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

by Lia Lee

  I remember with a pang of guilt how I’d purposely ignored Mara as she waved at me through the lab window the other day, partly because of the aggravating phone conversation I was engaged in, but more likely for all of the above reasons. Too young. Too smart. Too much of a reminder of my weaknesses and mistakes. Ones I can’t afford to make again.

  I wash my hands and straighten my clothes, and chastise the reflection of my conflicted, middle-aged self in the mirror. The striking profile and magazine-cover-featured good looks of Bastian Kingsley’s face will fade soon enough. There’s no room in my future for another woman, young or old. So, for the moment, I declare GeoRock’s basement laboratory officially off-limits.

  Chapter Five

  Mara

  Chivalry Isn’t Dead; Just Not Feeling Well

  “Oh, c’mon, Shirley… just a few feet more… don’t you die on me now!” I plead, coaxing my spluttering bomb of a car forward to the last vacant parking stall. Shirley is a gift from my Uncle Doug; he was about to call the local charity to come pick it up a year ago, but I convinced him she still had some life in her and would be perfectly suited for an unemployed student like me. He agreed and gave her to me free of charge, but today I’m forced to admit she may be on her last legs.

  Shirley, a 1992 Chevy Cavalier, coughs and rattles as she rolls on sheer momentum toward the paved slot that may be her final resting place. To my horror, smoke begins to spew out from under the dented hood, billowing into the enclosed concrete dungeon of the parkade. I roll down the window, and as I try vainly to wave away the clouds from my vision, I can hear her pitiful death cries amplified in the empty space. Dear God. I hope no one else is nearby to witness this; I’ll die of embarrassment, not to mention being arrested for crimes against the environment.

  Shirley and I come to a stop in her designated spot, and I swear she gives a wheeze of total exhaustion. I’m afraid to turn the engine off for fear she won’t start again but equally afraid to keep it running. I twist the key and yank it from the ignition. Looks like I may have to be taking the subway to work from now on, but even train tickets cost money. Money that I don’t have. I bought gas for Shirley with drink container refunds, for God’s sake; how am I going to afford transit fares?

  Four more months. Well, four months less two weeks, until I might have a paying job. I would just have to get by somehow until then. I gather my purse and my school bookbag that now serves as a briefcase of sorts and force Shirley’s door open. She squeaks in protest as I edge my awkward way out of the tight space between her and the next car, as I was unable to control exactly where we stopped between the lines. I slam it shut and smooth out my skirt and jacket, brushing off any road grunge I may have picked up by brushing against the car’s dirty exterior.

  Wisps of smoke still swirl around me as I look up at the sound of footsteps clopping on the hard pavement of the parking ramp floor, growing louder as they approach. Oh, dear God no.

  It can’t be.

  Why him?

  “You’re creating quite a health hazard with that thing,” he says, his tall, suited figure stepping closer. He tilts his head in accusation as he eyes me up and down, then scans the smoking ruins of my car.

  Bastian Kingsley.

  Fuck.

  “Looks like its seen better days,” he says, gesturing to Shirley then waving away a stray puff of smoke that drifts toward him. “I can’t have employees representing the company in a hunk of junk like that. We have a reputation to uphold. Why don’t you get a new car?”

  I feel my face turning red. Of all the people to bump into right now, why did it have to be the uber-gorgeous, impossibly-suave CEO of the company? Why couldn’t it have been some bum asking for my spare change? I could have ignored him and went my merry way since I had no change to spare anyway. But the boss I can’t run from, nor his sarcastic tone that’s dripping with contempt. For me as well as my sad excuse for a car, I’m sure.

  “Uh, good morning Mr. Kingsley,” I titter. “I-I’d love to get a new vehicle, but… as an intern I… Well, you know it’s an unpaid position, right? I can’t exactly afford anything new right now.” I clutch my bag in front of me as if in defense. Shit. A guy like Bastian has probably never known financial hardship a day in his pampered life. How could he possibly understand my situation? He talks as if buying a new car is as simple as a trip to the supermarket. I look him straight in the eyes, daring him to talk down to me like that again. In the darkened parkade, I can stand my ground; not melt into the luscious pools of his chocolate brown irises like I did the day I’d met him, or succumb to my ridiculous fantasies as he touches my collar, my hair, and then my…

  “Excuse me?” he says, interrupting my runaway train of thought, giving his head, with its perfectly trimmed and styled salt-and-pepper hair, a minor shake. “Are you not an employee of GeoRock?”

  “No, I’m an intern, like I said… the last time we talked.” I wanted to remind him that he’d met me, but didn’t want to bring up the circumstances. I still haven’t gotten over my dipshit move in boarding the wrong elevator; then again, if I hadn’t, I’d have never met the man at all. But what does it matter? He’s forgotten me anyway, judging by his behavior outside the lab two weeks ago. Maybe this is my second chance to make a first impression. Right. By driving a death-trap beater that’s an environmental abomination. Brilliant conversation starter. “But I’m hoping my internship will lead to something full-time. My supervisor says my work has been outstanding so far.”

  “Good to know that inhaling exhaust fumes hasn’t affected your performance,” he says, with a hint of a grin. Is he being sarcastic, or actually trying to hurt my feelings? I just can’t tell with this man. If it’s the latter, he’s succeeding. I adjust my bags and start to walk forward.

  “I’d better be going, I don’t want to be late. Even if I’m not being paid,” I say, deciding to ignore the comment.

  “Who is your supervisor, Miss Snow?” he asks, blocking my path. He does remember me! The knowledge makes my heart skip a beat, despite his snarky words and the cold shoulder he’d given me. God, I’m a pushover.

  “Dr. Schilleman, the head geologist,” I reply.

  “Ah yes. Ernst Schilleman. Good man,” Bastian says with a nod. “Bit of a mad-scientist type though, wouldn’t you say?”

  This joking version of Bastian Kingsley makes it impossible not to warm up to him.

  “He’s a brilliant man,” I say, the term ‘good’ not truly covering Dr. Schilleman’s qualities. “I enjoy working with him. I’m learning a lot.”

  “I’m sure, but a person has to make a living too,” he says, his expression turning all business again. “I hadn’t realized the internship program didn’t at least offer an honorarium. I seem to be out of touch with a few things after my extended absence. Let me have a word with Ernst. Perhaps there are some additional duties we can have you take on. At a fair wage, of course. That is if you feel you can handle an increased work load?”

  What? He’s going out of his way to do something for me? I think the hollow echo inside the parking ramp must be playing tricks with my ears.

  “What do you say, Miss Snow?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, absolutely,” I reply, snapping out of my delirium. “I’d be happy to. What kind of duties?”

  Bastian steps back to let me pass. “I’m sure we can come up with something.” His gaze passes over Shirley once more, her dying gasps having settled down to a wheezing hiss, then back to me. “And perhaps a leasing arrangement for one of our company vehicles.”

  I clamp my jaw shut, ensuring it doesn’t flap open in shock. A paying gig and a new car too? I don’t know what to say.

  “Thank you,” my lips blurt out on reflex. “Th-hat’s very kind of you, Mr. Kingsley.”

  “Have a pleasant day, Miss Snow.” Then, just as quickly as he appeared, Bastian Kingsley turns and strides away without a backward glance.

  I stand in stupefied immobility, hypnotized by the athletic sway of his legs and
the tilt of his broad shoulders as he walks. This is the other version of the man; the one I don’t like so much. He’s like an unstable weather front—going from spring thaw to freezing rain in the blink of an eye. His personality seems to turn on a dime, and I have to laugh at the ironic comparison. Like tossing a coin, you never know which side of him will turn up.

  I hope it won’t always be the side with a carved, stone-like profile, impervious to everything but the kingdom it reigns over.

  Chapter Six

  Bastian

  The Best Laid Plans

  “It’s just good marketing,” Liam says. “It doesn’t matter how good your intentions, or your product. You can’t have a successful business without a killer marketing plan, Bastian.”

  Liam Dunnigan leans across the boardroom table as he speaks, underscoring his statement with an outstretched palm. The Board recommended that I engage a publicist upon my return from France, and Liam handled a lot of big corporate names, as well as a few celebrities. That didn’t mean I had to like him or his ideas.

  “I’m not arguing that point, Liam,” I say, trying to find some middle ground in the conversation. “That’s why I hired you. So, write the damn marketing plan and execute it. Leave me to run the business. I’ll do my job, and you do yours. Leave my personal life out of it.”

  Liam draws back, retracting his hands to his midsection, clearly thinking up a different tactic to pitch his ideas to me. A true salesman. Overcome all objections. Make them see it your way. “A lot has changed since you’ve been away, Bastian. We can’t rely on conventional advertising channels anymore. The whole world’s gone digital, you know that. The fact is, there just isn’t enough interest in GeoRock as a corporation or a call sign on the stock exchange. We need to put a face on it. Your face, to be exact.”

  “I’m not so sure the world wants to see my face,” I counter. “It just has more wrinkles.”

  “That’s just it—we don’t want the world focusing on the negative, lingering mysteries of the past. The press and the public are fascinated with the rich and famous. They don’t care about your balance sheet or quarterly gains or your charitable donations; they care about the gory details of the reclusive CEO who has suddenly stepped back into the spotlight. They want to know who tailors your suits and who cuts your hair. And who you’re sleeping with.”

  “I’m not sleeping with anybody.” I scowl. “And if I were, it’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  “Well, that’s got to change,” Liam states, matter-of-factly. “We need to make it the public’s business—give them something to talk and gossip about. Be seen with a pretty woman, or several women, on your arm; at nightclubs and sporting events.”

  I shake my head. “Not interested. I’m not putting on a performance for the public’s benefit, like a trained circus bear. I don’t have the time.”

  Liam leans forward again, his face deadly serious. “Make the time. You don’t want anyone thinking you’re gay, do you? Because those rumors could start to fly too if we don’t make a big media statement to the contrary.”

  “Well, coming out would certainly be a big statement,” I quip. “Bet there’d be lots of public interest in that.”

  Liam gives me the stare. “That kind of big we don’t need. I meant a girlfriend. Or better yet, a fiancée. If you got engaged to a local woman, the tabloids would explode. The story of the day would be about you moving on with your life, and not about the unfortunate mine collapse that made you go into hiding all those years ago.”

  “I wasn’t hiding,” I half-snap in defense. “Not from that. GeoRock accepted full responsibility for the accident, and those affected were generously compensated.” But it didn’t mean I wasn’t hiding for other reasons.

  Liam shrugs. “Of course you did. You were a good corporate citizen. But like I said, the public doesn’t give a rat’s ass about reparations, or apologies. They just want the goods, the dirt, the inside story. Preferably a juicy sex story.”

  I roll my eyes and get up from the table. “Well, there isn’t one. They’ll have to get their entertainment someplace else.”

  “I didn’t say you had one. I said we should make one. There’s a difference.”

  “I haven’t even been in town long enough to meet anyone,” I argue. Not exactly true. My strange encounter in the parking ramp this morning crosses my mind. In fact, it’s been on my mind all morning. I begin to wonder if it’s no coincidence that Mara Snow is the one starring in my erotic bathroom fantasies since I seem to keep bumping into her unexpectedly. I suppress a grin, thinking about her predicament. I was not so different when I was her age—struggling to get ahead and make ends meet. Contrary to popular belief, I was not born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth. Any silver I owned had been dug from the ground, almost literally with my bare hands. I suppose that’s the reason I feel compelled to help her out.

  Or is it?

  “That’s not a problem,” Liam says with a sly grin, interrupting my wandering thoughts. “Haven’t you heard of executive dating services? Just name the height, weight, hair color, and bra size, and we’ll make it happen.”

  I shudder inwardly and start pacing the room. I haven’t been on a date since Celine and I first started seeing each other. Sure, I’d kept company with a few women while living in France; seven years is a long time to go without companionship. But those were casual encounters, strictly temporary, noncommittal, and agreed on by both parties. My heart was still too raw to consider anything more serious, let alone remarrying. What Liam is suggesting feels like a betrayal to Celine’s memory.

  “Sorry, Dunnigan. That’s a no-go. I just can’t imagine getting engaged to anyone. It’s not for me.”

  The publicist draws in a huge breath and then exhales in a gesture of defeat. My punny response doesn’t amuse him. He rests his hand flat on the wide oak tabletop. “Alright. Fine. Maybe it’s too soon. But if you’re uncomfortable with putting yourself out there, I suggest we bring your son into the picture. Fly him over here, schedule some photo shoots at the zoo, or the beach. The paparazzi love pictures of celebrities with their kids.”

  I stop pacing and round on the man. “Absolutely not! Don’t you even think it, Liam. I will not involve Mica in my business life, that’s not negotiable. If that suggestion even leaves this room, you’re done with GeoRock, understand?”

  “Okay, okay. Understood,” he says flashing his palms in surrender. “If that’s not an option, then maybe you’ll reconsider the first alternative.”

  “What? Proposing to some random woman off the street just to satisfy the public’s curiosity? They’d see through that in a minute.”

  “It doesn’t have to be real, Bastian. Just make a few public appearances with a nice, good-looking, eligible woman and let my media team do the rest. We announce rumors of your engagement, and in a couple months, when it’s stirred up enough media frenzy, we’ll break it off and attract even more attention. We’ll get the exposure we need and no harm done to either side. It’ll be purely a contract situation, agreed to by both parties. I’m sure you’ve had much less palatable business arrangements. It might even be fun, if you’d let yourself enjoy it.”

  I can see that arguing with him won’t extricate me from playing out some devious plan of his. My Board of Directors hadn’t just suggested I take Liam’s advice. They insisted on it. If I blow him off, I’ll be the pariah of the next meeting. They might even come up with suggestions of their own, and I shudder to think what those might be. They’ll definitely be worse than what a seasoned PR professional with a successful track record could devise. There’s no point in hiring a professional if you don’t take their advice.

  It’s just a matter of choosing the lesser of two evils. I’m jaded enough that a few months of living a lie won’t hurt me, but the potential damage of exposing Mica to the media machine could be irreparable. And in the long run, if this stunt generates the needed visibility and revitalizes the corporation, it benefits my son when he inheri
ts everything I’ve built.

  I return to my seat with my tongue in my cheek. “Okay. One date. That’s all I’ll agree to for now, providing…” I point my finger at Liam’s head. “… I like what I see. I want full background on all candidates, CV, criminal records check, genealogy, photos. And not just head shots, either. I want the works, or they’re in the discard pile, understand? No arguments, no listing of value-added virtues. I’ll tell you yes or no. “

  Liam chuckles. “Sounds like a job interview, Bastian. I suppose you want references, too? From previous lovers?”

  “Not a bad idea,” I say, calling his bluff. It doesn’t faze his confident grin.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he says, pushing back from the table. “Don’t worry, these elite services are very good at screening. You won’t be disappointed.”

  I give him a raised eyebrow. “I’m pretty easy to disappoint, just ask anyone who works for me.”

  “Right,” Liam says, picking up his briefcase and turning toward the door. “I’ll see myself out.”

  As he exits, I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. It could be a crucifixion just as easily as a resurrection. But speaking of people who work for me, I remind myself to pick up the phone and dial Ernst Schilleman.

  Chapter Seven

  Mara

  Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

  “Glad you came?” Lacey asks, practically shouting over the loud music and general nightclub cacophony.

  “Sure,” I say with an enthusiastic nod. I want her to know that I appreciate her valiant efforts to revitalize my social status, even if the atmosphere is a little over the top for my taste. A nice quiet bar would have done just as well, but since Lacey’s occupation often gained her free cover to entertainment venues around the city, she’d picked the most upscale and obnoxious one for me to “show my feathers” as she put it. Like I’m some sort of exotic bird in mating season.