The Baby Bargain

by Layla Valentine

  “Well,” I faltered. “I was born and raised in San Bravado. We—my parents and I—were here before the tech boom. I love the city, so I stuck it out here, even though it wasn’t the same place anymore. I went to the local college—”

  “San Bravado State?”

  “Yeah. Majored in business communications, got recruited by…well, you, I guess. Had a baby,” I added.

  “Right, Levi. And your…husband? Or, perhaps, boyfriend?” he asked carefully. Had he not seen my bare ring finger, or was he just being polite?

  “Skipped town. Left a trail of debt collectors behind him who are still after me to this day.”

  Ashton’s face grew stormy, and I thought, That’s the temper people talk about. Only, in this case, the anger didn’t scare me; it made me feel vindicated.

  “What a jackass,” Ashton snarled. “You and Levi deserve better.”

  “It’s okay. We’re managing all right, just the two of us.” Anxious to move on to easier topics, I asked, “And what about your family? Are they based here, or…?”

  “My family isn’t really in the picture,” he said shortly. Then, obviously dodging the question, he rung a tasseled bell that hung in the corner of the room, and explained, “I’m calling the server for a drink.”

  A man in a white collared shirt arrived moments later, and took our cocktail orders: Ashton got a Martini (of course he did), and I a whiskey sour. The waiter departed, leaving us in silence.

  Ashton soon broke the pause, asking me about what San Bravado was like before the boom, what my plans for Levi were, and on and on. I would almost say he interrogated me, but it was much more polite—and genuinely interested—than that. He hung on my every word as if it were a diamond dripping from my lips that he could catch and pocket; he seemed to be storing them all away for a rainy day.

  Our drinks arrived, and Ashton and I sipped them as we ordered a dazzling dinner, filled with the choicest meats and vegetables. It had been years—if ever—since I’d walked into a restaurant and not worried about the menu prices. Luckily, I couldn’t fret over them here, because the menu didn’t even show prices. Total rich-people move.

  As we luxuriated in our crisp drinks, I decided to take charge of the conversation.

  “Enough about me,” I said. “We’ve talked all about me. There isn’t much left you don’t know.”

  “I have more questions. What books do you like, where do you go in the city for some peace, and—”

  I laughed. “I’m sure you could ask me all those things, but I need to know something about you.”

  With a little sigh, he asked, “What’s there to know?”

  “Are you kidding?” My mouth hung open incredulously. “You’re one of the youngest self-made billionaires in the world, and you don’t think there’s anything to know about you?”

  His face fell, and he replied quietly, “Oh, was all this just about my money?”

  All this? What was “all this?” Wasn’t all this supposed to just be a professional thank-you?

  In reality, I replied, “Of course not, Ashton.”

  His eyes locked on mine and read the truth enfolded there.

  “Okay, fine,” he conceded. “But you’ll probably have read most of my answers in magazines.”

  “Who said I was reading articles about you?”

  I had the satisfaction of watching a blush creep over the tips of his ears.

  Interrupting what might have been his continuation on the theme, I continued, “I’ll just have to ask you questions the magazines wouldn’t.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well…okay, what kind of sleeper are you?”

  He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Pardon?”

  It was my turn to blush as I realized how my words could have been misconstrued.

  “Um, no, not that,” I replied hastily, “No, I meant, like, what position do you sleep in? Like fetal, on your stomach, or—”

  His smirk calmed my anxiety, allowing a gust of hot arousal to rush in and take its place.

  “Well,” he started, “When I sleep—alone, that is—I sleep fetal.”

  My heart palpitated, but I did my best to hide the pulsating rhythms.

  I returned, “So do I.” Casting around for a further topic, I continued, “Boxers or briefs?”

  Oh my God, oh my God, what the hell did I just say?!

  I raced to cut in, “I’m sorry, so sorry. That was—oof, wildly inappropriate. It was just the first thing that came to my mind, and, wow, I need to get some kind of filter on my mouth because—”

  In a deep voice, he replied, “Briefs. Tight, black briefs, custom made for me.”

  Jesus. All of the blood immediately rushed from my head to…lower regions. I was accidentally giving him one opening after another, and he was seizing each with glee. Damnit, I was into him—really, truly into him. Or, was that what the feeling was? I couldn’t even trust my instincts, as it had been so long since I’d encountered romance or sexual excitement.

  Thankfully, the staff chose that moment to deliver our food.

  As they came in, I muttered under my breath, “Good timing.”

  The upward curl in Ashton’s lips told me he’d heard that, too. God, did this guy miss anything? Couldn’t I just embarrass the heck out of myself without him knowing?

  The meal was…I’m inclined to say “majestic”, but I don’t think that would sit well in a food magazine, and this was definitely straight out of a food magazine. So let’s just say it was a delicious feast.

  Ashton had, without my consultation, essentially ordered the entire menu. The waiters scrambled to find space on the table, as it quickly became crowded with T-bone steaks, ahi tuna poke, a small bowl of caviar, handmade pasta with fresh pesto, and other delights. My mouth watered—was that because of the food, or my dining companion?

  In their attempts to fit all of the food on one table, the waiters were forced to remove the candles that occupied about one-fifth of the area.

  “Will this amount of light be sufficient?” the head waiter asked, waving his hand around the newly dimmed area.

  “Yes, perfect,” Ashton replied.

  The staff exited, and we were left to devour the meal.

  “This looks amazing!” I cooed. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  He winked and smiled, and those white teeth pierced my soul, etching their mark. Oh, boy. I could’ve handled myself if he was just stunningly hot, or just incredibly intelligent…but both, combined into one man? It was downright lethal.

  I ravaged the meal, much to Ashton’s delight. As I was gulping down another helping of perfectly sautéed garlic Brussels sprouts, he said, “I like a girl who can eat.”

  I corrected him, “I’m a woman, but more importantly, I’m a mother. Normally, during meal times, I’m helping my son eat, so I barely get to touch my food.”

  His brows furrowed, and his eyes went vacant, as if lost in thought.

  “What?” I questioned, nervous that I’d offended him with my blatant talk.

  “No, nothing. I’m just wondering if I could fix that, if there’s some product that would help mothers…” he trailed off.

  The media often covered Ashton as some kind of scheming billionaire—as if he’d made his cash by wheeling and dealing—but from company lore, I knew that his background as an inventor was of equal importance to him. That is, he’d founded the company, sure, but it was only because he’d created a handful of products that he thought needed to be in the baby-tech market. I guess the public had a hard time reconciling the daffiness of an inventor with the domineering hotness that was Ashton Swann.

  “I like how your mind works,” I said casually.

  His eyes gleamed as he replied, “Really?”

  “Yeah, of course. You’re, um…” I blushed, realizing how much like a schoolgirl with a silly crush I sounded. “You’re very smart,” I finished.

  “Thanks,” he laughed. “I don’t think I quite know your mind yet, but I like what
I can see of it, thus far.”

  I appreciated his words, and saw them to be as touching as I believe he’d intended them to be.

  Satiated at last, we reclined in our chairs, and Ashton summoned the waiters.

  Turning to me, he asked, “Would you like a doggie bag?”

  “What?” I questioned, incredulous at his terminology.

  “A to-go bag, so you can take some of this home.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Was that really appropriate at a place like Demi?

  As if in answer to my silent consideration, Ashton added, “It’s not particularly customary here, but all these patrons love extravagant waste, so they just throw all their food out after two bites.” He paused. “I want you to be able to enjoy this meal again tomorrow, and to think…”

  Of him? Was that what he was trying to say?

  “To think of how excellent it was,” he finished, obviously moving away from his original intention.

  “Okay,” I replied. “Doggie bag sounds great.”

  As Ashton signaled this to the waiter, I receded into my thoughts about the mysterious man with whom I’d just shared a rather intimate meal.

  Why was he so frightened of saying what he actually felt? Was it all those years spent hounded by the media that had cautioned him away emotional openness? I couldn’t blame him, obviously, and had no idea what it was like to be Ashton Swann, but I was nervous about his reticence. He was keeping his cards close to his chest, making it hard for me to peek at them.

  And I was discovering, to my own shock, that I indeed wanted to know more about him. I wanted to know why he’d avoided discussion of his family earlier, and what had driven him to make Swann Innovations the biggest competitor in the market, and…well, if he was interested in me.

  The waiter returned with my doggie bag and held it out to me as if offended by the thing’s very existence. I took it without reflecting on his disapproval; if a billionaire ordered food boxed up, he shouldn’t be questioning it.

  They deposited the check on the table, and Ashton slid a black credit card into the folds of the leather envelope without even looking at the price.

  As a woman struggling with cash flow, I couldn’t help but ask, “You sure you don’t want to…look at that?”

  He scoffed. “Oh, Harley. Please.”

  A man who paid for dinner, no questions asked, without examining the dent it put in his wallet? Major turn-on.

  With a thanks to the maître d’, Ashton grabbed my to-go bag and escorted me out of the door. We made our way to the valet, where they’d been sure to leave his car nearby, so that he wouldn’t have to wait for too long as they fetched it.

  The sports car was pulled around with the utmost care, as if the man inside were repeatedly crossing himself and calling on Jesus to ensure that he didn’t crash it. Having successfully parked the vehicle, he got out, sweat nearly visible on his brow.

  Ashton grinned, clearly accustomed to the situation, and passed the poor valet a hundred-dollar tip. Oh, God, that was even sexier than not looking at the bill.

  Ashton deposited my bag in the trunk before closing my door after I slid into the car, then smoothly getting in himself. I couldn’t help but marvel at how confident he seemed in such a litany of daunting environments. Was I just looking for things to admire about him at this point, or did they merely keep presenting themselves? Either way, I felt giddy, and more than a little foolish.

  After that dinner, I was forced to ask myself: did I want something more than a friendly meal with Ashton Swann?

  My mind provided a ready answer:

  Yes.

  Chapter 7

  Ashton

  My hands clenched the wheel and my pulse quickened as I looked at the woman sitting next to me.

  Harley Phillips was breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin was drenched in a sunny tan, and her hair flowed down her back in beachy-blond waves. She was tall and supple, with perfect, sensual curves. She looked like a mermaid who was somehow able to walk on land; it didn’t hurt that her blue eyes were like the stormy waters of the ocean.

  So, yes, I was physically attracted to her, but the pull ran deeper than that. She was clever, plain-spoken, and clearly a hard worker. I’d had time to pull some company reports earlier in the day and examine what her supervisors said of her work ethic in annual write-ups—all were glowing to a nearly fantastical degree, consistently saying that she was the first to arrive and last to leave.

  How she managed that, on top of being a single mom, I couldn’t even begin to fathom. I suspected, with some embarrassment, that she worked harder than I did.

  Perhaps the most shocking part was that I felt comfortable with her. As we sat side by side in the car, I realized that her presence wasn’t raising the hairs on my skin, or causing me to instinctively lean away. I’m not socially awkward—far from it—but in my dating life, everyone seemed to have ulterior motives. While I may have been ready for a serious relationship, the women in my life hadn’t exactly provided the opportunity.

  Not that I blamed them, per se; most of my other loaded friends or acquaintances had trophy wives and husbands. There was a low-lying implication that I ought to have one as well.

  But I wanted a woman who liked me for me—that meant the billionaire investor, and the quiet, creative inventor. Could my extreme duality ever fit within a single relationship? Up until now, I’d imagined it was impossible, but Harley was making me reassess some things.

  This newfound comfort was what gave me the confidence to say, “I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot,” she replied breezily.

  “Do you think I’m a dick?”

  The question hung in the air, and I worried that I’d asked too much of her. After all, I was technically her boss. Either she told the truth and risked getting in trouble, or lied and was dinged for being dishonest.

  I hastened to reassure her, “I’m not asking as your boss, but as your…”

  “Friend?” she supplied.

  “Yes,” I nodded, smiling. “Your friend.”

  “Why do you ask?” she inquired.

  “Well,” I began, “the babies from the other day. Not Levi, of course, but the ones who came before him. I suppose you didn’t see it, but you’ll have to take my word that they all instantly cried when I held them.”

  I broke off, suddenly aware of just how silly I sounded. A grown man, worrying about the opinions of one-year-olds. Did this make me seem pathetic? Suddenly, I didn’t care. I wanted to hear a real, honest answer from Harley’s lips.

  “I just,” I continued, “I want to know if that’s how everyone perceives me, as some kind of—I don’t know—coldhearted ogre. Am I…am I hated? I know I can be a tough man to work with, but the thought of being despised…I mean, that’s not what I wanted. I just wanted to make baby products, and create a successful business, and improve the world in the little way that I could.”

  I came to an abrupt stop, feverishly aware that I was rambling.

  Harley was dead silent, and I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “You don’t have to answer,” I said quietly, beginning to re-erect the walls I’d so carefully constructed around myself to protect my ego from harm. “It’s a loaded question, I know.”

  The silence was deafening.

  Just when I thought that she was about to change the subject to something harmless and casual, thus firmly defining the boundaries between us, she replied, “The man I spent the evening with isn’t somebody that people could hate.”

  She turned to me, her eyes boring into mine as she continued, “You were kind, considerate, warm. Charming—though, of course, you’re always charming. What I’m saying is…I think I saw the person you really are. Would you say that’s true?”

  I hesitated, then whispered, “Yes, Harley. I believe you did.”

  “In that case,” she went on, “why don’t people that side of you? It’s so…so—God, this sounds cheesy—but it’s pure, and good. You have this passiona
te but sincere interest in the world around you, which is more than I can say for most men, or most people, even. I wonder if maybe you’re just afraid to show people how much you care, if you’re worried that the depth of your emotions would scare them off.”

  My breath hitched in my throat. Jesus. She had no idea how close to the mark she’d hit. Her every word nailed itself into my heart.

  Thank goodness the car was stopped at a red light, or the pounding in my chest might have caused me to veer out of the lane. I was totally powerless under her steady observation, and I wasn’t accustomed to ceding control.

  I was about to reply, but that’s when I saw the gun pressed to my window.

  Chapter 8

  Ashton

  “Get out of the car, now!” a voice roared.

  A high-pitched ringing noise filled my ears, replacing the silence of only moments ago.

  “Get the fuck out!” the voice repeated.

  I saw a form materialize next to me—not just the gun, but the black-clad figure holding it. There was one on Harley’s side, too, though I couldn’t even begin to make out the shape in the darkness.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God,” she screamed, “I have a son; please don’t hurt me.”

  “Get out of the car right now,” the voice returned, unmoved by Harley’s words.

  “Ashton, please,” she begged. “Just get out and do what they say. I have to get back to Levi. Please, please; I can’t leave him alone—”

  Suddenly, the world was clear for me, as if the gun to my head had honed my senses.

  Quietly, and with an eerie calm, I instructed her, “Buckle your seatbelt.”

  “What—?!” she began.

  “Just do as I say.”

  “It’s already buckled! Can you focus on the guns—”

  Having been assured that she was safely fastened by the belt, I tightened my hands on the wheel and slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

  Harley’s screams filled the car as we shot off, hitting sixty miles an hour in two seconds. We careened back and forth on the road as I frantically wove the car—which had all the tameness of a wild lion—around other vehicles. Tensing every muscle in my body, I clung on for dear life, the sounds of Harley’s shrieks piercing my eardrums.