Baby Maker - A Secret Baby Sports Star Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  Enrico carried her across the apartment, past the fireplace, through the spotless marble hallway, into his bedroom. She caught a glimpse of it, even as she kissed him. The bed was enormous, pushed up against another massive, floor-to-ceiling window, which displayed another picturesque view of the sea.

  He dropped her softly upon the bed and sighed evenly, placing his hands upon her thighs. He seemed to feast on her with his eyes. “I could look at you for hours,” he whispered.

  “Why don’t you take this off?” Aimee murmured, lifting her toes toward his bow tie, pointing. “You’re a little overdressed for this occasion.”

  Enrico laughed once more, lifting his fingers to the tie. He ripped at it, allowing the strings to hang loose on either side of his neck. He pulled his broad shoulders from his tuxedo jacket before quickly unfastening his leather belt.

  As Enrico undressed, his eyes never left Aimee’s. Lust for her emanated from his lips to his cheeks, red with drink, and a single, wretched thought seeped into Aimee’s brain—causing a single wrinkle to form right above her nose.

  Even as she felt herself shudder in wave after wave of desire, she knew if she didn’t finish the mission she’d begun that night, she never would. She’d fall asleep and awaken when it was too late—when Duchamp would have no need for her information any longer. She’d watch the life her father had built fall beneath the sea, and she’d be sucked into the gloom of her mother’s Seattle world. She wouldn’t have Enrico any longer, sure. But she also wouldn’t have anything else.

  She had to make a sacrifice.

  As Enrico began to undo his shirt buttons, revealing a small patch of dark chest hair, Aimee lifted herself from her horizontal position, placing her hands upon his shoulders.

  She leaned toward him, kissing his cheek. “Baby, I have to run to the bathroom,” she whispered. “You’ll wait for me in here?” Her voice was soft, aching. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for his confirmation.

  “Of course,” Enrico said, placing his lips on hers. “Don’t be long, okay?”

  Scarcely able to believe her luck, Aimee jumped off the bed and tiptoed into the hallway, glancing furtively around, searching for an office, somewhere she could find the information she needed.

  As she crept along, her heart jolting against her rib cage, her eyes landed upon a dark room, off the main living room, its door ajar. She lifted a hand to the door and pushed it gently, revealing an office with an antique desk stretched across the far wall. The desk featured a sleek computer, along with many files and folders.

  Aimee rubbed her palms together, her mind racing. Where would she begin? Where would Enrico keep the specifics of his bid?

  She leaned against the edge of the desk chair, placing tentative fingers upon the mouse. As she whizzed the cursor across the screen, her eyes grew wide with the realization that, for some unknown reason, Enrico had left his computer unlocked. She flicked through several documents, labeled with Italian names that she couldn’t make much sense of. As she opened them, she saw countless nonsensical numbers—but nothing that seemed hefty enough to purchase an entire piece of land.

  She sighed, anxiety filling her. She clicked on the internet browser icon, which drew up the previous tabs Enrico had had open. The first, his email, struck her immediately. There were several messages in the inbox from a man named Thomas Barker, an accountant who had previously worked for her father—before quitting, due to the fact that her father couldn’t pay his fees.

  Aimee clicked upon one of the first messages exchanged between the two men. It was entitled “Your Opinion?” and had been sent by Enrico himself. Her eyes danced over the words, and her breath caught in her throat with immediate excitement.

  Thomas,

  It was a real pleasure to meet you the other evening at the Delacroix. I do feel regretful that you’re ending your association with Max Delacroix, as he is a good man, but his addiction is indeed a concern to many of us in the community.

  As discussed, in the upcoming months, I will be making a bid upon the new plot which is soon to be opening up. I wish to make a secret bid, one that doesn’t reach the ears of my competitors, if my plan to build another casino is ever to succeed.

  I’d like your opinion about the amount I should put down, based on current market trends. I’ve attached several sheets for your review.

  Please, let me remind you that this is top-secret information. Your discretion is appreciated.

  Regards,

  Enrico Fonti

  Aimee clicked straight through to Thomas’ response, which spoke of his dissatisfaction with her father—which wasn’t unexpected—and his thoughts on Enrico’s funds and potential bid.

  As the email chain stretched on, Aimee found a final message, from the week before, highlighting the precise amount that Enrico wished to clear from his account for a bid on the land.

  The amount, just over three billion dollars, caused Aimee to gasp. “Three billion?!”

  Her voice echoed around the room, causing her head to spin. She’d forgotten where she was: seated in her underwear, at Enrico’s computer, spying. Her skin crawled with fear.

  She bit her lip, reeling in waves of sudden indecision. With this information, she could allow Duchamp to rule Monte Carlo for another 30 years. And yet, after the night she’d had with Enrico—dancing, kissing in the back of his limousine, giggling with him, almost as if they’d known each other for years—gave her pause. She was beginning to fall for him. She felt her stomach ache with desire. She felt that sizzling anticipation that alerted her she was feeling something real, something tangible. It had been far too long since she’d felt like a girl in love. She longed to wrap the moment up, not to let it go.

  But the terror of her father’s debts came crashing down on her shortly after. She closed her eyes, imagining Hotel Delacroix coming to a very real end. She imagined movers coming, heaving the antique mirrors she and her mother had picked out into moving vans, to one auction or another. She imagined sitting on the hotel stoop, her head hanging in her hands, aching with nostalgia. She imagined kissing her father on the cheek, explaining that her life existed in Seattle now—that she didn’t have the money to remain. That she had to abandon him, to pick up the pieces of herself and form something else.

  She had no choice.

  She lifted herself from the laptop, shutting it, allowing darkness to overtake the room. Her feet itched with desire to run, to flee. She needed to take this information to Duchamp as soon as possible.

  And yet, her passion stirred, her unquenched desire made her stomach twist. She remembered the feeling of Enrico’s breath upon her neck, and she squeezed her eyes closed, hardly conscious of the time ticking away. She brought her fingers over her skin, feeling her goosebumps.

  Could she make love to him, could she gaze into those dark, passionate eyes, and still know that she was going to deceive him?

  She stood from the desk, shaking with uncertainty. And, as she stood in the darkness, she heard light footfalls in the hallway. She heard a strong hand press against the door. And she listened, her eyes growing wide, as the door cracked open.

  There, standing before her, was Enrico Fonti himself. His eyes were penetrating, angry. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning heavily upon his left foot. His head tilted slightly as he looked her up and down.

  Finally, he opened his mouth. Aimee wanted to lift her finger to his lips, to tell him she wouldn’t deceive him, to tell him she’d take it all back. But her tongue felt like sandpaper. Her breath came in shudders.

  “I see you’ve found my office,” he said, his voice gruff. He took a step toward her, and the air between them grew hotter. “If you had any interest in my business operations, you should have asked me yourself.”

  Aimee bit her lip, her eyes dancing toward the exit. Beyond the door, she saw where her green dress lay, splayed out, an abandoned memory of a different time.

  “Now, Aimee,” Enrico said brusquely. He placed his hands upon her bare sho
ulders, gazing into her eyes with a deadly mix of anger and passion. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

  NINE

  Aimee felt choked. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t move from his grasp. His fingers were gripping her tightly, preventing her from fleeing. “I—”

  “All right, then,” he whispered. “Duchamp sent you here, didn’t he? To discover how much I bid for the land. He hijacked you. I should have known,” he breathed. “He has eyes everywhere. I should have known he would get into my home by any means necessary. I should have known he could have eyes in my office. Jesus.”

  Enrico shook his head, finally releasing Aimee. She fell back, crumpling to the floor. She kept her eyes on the floor, quaking with anxiety.

  She’d failed. She’d failed herself. She’d failed her father. And, perhaps worst of all, she’d failed Enrico. She swiped the back of her hand over her face as tears began to course down her cheeks. She knew she probably looked a mess, her makeup everywhere, her eyes full of guilt and pain.

  “Dammit,” Enrico said, his hands balling into fists. “I thought you were different, Aimee. You, with your little act about feeling too nervous to sleep with me. I assumed you were different than the money-grabbing women who inhabit my casino. The women who only care for fancy dinners and luxury. I don’t know about you, Aimee, but I felt something when I met you. You’re an intelligent woman. You have a spark about you. And I thought—I thought that was real.” He shrugged, disappointment bleeding through him.

  Aimee bit her lip, hard. She ached, yearning to tell him he was right—that there was something real, something unique between them. She staggered, searching for words.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she whispered, her voice like a child’s.

  Enrico spun toward her. The moonlight shone on his abs, highlighting the muscles above his waist. His mouth was set, his jawline prominent. He was huffing, brimming with masculinity, and Aimee couldn’t tear her eyes off of him.

  “You’ve left me no choice,” he said gruffly. “Two days from now, my bid—the one you’ve just read—will be finalized.”

  “Three billion dollars,” Aimee whispered, her eyes wide.

  “I will have to keep you here until my bid goes through. Otherwise, I can’t trust you not to tell Duchamp. He’s probably waiting for your call right now.” He swallowed. “Jesus, Aimee. You really did a number on me here, didn’t you?”

  Aimee lifted herself to her feet, crossing her arms over her naked breasts. Her eyes felt heavy. “I’m so sorry, Enrico,” she whispered. “But don’t keep me here. Please.” Her mind raced to thoughts of her father, who would surely worry about her—if he ever left the blackjack tables, that is. She thought of Christopher, the only other receptionist at the Delacroix. She couldn’t leave him in such a tight spot. “I have responsibilities.”

  “As do I, Aimee. Only mine have billions riding on them,” Enrico said, his voice harsh. “You’ll stay here. And it’s final. Don’t ask me if you can go again. I won’t take kindly to it.”

  Aimee swallowed, her eyes turning to the floor.

  “And you’ll give me your phone; I can’t have you calling Duchamp,” he added, raising his hand, palm up.

  Aimee stirred, moving from the office and toward her dress on the ground. Beside it was her elegant, jeweled purse, which held her cellphone.

  Sure enough, the moment she opened it, she found a text from Duchamp. “Tell us what you’ve learned.” As Enrico watched her, her heart felt dipped into the acid of her stomach. The world spun, making her feel green.

  Enrico reached her side in a moment, wrapping his hand around her phone. She released it, slumping her shoulders forward, and watched powerlessly as Enrico turned it off. Her brain buzzed with anger for agreeing to Duchamp’s scheme and worry for her future, which she knew now would mean a return to America. She would have to make a new life.

  Aimee looked on forlornly as Enrico placed her phone in a safe hidden in a compartment near the fireplace. He locked it and then brought his own phone to his ear, speaking coolly with his assistant, who was surely available to him at all hours of the day or night.

  “Hi, Martin. If you could cancel all of my appointments until further notice,” Enrico said, his voice finding its business tone. “Thank you. I’ll let you know when the situation changes.” He stabbed at the screen of his phone, ending the call, then turned back toward Aimee, who quivered beside the window.

  “I think I need to sleep,” she whispered. She slipped her fingers across her bare skin, feeling exposed, soft, without the protection of her spy persona. “If you’re going to keep me here. I need to sleep.”

  Enrico ruffled his hair with his strong, thick fingers, and allowed a soft sigh to escape. He walked toward a door adjacent to the office and opened it, gesturing forth. “This is the guest room.”

  Aimee bit her lip, expectation for the night fizzling out. She stepped closer, her eyes assessing the room. It was similar to the master bedroom, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, a king-sized bed tucked to the side, and an antique chest of drawers. She couldn’t believe that she’d be allowed such finery after the wretched acts she’d committed—she was being treated like a princess even though she was a prisoner.

  “Do you think I could get something to sleep in?” she murmured, moving her eyes upward, locking with Enrico’s dark, penetrating pair.

  Enrico huffed down the hall, returning moments later with a simple grey T-shirt. He turned his head to the side as Aimee put it on, shivering on wobbly legs. She stood before him, hesitating, wishing she could apologize to him—to tell him that she hadn’t wanted everything to go so sour, so quickly. To tell him that just like he wasn’t a one-dimensional billionaire, the same way she wasn’t a cliché gold-digger.

  But his face was stoic, stony—unwelcoming. Aimee bowed her head, shifting her eyes from him. The air was tense.

  “Sleep well, mademoiselle,” Enrico said curtly. “I’ll excuse myself for now. I have rather a lot to think about. And a nightcap waiting for me, alone.”

  “Goodnight,” Aimee whispered.

  She slipped into the guest room, closing the door behind her, listening to Enrico’s footfalls retreating down the hallway, before he shut his door, as well. She leaned heavily on the back of the door and slid down it, crumpling to the cold marble floor.

  As the reality of her situation dawned on her, she felt suddenly punched, lost. It seemed that just moments before, she and Enrico had been whirling around the ballroom, lost and enamored with each other. In those moments, she’d been convinced that the world could be theirs, eternally—that the hotel didn’t matter, that Duchamp would fizzle out. As long as she had Enrico, the world would continue to turn.

  But it hadn’t been real.

  She put her head in her hands and tried not to cry, pushing down the desire to rush back to Enrico, to try and convince him that this was all a misunderstanding. He’d caught her in the act. He’d found her moments after she’d discovered his secret bid, the very number that would ruin him.

  Aimee had gone through with Duchamp’s treacherous scheme, and she’d come up completely dry—without Enrico, and ultimately, without Monte Carlo. She’d done it all for nothing.

  She slowly got up from the ground, switching the light off and slipping between the sheets of the immaculate bed. The thread count was heavenly—that of the most expensive suites in the Delacroix. As a teenager, Aimee had tucked herself into those beds, hiding from her mother and father as they fought on one hotel balcony or another. The sheets were synonymous with safety, with clouds, with leaving the world behind.

  Aimee had always loved her father—she was a daddy’s girl through and through. He was everything America wasn’t, and he was everything her mother wasn’t—exciting, carefree, reckless. But these qualities had led to his downfall, and now that he was a deadbeat with a black hole of a bank account, she wanted to tell him that his entire life had been a lie. To tell him that he’d ru
ined her life in the process.

  “Just breathe,” she whispered. She had to stay focused, without panicking. Despite her enduring lust for Enrico Fonti, he was basically keeping her hostage in his penthouse for the next two days. This was the crisis at hand. The moment she retreated from this prison, she could express her anger at her father. She could face what she’d done.

  But as she lay there, as the clock beside her ticked toward four in the morning, her heart burned with terror and anger. She was being kept prisoner just a few blocks from her tiny apartment, locked in a war between Duchamp and Fonti. The two billionaires would survive just fine—with Fonti claiming the new land and building yet another casino, and with Duchamp continuing his reign as one of the biggest tycoons Monte Carlo had ever seen.