His Surprise Daughter : A BWWM Billionaire Romance

by Tiana Cole

  My watch read just before seven, which meant I had a few hours before Derek would show. Obviously the first order of business was the pregnancy test that had been burning a hole in my bag all day. God, I had too many things to worry about.

  “Here’s to good times,” I said out loud and walked with purpose into the bathroom. The directions said to wait for three minutes, and damn if it wasn't the longest three minutes I’d ever experienced, but at the end of it all the stick showed the requisite markings: I was pregnant, and Derek was most definitely Derek the father. Because I was still very early on, and because I didn't know how I felt about it, I buried the evidence in my garbage can. I washed my face, reapplied my makeup, and generally tried to make myself appear not to be the tired, sickly, pregnant, confused woman I currently was.

  For the next hour I worked on the article about him—the truthful one—that was stored on my flash drive along with the version I’d started that sort of skirted the edge of the truth. Next, I made myself a cup of tea and sat on the couch to wait for him.

  He knocked on the door a few minutes after nine, and I could immediately tell that something was off. Our interactions had gone from lovely to slightly awkward, then back to lovely again, but now it looked like we were going to swing back to awkward. His face was tense and his shoulders slumped. He offered me a small smile but no kiss or hug.

  “You look beat. Can I get you something to eat?” I asked. He stood at the end of my couch in the living room, staring across the room to the view out of my small terrace. Distracted didn't begin to describe him. I wrapped my hand around his forearm and repeated my question. “I know you've been at the clinic and probably haven’t had dinner.”

  He looked at me then, his eyes narrowed and raking over my face, before lifting his fingertips to my cheekbone. His touch both startled and moved me, and not for the first time I wished that our relationship could just be a normal one and land on some sort of traditional trajectory.

  “Derek?” I whispered.

  With a small tug he led me to the sofa where we sat side by side, knees touching. He released my hand and brought his own to his face with a deep sigh. After a minute he dropped them and focused on me. “Are you actively writing about me?”

  His tone was tired, almost resigned, as if we’d reached the end and there was nothing left to do. I rose from the couch and snatched up my laptop. When I returned, I opened it and showed him what I’d been doing while waiting for him.

  “Look,” I said, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. “I was working on this just before you came. It’s all the truth about you. Things I’ve verified with my own eyes and a little bit of background research.”

  For a few minutes I let him read it, his dark eyes flickering over my words. When he reached the end he leaned back into the couch cushions and ran his hands through his hair.

  “The reason I ask,” he began, “is because I received another semi-threatening phone call today and—”

  With a gasp I interrupted, “From a pharma company?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Probably. It’s not like he tells me who he is or where he’s calling from. He basically threatened to blackmail me.”

  My stomach twisted. “What does he have on you?”

  His eyes narrowed; when he spoke his tone was harsh. “Nothing. That’s what makes me so angry. Whoever this is wants me to rush around trying to cover up every little thing they can use on me when, really, there’s nothing to even use.”

  I thought of the photo in my bag and almost rose to get it when Derek continued his tirade.

  “He did say to ask you what you've found. He specifically mentioned ‘my little journalist friend’ and warned me that you would ‘rake me over the coals.’” He said this with an ugly, sarcastic dig, his fingers raised in air quotes. “So what do you say to that?”

  “Derek,” I started with my voice as patient as I could make it. “I just showed you what I've been writing.” The second article on the flash drive burned into my memory, singeing the edge of my thoughts with guilt, but I pushed it aside. “He’s right. I’m an investigative journalist. And, yes, my editor sent me to see what you've been up to. But I told you I haven’t found anything. I've been totally honest with you from the beginning.” The two lines on the pregnancy test, glaringly pink, likewise flashed across my thoughts. I pushed it aside as well. I would tell him another day; we were both tense and suspicious. After all, the pregnancy wasn't going anywhere.

  He stared at me for a long moment, blinking hard, before letting out his deep breath. “Yeah, I know, Denise. It’s crazy. I’m just stressed, I guess. I really like you and I wish things between us were… I don’t know… normal.”

  I chuckled, recalling having the same thought before he’d arrived. “I know exactly what you mean. But while we’re being honest…” I leaned over to the coffee table and dug through my messenger bag until I found the photo. “Somebody left this here the other night. I’d fallen asleep on the couch and when I woke up it was stuffed in my doorjamb.”

  Derek’s eyes widened as he looked at the photo. I watched his breath increase, his nostrils flaring, before he let it drop to the table. “That’s ridiculous,” he said between his teeth.

  “How?”

  “Because it didn't happen, that’s how. Denise, you have to believe me. Part of research and testing does require some tissue samples, but I've only ever acquired it through legal channels. This photo’s been doctored.”

  I pondered this, voicing my thoughts out loud. “I guess it’s possible to adjust the date and timestamp on a photo. And I know it’s possible to add the ‘human organs’ lettering. But there’s also no way to check that you only use legal channels. By definition, illegal channels would be hard to trace. If anyone were to investigate your tissue usage, they’d only find the legal transactions.”

  Derek’s voice was wary as he asked, “What are you saying?”

  “Mainly that whoever is doing this knows that it’s hard to prove anything on you, good or bad. They’re trying to get traction by merely suggesting wrongdoing in the hopes that I'll go sniffing after the story, but…” I leaned back and stared at the ceiling, letting the facts fall into place. “If we’re going with the underlying fact of your innocence, then it logically follows that whoever is doing this is trying to make us suspicious of each other. The goal, it seems, is to discredit you. Who would want that?”

  A moment of silence passed before Derek sighed deeply and said, “Rashid Pharmaceutical.”

  Derek

  I was really, really, tired. All I wanted to do was stretch out on Denise’s couch and fall asleep. A smaller, mild part of me wouldn't mind putting forth the effort to walk into her bedroom and stretch out on her bed. As I pondered it, what could possibly transpire before sleep was also tempting. There was a more pressing issue at hand, however.

  Denise stared at me with wide eyes. “Rashid? That’s like the biggest pharma outfit in the Midwest.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think they’re behind the letters and phone calls?”

  I nodded. “They called me through normal channels about two years ago and asked if I would partner with them in my research on Leukemia-A. At first I was really excited; the work was overwhelming and I was still feeling powerless about Maria’s death. I went as far as discussing it with the lawyers. When I learned how little my intellectual property would be protected, and how restricted the access would be to the people that really needed it, I backed out.”

  “Was that before or after you were quoted as saying you would,” Denise made air quotes as she said, “never get into bed with Big Pharma?”

  Somehow I was able to be both surprised, not surprised, and impressed all at the same time. “You found that interview?”

  She cocked her head and raised one eyebrow. “Come on, man. That was child’s play.”

  I chuckled. “In any case, I said that just after I pulled out from the deal with Rashid. I thought
I was doing well not to mention them by name.”

  Denise looped a finger into one of her curls and twirled it absently. “So it looks like we have a possibility for motive and means. I mean, Rashid would have the ability to doctor photos and make vaguely threatening phone calls for sure. But how do they know I’m involved?”

  “Maybe they’re watching me?”

  Her face took on a vacant expression and she chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Maybe…” After a long moment she gave her head a little shake and sighed. “I, for one, am going to bed. You’re welcome to join me or not.” With that, she rose from the couch and I followed suit, watching as she looked back at me. I reached out to snag her around the waist, pulling her into me.

  “How am I supposed to take that offer?”

  She turned her face away from me playfully. “It wasn't an offer. It was a statement.”

  “I think there was an implied offer in there.”

  She allowed her lips to find mine. It was a light kiss, restrained from the tension of the evening. Against her mouth I said quietly, “I’m ready for all of this to be over, so this…” I paused briefly to pass a hand between our bodies, “can be a normal thing. Is that something you’re interested in? Please say yes.”

  “Yes…” she breathed against my mouth. “Very interested.”

  I kissed her again and backed her towards what I hoped was her bedroom. There were three closed doors; I would find out eventually which was the right one. I had time.

  Chapter 17

  Denise

  Derek was up and out early the next morning, whereas I dragged my feet as long as possible. My first order of business was to finish the good article about Derek, which I did over a pot of coffee that I‘d made with half decaf in consideration of my condition. I was pleased to find that I only vomited twice in as many hours, which was a vast improvement over the day before. If I ate, nibbled really, on small bits of food every half-hour or so, I found that I could keep the nausea at a manageable level. All the same, I shuddered to think about the nine long months of being sick—although, if my timeline was correct, it was closer to seven now.

  When my article was finished I took special care in dressing very professionally and applying my makeup. I fixed my hair and made sure I was looking my best. As I rode the train into the city I allowed the fact that I looked good to give me confidence. I held to my bag tightly and took many deep breaths. As a near-afterthought, I texted Derek:

  Going to submit my article to Skip now. Maybe will investigate Rashid on my own, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m off the case. You are no longer my subject.

  By the time I stepped off the El he had responded:

  I hope I’m still your subject in some sense.

  A hot blush leaped over my face as I typed:

  Oh, you are.

  I busied myself in my office like it was any normal day, dodging questions from my co-workers about where I’d been and why I looked so hot on that particular morning. Like it was completely natural, I sauntered into Skip’s office with my hands pressed physically against my stomach as if I could literally push the anxiety away.

  Skip was seated at his desk, tearing through papers in a manila file like I’d seen him do a hundred times. I dropped into his spare chair. “Good morning,” I said, injecting all of the confidence I could into my voice.

  He raised his eyes to look me over. “Willard. Hello. To what do I owe this great pleasure?”

  His voice was laced with sarcasm, but it was pleasant enough. I flicked the flash drive onto his desk, causing his thick, white eyebrows to rise with interest.

  “What do you have there, Willard?”

  “It’s the article I wrote on Derek. Skip, there’s nothing there. I've searched all of his records through all of the channels available to us. I've been in the lab. I've interviewed him and his lab assistant. The guy is totally legit.”

  Most of that was true.

  Skip took a moment to respond. Whatever he was thinking was well-hidden behind decades of experience and a finely-honed poker face. His long, wrinkled fingers turned the flash drive over and over while his eyes stared a hole in the broad, polished wood of his desk.

  “Well, what can we do, Willard? I mean, you did what you could, right?”

  This was not the answer I was expecting.

  “Sure, Skip,” I nodded. “I toyed around with a more incendiary angle, but there’s no proof. It would be sensational at best to spin that side of his work. Most normal people would crucify us for dragging a good man’s name through the mud.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Well, hell. We don’t want that at all, do we, Willard?”

  “We don’t, Skip,” I replied, shaking my head slowly.

  “I'll just keep this,” he grunted as he brandished the flash drive, “and look over what you have. I'll most likely bounce it over to Human Interest. They’ll treat him right. Don’t you think?”

  Relief slowly started to seep across my body. It started at the center of my head and rolled over my shoulders, my torso, and down my legs to my feet. Had it not been too conspicuous, I would have pinched myself.

  “I think that’s the best place for it, yes.”

  Skip smoothly palmed the flash drive and slid it into his pocket. “I'll handle this. Let’s find you some new leads to chase down. How are things going in Macon County?”

  I gave him a long, drawn-out status update about the County Commissioner, the courts, and everything that I had and hadn’t accomplished in Decatur. Skip listened with rapt attention and appeared to be pleased. The relief in my body was almost tingling by the time I was finished.

  “Look,” he began as he leaned forward in his chair. “Let Decatur rest for another week until after the hearing. I think I've got something new for you.”

  He handed me a file and started talking, but my attention was caught again by the Jones-Wembly folder in plain sight on his desk. Skip typically met with the JW people quarterly to discuss the paper’s finances, but it had only been a week since he’d gone up to their downtown office for their day-long meeting. It seemed odd for him to have the financials out for anyone to see, particularly if the meeting was only a formality.

  Well, it was odd, but not terribly so. I tried to re-focus on what Skip was saying.

  “…so she’s a tax lawyer, but she’s thrown her hat into the ring for this government job. It just smells to me. So that’s your next gig, okay, gorgeous?”

  When my eyes found Skip’s face again, it was completely open and grinning like things were just as they’d been for years. I could see no trace of guile on his face, none of the hardness or suspicion that had characterized our last few conversations.

  “Sure, Skip,” I smiled as I rose from the chair. “I'll start on this right away. Thanks.”

  He waved a wrinkled hand. “See you, Willard. And leave the doctor to me.”

  I went directly to the media room, tossing the file with the tax lawyer aside. Instead, I pulled up everything we had on Rashid Pharmaceutical.

  Derek

  I felt like a new man that morning. The previous evening at Denise’s seemed to clarify where I’d been muddled; it gave me freedom when I felt like I’d been bound. The talking and airing out of all of our secrets, solidifying our trust in each other, was of utmost importance to the current status of our relationship.

  Also, we made love and it was pretty great.

  It was barely dawn when I slipped out of her place and drove back to mine. Of course, I would have gone directly to the lab, but it dawned on me that I hadn't been home in days and a shower and a change of clothes could be nice. I checked my calendar over a cup of coffee—three patient appointments at the office that morning, time for a stop at the lab, and a clinic shift in the afternoon. With a sigh I passed a hand over my forehead, wondering not for the first time why I scheduled my life down to each second.

  During this time I received a few texts from Denise, promising to officially drop my story with her editor
that morning. Inspired by her boldness, I booked a small cabin on the north end of the lake for the weekend in hopes that she would go away with me. It would do both of us a heap of good. Doing that filled me with a sense of purpose and eagerness to get through the next few days. That energy propelled me towards the hospital where I saw my three patients and even had an impromptu lunch meeting with the Chief of Medicine at the hospital.

  Tim wasn't a bad guy. Really, none of my colleagues fell into that category; it was just that I was a singular person socially. Since Maria’s death I’d been preoccupied and hadn’t yet learned how to fill my social calendar. That was a hard task for a doctor anyway because of the hours we kept, but it seemed harder for me because I lived a type of double life.

  The Chief knew a bit about my obsession with Leukemia-A. He didn't know what Logan and I did on the 8th floor, but he knew that I’d committed much of my spare time to reading and studying what little had been written on the strain. Over lunch he asked me how it was going.

  “Do you have any new leads on the cancer research?”

  I winced even though I knew he was asking to be friendly and not because he knew anything.

  “Not really,” I answered without making eye contact. “I mean, my original thoughts about it being linked to socio-economic status haven’t seemed to pan out.”

  Tim smirked. “You mean we haven’t seen a cancer epidemic sprout up from the inner city yet?”

  “Well, we wouldn't know,” I pointed out, “because they don’t have sufficient health care. Nobody would give them a PET scan no matter what their symptoms because they don’t have insurance.”

  My tone must have betrayed my annoyance, because Tim’s eyes widened momentarily before he refocused on his salmon. “Fair enough,” he said. “In any case, the hospital may have a new corporate partner for our research division. If you’d like I can see if they’ll move Leukemia-A to the front of the list for research?”

  I dropped my fork onto my plate in irritation. “Really? A new corporate partner? Let me guess.”