Mountain Man's Accidental Baby Daughter (A Mountain Man's Baby Romance)

by Lia Lee

  “Look, miss, we’re not open yet, and you may have just damaged that painting barging in here like that,” I growl.

  I notice a quick response, almost a wince, before the young woman calms herself again. I take a few steps toward her before I really get a good look at her…

  And she is fucking stunning.

  Her dark eyes meet mine, almost like a challenge, and it’s like lightning striking. She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, and the corner of her mouth quirks up as if there’s some joke here that only she is in on.

  Once I tear my eyes away from her gaze, I’m able to take in the rest of her. She’s a petite little thing, probably coming up to about my chin. Her proportions are perfect: a tiny waist, curvy hips and the kind of breasts I just know would fill my hands nicely.

  I shove the thought away. She’s clearly too damn young. Early twenties, I guess. She’s dressed in a black skirt and blazer that hugs her curves perfectly, with a light pink blouse peeking between her lapels. She has the kind of legs I envision resting on my shoulders as I make her scream my name: shapely and firm. She could leave those black stilettos on, though. My entire body feels warm, and I’m all too aware of the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve had a good, thorough fuck.

  I’ll have to fix that.

  My mouth has gone dry, and I force my eyes back up to her face. She still wears the same look, as if she’s trying to size me up, but there is a little glint in her eyes now, like maybe I’ve annoyed her.

  Cute.

  She’s tiny and curvaceous and about halfway between being flustered and wanting to rip me a new one.

  Still, cute or not, she’s not supposed to be here, and she’s already caused enough chaos— besides giving me the beginning of what will be an embarrassing hard-on if she doesn’t get the hell out of my gallery soon.

  “We open at one o’clock,” I tell her. “And I really, really hope you didn’t damage that painting.”

  Chapter Two

  Poppy

  I feel my face heat in embarrassment and nervousness when he practically yells at me about the damned painting. Again. But that’s never stopped me from running my mouth before, so why should it now?

  “Oh, please. The wind blew that painting down. Blame the wind or whoever set it near the entrance.”

  The man’s jaw drops, and I keep going. This suit needs to learn a lesson in how not to speak to a woman.

  “Seriously, you’re lucky I’m not a customer, mister. If I was, you can bet that I’d be telling everyone I know not to bother coming in here because this gallery’s staff is rude as hell.”

  He is still standing there, but now there’s a look in his eyes, a little lift at the corner of his mouth, and I suspect that he’s maybe laughing at me. It’s almost impossible to ignore the way he’s watching me, and I get the distinct impression that maybe he’s trying to figure out what I look like naked. Typical. The arrogance is pretty much seeping off him.

  “Point taken, miss.” His voice is deep, rich, like the deep ochres and siennas of a Rembrandt. Suddenly, I go from loathing the guy to feeling a light flutter in my most secret place. “And who might you be, if you're not a customer?”

  I hesitate but then recover. I have every damn right to be here. I straighten my spine and look him in the eye. “I’m the new intern.”

  The guy doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, his gaze stays on my face for several long moments before traveling down my body as if he’s following every curve, every dip. I’m annoyed as hell to be looked at like I’m some kind of piece of meat or something, but… I feel this heat low in my belly. No one’s ever looked at me the way he is, like he’s noticing every detail, studying me like I’m one of the sculptures in the far corner of the gallery. Part of the heat comes from the fact that he’s hotter than hell. Dark, wavy hair, and the most arresting hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s clean shaven, with a chiseled jaw and strong neck. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes suggest that he’s older—at least in his late thirties—and one word comes to mind: experienced.

  I bet he’s experienced as hell in all kinds of things.

  He looks damn good no matter how old he is. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a wide chest. He dwarfs me, even in my three-inch heels. That light flutter has turned into a distinct dampness in my panties. I’ve been attracted to guys before but this… this is just crazy. And absolutely unwanted.

  “And your name is?” he asks in a low, almost lazy tone.

  I’m pretty sure this guy, asshole though he is, could make me come with nothing more than his voice if he really wanted to. Holy shit.

  “Poppy McAdams,” I tell him. He gives me a slow nod, still looking at me.

  “Well. Ms. McAdams. Why don’t you wait upstairs in the loft? The gallery owner will be with you shortly to go over your duties.” I nod, and the corner of his mouth rises, just a little. “Try not to break anything when you’re up there.”

  I open my mouth to tell him off, but he turns away, giving me a good view of his backside, which is almost as nice as his front.

  The good-looking ones are always assholes. Always.

  Without another word, I head for the stairs and make my way to the loft. I swear I can feel him looking at me, but that’s stupid. Or is it? After all, he’s just a stereotypical man. He probably can’t help himself. And men wonder why feminism is a growing movement?

  Of course, when I turn around, his eyes are on me, and he gives me the smallest of nods before I turn around again and continue on my way. I wonder if he works here. He must, right? He’s going to be my co-worker. Great. At the moment, I have no idea whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  I finish climbing the stairs and spot an office to the left that says Gallery Director, Nathaniel Stone. The door is open, but there’s a little reception area just outside of it, and I wait there, claiming one of the seats near the door. I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap, then take a deep breath. I’m not nervous. I mean, not really. This internship is mine, and I know I’m lucky to have it. This is one of the most prestigious private galleries in the city, and my dad just happens to be Mr. Stone’s driver. I have no problem using whatever advantage I can get and this internship… this was a big deal. While my classmates were scrambling to intern at any little Podunk gallery that would take them, I was going to be working for THE Nathaniel Stone.

  I’ve been here before, of course. Not to visit my dad or anything… God, not that. I grimace as I think of my dad. He helped me get this job. I know I should be grateful, and I am. Really. But if he thinks that’s going to make up for the things I’ve seen him do…

  I give my head a little shake. No. I’d never been here to visit my dad at work, the way I imagine some daughters do. I’d come here, maybe once a month or so, since my sophomore year of college, when I started realizing what it was I wanted to do with my life. I’d stroll through the gallery, taking in each new piece, every new exhibit, and I’d try to learn. Why had the pieces been arranged like that? Did the gallery staff truly seem to understand the artists’ intentions, and display the works in a way that honored that? In this case, I always felt like the Stone Gallery was top notch.

  And now here I am.

  Thinking about it now, it’s strange that I can’t recall every seeing Mr. Stone. However, I do remember Dad saying something, years ago, about the gallery owner being on hiatus due to a death in the family. Apparently, the gallery had almost gone under at the time.

  I take another deep breath and then try not to think about Mr. Grumpy and Lickable downstairs. He’d certainly never been here before when I’d stopped in either. I would have remembered him, without a doubt.

  As I wait, I look around the reception area, and what I can see of the office beyond. It’s large and airy, with wood paneling lining the walls wherever there aren’t bookcases. One wall contains a large bank of windows looking out over onto the busy street below and the skyscrapers beyond. The bookcases are packed with b
ooks—and by noteworthy authors too— and a few small sculptures that I know damn well aren’t knockoffs or imitations. There is a large abstract painting on one wall, with a serious looking dark-haired boy on another.

  Other than that, there aren’t many personal items around that tell me much about my soon-to-be boss. A Google search about the gallery named the owner, whose name I already knew (of course), but there were no photos of him, which was odd. Nathaniel Stone, I guessed, was a distinguished-looking older gentleman, probably in his fifties, with graying temples and maybe a slight British accent. My father hadn’t said much about his boss, other than that he was a decent guy. I guess that’s all that really mattered in a boss—that they’re not a prick or otherwise awful.

  I glance around again and take another deep breath. I wonder, fleetingly, if I’ll see tall, dark, and irritating again on my way out. For all his asshole vibe, my virginal boots are still quaking. Some people might think that not having your cherry popped by the time you’re twenty is rare, but I’ve never been one to give a damn about what others think. My self-respect is more important to me than a stranger’s judgment. Yet having an older man show me the tricks… well, I can’t deny it has appeal. I’ve always fantasized about having a seasoned lover—someone who would make love to me in all the right ways and show me the ropes, so to speak.

  Maybe Mr. Alpha downstairs could come in handy, I think and then shake my head at the ridiculous idea. Come on, Poppy. Seriously? Do you really want a guy like that to be your first? He probably goes through women quicker than a Great White devours a seal.

  Yes, I have much more important things to focus on just now. Losing my virginity should be the furthest thing from my mind.

  Chapter Three

  Nathaniel

  Once I have things settled with Roberto, I straighten my tie and take the stairs up to my office. I’m more than ready to get further acquainted with Ms. McAdams. Her feistiness—the way she’d stood up to me—was impressive. Not many people do that.

  Honestly, it was more than impressive. It had me imagining all of the dirty, nasty things I could do to a little thing like that after hours; just her and me and an empty gallery. I bet she’d be a spitfire in the sack. Loud. Wild. Dirty. Based on her age, which I know is twenty, she’s probably not very experienced, either.

  The idea of teaching her a trick or two has my dick almost painfully hard.

  I take a deep breath and continue up the stairs, forcing my body to calm the hell down. Whether I want her or not, bending Poppy McAdams over my desk and hearing her scream my name would be bad for business. Her father is a decent man, a hard worker, and even if he wasn’t, mixing business and pleasure is never a good idea. I know this for a fact because I’ve made that mistake once already.

  Knowing this doesn’t make it any less tempting, though.

  I reach the top of the stairs and turn toward my office. Poppy is sitting in one of the chairs near my desk. I can see from where I’m standing that her legs are crossed, and she’s bouncing her foot as she waits. Nerves or an excess of energy? She has nice posture, and while I’m usually into long hair on a woman, the pixie cut gives me a nice view of her long, graceful neck.

  I can just imagine biting it as I—

  No. Not going there again.

  I approach my office, and she turns around, a smile on her face. The smile vanishes when she sees that it’s me, and I fight back a smirk.

  “Oh. It’s you. Where is Mr. Stone?” she demands. Clearly, I’ve made a great first impression on her.

  I hold my hand out to her and smile. “Nathaniel Stone, at your service.”

  She stands, and the blush that colors her cheeks is so damn pretty I decide right that moment that I’ll make her blush often. When she puts her hand in mine, her skin is so soft, so smooth, my first thought is to wonder if she feels like that everywhere.

  Focus, Stone.

  “Right this way,” I tell her, gesturing toward my office. She nods, and turns, walking ahead of me into the office. She’s damn pretty from the back, too, and I force my eyes away from her pert little ass and long legs.

  Once we’re in my office, I close the door. She turns to me.

  “I am so sorry about what happened downstairs,” she begins. “I didn't know that was you and—”

  I hold my hand up, and she goes quiet. I smile. “It’s okay. You weren’t wrong. Let’s just do a restart on this whole thing, okay?”

  She nods, relief evident in her eyes. “That sounds good.”

  “Please, have a seat, and we can get started. If you want some coffee, please help yourself,” I tell her as I make my way around my desk. Instead of grabbing a coffee, she settles into one of the leather chairs on the other side of the desk. I spend a few moments getting situated, trying to get my libido under control. She smells just as good as she looks, a mix of citrus and vanilla, along with something a little sultry that I can’t quite identify. She waits, but her foot is bouncing again.

  “So, you’ll be with us for two months, Ms. McAdams,” I begin.

  “Please, call me Poppy.”

  “Then please call me Nathaniel,” I tell her, and she nods.

  “Over the next few weeks, you’ll learn about every facet of running a gallery. While most of your duties here will lean toward the administrative, you’ll also get some hands-on experience in actual art curation and museum management.”

  “What types of administrative tasks?” Poppy asks.

  “Answering phones, filing, running errands, coffee and lunch runs for myself and the staff. You’ll also assist with the installation of our upcoming exhibit and see more of the behind-the-scenes work that goes along with launching an exhibit like this one.”

  “From what I read online, you have a fairly small staff,” she says, and I’m pleased. My last intern barely knew what we did here.

  “Yes, it’s myself and my curator, Roberto. We have your father on staff, of course, two people on maintenance, and my administrative assistant, Jeanette, but she’s currently on maternity leave, so you probably won’t meet her.”

  “Good timing for an intern, huh?” she asks with a quirk of her lips, and I laugh.

  “It does seem to work out for me, doesn’t it?” She gives a small laugh, and the sound of it makes my gut twist. It’s a soft, almost breathy sound, but I have a feeling that if she were comfortable and relaxed, she’d have one of those great, loud, belly laughs. Another thing I want to make her do.

  Why am I like this? I don’t even know this young woman, and I’ve already got a running list of experiences I want to have with her, and not all of them center around what I’d like to do with her in my bed. I need to get my head straight.

  “Your father is a good man. I don’t know what I’d do without him,” I tell her. That should do it. Bring her dad into it.

  She smiles, but it seems a little strained. “He’ll be happy to hear that. I know he likes working for you. He wouldn’t have even suggested me interning for you if he didn’t.”

  “Protective dad, huh?” I ask, and she nods with a smile.

  “Sometimes,” she says, and there’s that strained smile again. I wonder if she and Bruce get along as well as he’d led me to believe.

  “Can you tell me a bit about your educational background and fields of interest?” I ask, glancing over the resume and transcripts she’s provided, and which I had waiting on my desk for this meeting with her.

  She launches into a rundown of her focused areas of study, which, I'm happy to find, match up with some of my own interests. She’s gotten exemplary grades, and she’s already spent some time volunteering in art museums here in NYC, which speaks to her drive and passion for this kind of work.

  After she finishes, I nod. “This volunteer work at the Met… was that part of a school assignment?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I started volunteering there my junior year of high school. At first, I worked in the museum gift shop and the coat check, but over time, they started
trusting me to be a gallery docent, which was a lot of fun.”

  “So, this was something you did on your own?” I affirm.

  “Yes. All of my friends wondered why in the world I would choose to spend my weekends and school vacations in an art museum,” she says with a laugh, and I like her a little more.

  “Well, I don’t see anything weird about that.”.

  “Let me guess. You did the same thing,” she says.

  “Obviously. They didn’t know what they were missing. Nothing quite like answering the same question about your least favorite piece of art in the gallery for the forty-third time in a day.”

  She laughs, then, a real laugh, and I was right—it’s perfect. Loud, clear, and she has a dimple on one cheek when she smiles wide.

  I glance down at her paperwork again. I need to get myself together here. This woman is distracting as hell, and I don’t have time to be distracted. Or the desire to be distracted, for that matter. I’d told myself after Danneel died that there would never be another woman who turned me on even half as much as she had. But now… now my carnal instincts are betraying me.

  If I didn’t have such a nice view of Poppy’s legs, avoiding distraction might be easier. Her legs are crossed, and the skirt she’s wearing has ridden up her thighs, just a little. So what was a fairly proper, just above knee-length, skirt when she was standing, now gives me a nice view of a smooth, lush expanse of thigh, which only makes me think more about what’s between those thighs.

  I take a deep breath, and we spend more time going over her coursework, and she asks a few questions about the gallery.

  “Did you always know you wanted your own gallery, or did you want to go into preservation or curation?” she asks.

  No one ever asks questions like that. My admiration for Poppy rises a little more every time she speaks, and her personality paired with her beauty is a lethal combination.