His Surprise Daughter : A BWWM Billionaire Romance

by Tiana Cole

  Denise was scribbling on her notepad. “TB? Really? Why are you interested in that particularly?”

  I shrugged. “I’m interested in disease. A dozen times in Earth’s history an epidemic has swept through, taking tens of thousands of people with it. The plague. Influenza. Cholera. Smallpox. I feel like it won’t be long before another germ makes its way across the populace.”

  Her eyes flickered from her notepad to me. “Cancer? Would you count cancer among those you mentioned?”

  I relaxed a little because I knew more about cancer than almost anybody. “Cancer is different, Denise. The diseases I mentioned are infectious: they’re easily transmitted through a population. Has cancer killed thousands of people?” A lump caught in my throat. “Yes. Certainly. But cancer occurs spontaneously and isn't transmissible, so we can’t track it the way we can Ebola or TB. Sure, we can assume that people who live healthy lifestyles are less likely to develop cancer, but that’s all we have. Even then, we have marathoners and vegetarians who still get cancer. Families who have experience with cancer almost universally say the same thing…”

  My words trailed away as my attention was swayed by memory. Maria, ravaged by the disease which spread and metastasized within weeks. Her diagnosis was supposed to be Stage 1—easy to beat. Long life. Children.

  “Derek?” Denise asked, leaning forward and watching me closely.

  Tension flooded my limbs. I noticed that my hands were clenched around the arms of my chair. Her eyes flickered from my fists to my face.

  “Sorry.” I blinked and forced my hands to relax.

  “What do people say about cancer?” she prodded.

  “It doesn't play by the rules.”

  Chapter 5

  Denise

  Derek Johnson was an attractive man.

  I have thought myself immune for the longest time. I work in the news—an industry flooded with attractive men, usually megalomaniacs. Skip was a prime example, although he was old enough to be my father. Lucky was too young for me, and there were dozens of men in between at the Tribune alone. I was married to my job, to the hunt, the chase, the tracking down of a good story. In all the years I’d been doing my job I’d never had my head turned by a man, much less a subject.

  But Derek Johnson was a challenge.

  It was almost embarrassing how I’d dressed to turn his head and throw him off his game, yet there I was, barely paying attention to his words. I found myself instead tracing the wave pattern in his dark hair, the arch of his brows and his long lashes.

  And the man had a hang-up about cancer for sure.

  I had my wits about me enough to see through all of his bull about disease, mystery, and TB. Nobody cared about TB. But when I mentioned cancer, his face grew taut and he clearly checked out for a few minutes. I made a mental note of that even as I watched his tense face in an attempt to read what was happening behind those dark brown eyes.

  “What do you mean, ‘It doesn't play by the rules‘?”

  He blinked again and focused on me. “Like I said—as much as cancer generally affects the elderly and people with unhealthy eating habits, or those who are obese or have a genetic connection, it sometimes strikes perfectly healthy people with no history. Patients whom, on paper, have no discernible reason to develop cancer. With them, there’s no rhyme or reason.”

  I tapped my notepad with my pen. “So why study TB when you could be focusing on cancer?”

  Derek narrowed his eyes. “I do whatever I can to eradicate the world from disease, Denise. I study all kinds of problems in my lab.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “See what?”

  I dipped my chin, seeing through his innocence ploy. “The lab.”

  Derek’s head snapped back. “My lab? No. It’s not possible. It’s completely off limits.”

  Not to the kid I saw in there the other night. “Why is that?”

  He spread his hands. “It’s filled with sensitive material. It’s to be handled only with medical equipment. Infrared light. Gloves. The perfect ambient temperature. It’s not for tourists.”

  For some reason that set me off. “I’m not a tourist, Dr. Johnson,” I said with heat. “I’m a professional.”

  I started to gather my things to leave. If he was going to devalue me so much, I’d simply go home and write my own damn story. For all my trying to convince the man that I was a professional, I sure as hell wasn't behaving like one.

  I rose from my chair and he followed. “Denise, please. I've obviously offended you and I’m sorry. Of course you’re a professional. I didn't mean to diminish what you do.”

  My notebook and my phone were in my bag. I turned for the door. He was next to me; his hand was on my arm.

  “Denise, please. I… I really can’t show you my lab. It would be highly irregular. But let me make it up to you. My comment was rude and callous, and I’m sorry. I’m… sensitive about my work and on top of that, I’m a very private person. I am certainly not accustomed to anyone’s interest in what I’m doing.”

  I paused and turned to him. “So you’ll let me see?”

  “No,” he said with an audible sigh. “But let me take you out to dinner instead.”

  My gaze flickered to meet his. “That’s not an even exchange, Dr. Johnson.”

  “I understand that. But it’s all I can offer you right now.”

  ***

  I took the train back to my apartment, feeling less confident about expensing a taxi when I was coming from the interview empty handed. With a measure of gloom I figured at least I would get a nice dinner out of it. Derek promised to call me the following day with the details.

  My cell phone was on silent, but on the train it started buzzing. It had to be Skip. It was in my best interest to delay that conversation for as long as possible, so I didn't answer. Instead I went home and slunk into bed where I slept solidly for ten hours.

  It was just past 6:00 am when my phone started vibrating on my bedside table. The sun had barely started to rise and it was still mostly dark in my bedroom.

  “Not now, Skip,” I groaned to my empty bedroom, pulling my pillow over my head.

  As if obeying my command, the phone fell silent. However, five minutes later it started again. It was on vibrate, which meant it was jumping around on the table and bumping into bottles of lotion along with my reading glasses.

  “Skip! No!” I yelled, but it was only a matter of time before I’d have to deal with him. I hauled my body upright and picked up my phone.

  “Willard!” he barked into my ear. “Why haven’t you reported yet?”

  Calmly, I explained, “I’m going to shower and come in. I'll be there in less than an hour. Every time you call me will just delay me by five minutes. Have the coffee ready.” I ended the call before he could protest. The phone sat silent in my hands and I stared at it with narrowed eyes. After a minute I was satisfied that he would obey, so I got up to shower.

  As I rode the train in I pondered my dilemma. For the most part I didn't think that the good doctor was actually up to anything illegal, yet I seriously doubted that my editor would either believe it or rest until I found something. More than just an interview would be required. I had a fearful vision of Lucky and me poised outside of the hospital again, intercepting his midnight deliveries, ripping open the boxes to see what black market body parts Derek was buying.

  Ugh.

  To his credit, Skip had calmed down considerably by the time I arrived and had made a full pot of coffee. I plopped into his office chair while he poured and practically salivated for my information.

  “Well?” he finally asked when he decided he’d been patient enough.

  I threw up my hands. “I got nothing.”

  He slammed a fist down, but I didn't jump. I was used to this by now. “Nothing?” His voice was at a small roar. It could get louder.

  “No, Skip. He didn't give me much. He studies diseases, and that’s about all. The lab was off limits. I think he’s doing someth
ing with cancer.”

  “What?” His eyes narrowed as he continued to prod. “No illegal experiments? No animal parts?”

  “I don’t know! He wouldn't let me into the lab, Skip. He… he asked me out for dinner instead.”

  Skip’s laugh was grating, and a little bit scary. “You’re kidding. What a guy. Did you go out last night?”

  “No, we’re… wait, hold on.” My phone was ringing with a number I didn't recognize. “Denise Willard.”

  “Miss Willard, this is Derek Johnson’s secretary,” a pleasant female voice spoke through my phone. “Dr. Johnson would like to meet you at Seven Bridges this evening. The reservation is under his name for 7:30 pm. Does that suit you?”

  “Yes, yes. Certainly. Thank you.”

  My boss was watching me intently. “Johnson?”

  I nodded. “His secretary. He wants to take me to Seven Bridges tonight.”

  Skip gave a low whistle. “Fancy place, kid. You’ll want to dress it up.”

  Already my mind was wandering to the array of slinky dresses in my closet. To Derek Johnson’s strong jaw line and surgeon’s hands.

  “Denise,” Skip barked.

  Startled, I blinked and regained my focus. “Yeah?”

  He wagged a wrinkled finger in my face. “There’s something that guy is hiding. You’ll want to push harder tonight.”

  With a sigh I rose from the chair. “Yeah, I'll try, Skip, but there’s something different about this guy. He doesn't smell like the guys we usually nail in this column.”

  “They smell all ways, sweetheart. You know that. There’s something there. Don’t come up empty-handed.”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  I should have taken note then of my slow reluctant steps as I made my way to my desk. At that point in the story, I’d have been happy to walk away and leave Derek Johnson to whatever he was doing. If Skip called the whole thing off—something he’d certainly done before—it would have been totally fine with me. I knew that I’d get in deeper, that Skip would push and push, and I’d have to keep digging through the doctor’s life to find something, anything, to satisfy the Trib.

  Normally I had a killer instinct for this job, but where Derek Johnson was concerned, it was strangely absent.

  Derek

  What could I say? Despite what is often the cutthroat world of modern medicine, I was still a healer at heart. Soft, with a desire to help. And as much as I knew deep down that Denise Willard was after a story, and that I refused to give it to her, I still felt the need to give her something. To fulfill some aspect of what she was looking for.

  Or maybe I just thought she was gorgeous and didn't want our association to end. It was probably a little bit of both. But who could really blame me?

  I decided to have Denise meet me at Seven Bridges. I thought at the outset that it would be best to remove our business relationship to neutral ground—away from the lab and the hospital. I also knew that Seven Bridges, a highly recommended Italian restaurant with an affluent clientele, would possibly set her confidence back a notch. Having a small measure of control over the situation would help me immensely. What I would do with her once we arrived, well, I had no idea.

  As I dressed that evening my mind was a mix of emotions. I was, as always, consumed with the status of my latest set of samples. That afternoon, Logan and I had injected a leukemia medium into them that had been pre-treated with my cure media. What would happen next depended on luck, fate, karma, God… whatever one called on to smile upon their efforts. In effect, the cells would either attack the cancer, the cancer would attack the healthy cells, or they would all rupture. It would take about ten days before we had any indication.

  For attainable topics, I moved from my work to Denise: a beautiful, seemingly intelligent woman who was interested in me for the wrong reasons. It was five years since Maria died, plenty of time for me to open my heart again, but I was sorely out of practice.

  I meandered through my apartment, taking in the posh décor and the gorgeous furnishings. All of it was wasted on me, really. The apartment was as lonely as its owner. Many evenings it sat empty, or I would sweep in late; long enough to sleep and be gone when the sun came up. There were moments in my frenzied existence when I stopped and wondered if I was living life the way I should. What would Maria say if she saw me? Working nonstop, with no friends to speak of except for my grad student, spending all available hours working on a cure not only for cancer, but a rare leukemia about which the medical community knew practically nothing?

  The mirror next to the door showed me my tired, haggard face. It said I needed a good meal, a nice red wine, and drama-free conversation with a beautiful woman.

  Chapter 6

  Denise

  Seven Bridges was apparently the place where the Chicago elite dined. The doctor must have had some serious connections to get us a table there on such short notice since, according to the Food and Wine guy at the paper, the waiting list was ages long and nearly impossible to break into.

  “I see how it is,” I muttered to myself as I tore through my closet. “Trying to intimidate me with your fancy nightlife. Well, I’m not going to be bullied around, doc.”

  My words were brave, but my closet was admittedly lacking in fancy evening wear. Yes, I was a published journalist of some renown, but writing paid lousy and my beat didn't allow much in the way of an expense account. I did have a few solid pieces that would work. My black pumps needed a bit of magic with a paint marker, but if the lights were low nobody would notice.

  By the time I walked out of my apartment, I wore a red dress with a pencil skirt and a fitted bodice knowing I was comfortable with my intellect and didn't have to dress dowdy to assert it. The pumps were repaired and I’d tried the smoky eyeliner. I took a taxi again and crossed my fingers that Skip would pay for it. My phone was switched to vibrate and tucked into a black, beaded clutch.

  In short, it was showtime.

  Seven Bridges, from the outside, earned every bit of the hype. It was a sleek, downtown locale with a Sky Bar for the warm months. As the host led me through the black chrome tables, I did indeed see several of Chicago’s finest slicing tiny servings of veggie lasagna and pouring seconds and thirds of merlot. My stomach turned flips as I felt the eyes in the room follow me. Did I belong? Did I look like I did either way?

  Derek had a table tucked in a corner with low light. Inwardly I grinned—my shoes would hold up. He was dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit with a light pink shirt that did great things for his physique and his coloring. A slight blush leapt over his cheeks when he saw me, which bolstered my confidence a bit, but it mostly overwhelmed me with how honestly attractive the man was. I mean, could he not be so damned good-looking, humble, and kind? My life was so peppered with assholes that he was such a rush of fresh air.

  He rose from his seat while the host pulled out my chair. “Hello, Denise. You look very beautiful,” he greeted warmly as he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I doubt it was sexual in the least; on the contrary, it seemed more perfunctory. But it hit the mark, striking me deep in the stomach and throwing me off my purpose a bit.

  I sat and allowed the host to arrange my chair and pour my wine.

  “I hope you don’t mind a red?”

  “No, not at all. Did you order for me as well?” This I said with a slight smirk. Control must be maintained at all times.

  Derek put his hands up in mock surrender. “I wouldn't dream of ordering for you, Miss Willard. You’re an intelligent, enlightened woman, right?”

  He chuckled a bit as he talked; a low, rumbling sound that tickled my ears. God, why was I there again? All I could focus on was Derek’s brown eyes and the pleasant warm feeling the wine gave me.

  Focus, Denise.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” he said as he topped off my wine glass. Perhaps out of mild nervousness, I took a few sips that were bigger than they should have been.

  “That’s a short and boring story,” I answered, making a
concerted effort to slow down my wine consumption. “I’m basically a military brat. I moved all over the country as a kid. We even did a stint at the Air Force base in Germany, but I was too young to remember. When I was thirteen my mom left my dad—she was tired of the military lifestyle. I pretty much watched him crumple before my eyes, and the government wouldn't help him. For years they’d used him for their purposes, and then they just… dropped him when he wasn't useful anymore.”

  Derek watched me as I spoke, his brown eyes warm and soulful. He bit his lip. “So… the crusade against corruption in the local government?” he asked. My eyebrows went up in surprise. “I do my homework,” he shrugged.

  “Yeah…” I admitted. “It’s crazy to think a lone, young black woman can take down the VA or the Army, so I do what I can to make sure that public servants do what they promised to do—serve the public.”

  I must have sounded bristly in my tone, because Derek leaned away from me a few inches and held up a flat palm. “Hey, I applaud you. No judgment here. I've read your work and I admire it. I just don’t understand why you’re interested in me.”

  It was a fight through my wine-fogged brain to sift through the first things that came to mind: lips, arms, shoulders, eyes, before I remembered myself.

  “I'll be totally honest, Derek.”

  “I’d love that, Denise.”

  I took my time in crafting my comment, holding my wine glass aloft and returning the doctor’s gaze for a long moment. “Our paper has received some tips about you.”

  His face took on a warm blush. “Tips? What kind of tips? From whom?”