Expecting the Billionaire's Baby

by Andrea Laurence

  Who was Cecelia Morgan anyway?

  She wiped her damp cheek with the back of her hand and reached for her coffee cup to give her something to focus on instead of the emotions raging just beneath the surface. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  Deacon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the knees of his pajama pants. “That’s the beauty of being in charge of your own life and not trying to live up to anybody else’s standards. You can do whatever you want to do. If I had just sat back and accepted the life that everyone expected of me, we wouldn’t be sitting on the balcony of my five-star hotel in France. I wanted to be more, so I made myself more. You can be whoever you want to be, Cecelia, and if that means putting aside the mean-girl persona you’ve had all these years, and being the girl I used to know, you can do that, too.”

  “Can I?” she asked. “I’m not entirely sure that girl knew who she was, either. I was so easily manipulated at that age. I mean, all those plans we made, all those dreams we had for the future...that was important to me and I threw it all away. For what? Because my parents threatened to cut me off and throw me out of the house if I didn’t.”

  Deacon’s head turned sharply toward her. “What?”

  Cecelia winced. “You didn’t know that?”

  His expression softened. “I suppose I knew they were ultimately behind your change of heart, but I thought you just wanted to please them as you always did.”

  “I did want to please them, but not about this. I loved you, Deacon. I didn’t want to break up with you. It broke my heart to do it, but I felt like I didn’t have any choice. They were my parents. The only people in the world who had wanted me when no one else did. I couldn’t bear for them to turn their backs on me.”

  “I wanted you.”

  Cecelia looked into Deacon’s serious green eyes and realized she had made a monumental mistake that day all those years ago. Yes, she had a booming business and he had been successful on his own, but what could they have built together? They’d never know.

  “I was a fool,” she admitted. “I don’t want to make the same mistake again. I want to make the right choice for my life this time.”

  Cecelia sipped her coffee and tried to think of who she wanted to be. Not who her parents wanted her to be. Not who Chip expected her to be. The answer came to her faster than she anticipated. She wanted to be the woman she was when she was with Deacon. When she was with him she felt strong and brave and beautiful. She never felt like she wasn’t good enough. That was how she wanted to feel: loved.

  But could she feel that way without him? Their time together had been exciting and romantic, but she had no doubt there was a time limit. Deacon had no interest in staying in Royal. He didn’t like the town and he didn’t like the people, and for a good reason. When The Bellamy was opened and running, he would return here to France, and she didn’t blame him. This may very well be the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. She would be eager to return, as well.

  She might feel like a superhero when she was with him, but once she was alone, could she be her own kryptonite?

  * * *

  “Dinner was wonderful,” Cecelia said.

  Deacon took her hand and they strolled along la Croisette together. The sun had already set, leaving the sky a golden color that was quickly being overtaken by the inky purple of early evening. The lights from the shops and restaurants along the walkway lighted their path and the crests of the ocean waves beyond them.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. There’s no such thing as bad food in France. They wouldn’t allow it.”

  Cecelia laughed and Deacon found himself trying to memorize the sound. He hadn’t heard her laughter nearly enough when they were in Royal. He missed it. In their carefree younger days, she’d laughed freely and often. He wanted her to laugh more even if he wasn’t around to hear it. That was part of the reason he’d brought her here—to get her away from the drama of home in the hopes he might catch a fleeting glimpse of the girl he’d once loved.

  Not that he didn’t appreciate the woman she’d become. The older, wiser, sexier Cecelia certainly had its benefits. Looking at her now, he could hardly keep his hands to himself. She was wearing a cream lace fitted sheath dress. It plunged deep, highlighting her ample cleavage, and clung to every womanly curve she’d developed while they were apart. Falling for Cecelia was the last thing on his mind when he arrived in Royal, but it was virtually impossible for him to keep his distance from her when she looked like that.

  “Can we walk in the water?” she asked, surprising him.

  “If you want to.”

  They both slipped out of their shoes, and Deacon rolled up his suit pants. He hadn’t thought she would want to walk along the shore and let the sand ruin her new pedicure. Yet with her crystal embellished stilettos in her free hand, she tugged him off the stone path toward the water.

  The cold water that washed over them was a shocking contrast to the warm sand on his bare feet. He expected Cecelia to bolt the moment the chill hit her, but instead, her eyes got big with excitement and she laughed again.

  “It’s a little chilly,” he said.

  “It’s April. It feels good, though. I can’t remember the last time I put my toes in the sand and walked through the surf. Too long.”

  Deacon felt momentarily sheepish. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it, either, and it was right outside his window the majority of the year.

  “I understand why you’d rather be here than Royal,” she said after they walked a good bit down the shoreline. “It’s beautiful. And so different. I don’t know that I want to go back, either.” She chuckled and shook her head. “I will, but I don’t want to.”

  Deacon felt the sudden urge to ask her why she couldn’t stay. “Why go back?” he asked. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Well, for one thing, I haven’t finished your hotel yet. It opens in just a week and a half, if you’ll recall. Plus, my company is in Royal. My employees. My friends and family.”

  “You could have all that here,” he offered. “And me, too.” Deacon surprised himself with the words, but he couldn’t stop them from coming out. What would it be like to have her here with him all the time? Away from her parents’ sphere of influence and the society nonsense she’d fallen prey to. He wanted to know.

  Cecelia stopped walking, pulling him to a stop beside her. “You’re not going to stay in Royal, are you?”

  He shook his head. “You know I’m not.”

  Cecelia’s gaze drifted into the distance. “I know. I guess a part of me was just hoping.”

  Deacon’s heart sped in his chest. He hadn’t given much thought to this fling with Cecelia lasting beyond the grand opening. He just couldn’t disappoint himself that way. But it sounded like she was open to the possibility. “Hoping what?” he pressed.

  “Hoping that you’d change your mind and stay awhile.”

  Deacon sighed. There were a lot of things he would do for her, but stay in Royal? He couldn’t even imagine it. He didn’t know why she’d ask him to, either. Didn’t she realize how everyone treated him? How miserable it was for him? She didn’t seem very happy there, either. “Royal, Texas, and I parted ways a long time ago.”

  Cecelia looked at him. “We parted ways, too, and yet here we are. Anything can happen.”

  He didn’t want to argue about this and ruin their night. They were together now, and that was the most important thing. “You’re right,” he conceded. “Anything can happen. We’ll see what the future brings.”

  Taking her hand into his, they started back down the beach. They were only a hundred yards or so from his hotel when he saw a child chasing after a dog on the beach. The little boy must’ve dropped the leash, and the large, wooly mutt seemed quite pleased with his newfound f
reedom.

  In fact, the dog was heading right toward them. Before Deacon could react, the dog made a beeline for Cecelia. It jumped up, placing two dirty paw prints on her chest and knocking her off balance. Her hand slipped from his as she stumbled back and fell into the waves that were rushing up around their feet. She yelled as she tried—and failed—to find her footing in the icy water, soaking her dress and hair.

  Deacon was in a panic and so was the little boy. They both lunged to pull the dog off her as it enthusiastically licked her face. It wasn’t until the dog was yanked away that he realized Cecelia’s shrieks were actually laughter. He stood, stunned for a moment by her reaction. Then he offered her his hand to lift her up out of the water, but she didn’t take it. She was laughing too hard to care.

  It was the damnedest thing he’d ever seen. The people back in Royal wouldn’t believe it if Maverick circulated a picture of it. The perfect and poised Cecelia Morgan lying in the ocean fully clothed and covered in mud. The cream lace dress was absolutely ruined with dirty paw prints rubbed down the front. Her makeup was smeared across her skin, and her blond hair hung in damp tendrils around her face. She was a mess. But she didn’t seem to care. And she couldn’t have been more beautiful.

  “Je m’excuse, mademoiselle,” the little boy said as he fought with the dog that weighed a good ten pounds more than he did. “Mauvais chien!” he chastised the pup, who finally sat down looking smug about the whole thing.

  “Cecelia, are you okay?” Deacon asked. He wasn’t sure what to do.

  She struggled to catch her breath, then nodded. Her face was flushed bright red beneath the smears of her foundation and mascara. “I’m fine.” She reached up for Deacon, and when he took her hand, she tugged hard, catching him off guard and jerking him down into the water with her.

  “What the—” he complained as he pushed up from the water, soaked, but the joyful expression on her face stopped him. He rolled up to a seated position beside her. “Was that really necessary?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. Deacon instantly forgot about the water, the dog, the cost of his ruined suit... All that mattered was the taste of Cecelia on his lips and the press of her body against his. She was uninhibited and free in his arms, kissing him with the same abandon she had that first night after her breakup with Chip. There was no desperation this time, however. Just excitement and need.

  He couldn’t help but respond to it. This side of Cecelia was one he thought he might never see again. It was the side that had made out with him in the back of his truck, letting him get her hair and makeup all disheveled. It was the side that had sprayed him with the hose while he was detailing one of his restored cars and led to them getting covered in mud and grass as they wrestled on his front lawn.

  Deacon had missed this Cecelia. Perfectly imperfect. Dirty. Joyful. Hot as hell. He realized that they weren’t alone in the back of his truck, however. The little French boy and his dog were still standing there. He forced himself to pull away, looking over the mess she’d become.

  The dress had been tight before, but wet, it was clingy and damn near see-through. He could see the hardened peaks of her nipples pressing through the fabric. He would have to give her his coat to cover her when they walked home.

  “Américains fous,” the little boy said with a dismayed shake of his head. He tugged on the dog’s leash and headed back in the direction he’d come from.

  “What did he say?” Cecelia asked.

  “He called us crazy Americans.” Deacon wiped the water from his face and slicked back his hair. “I have to say I agree.”

  Cecelia giggled into her hand and looked down at her dress. Her fingers traced over some of the sand and mud embedded in the delicate lace and silk. “My mother just bought me this dress for Christmas. It was the first time I’d worn it. Oh, well.”

  “I’ll buy you ten new dresses,” he said. Deacon pushed himself up out of the water and helped her up, too. He slipped out of his suit coat, wringing out the water before placing it over her shoulders.

  “I don’t want more dresses,” she said, pressing her body to his seductively with the little boy long gone. A wicked glint lit her eyes as her lips curled into a deceptively sweet smile. “I just want you. Right now.”

  Deacon swallowed hard. “I think this walk along the beach is over, don’t you?”

  Nine

  “Where are we going?” Cecelia asked.

  Deacon smiled from the driver’s seat of his silver Renault Laguna. In France he drove a French car. It seemed appropriate. They were only about ten minutes outside the city, and she was already keen to know everything. “It’s a surprise.”

  Cecelia pouted. “Isn’t it enough of a surprise to bring me to France on a whim in the first place?”

  Perhaps. But last night, he’d gotten a sneak peek at the Cecelia he’d fallen in love with. There, lying in the surf, covered in muddy paw prints and soaked to the bone with seawater, he’d seen a glimpse of her. The radiant smile, the flushed cheeks, the weight of the world lifted from her shoulders in that moment... He wanted to capture that feeling in a bottle for her so she could keep it forever and pull it out whenever she needed to.

  It also helped him realize he was on the right track with her. Getting her away from Royal was the best thing he could’ve done. It wasn’t enough, though. Now Deacon wanted to get her even farther from the city, farther from people, to see what she could be like if she could truly let loose. There was nothing like the fields of Provence for that.

  It was the perfect day for a picnic. The skies were clear and a brilliant shade of blue. It was a warm spring day, with a light breeze that would keep them from getting overheated in the sun. It was the kind of day that beckoned him outside, and the chance to make love to Cecelia in a field of wildflowers under this same sky was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

  The hotel’s kitchen had put together a picnic basket for them, and he’d hustled her into the car without a word. Cecelia hadn’t seen him put the basket and blanket in the trunk, so she was stewing in her seat, wondering what they were up to. He liked torturing her just a little bit. She was always in charge of everything at her company. Today, he wanted her to just let him take care of her and enjoy herself for once.

  Of course, if he’d told her they were going to Grasse, she wouldn’t know what that was. It was a tiny, historic French town surrounded by lavender fields that fueled their local perfumeries. It was too early for the lavender to bloom—that wouldn’t happen until late summer—but there would still be fields of grasses and wildflowers for them to sit in and enjoy with a lovely bottle of Provençal rosé.

  He found a tiny gravel road that turned off into a field about a mile before they reached Grasse. He followed it, finding the perfect picnic spot beneath an old, weathered tree. He turned off the car and smiled at Cecelia’s puzzled expression.

  “Where are we?”

  Deacon got out of the car and walked around to let her out. “Provence. It’s the perfect afternoon for a picnic in the French countryside with a lovely lady such as yourself.”

  Cecelia smiled and took the hand he offered to climb out of the Renault. She was looking so beautiful today. Her long blond hair was loose in waves around her shoulders. It was never like that in Texas. She always kept it up in a bun or twist of some kind that was all business, no pleasure. He liked it down, where he could run his fingers through the golden silk of it.

  She was also wearing a breezy sundress with a sweater that tugged just over her shoulders. The dress had a floral pattern of yellows and greens that pulled out the mossy tones in her eyes. It clung to her figure in a seductive but not overtly sexual way that made him want to slip the sweater off her shoulders and kiss the skin as he revealed it, inch by inch.

  “It’s beautiful h
ere,” she said as she tilted her face to the sun and let the breeze flutter her hair.

  Deacon shut the door and opened the trunk. He handed her a blanket and pulled out the picnic basket. “Let’s go over by the tree,” he suggested.

  They spread the blanket out and settled down onto it together. “In the summertime,” he explained, “these fields will be overflowing with purple lavender. The scent is heavenly.”

  She looked around them, presumably trying to picture what it would look like in only a few months. “I can see why you choose to live here, Deacon. I mean, who wouldn’t want to live in France if they had the chance? It’s beautiful.”

  “The scenery is nice,” he admitted, “but it can’t hold a candle to your beauty. Texas seems to have the market on that, unfortunately.”

  Cecelia blushed and wrinkled her nose. She shook her head, dismissing his compliment. “You’re sweet, but I don’t believe a word of it. Not compared to something like this.” She looked away from him to admire the landscape and avoid his gaze.

  There were days when Deacon wished he could throttle her parents. She was one of the most perfect creatures he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, and she didn’t believe him because the Morgans were always pushing her to be better. That was impossible in his eyes. “You don’t believe me? Why not? Am I prone to hollow compliments?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just because,” she began, looking down at her hands instead of staring him in the eye, “this is one of the most beautiful places in the world. People dream their whole lives of visiting a place like this one day. I’m just a pretty girl.”

  “You’re more than just a pretty girl, Cecelia.” Deacon leaned in and dipped a finger beneath her chin to tilt her face up to his. He wanted to tell her how smart and talented and amazing she was, but he could tell by the hard glint in her eye that she wouldn’t believe him. Could she not tell by the way he responded to her touch? How he looked at her like she was the most delectable pastry in the window of Ladurée?