Billionaire's Secret Babies (An Alpha Billionaire Secret Baby Romance Love Story)

by Claire Adams

  Chapter Two

  Leah

  "Dammit, Leah!" my mother yelled as she leaned against the doorframe, lighting a cigarette. "Where the hell did you put my bottle? I just had it five minutes ago!"

  "I didn't touch it, Mama," I said as I sat on the couch folding clean laundry, trying to avoid my mother's wrath.

  "The hell you didn't," she muttered as she walked back into the kitchen, slamming the cabinet doors as she searched for the bottle of vodka. It was no use telling her that she'd finished it several hours ago. She'd simply accuse me of lying to her. She yelled at me from the kitchen as she searched, "You're a lousy daughter, you know that? Molly never would have hidden my bottle from me! She was a blessing, that one. Not like you . . . ungrateful little sneak."

  I set my jaw and kept folding. The words weren't new, but the pain they caused each time she uttered them was always surprising. I thought that by now I'd have gotten used to the insults she hurled when she was drunk, but to my astonishment the wounds always felt fresh.

  "Gram, you drank the last of the bottle before we had lunch," Riley called from the back room. "Don't you remember?"

  "I most certainly do not!" my mother shouted back. "Why are you lying to your Gram, child?"

  "I'm not lying," Riley said emerging from the back room dressed in an oversized hoodie and a pair of jeans two sizes too big. Her dark hair was cut like a boy's and stuck up every which way, no matter how much product she used. My twelve-year-old niece was a dedicated tomboy who seemed to be the only one in the family safe from my mother's sharp tongue.

  "Then walk with me to the store so I can get another," my mother demanded as she searched through her purse, looking for money. It wasn’t long before she shouted, “Leah, did you steal all of my money?"

  "No, Mama, I didn't," I said, shooting Riley a look from across the room and nodding toward my purse. We'd been through this so many times, and she knew exactly what to do. I reminded my mother, "You used it to buy your last bottle. Do you need a loan?"

  "No, I don't need a damn loan!" she shouted as she turned her purse upside down and dumped the contents onto the dining room table. "I need my goddamned money is what I need!"

  "C'mon, Gram!" Riley called as she held up the twenty-dollar bill she'd gotten from my purse. "I've got your money right here. Let's walk down to the bodega and get your bottle, okay?"

  "How the hell did you get that money from my purse?" my mother demanded. "It wasn't here when I dumped it out!"

  "Yes it was, Gram," Riley lied. "I just picked it up and found it. Let's go, Gram! Get your sweater!"

  I nodded at Riley who gave me a lopsided smile as she took her grandmother's arm and led her carefully down the steps. I didn't like the fact that Riley was the one who had to walk Mama to the store, but with Molly gone and Patrick at the parish Riley was the only one Mama would allow to help her.

  "Don't steal anything else while I'm gone, Leah!" my mother shouted as she headed down the street. "Do you hear me?"

  "Yes, Mama," I sighed. "I hear you. I always hear you."

  Later that evening, after Mama had drunk herself into a deep sleep, Riley came out and sat down next to me on the couch.

  "Why does Gram drink so much?" she asked. She curled up in a corner of the couch, wrapped her arms around her knees, and picked at the hem of her hoodie.

  "She's in pain," I said as I pulled the elastic out of my ponytail and ran my fingers though the long, dark curls.

  "Why is she in pain, Leah?" Riley asked. "Is it because of me?"

  "Oh goodness no, darling," I said shaking my head. "Gram is sad about a lot of things. I think she is most sad because she misses your mom."

  "Is that why she's so mean to you?" the girl asked, quietly looking away.

  "I don't know why Gram is mean to me," I said. "I think sometimes people are mean to the ones they love the most because they know that those people will never leave them."

  "But that doesn't make any sense, Leah," Riley said. "If you love people, you should be nice to them. You shouldn't be mean to the ones who stay with you even when you're not nice. You should be mad at the ones who leave."

  "Are you mad at your mom, Riley?" I asked. We hadn't talked much about Molly's disappearance, but I knew it weighed on all of us.

  Molly had gotten pregnant with Riley when she was 17. She'd skipped her senior year of high school and moved in with Danny Donahue, the boy who'd gotten her pregnant. Things turned from bad to worse when Danny was arrested for dealing drugs out of their small apartment and was sentenced to ten years. Two years into his sentence, he was killed in a drug-deal-gone-bad inside the maximum-security prison, leaving Molly to raise their daughter alone.

  With no skills and no high school diploma, Molly turned to the only thing she knew how to do. Soon, she was walking the streets at night while Mama or I watched Riley. She'd lied and told us she was working at the plant, but the first time she got arrested for solicitation, the truth came out. She tried to pull herself together for Riley's sake but, before long, she was down on the wrong side of town, shoving a needle in her arm.

  When people have no hope, they often do things that rob them of the possibility of ever regaining it.

  Then, one night, a few weeks before Riley's ninth birthday, Molly disappeared. She didn't call to tell us she was leaving. She just vanished into thin air. I filed a missing person's report at the local precinct, but the officers assigned to the case knew Molly from the streets. They told me that it was unlikely that she'd been abducted and that finding her was not a high priority. Another missing junkie prostitute didn't warrant an all-out effort. While I tried to investigate, I was working a full-time job and taking care of Riley. I didn't have the energy to launch a search.

  "I'm not mad at my mom," Riley said as she pulled my arm up so she could snuggle in next to me. "I just miss her."

  "I know, kiddo," I said leaning down to kiss the top of her head. She smelled like apple shampoo, and I smiled, "I miss your mom, too."

  "Do you think she's ever coming back, Leah?" Riley asked as she picked a thread from one sleeve.

  "I don't know, honey," I said. "I don't know where she went or if she knows how to get back."

  "You're not leaving, are you?" she asked as she tipped her head and looked up at me through her bangs.

  "No, I'm not leaving you, Riley," I said as I kissed her head again. "I'm staying right here. You don't need to worry about that."

  "Okay, good," she nodded as she popped up off the couch and headed toward her bedroom. "If you're going to stay, then I'm going to go do my homework."

  "I think that's an excellent choice," I nodded as I watched her long, lanky form move down the hallway. I murmured, "I'll be right here if you need me."

  Chapter Three

  Jack

  I pulled my sunglasses out of the front pocket of my sport coat as I scanned the terminal for the chauffeur who was supposed to take me to my father's funeral. When I didn't immediately see him, I pulled out my phone to dial the car service. On the screen was a message that read, "Car waiting at the end of the International Terminal. Luggage has been sent to the house."

  "Well, I'll be damned," I muttered as I put the glasses on and quickly walked toward the end of the terminal. There I found Jimmy, my dad's driver, waiting next to the Lincoln. I called, "Hey, Jimmy!"

  The man turned and nodded as he opened the car door. "Mr. Jackson, good to see you."

  "How are you holding up, Jimmy?" I asked as I looked at him. Jimmy Branson had been my father's driver for almost 20 years. He'd started driving for my father just after turning 18, and my father had treated him well. Jimmy called all of us by our courtesy titles and our given first names. Everyone, that was, except my father. Jimmy had never called his employer anything but Mr. Yates.

  "I'm fine, Mr. Jackson," he nodded. The corners of his mouth and eyes were pulled downward, and the dark shadows under his eyes told me he hadn't slept much since my father died.

  "Seriously,
are you sure you're okay to drive?" I asked as my mind raced ahead to the funeral home. I was going to have to bolster my courage if I was going to spend the rest of the evening with my mother and brother.

  "I'm fine, Mr. Jackson," Jimmy repeated as he held the door open and waited for me to climb inside. I shrugged and slid into the car. Jimmy closed the door quietly. He went around to the driver's side where he slid in and put the car into drive.

  As we glided away from the terminal, I poured myself a scotch, sipping it as I looked out the window. I watched as Jimmy skirted Brooklyn and headed into Manhattan, and I tried to imagine the scene I was going to walk into.

  My father, Bernard Yates, had been a formidable businessman who'd worked his way up. Starting as a boy who'd opened a small diaper service in Brooklyn, he quickly moved on to owning and running Baby Steps, one of the most successful baby supply companies in the country. He'd built each rung of the business with great care and attention, and as a result, he'd been beloved by his employees and customers.

  This funeral was going to be difficult for many reasons, not the least of which was that I had not seen my family for almost a decade. I'd been busy building my business and, once I'd sold it, I took off sailing. As much as I could be, I was on the yachts I'd bought with the money from the selling my company. I spent it before my father could convince me to buy a large portion of stock with the money. I'd been fortunate to enter the market at the beginning of the start-up boom and to have gotten out of it before the market crashed.

  While my father and I had had many disagreements over how I should live my life, the one area we’d always seen eye-to-eye on was money. When I’d made my fortune, he’d suggested that I put the majority of it into a family trust that would pay out a substantial allowance every month. I’d agreed because I could see how the investment would benefit me and, after having my lawyer look it over, I agreed to the set up.

  "Jimmy, do you remember the last time you picked me up at the airport?" I asked as I poured myself another scotch and leaned back in the leather seat.

  "That would have been April 4, 2006, Mr. Jackson," Jimmy replied without taking his eyes off the road. "You were home after you graduated. I took you back to the airport the next day."

  "Mmm-hmm," I nodded as I looked out the window, recalling the trip that had ended after my father and I had disagreed about my post-graduate path. I'd told him that I wasn't going to follow in his footsteps and join the family business, and he'd told me that I was ungrateful. I could have a year to travel and sow my wild oats, but that if I didn't come back and join the company after that, I would no longer be welcome in his home.

  At breakfast the next morning, I'd told him there was no way I was going to be tied to a business that had no corporate vision and that refused to come into the 21st century. He had ordered me to leave. My mother had stood by as I packed my things and waved goodbye as Jimmy drove me to the airport to catch my flight back to Barcelona.

  I wondered if Jimmy remembered the way that visit had ended. I thought about asking, but as I swallowed the last of my drink, feeling it burn its way down my throat, I decided that I really didn't want to know.

  I leaned forward to pour myself a third drink. Jimmy's eyes flicked up to look at me in the rearview mirror.

  "You might not want to do that, Mr. Jackson," he said quietly, staring forward. "Your mother is going to need you to be on top of things today."

  "Good point, Jimmy," I said, feeling the shame rising in my chest. It was like my father was reaching out from the grave to remind me of all the ways I was still failing him. I grabbed the bottle and poured a third drink muttering, "Fuck it. It's not my funeral."

  I felt the alcohol work its magic. It loosened my limbs and relaxed me as it bolstered my courage. I'd go to the funeral, pay my respects, say goodbye to my mother, then get the hell out of the city, and never look back.

  Chapter Four

  Leah

  "Riley! Get down here now!" I yelled up the stairwell. "I've got to be someplace in an hour, and I don't have time for this nonsense!"

  "Leah, don't yell at me!" Riley hollered back as she tossed her backpack over the upstairs banister before racing back to her room for one more thing. I ducked as the pack came flying down the stairs and hit the bottom step with a loud thud.

  "What is in this thing?" I muttered as I lifted it off the stair and carried it to the front door.

  "Leah, where the hell are you going?" my mother yelled from the kitchen. She was hungover from the previous night's drinking and was in a foul mood as usual. "I told you I didn't want you girls making noise this morning! I need peace and quiet!"

  "I'm working on it, Mama," I called as I watched Riley descend the stairs. I looked at Riley and mouthed, "Ready to go?"

  She nodded as she grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. From the back, she looked like a middle school boy. I wondered if she cultivated this image to keep the world at bay or if it was simply the most honest expression of herself. I worried about what was going to happen when she got a little older and the expectations were that she’d mold herself into a girl, but for now, I did my best to just let her be.

  "Mama, we're leaving now!" I called as I grabbed my keys from the front hall table and shouldered my purse. I took one last look at myself in the hall mirror and shook my head. I was dressed for a funeral and felt frumpy.

  "Who died?" my mother yelled. "I hope it was some rich relative who left us a ton of money!"

  "No, Mama," I called back. "It was my boss, Mr. Yates. You remember him, don't you?"

  "Was he the asshole that refused to promote you because you're an Irish girl?" my mother asked.

  "No, Mama, he's the one who gave me a job when I was in high school," I said as I stepped into the doorway between the kitchen and hallway. "You remember him. He's the nice man who always gave us a turkey for Thanksgiving."

  "Oh, right," she grumbled as she looked up at me. "God, what the hell are you wearing? You look like a slut! You'll never attract a decent man that way, Leah! What is wrong with you?"

  "I'm not looking to attract a man, Mama," I said, biting my lip and hurrying out of the room. "I'm going to a funeral."

  "There are always decent men at funerals!" she yelled as I shut the door and headed to the car.

  I ignored her as I leaned against the door and tried to let go of the pain she'd caused. My goal had always been to protect Riley as best I could, but sometimes it was difficult.

  "She said something about how you're dressed?" Riley asked as I slid into the taxi’s back seat beside her. She dug into her backpack and came up with a bag of Skittles. I nodded, but said nothing. Riley opened the bag of candy and held it out to me, shaking it as she insisted I take a few. I put my hand out, and she poured the rainbow into my palm saying, "There. That'll fix it for now."

  "Thanks," I smiled as I popped the handful in my mouth and chewed furiously before giving the cab driver the address of Riley's school.

  "See? A mouthful of Skittles makes everything okay," Riley grinned as we pulled away from the curb.

  "Indeed, it does," I nodded as I forced a cheerful smile on my lips and wished it were true.

  "Do you think Gram will ever stop hounding you about finding a man?" Riley asked. Sometimes she was a typical twelve-year-old, and other times she cut right to the heart of things with the wisdom of someone well beyond her years.

  "I don't know," I shrugged as I looked at her and brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead. Riley ducked her head and moved away from me. "Sorry, force of habit. I don't know if Gram will ever change. I don't think so, but we can always hope."

  "Was she this mean to my mom?" Riley asked as she stared out the window. "I mean, was it Gram who made her go away?"

  "No, no one made your mom go away, kiddo," I said, knowing that while I wasn't lying, I also wasn't telling the truth. "She made a choice to go, and she went."

  "Mmm-hmm," Riley replied, not looking at me. I watched her closely as sh
e used her finger to draw a smiley face on the window. Then quietly, she added, "Maybe she made the choice because she had to."

  "I don't know why your mom made the choice to leave, Riley," I said as we pulled up in front of her school. "I know she loved you very much, and that if she decided to leave it must have been for a good reason."

  She turned and looked at me for a moment before opening the car door and getting out. I watched her carefully close the door, wave to me, and then head up the sidewalk. Halfway to the door, she stopped and turned around. I waved as the cab pulled away from the curb. Riley saluted me, then turned, and sauntered up the steps and through the front door.

  I wanted to go back and wrap my arms around her and tell her how much I missed Molly too, but duty called. I let the moment pass.

  Chapter Five

  Jack

  I was finishing my fourth scotch when Jimmy pulled up in front of the funeral home where my father's wake was being held. I knocked back the last of the liquid courage and stepped out of the car.

  I knew my father had been widely respected by his customers and employees, but his funeral was more than I had anticipated. There were limos and town cars as far as I could see, and small groups of people gathered together in the parking lot, sharing cigarettes and flasks as they quietly conversed.

  As I walked through the front door, I was met with a noxious odor. It was created by the hundreds of floral displays lining the hallway leading to the room where my father's casket rested. I kept my head down as I quickly moved toward the spot where my mother stood, shaking hands and receiving condolences.

  "Mother," I said quietly as I moved in behind her.

  "Jackson!" she gasped as she turned and looked up at me. She looked tired, her face ravaged by grief, but she still had an ethereal beauty about her. Her long, grey hair was artfully arranged in layers framing her face, and her makeup had been professionally done in a way that allowed her to cry openly without leaving rivers of mascara running down her cheeks. She was wearing a black hat with a veil, a black knit suit, and black leather pumps. While she looked like the consummate widow, she didn't look like the mother I remembered.