by Leslie North
McClellan Billionaires
The Billionaire’s Pregnant Assistant
The Billionaire Chef’s Baby
The Billionaire’s Ward
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, OCTOBER 2019
Copyright © 2019 Relay Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Leslie North is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Romance projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.
Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations
www.relaypub.com
Blurb
Covered in tattoos, sarcasm, and muscles, Arthur McClellan is the best thing to come out of the kitchen since sliced bread. A billionaire from birth, his trust fund hasn’t stopped his drive to achieve his dreams of celebrity chef status. However, a dying wish from his mother has caused him to pivot his aspirations. Instead of being the “bad boy,” he now wants to join the ranks of the happy chefs of the Taste Network. It’s taken a lot of convincing, but he’s finally landed a show: a wedding special filming in the Bahamas. But the network doesn’t trust him alone. They want a romantic interest: a perfect, bubbly wedding planner to soften his edges. Arthur’s not mad when they pick a wedding planner he’d had a single, very passionate night with. In fact, she just might be the cherry on top of his food show cake.
Cassandra Kelly has been winning the wedding planner game for years, and she wants more: national coverage for her creative celebrations. So when the Taste Network offers her the position of wedding planner on their new pilot, Cassandra jumps at the chance. The only catch? She’s got to be the “girlfriend” of famous bad boy Arthur McClellan— a position not unappealing to her after a celebratory night of passion that left her with a continuous craving for the chef… and an unplanned bun in the oven.
Now, they’ve got to fake their relationship on screen while wading through their real relationship off. They both agree the baby should be kept secret until they’re ready to spill the beans. But when a careless conversation reveals all to the producer, who thinks a secret baby would make for a great reality TV series, they have to decide how real they’re willing to get and how much their romance can weather for their careers. For two people who want to live in the public eye, they must decide how much of their passion they want to keep private.
Contents
Mailing List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
End of The Billionaire Chef’s Baby
Thank You!
About Leslie
Sneak Peek: The Billionaire’s Ward
Also by Leslie
Mailing List
Thank you for reading The Billionaire Chef’s Baby
(McClellan Billionaires Book Two)
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1
Chef Arthur McClellan could wield a razor-sharp boning knife without batting an eye. He could plunge his bare hand into boiling water to test the firmness of pasta without flinching. He used fire and heat with ease and sometimes used actual burning torches to add final perfect touches to a dish. There was nothing in a kitchen that could possibly scare him.
Except the little kid staring at him right now.
Art stared down at the tiny intruder and then glanced up at the door that led back into the hall where the wedding reception that would define his career was now underway. He had only a few seconds to get the next course plated, a job that would normally go to his assistant. But this wedding was a make-or-break event for his career, and he'd wanted complete control over everything.
He should have at least hired someone to bar the door to the kitchen.
"You lost, kid?"
"Are you making the food?"
She was wearing a puffy white dress that signaled her status as the flower girl. Art knew that she was objectively cute. But, she was in the way. "Yes, I'm making the food. And kitchens are no place for kids. You need to go back to your mom now."
The little girl blinked back sudden tears. "I can't eat anything," she sniffed.
Arthur looked up from where he'd been measuring out precise dollops of crème fraiche on top of the stone-fruit soup. "What do you mean, you can't eat anything?"
"I'm hungry, but my mom says I can't get my dress all messy." She blinked her wide eyes. Okay, yeah, the kid was cute, in a weird, alien way, Art decided. "And all the food you're bringing out is messy. It's got all this…sauce-y stuff." She wrinkled her nose and tugged at her dress dispiritedly.
That "sauce-y stuff" was a reduction enriched with bone marrow that had taken over twenty hours to make. Art eyed his tray of perfectly plated cold soup and then looked at the little girl's dress again. "Oh, for f—" He caught himself before he swore in front of the kid. "Okay, sit tight, I'll make you something that's clean to eat, okay?"
She smiled wide, showing an adorable gap where her front teeth should be. Okay, she was cute, Art decided. And at least she had manners. "Thank you."
"Anything you don't like?" Kids were picky eaters. That was why he never cooked for kids if he could help it.
"Broccoli, mayonnaise, and French fries," she said, ticking them off on her fingers.
"What kid doesn't like French fries? Okay, I guess the real question is, what do you like?" He opened the walk- in fridge. "Do you like eggs?"
"Yes!"
"I'll make you an omelet. That's not messy, right?"
"I'll be careful." She tugged at her dress again.
"Fine. One omelet…"
"With ham?"
"I have thinly sliced Parma ham for the next appetizer." It had cost several hundred dollars to import.
"Okay!" She paused "Thanks! And I like your tattoos!" she announced before skipping out of the kitchen.
Arthur looked down at the full sleeve of tattoos that had given him his reputation as the bad boy chef du jour. A seven-year-old in a frilly white dress had just told him she liked them. He winced, rolled his sleeves higher, and got to work on her omelet.
"Hello? Is everything okay in here?"
Arthur rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Once this wedding was done, and the owner of the Taste Network—who just happened to be the father of the bride—was impressed enough with everything to hand him the show Arthur had been lobbying for, the first thing he would use his star power to insist on was a lock on his kitchen door.
"Everything is fine," he said, not looking up from the bowl he'd slid two eggs into. A goat cheese and
chive omelet would be perfect for a little girl, right?
"Do you…need more help in here?"
"Definitely not."
"Then why is the next course still sitting there?"
Arthur poured the eggs into the sizzling pan and waited for them to set. "Because I'm apparently a short order cook," he grumbled.
The voice laughed. A musical, lilting sound that he'd been hearing all day today. "You're definitely not that!"
He flipped the pan, then let it set for another thirty seconds before rolling it up with the filling, making sure to tuck the ends up tightly so the little girl could eat it neatly in her dress. He plated it and turned to the intruder. "Take this to the flower girl," he ordered.
The wedding planner had the biggest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen, and they went wide when he held out the plate to her. "You're making…omelets?"
"Special request."
She pulled out the purple planner that was tucked under one arm and scanned something stapled inside. "There's no mention of omelets in the menu," she fretted.
Art rolled his eyes. "Cassie…"
"Cassandra."
"Whatever. Just help me out here?"
She shifted from side to side as she regarded Art with the same baleful look that she’d been giving him all day.
He'd heard of Cassandra Kelly, wedding-planner extraordinaire, before they started working together on this wedding. He'd figured that a woman on the top of her game like she was—in constant demand, always booked—would waltz around like the queen of all she surveyed. He wasn't expecting a tiny, pixie-ish woman with worried eyes and a nervous habit of checking her planner every five seconds. "You carry that thing around like it's your bible."
"It is."
"Then what's that one?" He gestured to the polka-dot planner tucked under her other arm. "A new translation?"
She blushed. "Not that it’s any of your business, but it's where I keep my vision statements."
He tilted his head at her. "Your.. what now?"
"Dreams. Plans for the future. Step-by-step lists on how to achieve them." She hugged the planner tightly to her chest before looking at him with an alarmed expression. "I have planners for everything, which is how I know you're not supposed to be making omelets right now."
"I know it's not on your list there," he teased. "But, it's okay. Shit happens and a little girl is hungry. You going to let a little girl go hungry?"
"That's…" She snatched the plate from him with an exasperated huff and disappeared out the door. Art allowed himself an appreciative glance at her retreating figure before turning back to his neglected appetizers. A cold fruit soup made from locally sourced stone-fruits topped with creme fraiche and a garnish of basil-infused fresh strawberries. Each bowl was to be presented with the strawberries fanned out in the shape of a heart on top. Arthur frowned at the line-up, so absorbed in making sure each serving was uniformly perfect that he didn't hear the door open until it banged against the wall.
"Okay, the omelet has been delivered, and she promptly dumped it on her lap," Cassandra said with a trace of a giggle. "But at least she has something to eat. The little girl won't go hungry." She narrowed her eyes. "Unlike the rest of the guests. You're eight minutes behind schedule." She glanced at a slim watch on her wrist and frowned. "Nine minutes."
"I'd be done sooner if I didn't keep having interruptions." He placed the last strawberry fan. "There. Done. Go call the waiters."
Cassandra leaned over and winced. "What is that? It looks like mud."
The back of his neck heated up. He'd held his temper all day, but this was too much. Now would be the perfect time to blow his stack, maybe upend the entire tray of "muddy" soup onto the floor. Or onto her demure pink blouse. He'd definitely pulled a stunt like that in the past.
But he needed to keep himself in check. There was too much at stake here to let her insults get under his skin. "You think so?"
"It's…not what I was expecting from a chef of your…"
"Caliber?"
She ran her tongue along her bottom teeth. "I was going to say…reputation."
"You were expecting slabs of meat on skewers?"
"Isn't that your brand?"
She had him there. The bad boy who dropped f-bombs while roasting pigs over a bed of coals was the corner, he'd backed himself into a long time ago. He'd been playing the part so long he could barely remember where his persona ended and his actual personality began. This wedding, and what he hoped would come from working it, was supposed to be his ticket out of the trap of his own making.
"My brand is being good with food. Just like yours is being good with…vision statements?"
She rolled her eyes. "My brand is based on getting my clients the exact wedding they dreamed of. And my bride definitely did not hire you to serve her bowls of muddy looking…whatever that is."
"What this is, is amazing." He leaned in and to his surprise, she didn't back away. "Let me ask you something. Have you ever tasted my cooking?"
She narrowed her eyes, then shook her head.
That surprised him. Most women who met him were quick to rave about a meal they’d had at his restaurants or beg him to cook something just for them. This woman not only hadn't eaten his cooking, but she also didn't seem too eager to try it. And even though he'd caught her glancing at his arms a few times today, she hadn't let his looks distract her once.
It was weirdly and annoyingly hot.
He leaned in, close enough to catch the scent of her skin. She was so poised and put together, a perfect little morsel he'd have no trouble devouring in one bite. "So, you’re judging it without tasting it?" he whispered, thinking he wouldn't mind doing some tasting of his own. "Tell me, Cassie. How is that fair?"
"Cassandra," she corrected breathlessly. "Miss Kelly would be even better. And I'm on a low-carb diet, Chef McClellan."
"Mmm, pity." He let his eyes drop to take in her curves. She could do with a carb or two, in his estimation, though that would just be the icing on an already pretty delectable-looking cake. "But today is a cheat day. Because I'm not letting you out of this kitchen until you taste what you call…mud." He tilted the bowl until a little fleck of soup landed on the spoon. "Eat it."
She eyed the spoon, then shook her head.
"All the fruit in this bowl was still on the tree this morning," Arthur said softly, letting the spoon hover a few inches from her mouth. The way she was looking at it had his dick hardening in his pants. He cleared his throat. "Sun ripened and picked by hand. They were so swollen with juice when I selected the finest specimens, that they almost burst in my hands."
A soft moan escaped her lips.
"It's the taste of nature." He let the spoon rest on her lower lip. "Of something sweet and fresh. But also, raw…" Her lips parted. "And real."
She closed her lips around the spoon. Holding his breath, Arthur watched her mouth move, and he imagined how the flavors were dancing on her tongue, how she was moving it around her mouth the better to extract all the wonderful flavor.
Then she swallowed with a moan that made his head swim. "Jesus, that's good." She looked at him with breathless wonder.
And he gave in to temptation. "You've got something…there." He leaned in and brushed his lips against her, licking the trace of fruit that clung to the corner of her mouth. Her chest hitched against his. "And if you liked that…" He let his lips trace a path up her cheek to whisper in her ear. "And you're still hungry later, there's more where that came from."
2
The father of the bride blew his nose loudly into a monogrammed handkerchief. Cassandra grimaced as he folded it back into his pocket and then extended his hand to her, but swallowed down her revulsion and allowed him to shake it. She could always use hand sanitizer later, and this moment was way too important to let slide.
"Mr. Gibbs," she said warmly as he pumped her hand enthusiastically up and down. "I hope everything was to your satisfaction today."
Jerome Gibbs, owner of the Tas
te Network and its numerous spinoff affiliates including Taste Magazine and the Tastemakers line of licensed cookware, grimaced. "Well, I'm not too satisfied with my daughter's choice in men, but that's water under the bridge at this point." He looked around the reception hall, where a few drunken stragglers were still swaying on the fairy-lit dance floor. "But in terms of the event you put together here, Miss Kelly?" He nodded again, a keen glint showing in his still teary eyes. "Yes, I'd say I'm pretty well satisfied indeed."
"Thank you, sir."
She waited, holding her breath as Mr. Gibbs dabbed at his eyes again.
Then he nodded a third time. "In fact, Miss Kelly. I'm hoping we can work together again real soon."
Cassandra let out a rush of breath but managed to keep her composure as she nodded her thanks and made a graceful exit. She managed to hold in her excitement long enough to round the corner into the kitchen, where she had stashed a bottle of champagne in the fridge in the hopes of hearing just what she'd just heard.
Jerome Gibbs wanted to work with her again! Her! This could only mean one thing!
"I did it!" Cassandra squealed the second she was alone. She whooped and threw her hands in the air, skipping in crazy circles before clapping her hands and pressing them to her chest. "I did it." She exhaled happily and then made for the fridge.
"What did you do?"
Her body responded before her brain could catch up. A shiver tingled down her spine and her tongue was suddenly flooded with the memory of the taste of raw, real nature. She swallowed against the flood of saliva in her mouth just to keep from drooling.
