Secrets of a One Night Stand--A pregnant by the billionaire romance

by Naima Simone

  Only a fool would think he was inviting more conversation. And while a number of things could be attributed to her—liar, masochist, walking ATM—fool wasn’t among them.

  Nodding, she pivoted on her heel and exited the office. What else could she say? He’d nailed why she’d approached him—to establish a working boundary for them.

  And yet...

  Yet she left feeling as if gauntlets had been cast down and swords drawn.

  Why did she sense this would be war?

  Six

  “How’s the second semester shaping up, Angel?” Mycah asked her sister, leaning back in her chair as Beth, one of her parents’ staff, ladled lobster bisque into her bowl. Mycah murmured her thanks at the young blonde. Picking up her spoon, she nodded, smiling at her little sister. “Last time we talked you were telling me how much you were enjoying your computer science class. Is that still going well?”

  Angelique quickly patted her mouth with her cloth napkin, beaming at Mycah. “I am loving it! Ms. Ferrara is amazing and I’m learning so much from her.” Angelique leaned forward, dark brown locs almost skimming the lobster bisque as she gushed over her favorite teacher. “And guess what?” she nearly squealed. Not allowing Mycah time to speculate, she charged ahead. “We’re developing our own computer games! How cool is that, right? Ms. Ferrara said colleges and future employers will look at our portfolio of games as evidence of our design ability, so high school is the perfect time to begin building it. We’re going to download the Unity engine—”

  “Angelique, please,” Cherise Hill interrupted, a slight snap in her voice even though she didn’t raise it. A lady never, ever raised her voice. That was a sign of poor manners and upbringing. As was vulgar language, laughing too loudly and showing up to an event uninvited. “Eat your dinner before it gets cold. Now, Mycah,” she said, an ingratiating warmth infiltrating her words as abruptly as a light switch being flipped, “this is the first time you’ve had dinner with us since you started working at Farrell International. Our feelings have been a little hurt that you haven’t been by to tell us about your new job.”

  Irritation crept through Mycah, and she tightened her grip on her spoon. She saw the embarrassment and pain that flashed across her sister’s face before she bent her head, her locs swinging forward. Mycah shot her mother a glare, a hot rebuke burning the tip of her tongue, but at the last instant, she extinguished it. Not only would Cherise deny how dismissive and hurtful she’d been to her youngest daughter, but bringing attention to her bad behavior would only mean negative consequences for Angelique. Consequences Mycah was very familiar with—arctic silent treatments, ostracism or cutting criticisms.

  No, if she could help her sister avoid that, at least for tonight, then she would.

  Her heart ached with a yearning to reach across the table and pull Angelique into her arms. She crossed her ankles to keep herself seated.

  “Well, starting with a new company, becoming acclimated to the culture there and learning my responsibilities, has been a little time-consuming. But in my defense, you haven’t shown an interest in my job in the past. I didn’t think you would be interested now.”

  Yes, it was a dig. One she should’ve been above. But she wasn’t.

  “That was before you started working for Cain Farrell,” her father said from the head of the table.

  Laurence believed in coating shit in sugar and talking out both sides of his mouth with other people, but not with his daughters. With business associates or guests at the endless parties he and Cherise attended, those dark brown eyes would glimmer with humor. But with his daughters, that gaze sliced with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel, exposing insecurities, faults and failures.

  In spite of her employment helping to maintain their lifestyle, apparently, her job only now had any worth because of Cain. Because the Farrells were Boston royalty. If the Hills were considered earls or viscounts, then the Farrells were powerful dukes. And Mycah had suddenly become her parents’ “in” to that rarefied circle.

  Unease swirled in her belly like sour alcohol. She set her spoon down beside her bowl.

  “Have you met Cain Farrell yet?” her father demanded.

  “Of course,” she said, keeping her tone level. Revealing her disquiet to her parents would be like throwing bloody chum into shark-infested waters. “I interviewed with him.”

  “And?” Cherise raised a perfectly arched brow.

  Mycah blinked at her mother. “And I got the position of vice president of operations.”

  “Being deliberately obtuse doesn’t become you, Mycah,” her mother said, ice dripping from each syllable. “I have one daughter who is wasting the money we’re paying for that exclusive school by focusing on computer games. And when our other daughter—the one who is pushing thirty and is still unmarried and doesn’t even have any prospects—finds herself in front of a single, handsome billionaire, all she cares about is a job instead of a potential husband.”

  “Do you understand the influence, the power, the business a match between you and Cain Farrell could bring to Hill-Harper Inc.?” her father asked.

  Hill-Harper, a holding company that had been founded by Mycah’s maternal great-grandfather, enjoyed a respectable, conservative reputation here in Boston and nationwide. But for someone who only visited the office two or three days a week and was more or less a figurehead, Laurence always sought more. More wealth, more connections, more renown. And he viewed his daughters as tools to achieve his goals. “For a woman who claims critical thinking as one of her best skills, you fail to see the big picture here. The most advantageous picture. Fine, get your foot into the door with this job. But that isn’t the endgame. Cain Farrell is.”

  Jesus Christ. Briefly closing her eyes, Mycah leaned back in her chair. Silently counted to ten. Fifteen. Stopped at twenty. Ticking off numbers wasn’t going to calm her when dealing with her parents.

  Mycah inhaled a breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. “One. I went to Farrell International to interview for a very important position that would benefit my career, not to scope out a husband. Two. Even if I weren’t a professional, it would’ve been pretty difficult to flirt, hit on or climb over the conference room table and sexually harass Cain Farrell as his two half brothers were also in attendance. And three—and perhaps most important—Cain Farrell is engaged to Devon Cole. And has been for months. Which you both very well know.”

  Cain’s sudden fairy-tale-esque engagement to the little-known Devon Cole had taken Boston society by storm. Some people had doubted the relationship, giving it mere weeks before Cain broke it off with the pretty but unassuming woman who worked at a local community center. But three months later, they seemed as in love as ever. Even more so.

  Making her parents’ assertion that Mycah romantically pursue Cain even more ridiculous.

  “That little nobody?” Her mother waved a hand, laughing, the tinkling sound all the more cruel because of its beauty. “Please. He can do better. All he needs are options.”

  “So you’ve met the famed Farrell bastards?” her father asked, a smile curling his mouth. A gleam entered his dark eyes, lines fanning out from the corners, and he barely noticed as Beth cleared his bowl. “What was your impression?”

  The Farrell bastards.

  God, she hated that stupid, disrespectful name. With a passion.

  How high society had taken such glee in salivating over news of Barron Farrell’s illegitimate sons. Achilles, a giant of a man with his long hair and tawny skin. Kenan, biracial, tall, with smooth brown skin, a close-cropped beard and a lean but powerful build. They both shared the same distinctive blue-gray eyes of all the Farrell men, though, including their brother, Cain.

  “They were fine,” she said flatly, trying to dissuade him from the topic.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised he let them sit in,” Laurence continued, not discouraged by her tone at all. He chuc
kled, and it held an ugly undertone familiar to Mycah. “I know Barron’s will stipulated Cain had to keep those two on at Farrell International for a year, but to include them in business decisions? I can almost see Kenan Rhodes since his family actually runs a company, even though it’s nowhere near the level of Farrell. But that other one?” He shook his head, his grin widening.

  “The Feral Farrell?” Cherise chimed in. “All that long hair and that hideous beard? And have you seen how big and...coarse he is? I don’t care if Cain stuffs him in a suit—he’s not fooling anyone. He looks like a thug.”

  “Did that one speak in the meeting?” Laurence snickered, leaning back as Beth set down his plate filled with filet mignon, sautéed asparagus and risotto. “Or did he just grunt?”

  Her mother’s laughter joined Laurence’s, and it pounded against Mycah like pebbles striking her skin. Anger brewed inside her chest, a raging storm gathering wind and speed. And underneath...currents of shame coiled. These were her parents. She wasn’t responsible for their actions, for their snobbery. But that didn’t stop her from feeling tainted.

  Sullied.

  You don’t know him.

  She wanted to hurl those words at them. To make them understand and see the intelligent man who could be tender yet defensive, sensitive yet guarded. She’d glimpsed those pieces of him even as he actively shut her out. And just from the shreds of information he let slip about his past—only to be surrounded by people like her parents—she didn’t blame him for those rock-solid walls topped by barbed wire.

  Hell, she had her own barriers designed to prevent others from getting too close. Because people, starting with her own parents, had taught her that when they did, it was with an agenda.

  Yes, she had trust issues.

  Scanning her parents’ smirking faces, she didn’t have to wonder why.

  Shaking her head, she pushed back her chair and rose from the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, setting her napkin next to her forgotten bisque.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Laurence frowned. “Dinner isn’t over. And we’re not finished talking to you about this new job.”

  “I’m afraid I am through, though.” Mycah injected regret into her voice that was pure bullshit, but the alternative—revealing to her parents that their jabs at Achilles sickened her—wasn’t an option. “I just remembered I have an early meeting to prepare for. I’ll make sure to come by next week for dinner. I’ll call you later.”

  Before they could object, she strode from the room, ignoring her father’s strident calling of her name. Neither of them would pursue her. Not only would they refuse to grant their staff anything to gossip about, but etiquette would keep them in their seats. And nothing—not even a fleeing daughter—trumped etiquette.

  Sometimes Mycah detested their devotion to manners.

  Then sometimes she was grateful for it.

  Like now.

  Within moments, she accepted her coat from their butler and stepped into the frigid January night. She paused on the top step of the Back Bay mansion and breathed deep.

  How sad was it that she didn’t inhale the scent of crisp air as she walked away?

  No.

  All she tasted was freedom.

  Seven

  Achilles plowed his fist into the punching bag, sending it spinning away and swinging back. He struck it once more, the power singing up his arm and into his shoulder. He welcomed the vibration that carried a subtle, sweet burn. He sought it, chased it as he pummeled the bag again and again until his arms trembled with fatigue and sweat dripped off his face and bare chest.

  The gym in Farrell International had quickly become Achilles’s favorite area of the building, next to his office. In both places, he lost himself either in code or in the numbing exhaustion of exercise. He could lock himself away...lock everyone else out. Even Cain and Kenan.

  Guilt flickered in his chest, and he smothered the urge to rub at the spot, as if he could erase it like a smudge of dirt. If only it were that simple.

  He scowled, stalking over to the weight bench where he’d left his towel and bottle of water. Snatching both up, he wiped off the perspiration and downed almost half the water. At seven o’clock at night, he had the place all to himself. After a long day at work, most of the employees champed at the bit to leave. Not him. He delayed going back to that luxurious penthouse that had come with the appointment of co-CEO. Luxurious and cold. Three months he’d lived there, and he still felt like a squatter. To be fair, though, he had no desire to be there.

  The cavernous apartment with its floor-to-ceiling walls, fireplaces huge enough for a man his size to stand in, a kitchen that would make Emeril Lagasse weep in envy, a library that his mother would’ve wrestled Belle to get...

  It didn’t make sense that he could live in a place so huge and still battle claustrophobia.

  Nine more months.

  That had become his mantra.

  Nine more months, and his promise to Cain would be fulfilled. And then he could return to his cabin. His life. His peace.

  Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in battered but comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, he moved behind his desk, his mind already focused on work. Not for Farrell, though. No doubt it violated about ten company rules, but he used his after-work hours when all the rest of the staff had gone home to return to his pet project—the one he’d been laboring on for over a year now.

  A high-fantasy, open-world, action-adventure video game geared toward at-risk youth. With world building that was a cross between the inner city and Middle Earth, he aimed to challenge players, teach them teamwork, decision-making, discipline, problem-solving, to think outside the box.

  Six months of that year had been working with a psychologist on Achilles’s mission and figuring out what elements he needed to include in the game to reach the kind of youth he’d once been. The youth he’d met and lived with for two years while locked up. This game wasn’t just a possible moneymaker for him; it was his passion. He didn’t want to hear why it wasn’t marketable. Or that while his ideals were laudable, they weren’t realistic. That’s why he hadn’t told anyone about it.

  He might now be a millionaire, living in a penthouse at the top of a high-rise, but that didn’t expunge lessons learned from bullies’ fists or slaps from his mother’s boyfriends: No one cares how smart you are. Keep it to yourself.

  Achilles sank into his chair, reaching for his mouse to bring up his programs on the three monitors on his desk. His fingers flew across the keyboard, and within minutes he became engrossed in the script.

  “Hey, Achilles.” A fist rapped the top of his desk, reluctantly dragging him out of the world of code. “I’m not above doing something completely immature to get your attention. We both know this.”

  Sighing, Achilles leaned back in his chair and met an identical blue-gray gaze. Kenan smiled at him, dropping into the visitor’s chair, his long legs sprawling out in front of him. Unlike Achilles, his half brother still wore a dark blue, beautifully tailored business suit that appeared as fresh as if he’d just donned it minutes ago instead of hours.

  “What’re you doing here?” Achilles asked.

  Kenan heaved a theatrical, loud sigh. “Aging well before my time worrying about you. I’m too young and pretty for these lines of concern to be etched in my forehead.” He circled a finger over the nonexistent wrinkles. “So I’m asking you the same question. What are you doing here so late?”

  Achilles snorted. Both at the dramatics and the deflection. Kenan might be better at hiding his ambition and hunger behind his charm and magnetic smile, but the other man didn’t fool Achilles. Demons pursued his younger half brother, too. Achilles just didn’t know Kenan well enough to identify them by name.

  “Working.” He jerked his chin up at Kenan. “Your turn.”

  “I’m wrapping up a couple of
things.” Kenan cocked his head and studied Achilles through shrewd eyes that belied his smirk. “But unlike you, Jan, I don’t make a habit of burning the midnight oil. What gives?”

  “Jan?” Yeah, he was stalling, but still... What the hell?

  “Y’know, Jan. Middle child. Brady Bunch. ‘Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!’” he chanted in an impressive falsetto. “You exhibit classic middle-child syndrome.” He returned to his normal voice with a wide grin. Holding up a hand, he ticked off each point with a finger. “Unsocial behavior. I mean, instead of choosing an office on the executive floor with Cain and me, you purposefully chose to be down here in the basement in a closet.”

  “It’s not the basement,” Achilles muttered.

  Ignoring him, Kenan continued, “Trust issues. In spite of Cain trying to include you in Farrell business and showing you he’s trying to make an effort to build a relationship with us, you’re as cold as a hundred years of winter.” When Achilles arched an eyebrow at his Narnia reference, Kenan scowled. “What? I read. And third, and the one that will possibly get me thrown out of here on my really great ass, but I’m going to say it anyway...”

  Kenan leaned forward, planting his elbows on his thighs, his gaze losing all hint of humor and trapping Achilles behind his desk. In this moment, Achilles sympathized with a butterfly mounted on a corkboard.

  “You don’t want to get too close to Cain and me. Hell, you probably have your plane ticket already bought for the one-year anniversary of the reading of the will when you can return to Washington. But whether you admit it to yourself or not, you want us as brothers. You’re just afraid we won’t want you back. Which is bullshit. Because we’re not Barron. Or...” Kenan’s mouth hardened, locking away whatever else he would’ve said, but the flint in his eyes remained. “Like I said, we’re not Barron.”

  Achilles stared at him, stunned. And if he could move, then maybe he would’ve kicked Kenan out of his office as he’d predicted.

  His brother’s words echoed through him, pounding inside his head like hammers. He longed to lash out at Kenan, order him to mind his own business. To stay out of his. That DNA didn’t give him the right to go digging around in his psyche or play armchair psychologist. Or better yet, to tell Kenan he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Not about the office. Not about trusting him or Cain. And damn sure not about wanting their love or brotherhood.