarrassing—that she was retching in front of Branson or that she’d moaned out loud when he took off his shirt. Why was God torturing her with a view of those broad shoulders and incredible abs that could never be hers? Wasn’t it enough that s
he’d thrown up so much her stomach had turned inside out?

  He moved toward the toilet and knelt beside her, his rippling muscles momentarily distracting her from her misery. With the wet shirt across his jean-clad knees, his hands found her shoulders and moved up to her hair, his fingers sweeping the strands off her face.

  Shocked that tingles of pleasure shot through her system in spite of her sickness, she closed her eyes and leaned into him. The cool cloth caressed her face, swiping gently across her forehead and returning to stroke down her neck. Again and again, he brushed her skin, soothing it with the soft, damp shirt that smelled like a mixture of fabric softener and Branson. If she hadn’t felt like dying, she would’ve been swooning in his arms. Instead, she collapsed against him like a lifeless ragdoll.

  She had no idea how much time passed before he spoke, the rumbling voice in his chest vibrating in her ear and startling her awake.

  “Let’s get you into bed.”

  “Okay.” Her voice came out a hoarse whisper through her parched mouth.

  He stood and scooped his hands under her arms, lifting her to her feet. But for his steadying arm around her waist, her legs would’ve collapsed. He helped her to the sink to wash out her mouth. Then, supporting her weight, he moved unerringly through the door that led directly to her bedroom. The fleeting thought occurred that any other time she would’ve relished the feel of his bare chest against her cheek. But, for the moment, survival was foremost on her mind.

  When they reached the bed, he helped her climb in, tucking the covers around her and fluffing her pillow. His hands lingered on either side of her face, his expression unreadable in the dim light filtering from the bathroom.

  “Can’t let you get dehydrated. I’ll get a glass of water and heat up your ginger tea. It’s stone cold by now.”

  Too weak to object, she nodded her head. Fading in and out of sleep, she woke to his gentle touch on her forehead. “You’re burning up. Can you drink some water? Maybe sip some tea?”

  She struggled to raise her head, but flopped back, with a moan. His hand slipped under her shoulders, lifting her forward. He held the glass in front of her and she guided it to her lips to take a few swallows. Her stomach cramped, and she pushed it away, thinking she’d never make it back to the bathroom in time.

  “No more. Makes me sick.”

  “Let’s try the ginger tea.”

  “Can’t. Help me to the bathroom,” she panted. “Quick.”

  “I brought this big bowl.” In seconds he was sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling her against his chest and holding the vessel under her chin.

  Queasiness washed over her, but she didn’t throw up. After a few minutes, he set the bowl aside and retrieved a mug from the bedside table.

  “Try a swallow of this. It helps. I promise.”

  She accepted the cup, blowing before she took a sip. The light, spicy flavor was pleasant, and the warm liquid soothed her throat and stomach. At his urging, she drank a few more swallows, rested a while, and then drank a bit more. As her queasiness improved, chills descended, her body shaking from head to toe.

  Heavy with guilt, she begged him to leave, through chattering teeth. “You n-need to get away. You’re gonna c-catch this from m-me.”

  “Too late,” he said, tightening his hold and settling back against the head of the bed. “I kissed you yesterday. Twice. I’m already exposed.” As if to make a point, he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

  “S-stubborn m-man,” she said, wrapping her arms around his delicious chest and burrowing against him for warmth. She blinked heavy eyes while composing another argument in her mind, but her words were lost in a thick fog.

  Chapter 20

  Mommy! Who’s that?”

  A child’s voice jolted Branson awake. Where am I?

  Beside him in the bed, someone jerked and screamed, “Oh my gosh!”

  The female screamer shoved at his side and, two seconds later, he slid to the floor, face down, taking the sheet with him.

  “Well, well, well.” A second woman spoke, from somewhere above him. “What have we here?”

  “Mommy, are you married now?” asked the child.

  “No!” came the shouted response.

  As Bran’s mind began to clear, he recognized Steph’s voice.

  “But you told me grownups only sleep together if they’re married.”

  The child, he now knew to be Ellie, was close, as if she were leaning over to inspect him.

  The second woman, who must be Laurie, the babysitter, laughed out loud. “Try to talk your way out of that one, Stephanie.”

  As Bran struggled to free himself from the tangle of covers, Steph’s voice came from the bed above him. “I’m sorry I pushed you on the floor, Bran. It was a reflex.”

  “No problem.” He managed to yank one hand free.

  “I think I need to get to the toilet, again.. I… Oops!” A hard boot landed on his back, followed by the rest of her, tumbling off the bed, along with more covers. “Sorry. Lost my balance.” She wrestled with the blanket, then she rolled off, her air cast clunking toward the restroom. “You explain it, Bran. Tell them what happened.”

  As Bran freed his other hand, he realized he’d come over in the middle of the night without putting in his prosthetic eyes. His heart rate skyrocketed. No one saw him without his eyes in place.

  “I need my cane. It’s white. Do you see it anywhere?” He kept his face aimed toward the floor.

  “Are you my mommy’s boss? The blind man?”

  “Ellie, don’t be rude,” Laurie scolded.

  “I see it,” Ellie exclaimed. “It’s underneath you. A white stick.”

  He groped on the floor under the sheet and blanket, sighing with relief as his fingers closed around the cane.

  “I came over last night to bring your mother some ginger tea to fight nausea,” he clarified, as he pushed up on his elbows, careful to face away from Ellie and Laurie. “I helped her get back in bed after she threw up. Then, I accidentally fell asleep.”

  That sounded lame. I should’ve thought up a better story.

  “Why did you take off your clothes?” Ellie probed, her innocent question prompting a snicker from Laurie.

  “I didn’t,” he sputtered, trying to wriggle out of the twisted sheet to demonstrate. “Just my shirt. I have my jeans on.”

  “Oh.” She sounded confused. “Why did you take off your shirt?”

  The truth seemed implausible, as did every other response that came to mind. For Bran’s part, he was simply grateful he hadn’t removed any more clothing in his sleep, especially since he was accustomed to sleeping in the nude.

  “Don’t you need to be leaving for school?” he asked, hoping for distraction.

  “Not yet,” Ellie declared, her words distorted as if her lower lip protruded in a pout. “Aunt Laurie told me I could say goodbye to Mommy, first.”

  “Yes,” Laurie agreed. “But you’ve done that. We should get going now.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Ellie argued. “Mommy left before I got to talk to her.”

  Laurie exhaled heavily. “Fine. Run in the bathroom and tell her bye. Hurry up. We don’t want to be late.”

  “Okay.”

  As Ellie’s footsteps pattered into the bathroom, Branson extricated himself from the sheet and climbed to his feet, hoping to make a quick escape. He turned toward the doorway, keeping his chin tucked low, his eyelids closed tight.

  “A word of caution, Mr. Knight.” Laurie’s voice lost all its lighthearted cheer. “I don’t take kindly to people who hurt my friend. In spite of everything Steph’s been through, she’s still sweet and forgiving. But I’m not.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Branson replied, with his face averted. “Not that I like being threatened, but I’m glad she has a friend like you.”

  “Not that I need your approval, but it’s a good thing you understand what I’m saying.” Her voice transformed to an angelic tone as she called toward the bathroom. “E
l-lie. Time to go.”

  “Coming.” Humming a wordless tune, Ellie skipped back into the bedroom. Then her small body impacted his legs, almost knocking him off balance. Her arms wrapped around his waist and squeezed.

  “What’s that for?” Laurie asked the question he was too shocked to voice.

  “Mommy said Mr. Knight was lonely, and he needed a hug. That’s why she had her arm around him when they were in the bed.”

  “That’s sweet,” said Laurie, though her tone indicated the opposite. “Now go grab your lunch and meet me at the door.”

  Bran lifted his hand to cover his eyes. He felt Laurie’s disapproving gaze slicing him like a razor before she spoke again.

  “It’s one thing that Ellie caught you in bed with Stephanie, without a shirt on. I know she was sick, and nothing actually happened. But Mr. Knight…”

  She paused, and he squirmed in place, resigned to the castigation he knew was coming. “Yes?”

  When she continued, her words came out like a Rottweiler’s warning growl. “When you’re around Steph, you better keep your pants on.”

  Though her stomach was still a bit queasy, Steph didn’t throw up. She moved to the mirror, afraid of what would greet her there. As expected, her pale, blotchy face and dark-circled eyes gave testimony to the tumultuous night.

  Thank goodness Branson is blind. I’d hate for him to see me like this. But his nose works fine.

  She squeezed a generous glob of toothpaste on her toothbrush and scrubbed hard. After a few splashes of water on her face, she felt ten times better, though still wobbly and weak. Perhaps the virus had run its course, or maybe Branson’s ginger tea had done the trick.

  Despite begging him not to come last night, she had to admit he’d saved her. He’d also let his cloak down, revealing a tender side that broke her heart, along with her resolve. And as his wall came down, she realized he might love her after all.

  Not that it mattered. How could they ever be together? She could beg him to buy a small island in the Caribbean. They could all move there—she and Branson, Ellie and Laurie—and forget about Carina, the baby, and the rest of the world.