Baby Maker - A Secret Baby Sports Star Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  Aimee followed the crowd toward the entrance. A high-ceilinged foyer with marble floors and gleaming columns opened up before her. A long line of butlers, each carrying a tray of sparkling champagne, greeted the guests with somber eyes, and when her turn arrived, Aimee slipped her fingers around a glass’ stem. Her eyes closed briefly as she sipped, tipping her head back languidly. The champagne was some of the finest she’d tasted—probably upwards of $1000 a bottle.

  Focus, she told herself, her eyes scanning the crowd. The ballroom proper was in the center of the building, beyond an archway that descended down broad stairs lined with the same red carpet. From the archway, Aimee heard the sounds of an orchestra playing a traditional French ballroom piece.

  Moving closer, Aimee squeezed her toes in the bottom of her shoes, focusing her ears. As a teenager, her father had signed her up for ballroom dancing classes, assuring her, in his thick French accent, that her abilities would please a man someday. “Girls in Monaco do not live as they do in America,” he’d told her, his bushy eyebrows waggling on his forehead. “And you, my darling, are special.”

  The moment Aimee appeared at the entrance of the ballroom, her breath caught in her throat. The red carpet stopped at the bottom of the steps, where a gleaming marble floor took over, stretching nearly a hundred feet to the furthest wall. Above the sea of people—women whirling in ball gowns, and potbellied men puffing on cigars—was the most remarkable ceiling mural Aimee had ever seen. Angels formed a great congregation, playing harps against a sky-blue background. A gold border circled the edge of the ceiling, shining in its centuries-old glory.

  Aimee forced her head down a moment later, realizing she looked overly impressed, like a country girl unused to the extravagances of Monaco’s high-society. She sauntered down the steps, her hips moving left, right, her eyes scouring the crowd for any sign of Enrico Fonti—the man of the hour.

  She inhaled sharply as she made eye contact with a man who’d checked into the hotel earlier that week. His jet-black hair was swept back with gel, without a strand out of place, and he looked sleazy, slimy, and dripping with money from less-than-legitimate sources.

  He bowed his head in recognition, and Aimee gave him a sophisticated, closed-mouth smile before making her way to the bar, which took up almost one whole wall of the ballroom. She hoped to avoid conversation with middle-aged gamblers who viewed her body as meat; she was on a mission to find Enrico, and didn’t want anyone to get in her way.

  As she drew closer to the bar, she finally spotted Enrico Fonti leaning coolly against the edge of the bar, looking casual, smooth, and wearing what was surely a several-thousand-dollar suit. His five o’clock shadow was more obvious than it had been before, the stubble highlighting the intense cut of his jawline and his deep, dark, penetrating eyes. His eyes scanned the room, clearly on the lookout for the date that Aimee knew would not arrive.

  For the second time that evening, Aimee found herself unable to breathe. She swayed slightly, remembering what it had felt like to have his strong, muscled arms around her, his lips descending upon hers. She remembered the sizzling pleasure, halted only by her sudden fear that she was just another notch on his belt.

  She assessed him carefully as she stood to the side, sipping the last of her champagne. Her brain buzzed with alcohol, since she’d eaten close to nothing all day. She clenched her fist, her nails digging into the skin of her palm. She had to act.

  Enrico seemed to sense her approach. His eyes flitted toward her and, almost on cue, a smile crept across his face, revealing perfect white teeth. She lent him a big-eyed look of recognition, waving her fingers. He quickly straightened his posture from his leaning stance on the bar, pulling his fingers through his slicked back hair.

  “Well, well,” he said, his Italian accent glazing over the words. “If it isn’t Aimee Delacroix herself.” His eyes glanced down her face, down her tight torso. Aimee did her best to seem sexy and playful instead of betraying her nervous anxiety, playing the only cards she had.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she cooed, her eyes dancing. Her heart rate elevated, and the air between them tightened.

  “I come to almost all the high-society events,” Enrico said, lifting a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “But I daren’t say I’ve seen you at one before.”

  “Are you telling me I shouldn’t be here?” Aimee asked coyly. She pouted slightly, setting her empty glass on the bar. “Because I’m only just getting started.”

  Enrico eyed her empty glass, his expression darkening. “I see that.”

  He paused for a moment, with a final glance toward the entrance. Aimee watched as he processed what was happening: his date wasn’t coming, but another door had opened in his favor.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to join me for another drink?” The words came casually, easily.

  “Oh, my. I wouldn’t want to take the place of your date…”

  Enrico shook his head, spinning toward the bar and lifting his index finger into the air. The bartender sauntered toward them, swiping a towel over his chapped hands. “Oui? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” he inquired, his voice deep. A dark, grey-flecked beard bristled over his chin.

  Enrico ordered them each an Old Fashioned, his French lilting. The bartender jumped into action, cutting the orange and rubbing the rind along the rings of the glasses. Enrico turned back toward Aimee, who watched him expectantly, her long eyelashes brushing lightly against her cheeks with each blink.

  “Unless, that is, you’ve been stood up?” Aimee finally spoke, halting the stillness between them.

  But Enrico only shrugged, plastering on a confident smile. “I suppose it’s been a week for that kind of thing. First, I’m in the elevator with a gorgeous woman—absolutely drop-dead—and she goes cold on me.” He eyed her with a devilish gaze. “Runs out of my casino and leaves me alone. Can you imagine?”

  Aimee stick her tongue out, giggling. She felt her body tingle with longing. “That sounds rough,” she said. She wrapped her fingers around her drink and clinked his in cheers, sipping the tart liquid. Her eyes widened at its strength. “Jesus. Are you trying to kill me?”

  “I might ask you the same thing,” Enrico quipped. He lifted his elbow toward her, and she slipped her thin arm through his, inhaling his cologne, sensing his warmth. She felt like every cell within her was on fire, aching for pleasure.

  Enrico led her to a corner table, where they fell into easy, flirtatious conversation, eyeing each other with intrigued, doe-like eyes.

  “You can’t tell me that being rejected the other night ruined your week,” Aimee laughed, slipping her fingers over his forearm, feeling his muscles tense at her touch. “You, with all those women at the casino, lining up just for you.” She winked at him.

  Enrico scoffed, but he didn’t pull his forearm away. He took a large sip of whiskey from his glass. “You must imagine that gets old, Aimee,” he said. “Like anything else. My life in London was enviable, to some people. I was earning a silly amount. I was working with some of the most important and intelligent people across the world. And, of course, you can imagine the women of London.” He looked at her intensely, and Aimee swallowed in the heat of the moment, nervous. “But I tired of that life, and I left. And now, I’m here, searching for new ways to occupy my time, every second.”

  “Our little life beneath the sun isn’t enough for you?” Aimee joked. “You’re looking for greener pastures yet again?”

  “Or maybe just something a little more meaningful,” Enrico admitted. He snapped his fingers upward, calling a tray of champagne to their table. They accepted two new glasses, clinking them together once more.

  Aimee had only just poured the rest of her whiskey down her burning throat. Sugar and drink muddled her mind. She attempted to focus herself back on her mission, to pull her attention away from her mind-bending attraction to this man. She was a spy, a Bond girl, with enough wit and zealous energy to plunge through the remainder of that night—as long as
she held her liquor, and kept her eyes on the prize.

  After sipping the rest of their champagne, Enrico offered Aimee his arm and lead her to the center of the ballroom. The violins swelled up, launching into a grand waltz, one Aimee immediately recognized from her long hours of ballroom class. She snickered, biting her lip softly, before giving Enrico a nervous grin.

  “What is it?” Enrico asked her, tilting his head. A dark curl swept over his forehead, and Aimee lifted her fingers to catch it. She shook her head, bashful. “I haven’t heard this song in nearly ten years. It takes me back, is all.”

  “Then let’s break it in, then, shall we?” Enrico said, giving her that dazzling, charming smile yet again.

  Aimee felt she would explode with tension, with pleasure, with excitement. She slipped her fingers through his, and Enrico placed his other hand on the small of her back, low down enough to be teasing while still appearing gentlemanly and proper to the other guests.

  They thrust their bodies into the movement, twirling, spinning gracefully around the other dancers, feeling as if they were the only people in the crowd. As they danced, their eyes connected, and Aimee felt herself blush. Something within her begged for this night not to end, so she wouldn’t have to deceive this man. She yearned to spend countless shimmering evenings with him. She yearned to dig beneath his playboy façade and discover the truth of his heart; she sensed a goodness within him.

  But the clock soon ticked toward one in the morning. Aimee excused herself for the bathroom where she touched up her lipstick and powder, ensuring she looked immaculate in order for her plan to continue without a hitch. Although she looked perfect, internally she heaved with fear.

  You have to pull yourself together, she thought to herself. Do you really want to wind up back in Seattle? Do you really want to give up? She breathed heavily, ripping passion from her heart. She had to be cold, calculating—to exist outside the boundaries of pleasure and lust.

  After several moments of regrouping, Aimee walked confidently back toward the ballroom, lifting her chin high. She reached Enrico and wrapped her arm around his back, batting her eyelashes. She kissed him passionately, licking his top lip with the tip of her tongue. She relaxed a little, sensing that the actress within her had taken over.

  Enrico broke the kiss, his eyes bordering on suspicious. “You seem very eager,” he said, laughing slightly.

  “Why don’t we get out of here?” Aimee whispered, tilting her shoulder forward, allowing him a better look at her cleavage. “The night’s coming to a close, anyway.” Around them, the ballroom had begun to clear—propelling its well-dressed billionaires and millionaires to the countless after-parties across the city.

  Enrico frowned. “I promised a friend I’d stop by for a drink. You’re certainly welcome to come…” he began, eyeing her with slight wariness.

  Aimee pushed her lower lip from her mouth, pouting. She slipped her fingers around the line of his tuxedo jacket, pulling him closer to her. He was slightly tipsy, and not immune to her body language. “Come on, Enrico. Don’t you want to finish what we started last week?” She closed her eyes and lifted her lips to his once more. Her stomach lurched with pleasure.

  But again, Enrico broke the kiss, backing away. His body language alarmed Aimee; it was all angles. He stepped back from her, and Aimee tensed up, frightened.

  “Tell me something,” Enrico said, his eyes tracing her face. “Why are you so eager this time around? I mean, last time, it was on. We both wanted it. It was definitely heading that way. And you backed out. Why the change of heart?” He lifted his left eyebrow high, tilting his head. “Which one of you is the real Aimee?”

  Aimee’s mind raced with fear. “God, Enrico,” she whispered, easing her hands over his chest. She stretched her fingers skyward, wrapping them around his neck. “Last time, when I got home, I sat in my little apartment just aching for you, knowing I’d made one of the worst mistakes a girl could make.” Her words sounded true, seductive. “You’d offered me one of the biggest adventures of my life, and I’d rejected it. I was out of my mind. Wasn’t I?”

  Enrico’s shoulders relaxed. He laughed, his chest rising and falling. He placed his hand around Aimee’s slim fingers, lifting her left hand to his lips and kissing it lightly. Aimee sensed that Enrico was swiftly abandoning all thoughts of his friend’s party. She sensed that he craved her, that he wouldn’t allow anything to obstruct their time together. He couldn’t refuse her feigned charm.

  “All right,” Enrico said, his voice warm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He lifted her other hand to his lips and kissed it for good measure, causing Aimee’s entire body to quiver with desire. She took a deep breath, looking at him expectantly, her big eyes blinking slowly.

  “I’ll call my driver. He should be around the corner. And then, we can get this show on the road, as you Americans say.”

  Aimee tipped her head back, overcome with joy and relief. For a moment, as Enrico spoke, she allowed herself to forget that she was on a mission to destroy him. He kissed her back, this time deeply, passionately, and every cell in her body seemed to explode with expectation.

  EIGHT

  As the orchestra swept into a dramatic final tune, the violins singing out into the night, Enrico grasped Aimee’s hand and pulled her toward the exit. Aimee felt herself dissolve in giggles as she followed him with light footfalls into the night.

  They exited the ancient, stone building, and Aimee stretched her neck back, looking at the twinkling stars that peppered the night sky. The moon was a large, ivory-colored orb that threw dark shadows across the sidewalk as Aimee and Enrico rushed toward his limousine.

  “You’ll tell your driver that you’re going home with me?” Enrico asked as moved to open the door for her.

  “Of course,” Aimee answered, an image of the grey-faced man flitting through her mind as she swept the train of her long, green dress into the limousine, careful to tuck it away from the door.

  Enrico shut the door before joining her on the other side, wrapping his arm around her and kissing her passionately, his eyes closing. He brimmed with alcohol, with lust. His fingers crept to her neck, tickling her soft, sun-tinged skin as they kissed, causing her to lean her head back in pleasure. Above them, the moon glowed, causing the jewels on Aimee’s dress to twinkle, creating spots of light like freckles on her breasts.

  In what seemed like mere seconds, the limousine halted outside of Le Joueur. Enrico sighed, breaking the kiss. “Shall we make out way to the penthouse, then? Beware. This time, I won’t allow you to bail on me in the elevator. It’s now or never.” He kissed the tip of her nose and the warmth descended through her body yet again.

  Aimee waited breathlessly as Enrico rushed to the other side of the vehicle and offered her his hand, guiding her to the door of his casino. Inside the building, a heavy bass beat vibrated the floor, shaking the windows. Handsome millionaires tossed chips upon blackjack tables, eyeing taut figures of peroxide blonde women, whose eyes traced only their back-pocket wallets. Aimee was grateful to avoid the simmering chaos.

  “How do you live above this every single day?” she asked, looking up at him while holding his hand so as to not get sucked into the undertow of the crowd.

  “It’s a fascinating social experiment, watching this happen every day,” Enrico said warmly. “But going back to my penthouse with you is the only thing I want to do right now. The only thing on the planet.”

  In the elevator, Aimee arched her back, allowing Enrico to press her against the elevator’s mirrored wall and kiss her, slipping his tongue against hers, his five o’clock shadow tickling her smooth cheeks. Her body stirred with lust, with immediacy. She hadn’t been intimate with anyone in far too long, and her body couldn’t help but respond.

  The elevator opened its doors to reveal the lavish door to Enrico’s suite, which he quickly unlocked. Inside, the apartment seemed to go on forever; it must have been thousands of square feet, spanning the length and breadt
h of the casino downstairs. The marble floors shone brightly in the moonlight, and every wall was glass, offering them a perfect, unobstructed view of the sea. The moon flickered across the waves, highlighting the intensity of the turquoise waters.

  Aimee swallowed, bringing her hands to her cheeks. “I’ve lived here for ten years, Enrico,” she whispered. “And I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.”

  Enrico laughed, his eyes bright. “Wait till you see the bedroom,” he whispered. He reached toward her, bringing his fingers around her slight shoulders as he unzipped her dress and let it fall in a pile on the floor, looking at each inch of her body with appreciation, lust, desire.

  As Aimee stood in the puddle of her ball gown, the intensity of the moment seemed to stretch to breaking point; Enrico gazed at her body before lifting his eyes upward, toward hers. They held still for only a moment more before Enrico flung his arms around her waist and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his strong body, nipping at his neck.