Mountain Man's Baby Surprise (A Mountain Man's Baby Romance)

by Lia Lee

  “Okay,” I say evenly, without emotion. I can be the prodigal son; for her honor, not his.

  “Your word, Derric. No screwing around; no pissing dosh down the dunny with booze and broads and cars. And if I have to post bail for you, I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself. Make no mistake. I brought you into this world, and I can take you out.”

  “You have it,” I say, rising to my feet. If I stay in this room a minute longer, he’ll be the one getting taken out. On a stretcher. I’d give almost anything for him not to have been the fucker who brought me into this world, but like the saying goes, you can’t choose your parents. My upbringing hasn’t given me much incentive to settle down and start a family of my own. But if I ever do, I’ll show the insufferable prick what being a father should look like.

  Steve glowers as I leave his presence with my promise to be a good boy hanging in the air, knowing it probably won’t matter what I do while in the States. He’ll find something to crucify me for, eventually. He always does.

  So, if I happen to look up a certain curly-haired brunette who’d given me the fuck of my life while I’m there, who cares? I’m no altar boy. At thirty, I am already thoroughly jaded by the all the sins and pleasures the world has to offer. I’d be up for a rematch with her. Maybe she won’t even want to see me; she sure as hell didn’t try to contact me since she left. A fact that bothers me more than it should. I find myself thinking about her a lot. And maybe that’s why. Plenty of women hate me. Some of them claim they love me. One thing they never do is ignore me.

  Fuck it. In a few weeks, I’ll have a whole new continent of pussy to check out. I can put the dirt, dust, and flies of Oz, in addition to my overbearing dickhead of a father far behind me.

  And with a little luck, I’ll find a reason to never come back.

  Chapter Five

  Mila

  Reality Bites

  “Oh, my God. Don’t tell me you’ve been here all afternoon.”

  I look up from my laptop screen as Claire bursts into the living room of the apartment we share. I knew she’d come looking for me sooner or later. It wasn’t like me to stay away from the shop, but today I just needed my own time and space.

  “Guilty. Sorry I didn’t call you after lunch.”

  Claire tosses her oversized designer purse on my couch and flops down next to it. “I don’t mind you working from home, you know that. But did you have to leave me holding the bag when you knew we had a meeting with Starla Banks at two o’clock? The woman’s a soul-sucking harpie. I nearly threw her pencil-skirted ass out of the studio after all the revisions she asked for.” With a gasp of relief, she pries her four-inch heeled shoes off her feet. “I could have really used your moral support, Mils.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put extra stress on you. I just wasn’t feeling well after picking up the new paper samples, that’s all. And I did get a lot done on the new brand package for Lump & Grind. What do you think?” I swivel my screen so that she can see the layouts I’ve drawn up for a new coffee bar that’s opened up down the street from us.

  “Nice!” Claire exclaims, rubbing her soles. “Brilliant, as usual. I forgive you.”

  “Thanks.” I save the files and shut down my computer. I don’t think I can work anymore today, anyway. I feel bone-tired. Even my brain is exhausted. I’m ready for bed, and it’s not even five-thirty. I yawn and rub my eyes.

  “Are you okay? You said you didn’t feel well... Are you coming down with something?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” I say. It’s far worse.

  “Well, maybe you should see a doctor. And by doctor, I mean a shrink. You’ve been like—depressed—ever since we got back from vacation. I miss the sun and sand too, but jeez, you gotta snap out of this, girl. We have a business to run.”

  “I’m not depressed,” I insist. “Not clinically, anyway.”

  “Well then what is it? You’re not still moping about that lifeguard, are you? For heaven’s sake, it was a one-time-only deal. A fling. I thought we agreed that what happens in Australia never happened?”

  My stomach gives a twist as Claire brings up the subject. If only it were as easy to do as it is to say. “Derric,” I remind her. “His name is Derric.”

  “Right, sure. I know that. But you said you weren’t interested. That he gave you his card but you never called him. He’s half a world away. Long distance relationships never work out, you said. Yes, he was freaking gorgeous, but c’mon... he’s a beach bum. You’re an up and coming New York designer. Not a good mix.”

  I cringe at not having told Claire the whole story. I told her I went out with Derric after she passed out, but not about our wild night of sex. Or what he really did for a living.

  “You seemed interested enough in him,” I say.

  “Hello... fling?” Claire says pointedly, waving her hand at me. “He’d have been a great lay, but I probably wouldn’t have remembered it the next day.”

  “No, you were too damn drunk.” She’s right—I never called Derric. Every time I thought about doing it, I came up with a reason not to. Too early, too late, too busy, maybe tomorrow. There was a big time zone difference. Then tomorrow became a week, a month. Now I’m afraid he won’t even remember me. And if that’s true, knowing it now would break my heart.

  I grab the remote and turn on the TV. I’m stalling at the same time I want to tell Claire everything. Because I can’t keep it a secret much longer.

  “I’m not sick, Claire.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  I stare at the screen, trying to find the right words. “I didn’t tell you all of what happened between Derric and me. I thought you liked him too, and I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, or seem like I was bragging.”

  “Hey,” Claire says, leaning forward to grab my hand. “No dumb-ass dude will ever come between us. You liked him, and he liked you. I just wanted you to have a good time.” She looks at me with a salacious twinkle in her eye and a naughty smile curving her lips. “Did you?”

  I want to join in her enthusiasm, but instead feel tears building and threatening to spill over. “Oh, Claire, it was the most incredible night of my life,” I say. “We went for a drive, then back to his place, and you wouldn’t believe the apartment he has, it’s like a penthouse...”

  Claire shakes her head. “I don’t give a shit where he lives, tell me about the sex! You had sex, right?”

  I nod. “The most mind-blowing sex ever.”

  “I knew it! I knew you were holding out on me. Deets, woman, deets!”

  “I’m sure you don’t want every smutty detail, Claire. But he was amazing…” I sigh in bittersweet remembrance of that wonderful night. “Do you know what an Aussie kiss is?”

  Claire shakes her head. “Clearly something I never got,” she jokes.

  “It’s… it’s a Frenchie down under,” I say, in the best terms I can think of to describe it.

  Claire squeals in delight. “Oh, my God, you’re kidding!”

  “Nope. For reals. It was incredible.”

  “Oh, my…” Claire rolls her eyes and pretends to swoon like some Southern belle of old. “Jesus, I’d have done more than call him. I would have dragged him on the plane with me and chained him to the seat. What’s wrong with you!”

  What’s wrong with me. That’s the million-dollar question—or should I say billion-dollar question. Being so foolish as to not insist on a condom, that’s what. I reach into my pocket and withdraw the object that’s burned like a hot coal through my jeans since I got back from my errands this morning, and hand it to Claire.

  “I’m pregnant,” I say, my voice finally breaking. “I’m fucking pregnant! I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

  Claire holds the test stick gingerly, like it’s about to burst into flames, and looks up at me with an expression of pain, love, and sympathy all rolled into one.

  “You’re not stupid,” she says. “You just got carried away in the heat of the moment. I don’t blame yo
u one bit. He’s the stupid one to not even wear protection.”

  “I’m twenty-six years old, Claire. I know better than to take chances like that,” I moan out.

  Claire drops to her knees beside my chair and wraps me in a hug. “What are you going to do? Are you going to tell him? How can I help?”

  “I don’t know yet. I can’t just call and blurt out, ‘I’m pregnant’.”

  “Why not? It’s true, isn’t it? And he’s responsible.”

  “There’s something else. He’s not a lifeguard. Well, he is, but...” I sniffle and suck in a deep breath. “He’s loaded. His dad owns Faris Media, a big player in Australia. Derric’s the vice president and executive producer. He told me everything the next morning. He drives a Ferrari for heaven’s sake, and the view from his apartment is to die for. How can I tell him without sounding like some gold-digging skank? It’s probably not the first time some woman’s tried to baby-blackmail him.”

  “Shh… you can’t think that way, Mils. You just have to trust that he has feelings for you and will do the right thing.”

  “And what’s the right thing, Claire? I don’t even know. I hardly expect him to get down on one knee. More likely he’ll offer to pay for a…” I can’t even say the A-word. It’s too much to contemplate right now. I’m only a few weeks along according to the test.

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Claire straightens and grabs me by the arms. “Call. Him. Don’t wait another second.”

  “It’s the middle of the night there,” I say glumly. “It’ll have to wait until morning at least.”

  “Oh, all right.” Claire huffs in resignation. The six o’clock news theme plays on the TV. “C’mon,” she says, pulling me over to the couch. “Wipe your eyes and let’s watch the news. It’s one thing guaranteed to make you see there are worse problems in the world than yours.”

  I give a weak laugh. Bless you, Claire. What would I do without you?

  We sit, and I watch the screen blindly, my mind numb. After a commercial, the entertainment segment blares to life.

  “The biggest talk in the media world this week is the announcement of the new, Australia-based live streaming network ROO TV, which will run as a FOX affiliate and plans to launch this fall. ROO TV is owned by Australian media giant Steven Faris, owner of stations TEN-10 Sydney and TVQ-10 Brisbane.”

  I snap to attention as a video of a handsome older man appears on screen, talking at a press conference.

  “Mr. Faris indicated that he’s handing the reins of this American venture over to his son Derric Faris...” The video pans out, revealing a smiling Derric seated next to the elder Faris, the resemblance unmistakable.

  “Oh, my God, there he is,” Claire gasps out, pointing at the screen.

  Anxiety rises in my chest, and I start to hyperventilate. It’s him alright, every inch as beautiful as I remember. I hang on every word as the news anchor continues:

  “... Derric, who is rumored to have been romantically linked to U.S. singer-songwriter, Belle Luna, for many months, is expected to...”

  The screen cuts to a video of the provocative Belle Luna in concert. She’s a cross between Katy Perry and Lady Ga-Ga.

  Claire grips my hand and swivels her head toward me, mouth open. “Belle Luna? That bastard. Who the fuck does he think he is?”

  My mouth goes dry. He has a girlfriend. A famous girlfriend. Of course he does, you idiot. He’s probably the most eligible bachelor on the planet. I fell for the phony lifeguard act. He said it himself. He only does the job to meet pretty women. Pretty, gullible, impressionable, foreign women. Throwaway women, not serious love interests. I feel dizzy, like I’m going to blackout. Claire grabs me so tight I see stars.

  “Oh, Mils... you’re white as a sheet... you should lie down.”

  I bow my head to stem the sick, rushing sensation of impending unconsciousness. I can’t call him, not now. I need more time to think... to process... to decide. But if I wait much longer, the decision may already be made for me.

  Chapter Six

  Derric

  Not in Oz Anymore

  “Bloody hell,” I mutter, seeing the inevitable clusterfuck of media relations people ahead, thwarting my chance of a clean getaway through JFK airport and to the sanctity of my hired vehicle waiting outside. Beyond the reporters and cameramen is a writhing mass of human bodies waiting for their glimpse of me. Gannets. They’re the same in every country, it seems. Circling for any piece of info-garbage they can snatch up in their rotty beaks.

  The TV and screen paparazzi are bad enough, but they don’t even come close to the unscrupulous predators of the newspaper business. They systematically hunt their own kind. Just days before I left Sydney I had an hour-long interrogation from my dad about certain headlines splashed in nearly every tabloid in Oz—badly photoshopped, compromising images splicing Belle Luna and me together to look like we were in the same room, or bedroom, or beach. But even blurry and overexposed, pictures still paint a thousand words; most of them lies.

  Belle Luna’s Aussie Millionaire. Belle Luna “down under” the sheets with Faris Media golden boy? Pure bullshit. Sure, I’d met the songstress when she was on tour last year, had a few laughs, hit the beach. Then went with her to some awards galas we’d both been invited to, but a full-fledged romance? Not a Buckley’s chance. That was a near impossibility with her kind of celebrities; temperamental, image-obsessed and working all the effing time. Not that I was in the market for one, but what kind of relationship can you build with that?

  I’d told Steve as much. That I was not—repeat—was not, having an affair with Belle Luna and, in fact, hadn’t seen her in months. That I’m a happily-single bachelor with no romantic attachments whatsoever, and I like it that way. I further pointed out that he of all people should know how the gossip-rag industry works, and not to believe everything he reads.

  He conceded my point, but if I don’t come out squeaky clean on the other side of this media gauntlet directly ahead, he’ll have my goddamn nuts. I know the drill. Smile, give them a few non-committal comments, ignore anything personal and elbow my way to the street. It’ll be over in no time.

  Immediately, one TV reporter snares me and peppers me with questions.

  “Mr. Faris, how long will you be in New York?” she asks.

  “I reckon six months or more. We have a lot of work ahead of us,” I reply.

  “When does ROO-TV go on the air?” asks another.

  “Our first broadcast is scheduled for September 1.”

  A tittering wave of competing questions ensues. “Do you plan to formalize your relationship with Belle Luna now that you’ll be staying in New York?” shouts the loudest one. “You and she have been an off and on item for several months. Any plans to pop the question?”

  I flash them all the Cheshire cat smile I’ve perfected over years of being in the public eye. “Just here to get a new network off the ground, darlin’,” I say, giving them nothing. Not the smallest keyhole to peer through into my private life because they’ll be on it like a croc on a ... well, anything. Crocs are fucking ruthless.

  I manage to temporarily placate the entertainment news zealots and bull my way to the exit. My travel liaison ushers me to a shiny, charcoal gray Escalade parked at the curb. Strewth! This rig’s got more power under the hood than I’ll ever need, but what the hell. They did everything to extremes out here. I’m just going with the flow.

  I’m relishing the challenge of navigating the biggest city in the world while remembering to drive on the other side of the road. Foolhardy, most likely; Dad would have a fit, but what Dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And that goes for any other personal indulgences I take while I’m here, like who I choose to keep company with, where I eat and what I drink and how much excess of each. The paparazzi be damned. I’ll stay under their radar; I’ve had plenty of practice.

  The GPS, among the other myriad sensors and controls on the Escalade’s high-tech dash, tells me that I have about an hour a
nd a half drive to my destination, an apartment tower in Central Park West where I’ve leased a penthouse for the next six months, dependent on traffic. A smile spreads across my face. Frame and utility-wise, the vehicle isn’t that different from the bush-wagon jeeps I’d driven countless times in the outback. This is going to be fun.

  The giant, urban metropolis of New York City sprawls before me as I leave the airport, easily following the route indicated by the navigation system. While it’s nothing like ripping around in the Aussie wilderness, the streets here are not that different from Sydney. I’m comfortable in either environment.

  I take in the sights and landmarks, picturing where a certain start-up graphics company might choose to locate in this swarming behemoth of a city. Some trendy neighborhood in an artsy district, I reckon. That would suit Mila. Trendy. Bohemian. Free-thinking. I wish I could remember the damn name of her company; I’d stop in and check it out. I’m going to need a good design team behind this network launch. Promotions, ads, billboards. Branding and set design. It’d be a plum contract for any design firm and the equivalent of a miracle for a small enterprise.

  Truthfully, I’d want to stop in just to see Mila again. See if she even remembers me. There’s something about her that refuses to let go of me; I’ve not been able to get her out of my mind for nearly two months, and it’s damn irritating. Am I just pissed? My ego bruised that she hasn’t tried to reach me? Or is it something more? Being my usual cocky self, I never bothered to get her number, and I regret it now. I’d left the ball in her court and, apparently, she wasn’t playing. Unless I’d misread the game completely.

  Visions of her smooth, full tits flash in my mind… The feel of her silky thighs as I spread them apart, her glorious pussy on full display… The heady, forbidden scent of her arousal… The taste of her quivering tissues as I feasted on her wet, molten woman’s core… Then heard her screams of unbridled pleasure. She wasn’t faking; I know she wasn’t. And when I entered her, felt her welcoming walls pulsing against my bursting cock, taking as well as giving, I exploded in a white storm of pure ecstasy, pure surrender.