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

by Lia Lee

  “Are you ready?”

  She nods and picks up one of the bags on the living room floor. I take it, then grab the second one.

  “Is it okay if I bring a laptop?”

  “Bring whatever you want,” I tell her, and she grabs a small bag in addition to the ones I’m carrying.

  I can’t take my eyes off her. I should have sent a driver instead.

  This woman, the sight of her, the smell of her, the things I imagine doing to her…all of it has me feeling like I’m already out of my mind.

  “Come on,” I growl at her, and she jumps a little at my tone.

  Fuck. I don’t want her scared. I have no idea what the hell’s come over me tonight. But that’s a lie. I know exactly what it was, and it’s wrapped up in the curvaceous, silky-haired, soft-spoken little thing leading me to the elevator.

  One month. Mine.

  I plan to make the most of it.

  We take the elevator down to the ground floor. She’s kept her eyes down the entire time, and I have to confess that I didn’t expect a stripper to be this shy. I mean, she did say it was her first night, but I assumed she meant her first night at the Calla Club.

  This woman, out of the slutty costume and the fuck-me heels, doesn’t strike me as the stripper type. And I just paid a million dollars for her, making her, very likely, one of the most high-priced escorts in the world.

  I nearly laugh. I must be out of my goddamned mind.

  We make our way to the door and I open it for her. She murmurs a quiet “thanks” and as she walks past me, the scent of her envelops me again, just as it did at the club. She smells like something sweet and citrusy, and I wonder if that scent is everywhere, if, were I to sample her sweet pussy later, I’d be surrounded by it, covered in it.

  I’m so fucking hard I can barely walk.

  “We’re over here,” I mutter, nodding toward my red and black Bugatti Veyron with more than a little relief that it’s still there. I half-expected to find some dickhead in the process of trying to steal it. I glance at Samantha, and she’s staring at the car, then glancing at me.

  “I should have asked for more,” she says, and the hint of self-deprecating humor in her voice almost makes me laugh. “Now I think I sold myself short.”

  “Well. I know this car gives me a good ride. How good a ride you are remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” I ask, raising my eyebrow. She blushes prettily and glances away.

  I open her door and wait as she slides into the passenger seat. I close her door then toss her bags into the trunk, taking a deep breath before I get into the driver’s seat.

  The engine purrs to life and I pull away from the curb. It’s about a twenty-minute drive to my apartment in the South Beach neighborhood. The huge steel-and-glass tower overlooking the bay is the first building I was in charge of for my father’s construction business. I oversaw every part of its construction, and when it opened up, I took the top floor for myself.

  I never take anyone there. Even Marlena, who I was technically engaged to for a little while, never slept there.

  And I’m taking this stripper there.

  Did all of my brain flow down to my dick or something?

  “So your dad’s in trouble with the Mafia?” I ask, shaking off my irritation over wondering what the hell I’m doing.

  “Yeah. He was doing a good job paying them back, and I kick in everything I can, too, but it’s not enough since he lost his job.”

  “What kind of work does your dad do?”

  “He’s an electrician. He’s been trying to get started as an independent contractor since losing his job, but he’s not great at putting himself out there and getting business.”

  I nod. I’ve seen that before. Good, skilled tradesmen are irreplaceable on a job site, but many of them are happier working as part of a firm than going out on their own. It strikes me that I can probably find the guy something.

  Later. I’ll deal with that later. “He took out this loan to pay for some kind of arts academy for you?” I ask, glancing over at Samantha.

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of art?”

  She sighs. “Acting. I’ve wanted to be on Broadway since before I even knew what Broadway was.”

  Something in her voice catches my attention. “Tell me more about that.”

  She’s silent for a few moments, and I wait it out. I can be patient, but she’s going to answer me whether she thinks she wants to or not. Finally, she says, “My mom was a Broadway actress. I remember seeing her on stage. When I was little, we used to make blanket forts in our living room and eat baklava and watch musicals. I knew every word to every song of ‘Singing in the Rain’ by the time I was five,” she says, and a glance shows me that there’s a sad little smile on her lips that makes my gut twist, just a little.

  “And where’s your mom in all this? Did she leave your dad?”

  Samantha shakes her head. “She’s gone. Breast cancer,” she adds softly, and I want to kick my own ass for bringing it up.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen,” she answers. And then she sighs. “I knew I wanted to be like her. She was so graceful, so talented. Her voice was like honey. I kind of felt like, if I made it, I was making it for both of us. She wasn’t ready to be done yet.” And then she gives this bitter little laugh. “So I went to the same academy she went to for three years. Pops insisted on helping me. There was no way I could have afforded it, even with the scholarships I got,” she adds, and I nod. “And now, he’s in danger of losing his life because of me.”

  The self-hatred in her voice makes me want to pull over and hold her. Which is fucking stupid. This is a business arrangement, a way for me to have an easy, no-strings escort for all of the mind-numbing but necessary events I’m forced to go to over the next month. I should be thinking about that, not about how to help her fix her life.

  But the fact is, I’m already finding that, to my total surprise, I actually like Samantha. She is so far from the jaded whore I expected. She’s intelligent, well-spoken, driven. And despite her nervousness, she’s the rare woman who seems to know her own worth. I would have laughed in the face of anyone else who’d told me to pay a million dollars for the privilege of hiring her as an escort. I respected her for telling me what she needed. And we made it clear: we are both here for an arrangement: I’ll use her services as often as I need, and she’ll accompany me to the boring-ass events my father makes me attend. And when the month is up, when it is time for me to start my next project, she’ll be gone.

  Easy.

  “Well, you fixed that. The money’s in your account, but you won’t have full access to it until the month is up.”

  “That’s all that matters,” she says quietly, and we drive the rest of the way to my place in silence. She doesn’t say anything when I pull into the parking garage, though I can tell by the expression on her face that she’s impressed by the building.

  We step onto my private elevator, and she glances around. The sides of the elevator are glossy black, and I can see her reflection in it. A flash of me fucking her against the wall, seeing our reflection from every angle, has me hard again.

  Tonight. I’m going to have her tonight. We just have some bullshit to get through first.

  Chapter Three

  Samantha

  When the elevator doors open, Dante leads me down a short hallway. Dark wood paneling, marble floor. Everything gleams. He unlocks the door at the end of the hallway and steps aside, waving me in.

  The first glimpse of his penthouse gives me a definite “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto” kind of feeling. The same dark wood paneling from the hallway wraps around the wide-open area, except for one wall of windows, which looks right out over the bay. A kitchen and dining area are at one end, expensive-looking stainless steel appliances and black granite everywhere. Wood floors span the area. At the other end is a large living room with dark gray furniture
and a large fireplace.

  “Your room is this way,” he says, heading down a hallway. I follow, taking in the gleaming floors, the expensive looking artwork on the walls. He opens a set of French doors and steps into a room. I follow.

  This room looks out over the bay as well. Another set of French doors leads out onto a small balcony. There’s a fireplace, a king-sized four-poster bed, an antique-looking dressing table, and a dresser.

  “Bath is this way,” he says, opening another door and turning the light on. A huge clawfoot tub, sleek white tile.

  “We need to lay out some rules here,” he says, and I nod. “You will live with me until the month is up. When I need to attend an event, which is often, you will accompany me. You will wear what I tell you to wear. You’ll be where I want you to be. You’ll take care of yourself. Pamper yourself. Eat well. When I want you to spend time with me, I expect you to do it. You’ll eat your meals with me.”

  I bite back a comment about how bossy he is. But of course he’s bossy. He just paid a million dollars for me. He can be as bossy as he wants.

  “Speaking of events, you’ll be accompanying me tonight. You’ll wear this,” he says, opening the closet doors. My jaw drops at the sight of the stunning red Valentino evening gown and matching shoes.

  “How did you know my size?” I ask dumbly.

  “Harry has all of your measurements,” he answers, and I nod. Of course.

  “Be ready to go by seven. Wear that. I assume you can handle your hair and makeup, or do I need to call someone?”

  “I can manage just fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice pleasant. What an arrogant ass.

  “Good. Get ready. And when we get there, don’t talk unless you’re spoken to.”

  I bite back a smart ass reply, settling for a curt nod instead. He stalks out without another word, closing the doors behind him.

  “Don’t talk unless you’re spoken to,” I mutter, mimicking Dante’s gruff, commanding tone. I look at the gown again. It’s obviously expensive as hell, and I know before I even pull it on that it’ll fit me like a glove. I run my fingertips over the silk and shake my head.

  Okay. So this was not what I expected. I mean, really, I had no idea what to expect. A month of lap dances? Thirty days of me prancing around naked whenever he told me to? I don’t know. From the hungry way I’ve caught him looking at me, I get the distinct impression that he’s thinking he’d like me to spend a lot of time on my back or knees.

  I also know, from the way he behaved at the club, that whether that happens or not will be my choice. This isn’t a man who needs to force a woman, or a man who needs to pay for sex. I know that as surely as I know my own name. Why I’m here at all is a mystery to me, but I’ll take it. This is saving my Pops. This is giving both of us a fresh start.

  And, yeah…part of me is scared to death that Dante’s going to want more. And another part of me wonders what he’ll be like if I decide to give him what he wants.

  I grimace. I would lose my virginity to a man who is paying me. I’ve held onto it for so long, much longer than any other girl I knew, expecting that my first time would be with a man I was head over heels in love with. I knew there are men out there who are more than happy to use a woman and then toss her aside. I promised myself I’d never give myself to someone who didn't respect me.

  And here I am. Contemplating the possibility of giving myself to a man who is paying for my time. I’ve been thinking about how he’d feel inside me since the first time his dark, hard gaze met mine, and I’ve barely stopped since.

  My stupid, romantic dreams versus my father’s life. It wasn’t even a debate. I can fall in love later. My father was running out of time, and I couldn’t lose him, too.

  I spend some time doing my makeup and pulling my hair into a perfect chignon. It looks sleek and sophisticated. It goes with the dress.

  I am playing a part. Acting. All I need to do is keep reminding myself of that.

  When I slide the dress on, it fits as perfectly as I suspected it would. It’s a gorgeous, off-the-shoulder gown that clings to every one of my curves. There’s a slit up one thigh, and my breasts are on the verge of spilling out of it.

  I’ll have to remember not to breathe too hard, or Dante’s going to have to worry about a lot more than me speaking to someone without being spoken to.

  I dab on some of my perfume and look myself over. I don’t recognize myself. Well, almost. This is the me who goes out on stage and wows the audience, an actress made for a role.

  Maybe, at my core, that’s all I truly am.

  ***

  When I step out into the living room, Dante’s standing at the windows, holding an amber-colored drink in one of his hands. He turns and looks at me, and his eyes darken.

  “Much better than that slutty schoolgirl costume,” he says, and I nod. It isn’t exactly a compliment, but why should I expect one?

  He sighs. “Well, let’s go.” We head out, and he rests his hand at the base of my spine as I walk past him out of the penthouse. The heat of his palm sears my flesh through the slinky fabric of my gown, and I nearly trip. I do wonder, for about the hundredth time since he told me we were going out, why he didn’t have a date for this. I thought about asking him but changed my mind. It was probably best if we didn’t talk to each other too much. I don’t need to get to know him. I just need to make it through the month.

  A black stretch limo is waiting in the garage, and the chauffeur helps me into the back. Dante follows, and within moments we’re driving away. I glance up at him to see him sitting in the seat across from me, dark eyes on me. His gaze flicks down to my chest and I blush.

  “It, um,” I begin, clearing away the weird little catch in my throat at the way he’s looking at me, “It fits perfectly. This dress probably cost more than the house I used to live in,” I add with a nervous little laugh. Why the hell won’t he stop looking at me like that, like I’m some kind of package he’s just dying to unwrap?

  “It does. I had a feeling you’d look good in red.”

  I blush and glance away, and when I look back at Dante, he’s wearing this little smirk that has me pressing my thighs together.

  He gives me one more assessing look, like he’s picturing me without the dress or anything else, and then he looks away. “This event is going to be boring as hell. Stay on my arm unless I tell you to go elsewhere. Smile and nod when people introduce themselves to you. If you’re forced to answer any questions, you’re an old friend of mine accompanying me for the night. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, in general—”

  “I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Don’t speak unless I’m spoken to. I got it.”

  “Does that bother you, me telling you what to do?”

  I shrug.

  “Answer.”

  “You’re the one shelling out the big bucks, right? I’ll keep my mouth shut all you want, boss.”

  “But it bothers you,” he presses, and I wonder what the hell he cares.

  “Lots of things bother me. Right this second, I’m finding that you’re bothering me with questions that are pointless for me to answer.”

  “Did you just politely suggest that I shut up, Samantha?” he asks, and there’s a gleam to his gaze that has me squirming, just a little.

  “I didn’t think I was all that polite about it, but sure.”

  “Man, I could think of a few fun ways to put that sassy mouth to use,” Dante mutters, and I shoot him a glare that feels mostly like a farce, because my body’s about to combust at the deep growl in his voice. He looks out his window again, and I force myself to stop drooling over the way his muscles bulge under his tux, or how large his hands are, or how they felt when he touched me earlier.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Chapter Four

  Dante

  I’m pissed at myself for making that crack about Samantha’s mouth and what I’d like to do with it. My mind hasn’t been right since the firs
t time I saw her, and talking to her, to my surprise, has only made it worse. One thing is abundantly clear: Samantha’s not the type of girl who belongs anywhere near a strip club. She’s sweet, smart, and very clearly submissive, even if she doesn’t realize it. And she definitely doesn’t belong anywhere near a sleazeball like Harry. He knows he’s essentially pimping these girls out to his high-paying clients. Anyone else would have had her on her knees already, and she would have done it, because she doesn’t feel like she has a choice.

  The thought of anyone else even thinking of doing that to her makes me want to hit something. Hard.

  She’s a good girl who deserves a guy who’ll treat her like a princess and shower her with flowers and gifts and make all of her dreams come true.

  Me? All I can think about, as we near the site of the gala we’re attending, is how badly I want to peel that dress off of her, spread her legs, and pound into her sweet pussy. I bet it’ll be tighter and hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced before. I want to take every bit of her sweet innocence and fuck it right out of her until she understands that her body exists for my pleasure.

  I curl my hands into fists. I want to do that, but I fucking won’t. I’m not that guy. Damn, I want her. I feel it deep in my gut, not to mention my balls, how bad I want to be inside her, how bad I want to hear her screaming my name, begging me to fuck her harder.

  I look over at her, and she’s watching the scenery out the window. That dress. Fuck.

  I can admit I want her. I can admit that I want to dominate her completely. But not because I’m paying her. No, that takes all of the fun out of it. Seduction is a game, and I’m going to seduce Samantha’s sweet ass into my bed. She’ll be begging me to take her. My cock twitches, thinking about how fresh and innocent she is. I mean, as innocent as a girl working as a stripper can be, I guess. There’s no way she’s a virgin. Guys have probably been trying to get into her pants since she was a teenager.