Triplet Babies for My Billionaire Boss (A Billionaire's Baby Romance)

by Lia Lee

  “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 and 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.

  It was bloody heaven, and it made me want more, much more. I’d felt a freedom being with her that I hadn’t with other women. I got the sense that she accepted me for what and who she knew me to be at the time, and accepted herself and her own desires without shame or remorse. No apologies. I know she enjoyed it as much as I did. So why the closed door? The deafening silence I can hear from across an ocean?

  Street after street flows by my windows as I’m lost in thought, but I snap to attention as I almost blow a red light. I slam on the brakes, and a symphony of car horns blast from the knotted mass of vehicles all around me. I exhale a tense breath as the Escalade’s tires squeal to a stop. Pay attention, Faris. Get yourself killed your first day in America. That would get a laugh from the old man. Save him the trouble of doing it himself.

  My fingers drum on the wheel as I look around the intersection while waiting for the green light. On one corner stands a bank, and on another is a petrol station. Kitty corner from them is a church; not a big, ostentatious one, but a gable-roofed, community sort of church with a brick exterior and a tall spire sprouting a simple cross from its peak. I can’t quite make out if it’s Methodist, Presbyterian or what. More horns honk as the light turns green. Oi, keep your knickers on, mates.

  I hit the accelerator and cruise through the intersection when suddenly a light bulb goes on in my head. Church. That’s it. Church and something—wait—it was a play on words—Church and State. Uh, no. Church & Strait. I smile as the revelation unfurls, and my mood takes an unexpected upswing. I have a way to find Mila.

  When I get settled into my new digs, I intend to look up the design firm of Church & Strait. Mila may or may not want to see me but, either way, I plan to make her an offer. Hopefully one she can’t refuse.

  Chapter Seven

  Mila

  What Happens in Oz, Follows Me Home

  The whirring of brewing machines and milk steamers and the comforting smells of aromatic beans greet me as I step inside Lump & Grind, the upscale coffee boutique that is Church & Strait’s newest client. Though I’ve already presented my design comps to the owner for review, I thought it was only fair I should patronize the company and sample their product in the meantime.

  Problem is, I shouldn’t be drinking coffee. Not in my... condition.

  I decide to order something decaf; at least this kind of decision is an easy one. Not so much everything else in my life. I’m six weeks pregnant. Meaning I have a four-week window to decide what to do about it. As awful as the option is, my doctor says a termination can be done prior to ten weeks, but I can’t bring myself to make that kind of choice—not yet.

  The alternative, of course, is to continue with the pregnancy. It certainly wasn’t part of my plan. My dream of opening a design studio in the heart of New York has become a reality. It’s been my passion and my life’s ambition. Having a baby would throw a major wrench in the machine; everything I’d worked for would have to take a back seat, and it wouldn’t be fair to dump all that extra responsibility on Claire. We’d have to hire extra staff, a nanny at least, and I’m not certain our budget could withstand all of that right now.

  But there’s one fact I can’t ignore. I miss having a family. I was only ten years old when I lost my dad to a workplace accident. Mom never really recovered from it. No amount of insurance money could compensate for him not being there, to be a husband and father. She put on the bravest face she could for my sake, but a deep depression gripped her after his death. The most crushing blow of all came with the diagnosis of a brain tumor twelve years later. Mom fought a brave two-year battle but ultimately lost the war.

  Tears burn the back of my eyeballs as I think of how thrilled Mom would’ve been to have a grandchild. I could have a family again. My own family. Suddenly all the doubts and weighty problems seem to lift from my shoulders. I know what my choice will be.

  I’m going to have this baby.

  The line-up for coffee is moving slowly. I grab a newspaper from a nearby rack to pass the time. In a twist of evil serendipity, a photo practically leaps off the page at me. It’s Derric again, smiling for the cameras, and my heart accelerates as I hurriedly read the accompanying story.

  The arrivals level at JFK swarmed with spectators and camera crews earlier this week for a glimpse of FOX network’s new Australian affiliate station executive producer, Derric Faris, son of venerable Sydney media mogul, Steven Faris. The younger Mr. Faris is in New York for the next several months to oversee the network launch of ROO-TV, the first Australian-based live streaming channel, scheduled to premiere September 1.”

  No freaking way! He said he came to the States sometimes, but... I had no idea it would be this soon. September is six months away. He’ll be here all that time? My mind cycles through the ramifications of this; if I contact him and tell him about the baby, I don’t know how he’ll react. It might negatively affect his work and compromise the network launch. Worse, he might turn right around and catch the next plane back to Oz. On the other hand, if I don’t tell him, my baby bump will be very visible by September. There’s no way he won’t notice.

  The third option settles over me like a dark cloud. Stay away. Make no contact at all. Can I trust myself to do that? With a pang of horror, I recall the rumors about Derric and Belle Luna. Is that part of why he’s here—to reunite with her, make a big media splash with an engagement announcement? That would boost the network ratings... and rip my heart out at the same time. I wouldn’t put it past him; he’s been born and raised in the entertainment business, after all. I close my eyes as all these unpalatable possibilities flood my brain, stalling it like a car engine, unable to move forward or back.

  “Yes, ma’am?” The clerk’s voice startles me, and I realize I’ve reached the front of the line. I place my order for a decaf low-fat milk latte and force myself to read the rest of the article.

  When questioned about his relationship with popular music star Belle Luna, and a rumored wedding engagement, Mr. Faris was elusive and quoted as stating he was “just here to get a new network off the ground.”

  His clever dodge of a direct question confirms my hunch. He’s just dangling the carrot; practicing his ingrained craft of misdirection, suspense and leaving the audience guessing. Well, there is no guessing about my situation. I wonder how the media would respond if they knew that Derric Faris, Australian media golden boy, was about to become the father of an illegitimate child? Not with a pop star, but with a nobody American girl he had a random fling with to top it off. Ha. If it’s headlines he wants, that one would take first prize.

  I fold the paper into my handbag as I grab my coffee order and leave the shop. In my heart, I know I couldn’t do that; potentially ruin Derric’s career with that kind of scandal. But what about my career? Just because I’m not famous or a billionaire doesn’t mean I should sacrifice my hopes and dreams, either.

  I trudge the few blocks to the studios of Church & Strait, no closer to solving my dilemma. I wish Claire were in the office today. Maybe talking with my best friend and partner will help me get some clarity… but she has appointments all morning. At any rate, I know what she will say. Tell him. Make him man up and take responsibility.

  ***

&nbs
p; My stomach growls irritably as I sit hunched over my computer. Glancing at the clock I see it’s almost noon, and I’ve barely moved from my ergonomic office chair all morning. Typical me; diving into my work to block out things I don’t want to think about. Things that are unpleasant or painful. Like the death of my parents. It’s more than a coping mechanism; it’s almost become therapy for me. But my current situation won’t change no matter how much or how hard I work.

  My gut rumbles again, reminding me I need to eat. Whether I want to eat or not is a different issue. My appetite swings between ravenous one day and unable to even look at food the next. Today feels somewhere in between. As I reach for my purse inside a desk drawer, a soft knock sounds on my office door.

  “Come in,” I say, knowing the only other person in the office is mine and Claire’s shared assistant, Terri Thompson.

  Terri’s brunette head pops through the partially open door, her Harry-Potter-esque eyeglasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose. “Mila? Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment. Did you want to meet with him or should I tell him to come back later?”

  Huh? This is odd. We don’t get much walk-in traffic in our type of business. “What does he want? It’s not a salesman, is it?” I ask, wincing.

  “I don’t think so. He doesn’t talk like any salesman I’ve ever heard. He says he needs ‘creative inspiration’.” Terri air-quotes. “For a business venture. And that he’s an old acquaintance.”

  My eyebrows raise in suspicion. An acquaintance? I have no idea who it could be, but I’m not about to turn away potential business. Especially when it just walks through our door unsolicited. We’re going to need all we can get. “Um, okay. Send him in.”

  “Sure thing.”

  So much for lunch. Hopefully, this meeting won’t take long and that my wonky stomach will stay quiet for the duration. I close my desk drawer and stand to greet this unexpected visitor, smoothing out any wrinkles in my jacket and skirt. I look up as the door opens wider, and nearly fall back into my padded chair at what I see. I touch my fingertips to the desktop to steady myself. I can’t tell if I’m dizzy from standing so quickly or from the sight that greets my eyes.