His Secret Baby
Vanessa Waltz
Contents
His Secret Baby (A Bad Boy Romance)
Untitled
Copyright
1. Christine
2. Thane
3. Christine
4. Christine
5. Thane
6. Christine
7. Thane
8. Christine
9. Thane
10. Christine
11. Thane
12. Christine
13. Thane
14. Christine
Bad Boy’s Bride
Untitled
1. Silas
2. Fawn
3. Silas
4. Silas
5. Fawn
6. Silas
7. Fawn
8. Silas
9. Fawn
10. Silas
11. Fawn
12. Silas
13. Fawn
Married to the Bad Boy
1. Tony
2. Elena
3. Elena
4. Tony
5. Elena
About the Author
His Secret Baby (A Bad Boy Romance)
Published by Olive Tree Publishing LLC
Copyright © 2016 Vanessa Waltz
Edited by JoSelle Vanderhooft
Cover Credits
Kevin McGrath
Allan Spiers
My husband doesn’t know about our baby...
Two years ago I met Thane. I knew he was bad news, but his devilish smile pulled me into his lap and his honeyed tongue talked me into his bed. He was pure sin, good for one night of fun, and nothing else. For one night, I forgot about his dangerous side.
He was all risk, and sleeping with him was a high. But then I got pregnant. He might have sweet-talked his way into my bed, but I wasn't going to raise my son with him.
I ran away. He never knew about the baby.
Now he's found us and he wants his family back. A bigger family... another baby.
I never wanted to be part of his life. He's taken us to a dangerous place. I’m scared for myself, scared for my child.
But when he wraps his arms around me, I always manage to forget the danger...
I stole her from her life, and she stole our baby...
She's beautiful, got a mouth full of sass, and she owes me a favor. So I've been cashing in to make her mine. Every week I think I'm done with her, but she pulls me back in for another night of hot, wet action. When she finally pays off her debt, she'll be giving me more than just her body.
My playboy lifestyle has a time limit. I want more. Marriage. Kids. It’s time for me to settle down. Christine's perfect. She looks like an angel but she's a devil in bed. It’s a match made in Heaven.
She thought I was joking when I dragged her to the altar. I said my vows and slipped my ring on her finger. I thought she’d make an honest man out of me.
I was wrong. She ran off without a word. Two years of my life, gone. The baby I never knew, taken from me.
But I'm not a man who ever gives up. I'll put my ring back on her finger. I'll make her mine again. And damn it, I'll give her another baby.
This book is available for purchase at Amazon.com. If you found this book for free or from another retailer other than Amazon, it means the author was not compensated for it.
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1
Christine
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
I always pictured my wedding outdoors. A sweet backdrop, maybe a fading sunset over a vineyard in Napa. White dress. My husband, waiting for me with a dimpled smile. My maid-of-honor, a faceless pretty woman, accepting my bouquet of wildflowers. A burst of applause when we kiss.
The vision bursts as Thane drags me into a darkened chapel. Candles bleeding wax sit in hollowed out holes in the rocky wall. Well, there’s an altar, a priest, and rows of guests, but no flowers. No dress.
My heart pounds against my chest as strong arms keep me trapped against his hard body. Suddenly, he turns me around, holding both wrists behind my back with one hand.
A triumphant smirk staggers over his handsome face, which is somehow more beautiful and terrifying than the man I imagined I would marry. Dark chestnut hair, thick against the base of his neck. How many times did I tangle my fingers in his damp hair? Those countless nights he took me out, his eyes devouring me as we ate dinner or attended one of the syndicate’s parties. I thought it was just about fucking. Thane and his inked body dominating mine, hands wrapped around my waist as he thrust into me, breaking my headboard, and fucking a million orgasms into my body. Wasn’t it always about the mind-blowing sex?
“I thought you just wanted—”
“Sex?”
My spine tingles as he takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look into his hooded eyes.
“I love fucking you, Christine, but you were always more than that. You’re going to be my wife. The mother of my children. I’m going to have it all, starting tonight.”
His mouth burns against my startled lips, the kiss almost sweet. I bite down hard, and he hisses at the sting. Thane’s playful eyes dance at me as he grabs my hip and forces me backward. Then he spins me around and my back knocks against his chest. My knees buckle as he presses down on my shoulders, and they hit the hard floor. I’m a foot away from the priest, who looks at me with indifference.
“Have you chosen a bride, brother Thane?”
“No—!”
He smothers my mouth with his palm. “I have.”
“Make her rise.”
2
Thane
The almost broken knob of the door twists and almost falls in my hand as I open the door to a dive bar packed with flannel-wearing jackasses. It’s a Friday night, and the air is humming with the energy of dozens of bearded hipsters drinking their craft beer with their equally filthy girlfriends. I scan the crowd of drunken people, my lip curling in disgust. The floor sticks to my feet as I make a beeline for the bar, which has a ridiculous LED display under the glass. Jesus. It makes me think about what I might’ve been like if it weren’t for the syndicate. Maybe I’d be here, partying with these assholes. A pint of beer in one hand, and a girl in another.
I try to imagine it. Appreciate it. I can’t. It’s a fucking dump.
Luckily, I’m only here to collect. Fuck staying for a drink. The sloppy vibe of this place makes me feel like I’ll catch a disease if I touch anything. I don’t know why my father sent me here, but if I had to guess it was probably an attempt to humble me. Dad wants the hot air out of my head, so he sends me on this assignment.
Good luck.
I’ve got this city by the balls. Nothing talks louder than old money and power, and I’ve got both. Men hand over their girlfriends when they find out that I’m a Blackthorn. Everywhere I go, I’ve got beautiful women begging me to suck my cock—begging—in the hopes that I’ll pull some strings to help them get somewhere in their career or that I’ll take them on as a mistress. All that pussy would go to any man’s head. And why not take advantage of it while I can? I’m a single guy, but I won’t be for much longer. Eventually, I’m going to have to get fucking married. Wife. Kids. It’s been written in my future since I was born. I’ve got to pass on the family name.
I should have a wife and kids by now, but I’m having too much fun getting my dick wet. Something tells me that the fun will end this year. I just broke up with Melissa, the longest fling I’ve ever had by far, and it’s been a week and a half since I’ve gotten laid. I’m getting restless. Somewhere out there is a girl with gorgeous and my name on her tight ass, but I’m tired of the hookups. I want something stea
dy, not just a girl I fuck on weekends. There should be no reason why I can’t have both. Where the hell are all the girls in this bar, anyway? I’ve got to find a wife soon, but hell if I’m going to find her in this fucking place.
I brush past someone. He turns around, irritated, his mouth half-open in some rude retort that he swallows the moment he notices my suit and blood red shirt. He mutters to the girl next to him, and they put their drinks down to leave the bar. Terrified eyes dart at me as I walk toward the bar, and people part like I’m Moses in the Red Sea. Mike and Troy stand at my side like boulders, the unnecessary muscle that my father thinks I need.
More people streak out of the bar, and the bartender watches them go, frowning. His frown deepens as I approach him. He tries to hide behind the dirty glass he keeps wiping with the same filthy dishrag. Seats at the bar are packed, but I just have to tap on the shoulder of one of the men sitting there. He looks around, sees three Black Dragons, and damn near bolts out of his seat.
The bartender slams the glass he’s been wiping for a full minute on the counter and pours another customer a drink. He’s still distracted, trying to avoid my gaze. I slam my fist on the counter, and the glass tips to its side, spilling its contents all over the glowing counter.
“Goddamn it!”
“Good evening.”
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“I wanted your attention.”
I raise my fist and motion to the two silent men hovering behind me, and then move close to the bar, staring down the stringy, thin bartender, who backs into his bottles of alcohol. They rattle against each other. Mike and Troy have that effect on people. I’d rather not beat this guy down. For one thing, there’s no honor in beating the shit out of a man who looks like he’d keel over with one solid smack, and two, I’m just not in the mood tonight.
“Where’s our money?”
The bartender wraps his arms around himself. “I—uh—I don’t have it.”
I stand up to my full height, and the lying bastard flinches under my shadow. “Rob.”
“I don’t have it!”
Like hell you don’t.
But I decide to humor him anyway. Christ, I must be in a weird mood.
“Why is that?”
“The business hasn’t been doing so well.”
I look around the packed bar. “Looks like it’s doing all right to me.”
“L—look, I’m a man of my word. I’ll have it here next week. I always have my payments on time.”
Rob practically wets himself as he babbles on and on about how he’s good for it, how the yuppies moving into the Mission are a different clientele, and he can’t afford the rent, and damn those fucking craft breweries springing up everywhere, and the whining goes on and on until I feel like I’m being sucked into a black vortex. I’m a Blackthorn, and I have to spend my Friday night listening to this guy’s problems instead of looking for a girl.
“…And people keep tagging my windows with spray paint. Cleaning it takes all day.”
My fist slams into the bar counter for a second time, and the frayed bartender jumps a mile.
“I didn’t come here to listen to you bitch. Don’t make me beat you until your legs stop working. Just give me the fucking money, and you can go back to selling overpriced piss.”
He mumbles something, turning a bright shade of red. My patience snaps.
“What?”
“I said, I don’t have the money. Please…don’t hurt me. I’m having a really bad month, and my landlord increased the rent again…”
My eyes glaze over as he rambles on and on, his voice rising in pitch to an almost comical degree. This isn’t worth my fucking time. It’s just seven thousand dollars. I piss on seven thousand dollars. We make that in an hour. This is fucking stupid.
I focus on a spot over his left shoulder as a white blur moves behind him. The blur slides into focus: a woman’s pale face. It takes only a few seconds to assess her—She’s fucking hot. Gorgeous, really, with the way her almost white blonde hair frames her slightly round face, which is frozen in apprehension. Her wide, blue eyes look right at me. They’re expressive, even from this distance. Haunting. They even look slightly red, as if she’s been crying. It startles me for a moment—this image of beauty—and the not quite dry tears on her cheeks. Crying women don’t exactly do it for me, but there’s something about her that makes me want to pull her over my lap and make it all better. She turns away and Goddamn, she has the body to match that face. My skin gets hot just looking at her. Is her shirt wet? Jesus. I have to meet this girl.
“I’ll take her.”
The bartender breaks off in the middle of counting all the important bills he has for this month on his fingers to look at me. “Wait, what?”
“I’ll take her as partial payment.”
Then without taking my eyes off her, I beckon with a quick flip of my finger. A slight frown forms over her forehead. She’ll come. They always do.
“What?” He looks in the direction of my finger. “Christine? I can’t pawn off my employees—”
Christine. I roll her name on my tongue as she flips her hair over her shoulder, the frown deepening. She walks around the bar, her blonde head bobbing in and out of view. Christine. The name hits me, and when she approaches my stomach clenches as if I’ve been socked in the gut. She’s that beautiful. Yeah, I’m Thane Blackthorn and women kneel on command to suck my cock, but this one is something else.
She stops in front of me crosses her arms over her chest, which is covered by a flimsy, wet tank-top that stretches over a pair of C-cup tits. I can see her nipples, poking through the fabric. I follow her curves down to the cutoff shorts she’s wearing. They’re not quite short enough to view a hint of her ass, but I’m sure it’s just as perky as her tits. I’m seized with an image of my hands, moving up the backs of her legs and sliding under her panties to grope her ass. Blood rushes to my cock as I glance at her chest again until she clears her throat. She looks at me with such a ballsy stare that I can’t help but grin at her.
I’m not a robot, sweetheart. My cock has feelings for you.
“Can I help you, sir?”
I’m two seconds away from saying yes, you can help me, but then I recognize her voice. Suddenly a panorama of images flies through my mind, too fast to slow down.
The park.
The girl.
It’s her.
“Do you need anything?”
The chances of me bumping into her in this city have got to be one in a million, and I don’t believe in coincidences. This happened for a reason, but I can’t quite piece it together yet. My heart races as I try to figure it out in my head. How the hell did she grow up to be so beautiful? I take a quick glance at her hands, and I don’t see any rings. No rings, but probably has a boyfriend. A girl like her doesn’t stay single for very long, but I don’t care if she’s attached.
“I’m Thane.”
She reaches out with a tentative hand to grasp mine. I curl my fingers around her delicate hand, the rough calluses betraying her soft appearance, but it just makes me wonder about what her life was like. And it makes me want her more, too.
It’s been fifteen years, and I don’t believe in accidents.
Christine, meet your future husband.
3
Christine
The bass pounds my head like a hangover as I squeeze between two flannel-wearing hipsters to pick up cash from the table. I scoop the damp dollar bills and count them. Twenty-two plus a couple extra bills. Just shy of ten percent.
Ten percent. That’s pretty fucking bad.
I shut my eyes, making a fist that crushes the money. Breathe. Think of the beach. Clear blue water. White sand, hot under my feet.
I lift a sodden rag from one of the red plastic buckets. The hot water burns my skin, but I ignore it, squeezing. Then I move my arm like a windshield wiper, giving the table a quick wipe-down before throwing the filthy rag back into the bucket.
T
he Nail has a reputation for cheap drinks and affordable, greasy diner-food, making it an attractive location for all the people taking the train into the city to party. Like most places in San Francisco, it’s as narrow as a shoebox. “Rustic” tables in varying stages of shabbiness are scattered throughout the bar, but the beaten-down decor contrasts sharply with the wide strip of blue LED lights on the countertop: a relic from an overenthusiastic previous owner. A chalkboard above the bar lists the happy hour specials and the new beers on tap. A greasy film covers the tables, bar, and I even feel it in my hair sometimes, as if there are literal fat particles drifting through the place. I watch the soap bubbles burst in the swirl of dirty water, feeling a black mass at the center of my chest. Thoughts of my recent ex drift in my head, and then I imagine him getting wasted at bars in the Financial District. He’s probably sweet-talking some girl into going home with him at his brand-new, vastly superior apartment.
A golf-ball sized lump in my throat refuses to go down.
Bland, he said. You’re too bland.
Five years, and his parting words to me might as well have been a one-star review on a restaurant with lackluster food. Funnily enough, I can’t muster the energy to care too much, but paying the rent on my own is going to be a bitch. That’s what’s causing the ball of hurt in my throat—that he’d actually put me in this horrible position. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m not sad I lost him. What was the point of spending five years with Brad? Love, I guess.
Shouldn’t I be chasing him down right now and begging him to come back? I promise to be less bland, baby!
I bite my lip to keep myself from laughing.
It wasn’t love, and you wasted your time with him.
The smile vanishes from my face. I’m twenty-eight, most of my friends are married with kids, or at the very least engaged, and I’m waiting tables at The Nail on a Friday night.
His Secret Baby (A Bad Boy Romance) Page 1
