Secret Baby Daddy (Part Five)

by Paige North

  Out on the lawn, Sebastian keeps saying, “Ball…ball…ball…” every time he removes one of them from the inflatable house and dumps it onto the grass. I lean my forehead against Colt’s arm, then point my finger to finally direct his gaze to that article in the paper I want him to see.

  The name Jennifer Page is in the headline, and he sighs, then takes a seat facing Sebastian so he can watch him play in the shade under the palm trees.

  “Did you already read the article?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t tell me. Page is in rehab again.”

  “For the third time.”

  Colt only shakes his head. During her first stint, she finally admitted to the press that she’d lied about Colt being the father of her baby. He didn’t even have to get that paternity test, and it turns out that the real father is a high limits blackjack dealer in Vegas whom she met on one of her many trips there. He now has custody of their child until she can recover and generally get her shit together.

  “If her career wasn’t in free-fall before,” Colt says quietly, “it sure is now.”

  I rest my hands on my round belly. “Last year when she was trying to mess up our lives, I might’ve been tempted to feel vindicated by this kind of news. But now it just makes me sad. She had so many great gifts—a baby daughter, a kick-ass career, God-given beauty. But she lost it all.”

  “If this attempt at rehab takes, then she can get it all back.” He smiles gently at me. “After all, doesn’t Hollywood love a good redemption arc?”

  He’s looking at me as if I’m his own redemptive angel, but he has no idea how often I count my lucky stars at night that he came back into my life. I run my hands over my curvy tummy, joy taking me over, tears stinging my eyes.

  Colt leans over to me and strokes my cheek. “Serena. You’re that upset about her news?”

  “No, it’s just that I’m so happy. I love you and Sebastian so much. Everything has gone so right for us.”

  “And I love you, more than you’ll ever know.”

  His gaze has darkened with emotion, and just as he’s leaning over to press his lips to mine, the French doors to the patio open, and a low, playful voice says, “Is this where the movie star is hiding out?”

  Even though my brother Jack has arrived, Colt still kisses me, then smiles and sits back in his seat. “Morning, Jack.”

  “Morning yourself.”

  Jack grins at me, and I do the same. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a graphic tee with the words “funcle: fun uncle” on it. Thanks to the sunglasses he has hanging from his collar, he looks like the ultimate vacationer, lured here with my parents by the promise of spending time with Sebastian.

  “Weren’t you going to meet us at brunch?” I ask.

  “Change of plans,” Jack says.

  Colt rises to his feet, then hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. “Jack and I are going to take in the beach for a while. We’ll be back in time to pick you and Bash up for brunch.”

  Well, this is news to me, but it’s good news.

  Sebastian has spotted Jack, and our boy is pushing himself to his feet trying to get to him. But my brother is already striding over to his nephew, then lifting him up to give him a great big hug. I look up at Colt, who seems so at peace with how everything has turned out. He and Jack have been repairing their relationship for months. The same goes for Jack and myself. Once my brother realized that Colt and I were for real, he gave in fully, and he’s the best uncle Sebastian could’ve ever hoped for—and he’ll be the same for my daughter.

  As Colt’s gaze connects with mine, my pulse zings. He jerks his chin toward the French doors, and we leave Jack with Sebastian, who is pointing down at one ball in the grass after another. Every time he does, Jack says, “Ball?” and Sebastian answers, “Ball!”

  We slip inside, but not too far away—just enough so that we’re alone. Colt wraps me in his big arms and digs his long fingers into my hair, tilting my face up to him.

  I laugh. “You’re going to get me messy, and then I’ll have to get ready again for brunch.”

  “All I want is a kiss.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since a kiss is where it started with you, in my truck, back in Haverill when I asked my best friend’s little sister if she wanted a ride to that party she never made it to.”

  Memories envelope us, bringing us even closer together. Heat fuses me to him, and so do all the good and bad times that made us who we are. Colt runs his hands down my back, and when he comes to my bottom, he squeezes me. I wrestle back a soft sound of lust. My hormones are on extra fire, thanks to the pregnancy, and I start getting wet for him just like that.

  Then again, it’s not so different from every time I’m with Colt.

  “You promised me a kiss,” I whisper.

  His gaze goes hazy, and he crushes his mouth to mine, stealing my breath, stealing my heart. And when the sound of Jack and Sebastian in the backyard reminds us that we need to cool it, Colt cups my face and smiles against my lips.

  “There’s your kiss,” he says. “And there’ll always be a lot more where that came from.”

  I snuggle into him, holding tight to my man.

  My past, my present, and my beautiful future.

  THE END

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  And now continue reading for an excerpt from The Billionaire Croft Brothers!

  Excerpt: Jackson (The Billionaire Croft Brothers, Book One) by Paige North

  Jackson

  I sit staring at the phone, my hand clenched in a fist over my mouth. I close my eyes and tell myself to get my shit together. Do the usual, calm my breathing and remind myself that I can fight through this just like always.

  A few seconds later, my eyes open again…and I’m still fucked.

  My father always knew how to push my buttons, but after twenty-eight years of his shit, I thought I’d learned to stay cool under his unrelenting pressure—and the pressures of Croft International. This business is all pressure, all the time. There is no room for any cracks or weaknesses.

  But that phone call…

  How could he?

  After everything I’ve done to earn my place in this business? After all of my sacrifices?

  It turns out the old man saved his best trick for last. Pulled the rug out from under me and then disappeared off the face of the earth, so he’d never have to answer for any of it.

  I get up and stride across my expansive office to the bar tucked into custom-made walnut bookshelves. Toss a few cubes in a glass and pour three fingers worth of the scotch that is the same age as I am.

  I take a deep gulp as I look out at the view from my office. The strong, smooth alcohol and serene view of the boats bobbing in the harbor are supposed to soothe me. Instead, all I feel is anger rising and rising, the image of my bastard father growing stronger. He’s laughing from the grave where the dirt is still fresh, of that there is no doubt in my mind.

  A grating buzz sounds from the phone.

  “Mr. Croft? Your ten a.m. is here.”

  “Christ,” I mutter. I push the intercom button. “Sandra, I can’t do it. You’ll have to reschedule.” I don’t even remember what’s on my calendar but at this moment I don’t care. My only plan is to finish this scotch, then start on another.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Croft. But she says this is the third time—”

  “Damn it, I said I'm busy!” I snap. What part of reschedule did she not understand? I throw back another drink, nearly draining the glass. It stings my throat but in a good way, like a rough massage.

  That should’ve been that, but then I hear some bullshit outside my door.

  “…I don’t care what he said,” a woman is saying, her voice smooth but insistent. “I’m not going to reschedule ag
ain, it’s insulting.”

  The door flies open and a woman comes in, trailed by Sandra who is frantically chasing her.

  “At least he can tell me why he’s cancelling again to my face,” the woman finishes. She stands just inside my office, her green eyes blazing toward me.

  The annoyance of being barged in on is replaced by shock at the woman that’s standing before me. This woman is all curves in all the right places, her cleavage showing just enough to tantalize me with thoughts of what she’d look like naked in my bed.

  But it’s her eyes, so bright they seem on fire as she stares me down—her eyes are what really stir me.

  She’s determined, but more than that, she has a spark, a fire, and it lights something inside of me.

  Sandra, not used to being disrespected or railroaded, stands behind the woman looking like she’s ready to body slam her, despite the arthritis. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Croft. She just barged through. I was about to call security.”

  “You don’t look too busy to me,” the woman says to me, eyeing the scotch.

  “That’s it,” Sandra says. “I’m calling security.” She turns back toward her desk to grab her phone.

  The woman doesn’t budge. In fact she slowly crosses her arms across her chest, cocks her leg out, and begins tapping one of her stilettos.

  Something washes over me—something more undeniable than her absolute beauty.

  Her long hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and her dress is not as tailored as the businesswomen I’m used to being around, but damn if it doesn’t smooth over her in the sexiest way.

  But this is my turf.

  I know how to stand my ground with the most powerful people in the industry. She’s beautiful, and her act is cute, but she has no idea who she’s dealing with.

  “Trying to come up with an excuse?” she says, breaking into my thoughts.

  Very nice line. I like it.

  And I like that for a brief fleeting moment, this woman caused me to forget the burning ashes of betrayal that I can still taste in my mouth…the memory of that phone call still making me feel like I want to throw my chair through the fucking window.

  “I don’t need an excuse,” I tell her.

  “Could’ve fooled me,” she replies instantly.

  I want to chuckle at her, but there’s a reason I can clean house in poker with anyone from the guys from the mailroom to the gentlemen at the Algonquin Club. My expression doesn’t change as I tell Sandra, “Don’t call security. I can handle this.” Without a word Sandra hangs up her phone and closes the door for me.

  Once we’re alone, I say, “I don’t know who you are, but unfortunately now is not a good time, so I will have to rearrange our date.”

  “You mean our meeting?” she says.

  “Today’s no good,” I respond, ignoring her jab.

  “I’m here, you’re clearly not busy, and I’d like to go ahead with our meeting,” she says.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. I’m Emily Brown,” she says, her chin lifted slightly. She’s trying to be authoritative, but I can hear the quiver in her voice. “I’m from the Children’s Education Fund. I’d like to discuss our annual goals.”

  “I’ve never heard of your charity and I really don’t have time to worry about someone else’s financial goals. I have my own, Ms. Brown.”

  I have to stay focused. After that phone call I just received, the last thing I need is some bullheaded woman throwing me off the goals I’ve worked my life to achieve. My goals, not some kid charity nonsense.

  She pushes ahead, trying her best to keep talking. “It’s called the Children’s Education Fund and it’s—”

  “I heard you the first time you said the name,” I tell her. “And to be clear, I’m not sure how you got on my calendar, but I have charities asking me for money on a daily basis. I don’t need another one.”

  She shifts her leg so that she’s standing full upright. She’s a little thing, no more than five-four. But right now she’s doing everything she can to demand authority. “The least you can do is give me five minutes after cancelling on me twice before now. If you’d stop trying to get me out of your office we could have been halfway through this meeting by now.”

  “A meeting I have no interest in having,” I remind her. Although, to be fair, she’s doing a good job of holding my attention right now. Especially those tits. And those legs. What would she do, I wonder, if I grabbed her and bent her over my desk right this very second?

  I think that perhaps she would welcome it. My dick stiffens and I find my lip twitching into a near smile as she bravely continues her little pitch.

  “It’s a highly worthwhile organization,” she says. “I have some papers for you that will help explain.” She starts digging in the black canvas bag dangling at her side. “Thirty-four percent of kindergarten children lack basic language—”

  “You look a little young to be leading the fundraising for a non-profit,” I say, partially because I’m curious, but also to keep her riled up—and throw her off her speech, which she has probably practiced in the mirror thirty times.

  I have to admit, it’s fun to watch her squirm. Also, it gives me an excuse to really look at her—her full lips, which she licks in way that makes me want to crush her mouth with my own.

  “I’m not that young,” she says. “I’m a graduate student at Boston University.”

  “You’re a student?” I say. “What the hell kind of organization sends a student to my office to get money for some charity no one has ever heard of?”

  “Maybe I’m just that good,” she replies, color blooming in her cheeks.

  My dick stiffens further, and now I really am tempted to grab her and throw her over the desk, slide my dick into that pussy, knowing how tight and wet and ready she would be for me…

  “I'm used to dealing with CEOs, presidents, senior directors of development at the very least,” I continue, feigning boredom. Truly, though, this is a fun distraction. Better than the scotch.

  “I'm here because I thought—”

  “That you could just walk in here and ask for a pile of money and I’d hand it over? It doesn’t work like that in the real world.”

  “I thought I could come here and we’d have a discussion, Mr. Croft,” she says. “You’re right, this isn’t going the way I thought it would. Not at all.” She takes a deep breath, keeping her eyes focused on me. “We’re looking to raise money for our annual fund that focuses on getting kids to read, especially kids in disadvantaged neighborhoods. There’s a luncheon coming up—”

  “Which I won’t go to,” I say. Charity luncheon? An absolute hell and waste of my time. Clearly this woman knows nothing about me. Which, of course, gives me a little more power over her, always a good thing.

  “I didn’t say you had to.” She’s not going down without a fight. “You can simply donate, earmark the money for the reading fund or any other program within CEF. We prefer general restrictions—that way we can put the money where it’s most needed at any given time.”

  “I have to say,” I begin, “that you really sound like I’ve already agreed to write you a check. Which I have not.”

  “Studies show that children who—”

  I hold up my hand. Honestly, I can’t listen to such mundane statistics. “Look, Emily, I’m going to be honest with you. Please spare me the sob story about babies who can’t read. I don’t care about your charity. I don’t care if these kids can read or not, or what their level of reading is. It doesn’t matter to me. It is not what I’m here for. I am here to make money, broker deals, build buildings that make the Boston skyline even more beautiful and invest in real things that make lots of money. I’ll leave all the philanthropy nonsense to philosophers and dreamers to figure out. People like yourself, obviously.”

  Emily keeps her eyes fixed on me for a moment before saying, “You truly are as cold as they say. I didn’t believe the stories, I came in here with an open mind,
but it turns out you’re even worse than I could have imagined.” She shakes her head. “We need to invent a new word for cold because it doesn’t fit, that’s for sure. Colder than ice.”

  Somehow I’m amused rather than offended. She has no idea that this version of me has been forged through years of relentless battles fought with and against those closest to me. She has no clue that it’s people like me who make jobs like hers possible.

  But if she wants to melt the ice man, then perhaps I’ll see just how far she’s willing to go to heat things up.

  “Tell you what,” I say, rising from the desk and slipping my hands in my pockets. “I will donate to your non-profit.” I pause, relishing in the surprise—and self-satisfaction—that flashes across Emily’s face. Like she just can’t wait to run back to her boss and brag that she did it—she landed a donation from the mighty Jackson Croft of Croft International. “In fact,” I say, “I’ll make it generous. Ten thousand dollars.”

  A breath escapes her lips, and she can’t help but smile. She is pleased with herself. “Thank you very much, Mr. Croft. The Children’s Education Fund thanks you.” She strides toward me, that satisfied look playing on her lips with her hand stretched out toward mine. I take it in my own. Her hand is tiny—my own completely engulfs it, covering the smooth, soft skin.

  “I’m not done yet,” I say, keeping her hand in mine. “There’s one condition. I’ll donate the money—if you allow me to take you out to dinner tonight.”

  The smirk falls away from her face, and she pulls her hand out of my grasp.

  “There is no way in hell,” she says. “Not even for a million.”

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