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

by Claire Adams

  I finished up the dishes and swept the kitchen before I stuck my head into Riley's room and told her I was going out for a bit.

  "Oooh, hot date?" she teased as she looked up from her homework.

  "Something like that," I smiled. "I'll be back in a few hours. I've got my phone if you need me. Just leave Gram alone for now, okay?"

  "Gotcha," she said, pointing her finger at me and winking. I laughed and shook my head as I grabbed my purse and keys and headed out the door.

  *

  It wasn't a long walk to the parish where Patrick lived now that he’d returned to town, so I used it to clear my head and organize my thoughts. It had been two years since Patrick and I had been in the same room together, so this conversation felt heavy before it even began.

  I stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the church and looked up at the building. The spire reached up into the sky as if it were stretching out to touch God, or at least that's what we'd been told since we’d started attending mass there. Every Sunday, we'd get up and get dressed in time to walk to mass with my parents, who would drop us off at Sunday school despite our protests that we'd be good, just this once.

  Patrick, Molly, and I would sit together in the back row as the Sunday school teacher quizzed us on the Bible verses we were supposed to have memorized. Patrick was the only one who actually knew his verses, and he was always rewarded with a toy or a cookie or a piece of candy for his effort. Molly and I would often commandeer his treats before he got a chance to enjoy them, but he never really seemed to mind. For Patrick, the reward was in the knowledge.

  Molly and I had teased him about being so well-versed that he'd have no choice but to become a priest. I don't think it ever occurred to us that he'd actually do it. It wasn't until he graduated from high school and sat my parents down to tell them that he'd decided to join the seminary. When the reality of our brother becoming a priest hit us, we'd all responded in very different ways.

  My mother had spent the following week attending Mass every day so she could personally thank God for choosing her son to become his apostle. My father had cursed God and then dropped dead of a heart attack a few weeks later. My mother said it was God's vengeance for my father leaving his family and cursing his son’s decision. None of us believed her because they’d been split up for years and my father had been sick for a long time at that point. But she insisted that it was deserved punishment, and she dealt with it by drinking more heavily.

  Molly and I had spent many nights lying in twin beds in our shared room debating the reasons why Patrick had chosen to enter the seminary, but neither one of us wanted to be the one to ask him why he'd done it. We were happy for him because he'd found his calling, but we were worried about what it would mean in terms of losing our older brother.

  Two years older than Molly and four older than me, Patrick was our protector. He'd watched over us and kept us out of harm’s way the best he could, which often meant taking a beating from my father rather than letting one of us girls suffer the physical consequences of our actions. As a result, Patrick had a complex relationship with my father that ended with his sudden death.

  I took one last look at the church and then walked a little further down the street to the parish house that Patrick had recently returned to after living abroad for several years. I rang the doorbell and waited.

  "Good evening. Is the Father expecting you?" the plump nun asked. She was wearing a modern habit, which only covered part of her head. She was wearing a grey dress that was more of a shift than a fitted garment, but she radiated warmth and brightness when she smiled.

  "He is," I nodded. I wasn't sure how much Patrick had told her, so I didn't say anything about being his sister.

  "My, you look like the spitting image of Father Patrick!" she declared as she motioned me into the parsonage. "Are you related to him, or is it just a lucky coincidence?"

  "I'm his youngest sister," I said, looking down at the floor before looking back up to meet her friendly eyes. "Leah."

  "Well, Leah, I'm Sister Josephine, and I've got a pot of tea brewing and a fresh pound cake cooling on the windowsill. Can I get you some?" she asked. "I know Father Patrick will want some!"

  "Yes, please, Sister," I smiled as I sat down on the sofa and looked around. The living room was small and slightly shabby, and I smiled as I thought about how Patrick probably felt right at home here—for many reasons.

  "Leah?"

  "Patrick!" I cried as he walked into the room. I stood up and, like a small child, ran across the room to throw my arms around him.

  "Well, well, well, isn't this an interesting turn of events," he said as he hugged me briefly and then stepped back. "It's good to see you, Leah."

  "I'm so glad to see you, too," I said as the tears welled up in my eyes. Patrick patted my shoulder and offered me a seat as Sister Josephine carried a tray of tea and cake into the living room and set it down on the coffee table.

  "Here is something to sweeten the conversation!" she said brightly as she poured us each a cup of tea, then cut two thick slices of cake and set them on the delicate china plates. She nodded at us and then backed out of the room saying, "Have a lovely catch up!"

  "She's really nice," I said as I sipped my tea and carefully watched Patrick.

  "She's definitely a good person to have here," he agreed. We sat in silence as we drank tea and ate a little cake. I wanted to blurt everything out and pepper him with questions about where he'd been and why he'd left me all alone when Molly disappeared. But I knew that wouldn't work with Patrick, so I waited until he asked. "What's going on with Mama?"

  "Patrick, she's sick," I began. "She's drinking way too much. She’s forgetting things, and she's become dangerous."

  "So what do you want me to do about it?" he asked a little defensively, sounding more like the brother I grew up with than the priest he'd become. That gave me the opportunity I needed.

  "We have to get her into rehab before she does something irreversible," I said. "She won't listen to me. She wants Molly."

  "What makes you think she'll listen to me?" he asked as he looked at me over the edge of his teacup.

  "You're a priest!" I cried. "And she's always listened to you!"

  "Right," Patrick said shaking his head as he set his cup down. "She's never listened to me, Leah. It's always been Molly."

  "But can't you try?" I begged feeling like the pesky little sister again. "She's putting Riley and me in danger with her drinking and her smoking and the way she locks herself in her room for days at a time. I'm worried that she's going to hurt herself or burn the house down!"

  "And you think I can convince her?" he said as he rubbed his hand across his cheek. I smiled as I recognized the habit he'd had since he was a small child. My brother was still in there somewhere, even if he was holding back and hiding from us for now. I wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened after Molly had disappeared, but I didn't dare try and broach that subject while we were trying to solve the problem with my mother. We’d deal with one thing at a time.

  "I don't know if you can convince her, but can you at least try?" I asked.

  "Bring her to Mass," he said. "I'll talk to her afterwards."

  "And what if I can't?" I asked. He had no idea how bad things had gotten, and I was loath to tell him.

  "Then we'll go from there, but let's not invite trouble, shall we?" he said as he stood up. "I need to prepare for my early morning service now."

  "I'll try and bring her," I said as I moved toward him. He slipped around the sofa and was out of the room before I could tell him how much I'd missed him and how happy I was to have him home again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jack

  When I stopped by the house to change clothes before meeting Sloan for dinner, the ever-present butler opened the door. I shook my head as I walked past the man I didn't recognize. My father had insisted that there always be a butler present in the house when he was there, but he couldn't seem to keep
one consistently employed. As a result, I had no idea what this man's name was.

  "Thank you . . . ?" I said trailing off uncomfortably.

  "Martin, sir," he said as he stood stiffly, holding the door for me. He was dressed in a uniform that called to mind England and royalty.

  "Thank you, Martin," I said as I moved toward the stairs, wondering how long it would take me to convince my mother to stop this nonsense and live like a regular person.

  "Jackson, is that you?" she called from the living room. "Come here and talk to me."

  "Mother," I nodded as I entered the room and found her reclining on the chaise that looked out over the lawn. She looked pale, and when I sat down and took her hand, I realized it was cold. "Are you all right?"

  "Oh, I'm fine," she said withdrawing her hand and waving me off. "I've just had a long day, and now I'm trying to relax. Is that blood on your suit?"

  "Yes, but I’m fine. A little accident at work, nothing to be worried about," I said as I turned the conversation back to her and the full glass of bourbon in her other hand. "Should you be relaxing so much?"

  "My husband just died. I think I'm entitled," she said in a brittle voice. "Don't nag me like your brother does."

  "I'm not one to nag you, really, Mother," I said standing up and walking over to the window. "But are you sure you're okay?"

  "I'm sad, Jackson," she sighed. "But under the circumstances, I believe that's normal, don't you?"

  "Mmm-hmm," I nodded as I stared out at the manicured lawn. My father employed seven gardeners to keep the lawn meticulously groomed and, while they did an outstanding job of it, right now it seemed like yet another example of his ridiculous excesses. No one else saw it that way, though. Just me.

  "Why are you home so early?" my mother asked as she sipped her drink.

  "I'm going to dinner with Sloan," I said. "I need to change before I go."

  "Because of the blood?" she asked absently.

  "Yes, because of the blood," I said as I turned away from the window and looked down at her. My mother was a strong woman—she'd had to be to stand up to my father—but right now she looked small and fragile, and I was worried about her. "Mother, I think you should take a vacation away from here. What do you think?"

  "Where am I going to go?" she said. "Everywhere I go reminds me of your father and the fact that he's not here, and never will be again."

  I moved back to the chaise and leaned down to wrap my arms around her as she cried. I hated seeing my mother cry, and I hated it even more that she was crying over my father.

  "There, there. You still have a whole lot of life left to live," I said as I rubbed her back and tried to stem the flow of tears. It didn’t do much good.

  "I miss him so much, Jack!" she sobbed. "He was my whole world!"

  "Yes, that's going to present a certain challenge now, isn't it?" I said feeling the anger begin to course through my veins. I couldn't show her, though. She'd pretend not to understand, and then the wedge he'd tried to drive between us would be complete. I'd worked very hard not to hate my mother, and I wanted to keep things the way they were now that my father was dead. "Perhaps a nice long cruise would help you relax and unwind?"

  "I . . . I . . . I don't know!" she cried harder. "I don't know what to do without him!"

  "I know, Mother," I said. "I know. We'll figure something out. You're going to be okay. I promise."

  She nodded as she clung to me and, as quickly as they'd begun, the tears stopped and she returned to reclining on her chaise. My mother was very good at short emotional outbursts. It was dealing with the cause of them that was her shortcoming.

  "You need to get changed for dinner," she said as she returned to staring out over the lawn. Her voice had a dreamy quality to it, most likely created by the bourbon, but I think she liked to believe it was the deep well of emotion that she drew from that fueled it. "Don't let me keep you from your dinner date. I've always liked that Morgan girl. She's smart and well-raised."

  "She certainly is," I said as I headed for the door. "Like a good race horse."

  "Indeed," my mother said as she slipped back into her alcohol-fueled memories of days gone by.

  It didn't take me long to change, and soon I was back in the car headed toward Manhattan. I poured myself a whiskey and sat staring out the window, wondering how we had all wound up here.

  *

  Jimmy pulled the car up in front of the palatial Blue Water Grill with five minutes to spare. It was located just on the edge of the hustle and bustle of Union Square. It was a large restaurant full of people who were arriving after a full day at work, looking to eat and blow off a little steam. The bar was crowded, and I had to squeeze my way through tightly packed groups of people waiting for tables as I made my way to the hostess stand.

  "You're here for Ms. Morgan, aren't you?" a cheerful young woman asked as I stepped up to the stand.

  "I am," I said a little confused, but then looked down and saw a picture of myself, obviously cut out of the Times or the WSJ, and chuckled. Sloan was never unprepared.

  The hostess led me to a table behind a small crowd and away from the loud crowd. I inhaled sharply as I rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of the woman who had occupied my every waking (and sometimes sleeping) moment in high school. She was dressed in a scoop-neck blouse that threatened to expose more than what was decent. Her hair shone in the soft light of the overhead lamp. When she looked up at me and smiled, I felt the blood rushing away from my brain and heading south.

  "You look lovely, Sloan," I said as I quickly took a seat. She knew the effect she had on me and, while it was maddening, it was also reassuring.

  "You don't look so shabby yourself," she said with a smile as she signaled to the server who nodded and disappeared. He returned a few minutes later with two dirty martinis and a plate of appetizers.

  "You always take care of everything, don't you?" I laughed as I raised my glass and toasted.

  "To old friends and new memories," she said as she clinked her glass against mine before sipping.

  "So, tell me, Sloan, why have you summoned me here?" I asked and watched a surprised look briefly alight on her face before the calm mask reappeared.

  "I told you, I just want to see you and catch up," she said, smiling as she rested her hand on my leg under the table. I could feel the blood surging and making my pants tight, and I fought to keep it under control. I knew that deviating from my plan of keeping everything on the up and up would spell trouble, but Sloan knew my weak spots.

  "Sloan . . ." I said wanting to tell her to stop but couldn’t will myself to.

  "What's wrong, Jack?" she asked as she leaned closer and moved her hand higher up my thigh. "I thought you liked this."

  "Sloan, stop," I said mustering the will to move her hand away from where it was headed. My body wanted her, but the rest of me was still bruised by her callousness. "I didn't come here to be seduced."

  "Didn't you?" she asked as she narrowed her eyes and slid back so that there was a space between us.

  "Why do you always do this to me?" I said as I picked up my glass and sipped. She opened her mouth to answer as the server walked up to the table and set down another plate of appetizers.

  "With regards from the chef, Ms. Morgan," he said with a polite smile.

  "Oh, do tell him thank you!" she replied with a wide smile and a wink. The server blushed and backed away from the table.

  "Why do you always do that?" I asked.

  "Do what?"

  "Charm everyone," I said as I reached out and took one of the small triangles of toast that held some kind of foie gras topped with caviar. I bit into it and tasted the salty smoothness of the combination.

  "I don't know, I can't help it," Sloan shrugged as she picked up the other piece of bread and ate half of it. I'd always liked the fact that Sloan wasn't shy about eating. She'd never held back or pretended to pick at salads when what she really wanted was a cheeseburger. Her lust for food carried over into other
things, though, and it made me wary.

  "Tell me what's really going on with you," I said as I stared intently into her icy-blue eyes. I knew she was hiding something. I just didn't know what. "Why are you really here?"

  "Jack, look, I don't really want to get into that," she said I knew then that there was something she wasn't telling me. "It's not a big deal anyway, and besides, it's your father who died and left you in charge of the company."

  "I'm your oldest friend, Sloan," I said quietly. "If you can't tell me, then who can you tell?"

  "Why do you always have to pry?" she shot back as she slammed her glass onto the table spilling her drink on the pristine tablecloth.

  "Sloan . . ." I said as I moved closer and slipped an arm around her shoulder. I could see that she was in pain, but I knew that it was going to be work to get the splinter that had caused it out from under the surface.

  "No, I'm serious," she hissed pushing my arm away. "Let it go, Jackson."

  "Sloan, talk to me," I said as I left my arm where it was. She bit her lip and looked down at the table, and when she looked back up at me, I could see that I'd hit a nerve.

  "Jack, my own father fired me," she said. "He fired me from a job that I loved and was incredibly good at, and he replaced me with one of the frat brother douche-boys he plays golf with because the guy promised to bring in higher returns than anyone else."

  "Oh man, Sloan, I'm sorry," I said holding her shoulder as I shook my head. "Your old man is as much of a bastard as mine."

  "He fired me," she said as she picked up her glass and drank deeply. "I've done everything I possibly could to make that division run smoothly and bring in a handsome profit for him, and what does he do to thank me?"

  "Fires you," I echoed as I watched one lone tear leak from her eye and run down her cheek. I reached out to wipe it away, but she ducked and shook her head.

  "Don't," she said. "Don't pity me. I couldn't stand it if you did."

  "I'd never pity you," I said as I slipped my fingers under her chin and lifted her face so that she was forced to look at me. "You're not the pitying type, Sloan. You're a survivor. You know it as well as I do. You always land on your feet, and this time will be no different."