by Vivien Vale
Table of Contents
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Table of Contents
Second Chance Baby Daddy
Also By Crimson Vixens
Dedication
Description
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Baby Bargain
Hard & Fast
Hard Luck
Hard Sell
Hard Bargain
Double Dealing
Taste
Second Chance Baby Daddy
A Billionaire + Virgin Romance
By Vivien Vale
Copyright 2018 by Crimson Vixens
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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Also By Crimson Vixens
Vivien Vale
Mountain Man Baby Daddy
Baby Bargain
Hard Pressed
Hard Bargain
Hard & Fast
Hard Luck
Daphne Dawn
3 Men Of The House
Double Dealing
Double Feature
Natalie Knight
Taste
Painting Her
Caught On Tape
Dedication
To my best friend, you make everything better.
Description
For five years I've been watching her.
And now we finally have our second chance.
This time, there's no escaping me...
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Vivien Vale
Chapter 1
Dylan
My nerve endings feel as if they’re on fucking fire.
All of my muscles are ready to spring into action if need be. It’s taken me over two hours of skimming over the deep snow before I’ve finally found something to shoot for dinner.
It sounds fucking hard, but it really isn’t it. I mean, those folks in the city, in their big fucking houses with the huge mortgages, pay hundreds of dollars a month to go to a gym to get exercise.
Not me.
I go and shoot my own dinner. Up here in the mountains, I’m totally self-sufficient. There’s no supermarket, convenient store—or any other luxury, for that matter.
Nope. There’s just the mountains, my cabin, and me.
It wasn’t easy at first. The whole damn thing was a real culture shock, but now? Fuck, now, I’m used to it. I’m more than used to it—I like it.
I’ve donned the bearskin coat in exchange for the Armani suits, the starched white shirts, and the ties. Reality is, those things may have made me look super hot, but they don’t keep me fucking warm out here. Sure, the women threw themselves at me in those clothes, but newsflash: there are no women in the mountainside.
No beanie, no gloves today—they would just slow me down. As long as my body’s covered and I keep moving, I’m okay.
I close my right eye and focus with my left. It’s perfectly still around me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone pressed the mute button on nature. In the beginning, this sort of silence unnerved me. It was eerie.
Over time, I grew used to it. Now I know I would fucking miss it if I didn’t hear it anymore.
Snow settles on my outstretched bow arm.
Since leaving my cabin, a storm has been brewing. Soft flakes fall, and the ominous dark color of the sky predicts only worse things to come.
The rabbit knows it, too. I can see his nose twitch. Slowly, softly, and carefully, I draw back on my bow. As I do, I’ve got the rabbit in my line of sight.
If my arrow hits its target, I’ll have dinner sorted for at least the next few days.
The unknown in all this is my new arrow. I’ve carved it from a special wood and shaped the tip of it from some scrap metal I found. During practice shoots, it worked fucking perfectly.
These days, I’m nearly self-sufficient in everything. From my mode of transport—my feet—to hunting and growing my own food and tea, I haven’t needed anything else but nature. Minimal impact on the environment, minimal living expenses—it’s a win-win situation.
There’s the tiniest of whoosh sounds as I release the arrow and keep my eye on the target. I see a twitch in the rabbit’s ear before he drops dead where he’s standing. Luckily, the creature never knew what hit it.
I pick him up, take out my arrow, and put it back in the slim leather quiver hanging off my belt. Then I attach the rabbit to the same belt and set off again.
By now, the wind’s increased, and the snow is coming down almost horizontally. Time to head back. It’s unlikely I’ll be lucky enough to find another animal.
Before I turn, though, I see footprints that grab my interest.
No harm in investigating.
With fast, fluid movements, I skim above the snow. Snowshoes really are an awesome invention.
The sweat is pouring down my neck
and back. I’m tempted to strip down to my bare chest, but resist the temptation. I don’t want to end up with frostbite.
Less than five minutes into following the trail, I come upon the poor creature responsible for it.
It’s hairy, it’s massive, and it’s a bear.
Slowly, I approach. Instinct tells me my caution is not necessary. However, this is one time where I don’t listen to instinct.
When I’m standing right over the poor creature, I see there’s no need to worry about an attack. This bear is well and truly dead.
It seems to have been shot. Blood is still trickling out of its wound.
Fuck.
I hate poachers. Only poachers can have inflicted the wound. Judging from the entry point of the bullet, they were not very good shots, either.
I mean, if you come out here to hunt a bear, you should aim to kill. The shot in the stomach meant it had time to get away. Obviously, it died a slow and painful death.
As my eyes take in the size of the creature—at least six hundred pounds or so—I’m also checking out its brown fur. I could do with a new bearskin. Mine’s getting a bit old and worn.
If I take him back to my cabin, I can skin him and prepare the fur for a new bearskin. At least that way, his death would not have been total fucking waste of time.
With my mind made up, I roll the bear onto its side. Then I crouch down and haul him on my back.
With one loud grunt, I throw him over my left shoulder. I can feel my chest muscles bulge and my back muscles contract.
The six-pack I’ve acquired from all the wood I chop comes in handy. Those muscles contract at the same time and make sure I stay fucking upright instead of collapsing flat on my face into the snow with the bear on top of me.
This is better than any exercise a gym can offer. Lifting and carrying over five hundred pounds beats the monotony of squats, bar lifts, and all the other shit the blokes do to impress the chicks.
The way back is a little slower with the weight of my friend, but only a little. As I carry the lifeless body of this powerful yet innocent creature, I can’t help by empathize. I, too, am hunted. Not by poachers, but other forces—powerful, evil forces.
So far, I’ve not been caught. But who knows? One day I might be the bear.
A shiver runs down my spine. I push the morbid thought aside.
When I get back to the cabin, I’m drenched in sweat. I’m so wet I decide to leave the bear in the snow out the back of my hut. The freezing weather will keep it preserved until I’m ready to cut the skin off.
It takes time and skill to de-skin a bear, and right now, I’m not in the right frame of mind. Tomorrow is another day.
Inside my four walls, I strip down to nothing and walk over to the fireplace. My wet clothes are in one hand. As I pass the mirror in the hallway, I pause.
Muscles of steel, hairy chest, and a wild beard stare back at me. I’ve shed any unnecessary pounds and look taut and terrific.
It’s been a while since I’ve looked at myself in the mirror, and I’m surprised by the wildness about me.
If I just glance at myself, I’m reminded of the bear lying outside my cabin.
The logs in the fireplace are still crackling, and I add more wood to it. Once my clothes are laid out, I stand against the flames to dry my hairy chest and back.
The warmth feels good against my naked skin.
For a few minutes, I stand in the room, listening to the fire speak. The wood tells of tales long gone, and I think back to the bear—such a mighty powerful beast and yet so helpless against a gun.
With a sigh, I make my way downstairs to my secret undercover bunker. It’s that time of the day where I undertake my surveillance. Along the way, I grab some pants and a drink.
Once I’m down there, I tend to sit and contemplate, sometimes for hours.
It’s the time of day where I make sure nothing happens or has happened to my Emma.
Emma.
Her name rolls of my tongue like chocolate. She’s as delicious as chocolate, I imagine.
I can only imagine because I never fucked her in my old life.
I sigh and sit down.
The monitors show nothing, other than her empty apartment. No doubt she’s gone out with her socialite friends to party and drink in some club. She might not get home till late hours, and I won’t get to see her.
Of course, it doesn’t fucking matter if I get to see her or not. I mean, I’m not watching her to perv on her. Actually, I’m not even watching her—I’m keeping an eye on her to make sure nothing bad happens to her.
I vowed to keep her safe. I vowed to protect her. The only way I know to protect her is to keep her under 24/7 surveillance.
Of course, there’s only enough that I can actually monitor. I can’t monitor where she goes, who she drinks with, or with whom she goes home.
I can only look at her apartment.
Better than nothing, I tell myself and then take a sip of my tea.
My eyes are glued to the monitors. Still nothing.
What the fuck was she up to tonight? Had she scored at some bar and is not coming home? If so, it would be a long lonely night.
I sigh and stare at the screens. The picture stays the same. I almost will her to come home so I get to see her.
The longer I sit here, the more morose I become. I can’t believe this is what my life has become—to sit and watch the woman I loved in secret from a long way away. Why had I been so fucking blind and did not see what I had when it was right front of my fucking eyes?
It was only when I lost her that I realized how much she meant to me.
I sigh.
Human nature. I put it down to human nature. Just like we always think the grass is greener on the other side, we often don’t appreciate what we’ve got until it’s too fucking late.
If I had my time over, I would make a move sooner—what the fuck am I talking about? I never made a move on Emma while we were working together.
If I had my time over, I would make a move on her, period.
Movement catches my attention. The door opens, and Emma walks through it. I hold my breath, waiting to see if a bloke is following.
When she slams the door shut with her right foot, I breathe a sigh of relief. My behavior is totally fucking childish, I know.
She should be happy. She should be with someone. I should not be sitting in the fucking mountains wanting her to be a fucking nun.
And maybe if she found herself a nice man, she might not be in any danger anymore.
But those thoughts are too painful, and so I push them away.
Emma looks beat. She obviously has been partying or some such shit with her socialite friends.
I feel myself turn green with envy. I hate her friends. My feelings are totally irrational, and yet I cannot stop them.
It takes her less than five minutes to collapse into bed.
In my mind, I give her a kiss good night.
I’m about to walk upstairs when something catches my attention. At first, I think I’m simply not able to let go and shake my head. But then I can see shadows glide across one of the monitors.
The shadowy figures disappear out of sight and then reappear. I furrow my brow. This does not look good. My fingers clench into fists, and I feel like punching the monitor.
Mesmerized, I stare at what’s unfolding on the screen in front of me.
My brain is not processing the information fast enough.
There are strange men in Emma’s apartment.
Fuel.
Matches.
Flames.
Holy fucking shit. Those dudes just set fire to Emma’s apartment.
I can feel my blood boil. They promised, and they reneged on their promise. Someone’s going to have to pay.
Chapter 2
Emma
It's exactly six o'clock on a Friday night, and barely anyone’s getting off the train at Columbus Circle.
Anyone besides me, that is.
&nbs
p; It's eerily quiet when I get above ground, too. I hear a horse clip-clopping in the distance—probably a carriage going into Central Park.
I look down Broadway and see the lights of Times Square. I feel like I'm about to pass out on the sidewalk. That's how I always feel after work, especially on Fridays when I have to push everybody to get all the shit done that they should've finished earlier in the week.
It kind of makes sense that there's no one around. Everybody wants to live downtown somewhere these days—or in Brooklyn. That's what a good ninety percent of our clients want anyway.
The way I see it, now that I'm so high up in the company hierarchy, I might as well live uptown—even if it's not as trendy.
It doesn’t fucking matter that none of my friends or co-workers live around here.
I think Dylan had a place here once, around Lincoln Center or something. Maybe I should ask him about that—if he ever reappears.
His vanishing act five years ago left a lot of questions unanswered.
Five years. And I'm still fucking thinking about it.
It's hard not to, when his talents and his instincts helped make the company what it is today. Even though I’m at a competing company now, his absence still stings with every new headache at work, and there's no shortage of that.
Without someone like Dylan around to keep things on an even keel, things can get out of hand.
I stop outside the lobby of my building to check my phone. I want to see if there are any messages or any of those weird missed calls while I was on the subway.
Right now, the line between pranks, random weirdness, and the past coming back to haunt me is getting too blurry for comfort.
The lock screen on my phone is blank. No messages, no voicemails, no missed calls. That’s always a welcome sight.
Magically, my phone buzzes as soon I start walking again. I make a growling noise when I see that the caller ID is my own number. It’s probably a telemarketer using a caller ID spoofer to hide their real number. My finger finds End Call and presses it firmly.
“Good evening, Miss Clayton.”
I think I actually jump at the sound of my concierge’s voice.
“Fred, you scared me half to death!” I laugh, trying to temper my overreaction.
