by Nicola Marsh
Praise for Nicola Marsh
‘This lovers-reunited tale is awash in passion,
sensuality and plenty of sparks. The terrific characters
immediately capture your attention, and
from there the pages go flying by.’
—RT Book Reviews on
Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?
‘Sterling characters, an exotic setting …
and crackling sexual tension make for a great read.
The realistically paced romance is also refreshing.’
—RT Book Reviews on
A Trip with the Tycoon
‘Romantic, engrossing and realistic,
The Billionaire’s Baby shines with pathos, charm and
heart, and readers looking for a story they can lose
themselves in shall certainly not be disappointed.’
—pinkheartsocietyreviews.blogspot.com on
The Billionaire’s Baby
About the Author
NICOLA MARSH has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary whose content could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves in her dream job.
Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.
Also by Nicola Marsh
Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex
Three Times a Bridesmaid.
A Trip with the Tycoon
Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss
Did you know these are also available as eBooks?
Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Sex, Gossip and
Rock & Roll
Nicola Marsh
www.millsandboon.co.uk
This one’s for the lovely Natalie Anderson,
who was my rock throughout the writing of this book.
Thanks, Nat, for the cyber chats, hugs
and general championing.
We’ll catch up for that coffee one day, promise!
CHAPTER ONE
CHARLI loathed babysitting.
Not that she had anything against kids, per se, but having her boss’s grandson tag along on Storm Varth’s comeback tour sucked.
Big-time.
As if minding the wild rock star wasn’t bad enough, she had to worry about Luca Petrelli watching her every move.
Not good.
Stabbing at the elevator button, she glanced around the lobby of Melbourne’s Crown Towers, the familiar muted golds and warm browns exuding class and sophistication.
She practically lived in this hotel with the number of international musos and rock stars that stayed here. And where Landry Records stars stayed, she’d be there, catering to their every whim.
It was what she did best: pamper visiting rock royalty, arrange VIP services, guarantee every second of every itinerary ran like clockwork.
She thrived on it; the buzz, the rush, the pressure of ensuring the plans she put into place ran smoothly.
Nothing fazed her. Not any more.
Stepping into the elevator, she glanced at her watch and grimaced. Luca Petrelli had better be ready and waiting when she knocked on his door, or else.
She’d co-ordinated their departure and arrival time between here and Ballarat to the last second. Storm’s tour bus had just taken off and while the surly rock star had demanded he not be approached until morning, she wanted to ensure his arrival at the first stop of his tour of Victoria went off without a hitch.
She had things to do and no one, not even some notorious slack-arse playboy, would slow her down.
As the elevator doors soundlessly slid open, she smoothed down her favourite aubergine skirt, adjusted her jacket and stepped out, a quick glance at the numbers on the wall sending her right.
She marched up the long corridor, her impatience growing with every step.
She’d do anything for Hector Landry, CEO of Australia’s biggest recording label, but when her boss and mentor had sprung the surprise of Luca’s unwelcome presence on her a few hours ago, she’d almost balked.
Okay, so she’d been a little harsh in labelling his presence babysitting some idle playboy. Apparently the infamous Luca Petrelli had dragged himself away from the French Riviera and the parties in Rio de Janeiro as a favour to Hector, who’d just fired his top financier and needed a quickie replacement on this tour.
Enter one recalcitrant playboy who flaunted his charms from one end of the globe to another. The fact he used his public profile to raise money for charities only served to raise her suspicions.
If the guy hadn’t been near his grandfather in the past ten years, what the hell was he doing here now?
She stopped outside the suite and knocked, quickly relaxing her face into neutral. This was a job, just like any other she’d done for Hector and she had no right to second-guess her boss or the rationale behind his flaky grandson’s visit.
However, as the door swung open and she caught her first glimpse of Luca Petrelli, she knew this was no ordinary job.
‘You look disappointed,’ he drawled, holding the door open with one hand, leaning against the jamb with the other, naked from the waist up.
She didn’t dare glance down to assess the rest of the situation, though as a jumble of emotions tumbled through Charli disappointment wasn’t one of them.
She’d seen pictures of Luca in magazines, taking time to politely glance at the odd snapshot Hector would point out to her. The pride in Hector’s voice had always grated. How could he be proud of a layabout grandson who never visited let alone acknowledged he existed?
So while she’d glanced at those pictures she’d never really looked at them, had the impression of a tallish guy with too-long hair, too much stubble and too many bimbos.
The reality was far different.
He’d cut his hair, dark caramel curls spiking in all directions, he’d shaved and there wasn’t a busty Botoxed blonde in sight.
‘Disappointed?’ she managed to mutter when he cocked an eyebrow, her silence and none-too-subtle stares earning her a lazy grin. A lazy, sexy grin that made her whimper inside.
Hell.
‘That I’m not a rock star.’
‘No chance of confusing you for a rock star.’
Her gaze reluctantly dropped to his chest and she struggled not to gasp. Broad, bronze, beautifully sculpted, the guy was nothing like the emaciated, pale stars she routinely dealt with.
The rock stars she managed were nocturnal creatures, at ease in the darkness of smoky clubs and dark stages, chain-smoking to ease nerves, or worse.
No way could Luca Petrelli in all his six-four bronzeness be mistaken for a washed-out rocker.
Leaning against the door frame, he smiled, and she could’ve sworn the whimper turned to a roar.
‘Why’s that? Don’t I look the part?’
Despite every self-preservation mechanism telling her not to look down, her gaze travelled from his chest lower and she exhaled in relief when she spied a towel. A towel loosely knotted in front. Where she might have glimpsed movement …
Heat surged to her cheeks, scorching a few choice parts in her body along the way, and she focused on his face.
Bad move.
The body was bad enough. Combined with the slashed cheekbones, cut jaw and dark blue eyes the colour of Melbourne’s night sky, the guy should be branded illegal.
‘Problem?’
Quelling the urge to turn and run, she frowned. ‘You’re not dressed.’
‘You noticed.’
Her heart leaped at the wicked glint in his eyes and she sla
pped it down.
‘Because if the towel’s a problem, I could lose it—’
‘I’ll give you five minutes.’
‘Or what?’
As he leaned forward a tantalising blend of expensive toiletries and freshly showered male washed over her, undermining her anger.
The guy was a player. He flirted for a living. So why was she tempted to broach the short distance between them, bury her nose in the crook of his neck and inhale deeply?
‘Just do it,’ she said, annoyed by the slightest quiver in her voice. ‘We have to hit the road.’
‘Your loss.’
He shrugged and turned away as she gaped at his insolence. Not that it stopped her watching him stride across the room, the thick white bath sheet draped provocatively low on his hips, clinging to his butt with every tempting step.
The man was a menace.
Whatever she’d expected, this wasn’t it.
Luca Petrelli in the flesh was a lot more disarming, a lot more charming, than she’d expected. And the fact she hadn’t had a date in ages went a long way to explaining why her hormones were shimmying along behind him, tugging at that damn towel.
He paused at the bathroom door and she quickly glanced up. Not quick enough if his smug grin was any indication.
‘You’ve misjudged me.’
‘How’s that?’
‘You don’t think I have what it takes to be a rock star?’ He pointed to the towel and smirked. ‘You should see my tat.’
In her imagination, her traitorous hormones couldn’t rip the towel off him quick enough.
In reality, she turned her back on his chuckles and prayed for immunity against rogue playboy charmers.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCA whistled as he zipped his oldest jeans and shrugged into a black cashmere pullover, grinning at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
By his reckoning, he had another three minutes before the fiery blonde pacing his suite barged in here and dragged him out.
She’d given him five minutes to get ready.
He’d deliberately taken ten.
Whatever he’d expected from Pop’s PA, Charli Chambers wasn’t it.
Sure, he’d been away awhile—give or take ten years—but Pop had always had sedate, subservient employees, women who wore bland grey trouser suits and conservative blouses. Stereotypical drones who wouldn’t say boo to Australia’s top musical entrepreneur.
Charli Chambers was far from stereotypical.
Her knee-length purple skirt hugged a butt made to be grabbed by a guy’s hand, her fitted jacket outlined a hand-span waist and the deep V of her crisp white shirt highlighted a very nice cleavage indeed.
As for those long stockingless legs … shapely calves, trim ankles, manicured silver nails peeping from open-toe designer sandals. Yep, he was a leg man and proud of it.
But it wasn’t her designer outfit or sexy shoes that surprised him as much as her lousy attitude. If her dismissive tone wasn’t bad enough, she’d looked at him as if he’d stolen every one of her favourite CDs.
She didn’t trust him.
He knew the look well: it was the same one he’d learned to hide from an early age, when he quickly learned you couldn’t trust anyone, even so-called family.
The thing was, Charli shouldn’t be looking at him with mistrust; it should be the other way around. He’d Googled Pop’s protégé and what he’d found raised hackles of distrust.
He’d expected to find the odd mention of her in an occasional newspaper article linked to Pop. What he’d discovered was a plethora of pictures: Charli hanging off Pop’s arm at some charity shindig, Charli dining with Pop at countless fund-raising balls, Charli accompanying Pop on his overseas jaunts.
Where Pop went, she shadowed and it immediately set his alarm bells ringing. He knew what it was like, having people fawn over him just because he had money, and if Charli thought she could take advantage of Pop.
His grin faded and he absent-mindedly rubbed his stomach at the sudden gripe. He might not be close to Pop but he owed him and if there was one thing he’d learned it was to pay his dues, and if that included protecting Pop from money-grabbers in designer PA clothing, so be it.
Pushing off the bathroom sink, he flung open the door.
He’d given Pop a fortnight. Two weeks to manage Landry Records’ finances of some over-the-hill rock star’s tour before he headed back to London.
Before he did, he had every intention of sussing out Miss Snooty Britches.
Charli glanced at the gold Tag Heuer Hector had given her on her twenty-first for the fifth time in as many minutes, cursed under her breath and glared at the bathroom door, ready to kick it down.
She’d thought it might take a pampered playboy longer than the average guy to get ready but he’d been in there for ten freaking minutes! What was he doing? Plucking individual nose hairs?
Having Luca Petrelli tag along on this tour had been bad enough. Then he’d opened the door wearing that damn towel and her misgivings had shot into the stratosphere.
The guy was cocky, brash and annoying.
Don’t forget hot, an annoying little voice in her head whispered, and she gritted her teeth.
As if she needed reminding. The image of that broad, tanned chest was imprinted on her brain like the passwords to all Hector’s accounts.
And that was what had her mad as hell. His disregard for punctuality stung but the fact her skin prickled with heat every time she closed her eyes and saw his naked torso burned into her retinas? Now that seriously peed her off.
Clenching her fists, she marched towards the bathroom, raised a hand to thump on the door at the exact second it opened and she stumbled headlong into the chest she’d been fantasising about less than five seconds ago.
‘Falling for me already?’
Luca’s deep voice murmured in her ear but that wasn’t what had her knees wobbling. Uh-uh, his hands grasping her wrists, pressing her palms against his chest, a chest radiating enough heat to warm the entire suite, took care of that.
‘I’m flattered, but shouldn’t we go through the motions first? A date? Dinner?’
‘You wish.’
She pushed against his chest and he released her. She should’ve been glad but as she reluctantly dragged her gaze upwards to meet his, saw the spark of heat there, his regret matched hers.
The corners of his lips quirked into a decadent smile that must’ve slain females the world over—and had, if the glossies were to be believed.
‘You have no idea what I wish for, Goldi.’
‘It’s Charli,’ she snapped, angry at herself for being this close to him, for enjoying his banter, for her damn knees still wobbling courtesy of that smile. ‘Where’d you get Goldi from?’
His patronising pat on the cheek had her fist clenching to slug him.
‘It’s an abbreviation.’
Confused, she glared at him. ‘Short for what?’
‘Gold-digger.’
Stupefied, her jaw dropped as he slung a Vuitton overnight bag over his shoulder and strutted out of the door.
Charli caught up with Luca at the lift, grabbing his bag so he had no option but to stop.
‘What did you just call me?’
He’d lost the smile, the spark in his eyes replaced by suspicion.
‘You heard me.’
Taking a deep breath, she mentally counted to five, a technique Hector had taught her when he’d first rescued her from the streets. Back then, she’d fly into a rage at the slightest provocation and, while she’d come a long way, having hotshot Luca Petrelli stare at her as if she’d pilfered his Rolex grated.
‘You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m not here out of choice. I’m just doing my job.’
Confusion creased his brow for a moment before he laughed.
‘You think I think you’re after my money?’
Now it was her turn to be confused. ‘Isn’t that what you meant?’
‘Nice try to deflect, Goldi,
shame it didn’t work.’
‘Stop calling me that!’
‘If the Louboutin fits.’
He dropped his gaze to her shoes, and she didn’t know what unsettled her more. The fact he recognised the artistic brilliance of her favourite shoe designer or the way his gaze slowly travelled upwards the entire length of her leg, lingering along the way.
‘If I’m not after your money, who …?’ She trailed off, a nasty thought sliding insidiously into her brain.
He didn’t speak, merely raised an eyebrow, as if taunting her to drop the act.
She’d drop something all right. Right onto his big fat mistaken head.
Beyond indignant she straightened, took two steps forwards until they were toe to toe, and eyeballed him.
‘Not that I owe you anything, let alone an explanation, but Hector is my boss. I’m his executive assistant. We’re friends and I’d never do anything to take advantage of that.
So you can take your stupid misconceptions and stick them.’
Surprise widened his eyes before he blinked, studying her as if she were a clue to the missing link.
‘So it’s in your job description to accompany him to balls? Charity functions? That kind of thing? ‘
To her mortification she blushed, an annoying heat that flushed her cheeks and notched up her temper.
‘My job description is none of your business.’
Charli had been called many things in her life, had shrugged off the nasty labels of spending part of her life on the streets. She’d heard the gossip about her relationship with Hector many times and had given it the attention drivel like that deserved: absolutely none.
Over the years she’d developed a thick skin from necessity. Nothing or no one could hurt her.
So why the hell was she fuming now, so furious she could strangle Luca, leave him slumped in the hallway and not look back?
‘Fair call.’
His finger hovered over the elevator button, his smile as infuriating as the implication behind his accusation a few moments ago. ‘You coming?’
‘Not ‘til you apologise for being so vile.’
