Jay's Lucky Baby - A Secret Baby Romance

by Layla Valentine

  So, I flitted over to the table where my clothes from last night were and put them on. Then, Carter took my hand and we were off. His helicopter, with the same smiling pilot as last night, was waiting. Carter, however, held up a hand for him to wait and then strode off, his phone to his ear.

  When he returned, the phone back in his pocket, Carter was grinning.

  “I changed my mind,” he said. “I rescheduled the site visit for tomorrow. I’ve got another surprise for you today.”

  As he took my hand and led me into the helicopter, I asked, “Am I allowed to know what the surprise is?”

  We sat down side by side. Then, patting my face with a half-smile, Carter said, “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

  The whole flight was encapsulated in those clasped hands of ours. Out the window, the tree-covered land slipped by. Above us, the propeller whirred while Carter traced the palm of my hand with his pointer finger and clasped and unclasped each of my fingers in turn.

  I was ready for the flight to go on forever, but the helicopter touched down all too fast. We were in a remote field, the length and breadth of which seemed to stretch endlessly. As Carter got out and helped me out, the pilot waved.

  “You two have a fun time!” he said before taking off.

  When I turned to Carter, I gave him a playful smirk.

  “Fun in a field, huh? I’ll have you know that your pilot gave away exactly what we’re doing.”

  Wearing a playful smirk of his own, Carter took my hand and led me in the direction of what looked like more fields.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes. We’re…”

  I fell silent as we reached the top of a slight hill and saw, below us, a white house tucked into a field of different flowers. Instead of the indiscriminate mix of tall grasses and burrs, this field was a sea of purple: lavender flowers.

  “Carter, it’s…”

  Before I could continue, he picked me up and carried me through the stunning swathes of purple at his feet, toward the white cottage. He placed me at the door and gestured to it with a smile.

  “Surprise.”

  Laughing, I clasped the brass doorknob and turned.

  “I still don’t know what’s inside, though.”

  Half-expecting an empty room with handcuffs, a whip, or a bed with its purpose obvious, I was rendered speechless by what I found instead.

  “Carter,” I murmured, stepping inside.

  “Shhh,” he said. “Just look. Just look.”

  And I did.

  I lost myself in water lilies, in soft pinks, little petals jutting out over the forest green, the circular pads merging and stacking atop each other, all amid a billowing, cloud-reflecting blue with its trails of willow trees and ripples.

  I walked up to it until I was in the midst of it, face-first, floating above the most beautiful scene I could ever have imagined. As tears filled my eyes and the beauty blurred, in my ear a wonderfully familiar voice whispered, “Surprise.”

  I whirled around to Carter’s lips. Sweet and soft, his hands clasping me like he never wanted to let me go, I knew, then. No matter what he did or said, no matter how he tried to turn away from it, deny it, ruin it, he loved me. Carter loved me.

  After a minute, he broke away. Searching my face, he asked, “What do you think? Do you like it?”

  I let out a peal of laughter before I caught just how intent his face was.

  “Like it? Carter, I love it. How? Why?”

  He smiled.

  “Got an art store to print them out and attach them up to the walls like this. I’ve had this little property for a while now, never really had a use for it until… I mean, you really like it, you said?”

  I nodded, and his smile broadened.

  “We could use it sometime, as our studio. If you want.”

  As I nodded, I noticed he had never answered my “why.” It hardly mattered; now he was leading me to the next room and I was being swept up in another world. I was one with the red-hatted woman and the flower-hatted little girl on the wall, enjoying our luscious basket of food while the symphony of trees outside welcomed us and rejoiced in us.

  Before I knew it, I was in the next room, the next world. I was enveloped in the pink tutus of several ballerinas, like one great cotton candy mass of beauty, while behind me more beautiful periwinkles and lilacs of dancers waited their turn.

  This was the room in which, turning to Carter, I asked him, “When do I get to see your art?”

  The way his eyes shone, it was as if he’d asked the question himself. Next thing I knew, he was sweeping me up in his arms, pressing me to him, soaring us both outside and down to the ground, to the bed of lavender, where he kissed me some more, where we shed our clothes among the flowers. He kissed me like it was the last time.

  We stroked each other all over until we were one body, one trembling, ecstatic, flower-flecked body, and, as we released ourselves into each other, lost ourselves in the building, the orgasm, the falling, one thought kept returning to me, reflected in his loving eyes: If this wasn’t love, then I didn’t know what was.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Donna

  When I woke up, he was lying inches away from me, his head turned toward me, watching me, the trace of a smile on his lips.

  “Did you mean what you said?” he asked, and I nodded.

  That was all he needed to jump up, take my hand, and tell me, “Get dressed; it’s time.”

  But when I asked what it was time for, he only shook his head.

  Once we were both dressed, he took my hand again and led me back into the house, back through Monet, Renoir, then Degas, and into the last room, which was empty. It was empty of art, but had one door.

  The door led outside, where, waiting for us, there were two helmets and a motorcycle. Laughing, I surveyed Carter incredulously.

  “Exactly how many surprises do you have, Carter?”

  Nearing me, brushing a stray hair out of my face, he said, “Oh, Donna, if I told you, I’d have to kiss you.”

  Which I wasn’t at all against, except he was already lifting me up and placing me on the slick, black leather seat.

  As he got on, Carter gave me the lowdown. “Put your feet on the back pedals, not the front. Wear this”—he brought over a glossy blue helmet, putting on the other one himself—“and hold on tight.”

  After I’d put on my helmet, he turned the key. As the engine roared to life, I did as I was told, putting my hands around his chest, reveling in his hard muscles. Then, we were off, shooting out into the lavender fields.

  It was surreal. All this—these beautiful flowers, this handsome, caring billionaire in my arms, the whole scene—happening to me, Donna Whitburn, was almost too good to be true. As we motored on, amid the noise, my mom’s old quote sounded in my ears: “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is.” Suddenly, I felt dizzy, like I was going to collapse.

  As if he knew, Carter revved up the engine so we were flying ahead so fast the fields were whipping under our wheels, the wind in our faces. It was icy cold and exhilarating, and so fast that the fear was whipped out of me, too.

  All I felt as I sailed along—to who knew where, with the man I might have known a bit or not at all—was jubilation, thankfulness for all my wild, unbelievable experiences these past few weeks, for the unbelievable experience I was having now, and, most of all, for the surprising, charming paragon of a man I was holding on to.

  After a while, the fields gave way to dirt roads. A little later, the dirt roads changed to asphalt. We were soon gliding past one insanely big mansion after another, until, finally, we pulled up to an intimidating house that seemed vaguely familiar. Once in the driveway, Carter turned off the engine.

  “It’s like my building,” he said, by way of explanation.

  I nodded, suddenly understanding my apprehension before this impressive, black glass structure. Carter walked up the driveway and put his hand on a keypad, which, lighting up, beeped. The dri
veway door creaked open. The sight filled me with even more foreboding: an empty concrete box for the high-powered motorbike.

  Next, we were walking back outside to the front door, and I was afraid. Carter seemed to have transformed. He walked at a fast clip without waiting for me. He hardly seemed to remember me at all.

  At the black door, his hand pressed another keypad, and this time it was his front door that opened instantaneously. Inside was more black glass, more emptiness. There wasn’t a thing out of place. Hell, there was hardly any furniture to speak of at all. Grasping my hand like the leash of a dog, Carter led me through a hallway of echoing steps and more emptiness. The floor was black marble, the walls opaque glass.

  I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t supposed to. I wasn’t here for myself; I was here to fill a need, to meet a purpose. There was no doubt what would happen as soon as his bedroom door closed. Harnesses, restraints, blindfolds, his naked, demanding flesh—those were how he would extract what he needed from me.

  The whole idea of me coming here to see his art was bogus, a joke. This was the grand finale. This was what was expected of me, pure bodily satisfaction, dark desire sated. This was what I was intended for, and this was what I would be used for—unwillingly and yet, secretly, it would be pleasurable. That was the worst part. As Carter Ray led me to his bedroom to be used and tossed aside, as the realization that he cared nothing for me sank in with every cold, echoing footfall, all I felt was a twisted, horrible sort of want.

  And yet, as we stopped in Carter’s bedroom, as the door closed with an efficient click behind me, Carter disappeared into his walk-in closet, and what he returned with was a stack of papers.

  As I looked at them, I didn’t feel relief or gratitude for Carter, that he had actually meant what he had said, that he had actually wanted me to see his art. No, instead, as I looked from one drawing to another, I felt awe and…sadness.

  For these scraps of paper (and that was what they were really—napkins, lined paper, memos) were scribbled with exquisite charcoal renditions—beautiful, and chilling. Men, people, buildings, all drawn with the same hard, concise lines, the same perfect form, as if the artist knew what to expect from each, as if each followed the same unremarkable laws.

  It was a world that was accurate, sure, accurate to the last skillful line on each building’s exterior, and yet, it was a world without beauty, without wonder.

  “Is this how you see things? How you see the world?” I asked Carter softly.

  His face was turned away from me, but when he turned to me, it had that mask-like appearance I’d seen so long ago.

  “Yes.”

  As I studied his face, it didn’t change. He didn’t look upset by his admission; nor did he look angry or even concerned. No, he looked resigned.

  I rose and touched him on the shoulder.

  “You know, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “No?”

  “No,” I said, and I kissed him to show him how.

  But, after a minute, he ripped himself away. As I stood there, my heart falling to the floor, he disappeared into the walk-in closet.

  I waited. My cheeks burning, eyes watering, wanting to stomp after him and slap him or storm off and never return, I waited. I waited without knowing what I’d do if he didn’t come back, if he just stayed in there indefinitely, tormenting me just because he could.

  But, a minute or so later, he emerged, his hands clasping a set of pastels and some drawings.

  “Show me,” he said, his eyes burning. “Show me a different way.”

  I nodded dumbly, and he led me back down the hallway, back through the entranceway and to another room. Another empty room except for a table with some charcoal drawings.

  Carter flicked on a light and gestured to the small wooden chair set before the table. His face was still impassive. I accepted the pastels and drawings without a word.

  Placing on the table the darkest one yet—a blank-faced man staring bleakly at the viewer—I looked over my shoulder at Carter.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded, and, turning back to the sketch of desolation before me, I got to work.

  At first, I was stumped. How could anyone transform what was single-handedly the most desolate sketch I had ever seen? And who was I to say that it should be transformed, that there wasn’t a sad sort of truth to it, that it didn’t have value just the way it was?

  The answer came as my hand clasped a yellow pastel stick. It had value, sure, but how many more images of misery did our world need? Wasn’t there already enough unhappiness nowadays? Couldn’t something that brought joy do so much more than another image reminding us of how empty this life could be?

  Soon, my mind was humming with these thoughts and my hand was flitting along—yellow and orange, teal and green, a bit of purple. I forgot Carter was behind me. I forgot I was here at all in this cell-like room. All there was was the art. My hand moved of its own accord, fused with the pastel until I was it, the yellow swooping along so joyously, the orange its bright companion, until my hand ached, and yet, I was not finished.

  No, I was only finished when, exhausted, the last green pastel fell to the table and, finally looking at the sketch, finally really seeing it, I let out a low gasp. It was done.

  Whether Carter would like it, however, was another story.

  I turned around, almost expecting him to be gone. But I found him in much the same position as I’d left him, standing with his arms folded and his face in that same mask-like expression.

  “Here,” I said softly, lifting the sketch to him.

  He accepted it without a word and regarded it with the same wordless neutrality. Then, after a minute, a smile began trembling onto his face, and, looking down at me, tears in his eyes, he nodded.

  I stood up beside him, clasping his hand, regarding our creation, the beautiful fusion of color and shade, meaning and mystery. As I considered it, the meaning we’d instilled returned to me: the black, harshly-drawn man with the empty eyes was still there, sure, but he was amid a triumphant surge of trees and birds and swirls of colors that flowed into each other and him a little.

  Looking at it, I was left with the same impression I’d had before. The color, the joy of life, had been there all along. It had been there behind him, only he hadn’t been able to see it with his eyes so black and narrowed at the scene ahead. And that meant that no matter the time, place, or circumstance, the same was true for all of us. The same potential for seeing the colors, the joy, the hope, was there, only it was a choice, a choice of what to view, of how to see the world. And in that, there was always hope; there always would be hope, because it was always a choice.

  Just like now, how the man sweeping me up with new life in his eyes and pressing his lips to mine was suddenly freed, could suddenly see it as easily as I did, the colors everywhere, the happiness.

  We flowed together once more, this fusion of want and need, adoration and worship. And it only made sense that we returned to his bed, where we had been bound since the start.

  Words and movements, touch and taste slipped between us as easily as breath, and love was a word in every twitch of our bodies, the whole wonderful, marvelous celebration of love, him in me and me in him, united once again, finally.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Carter

  When I woke up, I sat up. I watched her. I took in her bare, flawless back and the silk sheets below it, the soft way it rose and fell with every breath coming out of her parted pink smile. It seemed incredible, the thought that I’d had something to do with that smile, that I’d been the cause of happiness for this girl. And, as I watched her, it occurred to me how at ease she looked, how perfectly she fit into my king-sized bed. How much she looked like she belonged.

  I woke her up with breakfast in bed. Waffles with syrup and strawberries. She opened one sleepy eye and then laughed and laughed and laughed.

  “What? What is it?” I asked.

  Smiling, she told me. “I’m
just wondering how you can top this, how you can treat me better than you have these past two days.”

  Smiling myself, I responded, “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  Though, really, I didn’t have anything specific planned yet. Nothing except—I checked my phone and groaned—the site visit, of course.

  As she took her first strawberry waffle bite, Donna’s still-sleepy eyes scanned my face.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh nothing,” I said. “Just the site visit. You don’t have to come, though.”

  Donna only smiled bigger and declared, “Of course I’ll come. The more time I get to spend with you, the better.”

  Although I smiled myself and said, “I’ll get ready then,” I walked into my closet wondering why there was a pit in my stomach.

  As I stood there, surveying the army of suits before me, it occurred to me that things had gone too well for too long. Something, probably today, was bound to happen to ruin things.

  By the time I emerged from my closet, fully dressed in my black and blue pinstriped suit, Donna had finished her waffle.

  “I’ll get dressed too?” she asked, and I shook my head.

  “Wait here.”

  I returned with a sleek, black-and-blue striped dress on a hanger. Donna accepted it, peering at me.

  “This… It’s for me?”

  I nodded.

  “Saw it a few days ago and thought it looked about your size.”

  Twirling the hanger once in her hand, grinning, Donna said, “Thanks.”

  Then, using the dress to whoosh me away, she declared, “Now shoo. I have to get dressed.”

  I responded by swooping over, scooping her up, and tossing her onto the bed.

  “Carter!” she squealed. “We’ll never get there at this rate.”

  As I lowered myself onto her, a thought stopped me in my tracks: that was exactly what I was hoping for.

  I drew back and walked to the door. Over my shoulder, I said, “I’ll be waiting in the car.”