Baby Maker - A Secret Baby Sports Star Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  “Do you remember that sizzling moment before the dealer flipped the card—before you knew whether you had won or lost?”

  Aimee nodded, frowning slightly. She tilted her head, hardly able to focus on Enrico’s words. The smell of him swirled around her nose, causing her heart rate to increase, her brain to whirl with confusion.

  “It’s that moment that I live for. My life in London would have been straightforward, predictable. I’d have made millions, sure, but I wouldn’t have felt the thrill of chasing success. In Monaco, every day is different. I’m in competition with people like Duchamp—which makes the game that much more interesting. Beyond that, I can continue to compete in some of the biggest, high-stakes poker tournaments in the world.” He lifted his hand toward his glass, sipping languidly at the last of his mimosa. “I hope that makes some kind of sense.”

  Aimee joined him in downing the last of her drink. She felt awed by his words, at the passion with which he viewed the game of poker, and the game of life. She paused for a moment, then spoke hesitantly.

  “You know, before that time we played blackjack, I hadn’t really played before. I was just making it up as I went along. I’ve hardly dipped a toe in that world. And I don’t know poker at all.”

  Enrico’s eyes widened. “You don’t?” he asked her, his tone somewhere between insulted and incredulous. “You live in Monaco, and you don’t play poker?” He spread his hands wide, splaying them upon his knees. “I won’t have it. I can’t allow you to be in my house for the next few days without learning how to play.”

  Aimee scoffed. “I’ll probably be fine never learning—”

  But Enrico had already jumped up from his seat on the couch, striding toward a closet in the hallway. He pulled out a poker set, complete with coins and cards, giving her a devilish grin. “You don’t know it yet, Aimee. But this is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  “Because you’re teaching me poker?” Aimee laughed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t mind me for doubting that.”

  Enrico sat down on the rug in the center of the living room, tipping his empty glass toward him and eyeing it hesitantly, making a slight noise in his throat.

  “I don’t suppose you want another drink?” Aimee teased. She swept the glasses from the end table and sauntered toward the kitchen, where she found the empty champagne bottle awaiting. Her brain ticked, and she slipped her tongue through her lips, briefly disconcerted. She eyed a bottle of Moët that was chilling in the refrigerator and set it on the counter, undoing the foil and popping the cork.

  She poured two fresh glasses of champagne, noting that her alcohol buzz was back. Perhaps, over the following few days, she and Enrico could ride the wave of drink, constantly avoiding their clear attraction for one another, before heading off on their vastly different life journeys.

  “Are you coming?” Enrico called from the next room, his voice insistent.

  She reentered the living room, swinging her hips, glasses of bubbling liquid in hand. “I got us some refreshments,” she said brightly. She tipped his glass toward him, and he accepted it gratefully before explaining the basic rules of poker.

  “Okay,” he said, shuffling the cards, his eyes dancing. “The list of hand ranks includes a straight flush, a four of a kind, a full house, a flush, a straight—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Aimee said, thrusting her hands forward. “You’re moving too quickly. A full what?”

  “Full house,” Enrico said, laughing. “I can’t imagine how you grew up without hearing this language. It seems it should be pulsing in your veins.”

  “And you were born with the cards in your hands?” Aimee giggled.

  “More or less. I’ve always had a head for gambling,” he said. “My father taught me when I was a child. We’d bet on nearly everything. Sports. Whether or not my mother would be angry about something. How long my teenage relationships would last.” He broke into a wide smile.

  Aimee looked at him with interest, wanting to know more about the man she was imprisoned with. “You and your father were close?”

  “We were,” Enrico said. “Until he couldn’t beat me any longer. Nowadays, we bicker at every holiday event, every family dinner. But I know he’s proud.” His face grew thoughtful, distant. “He recognizes that everything we’ve done together has led me to where I am now—this life of wanting for nothing.”

  “Except another casino. And then another one. When does it all end?” Aimee teased.

  “When does the game end?” Enrico said, tossing his head back. “Never. Now. Sit down. Let’s play.”

  Aimee grinned, shifting on the rug beside Enrico. For a moment, her skin glanced against his, causing her heart to jump. As they sipped their wine, giggling together, getting into the game, she felt the tension between them heighten. She asked questions, her eyes dancing, and Enrico swept on to one tangent after another. He snapped his fingers several times, pointing toward her, exclaiming: “You could teach your father a thing or two.” And Aimee laughed, her cheeks flushed, tossing her hair back.

  After a couple hours of playing, of choosing records, of giggling at each other’s jokes, Aimee’s stomach was void of food, sloshing with wine. She gave Enrico a coy smile. “What do you say we make some dinner and open another bottle?” she whispered, her voice raspy.

  Enrico slapped his palms together, enthusiastic. He strode toward the kitchen, whistling, tapping the empty bottle on the side counter. “I don’t suppose I can let my hostage go hungry, can I?” he called.

  Aimee snuck up behind him, and as Enrico spun around, finding her before him, he stepped back quickly, almost as if he’d been stung. He pushed his lips together, his eyes looking at anything but her. Aimee sensed she’d overstepped, gotten too close to him. She allowed the air to calm before she spoke.

  “Let me help you,” she murmured, pushing her hair behind her ear. “What would you like to make?”

  Enrico recovered quickly, swiping utensils from his cupboards. “I always like to cook for myself. I have a kitchen full of wonderful chefs, from all over the world. But none of them can cook like my mother.” He placed an onion on a wooden cutting board and slid a knife toward Aimee, gesturing. “Why don’t you get started on dicing this?”

  Grateful for something to keep her eyes far from Enrico and his tantalizing body, Aimee began to slice the onion into uniform pieces. Slight tears formed in the corners of her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away. She heard the slight pop of the wine bottle as Enrico yanked another cork into the air. He set a freshly filled glass next to her, and she sipped at it eagerly, hopeful that the drink would refute the awkward tension between them.

  But it seemed to only grow worse. As they cooked, Aimee had to force herself to take many steps back from his lips, so tempted she was to kiss him. And as they ate their pasta, coated in a delicious, flavorful tomato sauce, she fell into his words and stories and chewed slowly, her eyes toward the window. As Enrico spoke, she was reminded, over and over again, that this man was one of the finest she’d met—that he had an appreciation for family and tradition, and Monte Carlo, which attracted her to her core. These waves of understanding—that she’d abruptly met and would soon have to say goodbye to this near-perfect man—thrilled and saddened her in equal measure.

  After dinner, Aimee scrubbed at the plates, humming along to the Fleetwood Mac record spinning in the player. As she sponged, she sensed precisely where Enrico was in the room; she could feel his eyes upon her as she worked. She felt a chill creep down her spine. The tension would soon break.

  As she spun back toward the living room, Enrico held the cards in his hands once more, eyeing her. “Would you like to play another round?” he asked, tilting his head. His eyes searched hers. It seemed he was really asking something else, that he yearned to speak different words. Each movement seemed tinged with lust.

  Aimee looked at him through lowered lashes, her voice hesitant. “What if we make it more interesting?”

  “Higher stakes?” Enr
ico asked eagerly.

  Aimee bit her lip, her eyes dancing toward the waistline of his pants. She was tipsy, brimming with drink. “What if we play strip poker?”

  TWELVE

  They eased into the game. They eyed their cards, sitting across the rug from one another in their thin, limited clothing. Enrico flicked the cards toward Aimee and she lifted them, noting that already she was on her way to a full house—that she had three eights and could pair them with a match of any of her other cards. She eyed Enrico with a saucy expression. “I hope you’re prepared to get naked.”

  “You’re pretty confident to say that you only learned this game a few hours ago,” Enrico chided. He began lifting the other cards from the deck to splay on the carpet between them, yielding an immediate full house for Aimee, with a second 10.

  Aimee bit her lip, revealing her cards after a brief betting sequence, noting that she’d beaten his three-pair. She grinned as Enrico smacked his hands upon his knees, sighing with his loss, and the realization that he would be first to remove a layer of clothing.

  He wrapped his thick fingers around the edge of his collar and pulled his shirt from his bulging biceps, his rolling shoulders. Aimee’s breath caught in her throat as Enrico revealed his naked upper body. His chiseled abdomen gleamed in the light. A moment too late, Aimee’s eyes swept low, avoiding him.

  In the next hand, Enrico won with a straight—pointing a stern finger toward Aimee and watching, unabashedly, as she removed her T-shirt.

  She glanced upward, pouting slightly. She wanted to say something to make light of it, to alleviate the tension. But Enrico’s eyes, filled with lust for her, forced her lips closed.

  “We should have worn more clothes, I guess,” Enrico finally said with a playful shrug. “Otherwise, this game won’t take very long.”

  “If you want, I can put my shirt back on—to keep things going,” Aimee teased as she sipped her wine. Every muscle in her body felt engaged, her senses heightened, aware of exactly how far away Enrico’s fingers were.

  “No—” Enrico said, his reply coming far too quickly. “I wouldn’t want you to do that—it’s just a silly game, anyway.”

  “If you don’t take it as seriously as me, I understand,” Aimee said. She cleared her throat, gesturing. “Let’s take it to the next round, shall we?”

  “A serious player, you’ve become,” Enrico said, beginning to deal again. “I didn’t imagine at the beginning of the day that I’d be bested by my hostage, in my own house. But then again, if you’d asked me yesterday if I’d ever become someone’s captor, I’d have given an absolute no.”

  “People change rather quickly, don’t they?” Aimee whispered.

  “I can’t quite keep track,” Enrico agreed. His eyes turned toward his cards, hardly able to hide his glee as he saw the hand he’d been dealt. Aimee sensed it immediately—that he was heading toward an excellent game. She turned her own eyes toward her own hand, noting that hers was a dud.

  Aimee overturned her cards several minutes later, revealing no straight, no full house, nor a pair—nothing to compete with Enrico’s cards. He gestured toward her, the game fueling him with electricity, beckoning for her to remove a layer.

  Aimee unfolded her legs from beneath her, bringing her toes upon the rug. She stood before him and pushed her shorts down her long, lean legs, over her knees, and onto the floor. Her bare skin glowed, her curves soft. She watched as Enrico’s jaw dropped, his gaze fixated on her.

  Unable to bear the tension for another minute longer, Aimee took a single, casual step forward, her eyes dark, intense. Enrico tossed his cards upon the end table, clearing a path for her.

  In a moment, Aimee was in front of him, wrapping her legs on either side of his waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck and moved her face close to him, meeting his lips with her own. The passion between them ignited, causing her to feel almost insane with want. Enrico sighed as they kissed, slipping his tongue along hers with insistence.

  As they kissed, she placed her fingers on his chest, easing them down his stomach muscles, to the elastic of his boxers. Her eyes flicked toward his, her eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, before she pushed his shorts down, revealing the rest of his stunning body.

  Aimee gasped, allowing him to push her to the living room rug and kiss her deeply, rolling over on top of her. She felt the warmth and strength behind each of his movements. She tipped her head back, arching her spine as, outside, the moon started to rise, shining atop the countless casinos and hotels and the constant waves of the sea.

  As they made love, Aimee let go of her fears. Thoughts of the hotel left her mind. Fears of a future in Seattle were overshadowed by the heat of his breath, the smell of him. She moaned, grasping his back, feeling his muscles ripple with each movement.

  Enrico carried Aimee easily to the bedroom, holding her body with his firm, strong hands as she wrapped her legs around his muscled waist. They made love on top of the covers before collapsing on the bed, holding each other, exhausted.

  Afterwards, Enrico eyed Aimee, slipping his fingers through her soft curls. He exhaled deeply, shaking his head. “You look like an angel,” he said, his voice laced with Italian notes.

  Aimee positioned her head on his chest, gliding her fingers across the smooth skin. Enrico’s blinks grew slower, until, all at once, he was sleeping, his breaths coming long and smooth. Aimee grinned to herself, relishing the feeling of her body draped against his. Outside, the bright lights of Monte Carlo twinkled, and she felt safe, tucked away with this self-made billionaire.

  After several moments of bliss, Aimee felt her mind begin its checklist making—something she generally did every evening, locked away in her studio apartment. Her thoughts were usually of the hotel, of her friends in Monte Carlo, of her mother and father.

  And yet—there, tucked up in Enrico’s bed, she suddenly shuddered with the memory that she was his hostage—that if she didn’t scurry from his bedroom in that moment, she would be forced to stay there, cut off from her world, for the following day, as well.

  In a moment of sudden desperation, Aimee crept up from Enrico’s bed, her toes splaying on the cold floor. She stood up quietly, marching slowly toward the door, forcing her eyes to remain upon him. But even as the tension grew in her mind, Enrico slept on—unperturbed by her sudden retreat.

  Aimee whispered a brief, solemn goodbye to the billionaire before rushing to the living room and slipping on the borrowed pair of shorts and T-shirt. She tiptoed as fast as she could toward the elevator door. The moment she found freedom—the moment she betrayed Enrico and told Duchamp how much he had bid for the land—she would solidify her life in Monte Carlo, for good.

  But as her finger moved toward the elevator button, Aimee’s heart jolted in her chest. She hesitated, her mind rolling with emotion. She could still taste Enrico’s lips upon hers. She could still smell his musky cologne on her skin, on her neck.

  She stopped herself, suddenly conscious that the moment she escaped into the fresh air, she would never be allowed back in that bedroom. She wouldn’t be allowed even ten feet from Enrico’s handsome face, from that just-for-her smile that broke out whenever he caught her eye. She would have deceived him, and ultimately negated everything that had come before.

  She didn’t want to leave.

  The realization struck her as odd, as it was in direct opposition to her true wants and needs. But it filled each of her cells with warmth, with fresh light. A moment later, she twirled back down the hallway, slipping out of her clothes once more.

  She slipped into bed beside him, easing her cheek back upon his chest. Enrico made a brief, soft grunt in his sleep before placing his arm around her naked body. He held her close, and she fell into a deeply sated sleep, free from the rolling anxiety of her mind—without comprehension of any kind of future. For once, she was solely centered on the present. And she couldn’t have been happier.

  THIRTEEN

  Aimee blinked awake in the bright morni
ng light. The floor-to-ceiling windows made the white bedspread glow as it wrapped around her and Enrico’s bodies, forming them into a cocoon. She nestled closer to him, kissing his cheek, his nose, his forehead. She giggled, watching as he awoke, little by little.

  “You’re a pest,” he said, laughing sleepily. His dark eyes turned toward her, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, cupping her close. He kissed her lips, slipping his tongue within her mouth for a moment, and tension filled the room once more.

  Aimee giggled, tossing her right leg over his waist, straddling him from above. “Don’t you want me to be a pest?” she whispered, edging her finger down the center of his chest. “You’re the one who’s keeping me here.”

  “If you’re not careful, I’ll keep you here for the rest of your life,” Enrico said, arching his spine. He wrapped his fingers around her waist, sliding them over her skin. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispered.