Billionaire Baby Daddies: A five-book anthology

by Connelly, Clare

  “By your own admission, I hurt you,” he said. “And you wanted to hurt me back. Isn’t that why you hid my child?”

  “I didn’t –,”

  “Didn’t you relish knowing this to be sweet revenge?”

  “No!” She shook her head from side to side, so that her dark hair glistened around her beautiful face. But he didn’t see beauty in her face, he didn’t see truth in her eyes. He saw the face of a manipulative, lying woman who had kept the most valuable thing away from Xavier. He saw a figure of hatred.

  “You thought to have your revenge and now you will have a lifetime living with mine,” and he dropped his mouth to hers to punctuate the threat, sucking her gasp of surprise into his throat and drowning it in the sensual, angry heat of his kiss.

  Her body sagged against the wall, so that it was only the strength of his kiss that held her in place, the taste of his desire washing over her body as his last words swam around and around her brain.

  Now you will have a lifetime living with mine.

  Revenge? Whatever did he mean?

  His kiss was too intense, too much, for her to think clearly. She was done thinking. Her body, so long starved of a man’s touch, reacted to his as it had the night before.

  Spontaneous combustion.

  Her fingers pushed at his shirt, lifting it to expose the tanned, taut flesh of his stomach to her touch. She ran her fingers over it and moaned when his hands did the same, separating her shirt from her jeans and lifting it, breaking their kiss only to rip it from her head.

  Sanity threatened to burst through the fog of desire – she needed to put an end to this! She hated him! – but then his mouth was dropping to her breasts, teasing her nipples through the fine lace of her bra. He fingered one, plucking it until it was erect and hard and she was moaning over and over with the heat of need and his lips engulfed the other, his tongue flicking it so that her nerve endings were screaming out for release. He reached behind her and unclipped the bra with an ease born of experience, and then his stubbled jaw was dragging across her flesh. He took the other breast into his mouth, each draw of his lips making her arch her back and cry out his name.

  She was no longer Elizabeth Jones. She was simply a quivering mess of nerve endings and sensations; she was lost to reality – simply a piece of flotsam. He lifted her easily, carrying her to the bed, where he deposited her without ceremony, dropping her into the middle and staring down at her, pinning her with his gaze as he stripped his clothes from his body with a sensual economy of movements and efficiency. Then, he returned to her, and all Ellie could do was whimper as he stripped her jeans and silk underpants from her legs, leaving her naked in the middle of the bed.

  It was too much; it was wrong.

  Now you will have to live with mine.

  Revenge.

  There was no revenge here. Only white-hot passion and it was burning them both. He brought his powerful body with that broadly muscles chest and tapered waist over hers, hair-roughened thighs pushing her own silky smooth legs apart. She whimpered when he kissed her again, his tongue pushing into her mouth and the weight of his head pinning her own head to the softness of the mattress.

  He dominated her in every way. Somewhere along the way he’d taken the precaution of sliding a condom over his large arousal, and he nudged the tip of himself at the entrance to her womanhood, just enough to make her reach for him, to cry out for more.

  “You want me?” He demanded, pushing up on one elbow and regarding her with cheeks that were slashed with colour. His eyes glittered with something more than sexual heat. There was such ice in there too. Rage and coldness, side by side.

  But she pushed that thought aside; how could there be anything but desire in this moment? Besides, she did want him. She wanted him with all that she was. She nodded, a movement of acceptance and desire.

  “Then say it. Tell me you want me.”

  “I want you,” she moaned, reaching around behind his rear and cupping him, trying to pull him towards her. But he held himself where he was, with just the tip of his arousal hitched into her entry, so much promise, and she was so impatient.

  “Say please.”

  Her eyes flew wide and a sharp blade of reality began to perforate the fog of her need, but damn it, it wasn’t enough. Her body was on fire and it was an almost intoxicating feeling, a sense of loss that would overcome her if she didn’t find a way free.

  “Beg for me, Ellie.”

  She was shivering against the bed, trembling all over from the passion he could light within her blood. But the words he was asking were heavy in her mouth, almost as though she knew that by speaking them she would be driving a wedge between them forever.

  “Why?” She asked, her face unknowingly young and innocent.

  “Because you have a lot of penance to pay,” he said simply. “And I will enjoy extracting it.”

  She was quivering all over, her legs unsteady, her body trembling. He moved to straighten, and everything inside of her rejected that! Rejected the distance! She needed to feel him and to remember that when they were together, things made more sense. It was clearer – it would be clearer to both of them.

  “Beg if you want me,” he demanded coldly, so if it weren’t for the visual clues of his state of arousal she would have thought him completely unaffected by any of this.

  Her body ached, a throb of desire low in her abdomen and she knew only he could satiate it.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” She asked again.

  “Because I want to punish you,” he said honestly. “But don’t worry, querida. You’ll enjoy your punishment, I assure you.”

  But at what cost? Her pride?

  Damn it. “Please,” the word fell from her lips and her eyes, when they met his, were swirling with the pain of betrayal.

  “Beg for me,” he said again, not moving, his face like granite.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, desire flashing in her but falling, too, so that she was sobering.

  “Let’s see if this helps you remember,” he grunted, dropping his mouth to her womanhood, his tongue finding the cluster of nerve endings that were bunched at her opening and he flicked her with his tongue so she was arching her back and driving her fingers through his hair, and the words spilled from her mouth as he brought her to climax and then withdrew, softening his kiss, moving to her inner-thigh, while the waves of pleasure receded and then he stoked them anew, each time bringing her to the precipice of explosion without allowing her to topple over.

  He did it again and again and her eyes had stars in them when finally she understood what they both needed.

  “Please, Xavier, please, make love to me,” she said, over and over, until he pushed up on his elbows, bringing his hard arousal between her legs.

  “This is not making love,” he said, the words hoarse with his own needs. “There is no love between us, Elizabeth, and there never can be. It is just sex. Don’t forget that.” And he thrust into her, splintering her world apart with one powerful movement, so that her fingers dug into his shoulders and she held on for dear life as the world obliterated before her, leaving them in free-fall. He didn’t ease up on her while she exploded, though. Wave after wave of pleasure racked her body and he continued to layer new ones over the top, tormenting her with the rhythm of his possession while his mouth teased her breast and tasted her sweet, soft flesh.

  “Keep begging,” he demanded, but he hardly needed to speak. She was saying his name over and over again, imploring him to keep going, not to stop, begging him to take her.

  And he was taking her – body and soul – but to the very fires of hell, she suspected.

  She crested over the ridge of pleasure for a third time, her body heavy with the sensations that were coursing through her, and then he came with her, his hands pinning hers to the side of the bed as he moved his hips again and again, pumping all of himself into her and convulsing with his own powerful relief. His cry was a guttural noise of release and i
t ripped through the room, and into Ellie’s heart.

  Even as their breathing was still rushed and their hearts still pounding, she woke up, as if from a dream. She saw their passion as it had been – she saw the way he had dominated and controlled her, demeaned her for his own pleasure, and shame and anger and hatred were swirling through her.

  She pushed at his chest but he was already moving, straightening, standing from the bed and disposing of the condom in one smooth movement. He turned his back on her and the gasp that fell from her lips was involuntary, overtaking every other concern for the briefest flash of moments.

  His back! A back she had kissed and worshipped four years earlier, a back that had once been smooth like just-melted caramel, was scarred and ridged all over.

  He heard the involuntary sound and turned to her, catching the shock on her face. His expression was grim. “The accident.” He reached for his pants, pulling them on, then his shirt, without speaking. As though it didn’t matter. But the physical reminder of what he’d endured made her gut twist and for the briefest moment, she wished she could have stayed with him then, that she’d been able to tell him four years ago that no physical damage could change how she loved him.

  There is no love here, and never will be.

  Why did those words have the power to turn her heart ice-cold?

  “You will move to my house tomorrow,” he said stiffly. “And join me in my bed each night. And each night you will beg for me, just like you did now.”

  It was a beating of a drum that she wanted to ignore; a calling of a future that would be both a torment and a sick kind of delight. Because even now, humiliated by his power over her, desire was rekindling in her blood. As he buttoned his shirt into place she thought only of unbuttoning it.

  Foolish, weak-minded woman! She cursed herself. How could she be so stupid?

  “Why?” She whispered, but she knew the answer.

  “Because I like to hear you beg,” he said darkly. “And I need to hear you repent.”

  “You’re a bastard,” she said through chattering teeth.

  “Yes,” he agreed with a sharp dip of his head, his features all hard-planes in his arrogant face. “And it’s best you don’t forget that. Because I am a bastard, and I will make your life a living hell if you don’t do everything I ask of you. Is that clear, Elizabeth Jones?”

  Seven

  XAVIER KEPT IMAGINING HER as she’d been the night before, her beautiful body naked, her face incandescent with need, her voice shrill and desperate. Her pride in tatters. And his gut churned even as he told himself he liked seeing her like that. Even as he knew he could become addicted to the power he wielded over her.

  She deserved it. She deserved to face the consequences of her actions night after night, to never be allowed to forget that she had made a choice to part father from son. Was his bond with Joshua not as much worth fighting for as her own tether to their child? Did she think biology discriminated between genders?

  He had missed Joshua’s laughs and scrapes, his growth and milestones. He wouldn’t miss any more and, when Joshua was older, if he asked Xavier why they’d been separated, Xavier would be honest. He would lay the blame for that all at Elizabeth’s door, right where it belonged.

  He would never forgive her for this.

  So, he’d cheated. He’d married someone else. That gave her no right to keep Joshua from him!

  None whatsoever.

  He shot another glance at his wrist watch then stared at the room that would be Joshua’s. For the moment it was a fairly innocuous bedroom, with cream walls and a single bed, luxury fittings as all Salbatore houses boasted. This home was no different – though it was far from a home. Xavier often preferred to stay in hotels in London, if he were only in the city for a night or two. He couldn’t have said why; perhaps because the house was so cold?

  London was cold; too cold for him. Too cold for any Salbatore.

  When he’d looked down at his son the night before, every cell of his Spanish blood had burned within his veins, reminding him that he belonged to another land, another place, that he was a proud Spaniard and always would be. And he would raise a Spaniard as his son, not an English boy.

  They would remove to his Madrid house once the school term was completed. He could start anew from there.

  And Elizabeth? Unbidden, images of her against the backdrop of his sprawling Madrid mansion came to him. Her small, delicate body naked, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, the ends playing with her taut nipples, the view of his infinity pool in the background.

  Yes, she’d look good in Madrid, but the location would change nothing about what he wanted from her. She was simply a means to an end – the easiest way to lay claim to his son. Besides, he wasn’t heartless enough to believe he should simply wrench their boy away from his mother. He had no interest in punishing Joshua for the mother’s sins. Punishing Elizabeth would suffice.

  A muscle jerked in his jaw.

  They should have been here by now.

  He lifted his cell from his pocket and dialed José’s number – the man who acted as Xavier’s private security, driver, organizer and pilot as needed. He answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” Xavier had employed José for long enough to be able to speak plainly to him without risking offending the other man’s feelings. José knew that where Xavier was no-frills it didn’t mean he was without heart.

  “At the address you gave me,” José answered in Spanish.

  Something like awareness and a frisson of alarm vibrated against Xavier’s spine.

  “And?” He drawled, the word calm even when his central nervous system was humming.

  “No one’s here.” The sound of José pushing at a window came through the phone, then a grunt signaling that it hadn’t budged. “House looks empty.”

  Xavier swore under his breath. “Stay there. I’ll phone Elizabeth.”

  He disconnected the call and tried Elizabeth’s mobile number. It rang out. A cold slick of alarm permeated his chest. She wasn’t home and she wasn’t answering her mobile. Was it possible she’d done what he’d have never thought her possible of?

  Had she run?

  I will make your life a living hell if you don’t do everything I ask of you.

  He’d thrown the promise at her with cold precision, meaning every single breath of each word. He still did.

  But he could see how inflammatory that warning was now, how likely she would be to react against it and run from him. How she would choose to keep her son to herself for the rest of her life.

  An image of the boy in his bed came to Xavier – he saw their child as an innocent angel, fevered and divine, with that curling hair and thick black lashes, and the groundwork for a face that would one day lose its youthful chubbiness and be replaced with chiseled autocratic features that belonged to his father, his grandfather, and all the Salbatore men before him.

  Joshua Jones.

  This was not the name of a Spanish scion.

  He wrapped his hand around his phone so hard it could well have broken, and then he dialed her again. Still no answer.

  He prowled the corridor, waiting, his mind coldly turning over each and every possibility, each act that Elizabeth might have committed, and he focused his ruthless energy on just how he’d discover her. On how he’d punish her and destroy her for taking Joshua away yet again.

  The ringing of his phone pulled him from the dark turn of his thoughts. He answered, his voice a grim bark in the silent house.

  “Salbatore.”

  “They’re here,” José responded. “A cab just pulled up.”

  He swore harshly. So they had run. And changed their minds? Or forgotten something? “Bring them to me at once.”

  It took twenty minutes. Longer than it should have given they were only a suburb or so over. And the whole time, he prowled in the front entry of his Kensington house, his eyes fixed on the door, his expression grim.

  Finally, José arriv
ed, his expression showing he’d had his own arguments with the future Mrs Salbatore.

  Xavier was furious, but then, the sight of Elizabeth walking through the door to his home holding their child on one hip did something completely unexpected to him. His body seemed to weaken at the picture they made: this woman, their child, his house. It was all so primal but he felt the strangest rip of ownership and possession. Of pride. Misplaced, yet fierce.

  Before he could speak, she lifted a finger to her lips and he realized their son was sleeping. And pale.

  A frown crossed his face as he bid her to silently follow him. He led the way up the stairs and at the first floor landing turned left, showing her the way to the room he’d set aside for Joshua. He ached to reach forward and carry the child, not to lighten her burden, he assured himself, but simply to hold his son close to his chest.

  She moved to the bed and Xavier followed, pulling the bedlinen back so she could lay their son down. She wriggled the little shoes off his feet and then straightened without a word. But it was an angry silence. She was furious!

  Fascinated, he moved a few steps behind her then paused, watching as she ran down the stairs and hoisted a tatty backpack over one shoulder. She took the steps two at a time as she returned, and slipped past him, into Joshua’s room, without making eye contact.

  From the backpack, she retrieved the same panda bear teddy Joshua had been sleeping with tucked under his arm the night before, and nuzzled it to his side. She pulled something else out, plastic, which she unfolded to show a sea-sickness bag. She put it on the other side of him, and then she patted his brow and straightened.

  Now, finally, she did meet his eyes, and the air in the room seemed to crackle and hum. An electrical storm was breaking around them, flashing with lightning and danger.

  The scent of thunder was heavy in the air.

  She moved past him and, whether accidentally or not, shoved his shoulder with her own.

  He swallowed a gruff oath and followed her into the hallway. Much as he’d done the night before, he put a hand in the small of her back and propelled her forward, away from their son’s room, and into his study. It overlooked the back of Kensington gardens and a squirrel was prancing on the outside window ledge. He waited until she was in the room and then pushed the door shut, the silence of the act not belying the seriousness of the conversation they had coming.