The Baby Race

by Tara Wylde

  He peers into the little screen at the back of his camera and grins. “Looks like a money shot to me.”

  “Great.” Jeremy jumps up from the arm of the chair I’m sitting in. “’Cause little Felicia here definitely needs her diaper changed.”

  My daughter waves her hand happily in the air and chews absently on the collar of his shirt as he carries her into the bathroom.

  Kahn, who has been obsessed with the babies since I reached about the fifth month of my pregnancy, follows behind, his tail wagging in a slow arc, obviously satisfied that Sasha, who is busy playing with a piece of ribbon I tied around one of the flower arrangements, is capable of looking after the remaining three babies.

  I turn my attention to baby Abigail on my lap. Quieter than her sister, who at just two weeks old is already in constant motion, little Abbie stares up at me with solemn blue eyes. The doctors tell me it’s way too early to know exactly what color her eyes will be, but I swear I already see a few flecks of gold in her left one.

  The photographer keeps one eye on us as he tucks his camera into its case. He shakes his head. “Two sets of twins. How far apart did you say they are?”

  “Three days,” Sheila tells him. “It’ll be nice; they can grow up together.”

  He laughs. “Nice, sure, and it certainly won’t be boring. But I’ve got three of my own at home. There’s six years between the oldest and youngest, and I’ll tell you want. They keep my wife and me on our toes. It doesn’t seem like we get a single moment’s rest. Once this group starts crawling, you’re going to be hopping.”

  “And that’s exactly why I’m hiring a couple of good nannies,” Jeremy says as he enters the room. He brings Felicia to me, setting her on my lap next to Abbie and kissing my forehead before he turns to Sheila. “How are the boys? Do they need a new diaper?”

  Sheila shakes her head. “I don’t think so, but you know that as soon as you sit down, that’s going to change.”

  Jeremy laughs, and despite the warning, returns to the arm of my chair. He loops one arm around my shoulders, pulling me close against him, and reaches down to tickle Abbie and Felicia with the other.

  I lean into him. I can’t believe how lucky I am. Not only has Jeremy proven himself to be an adept and patient parent to our little girls, one who happily gets up with them in the middle of the night and never complains about diaper changes, he’s also been giving Sheila’s twins the exact same treatment. He and Sheila have even gone house shopping together, searching for a house closer to the one we just bought so that he can keep an eye on the twins for her.

  And now that they’re here, I get to spend more time with him than ever before. Weeks before my due date, he hired two new CEOs and arranged for them to handle the day-to-day issues of Caldwell Industries, making it possible for him to work only half days, which I love.

  And he already split the one percent of Caldwell Industries that set this whole crazy baby race into motion four ways, making sure each twin gets an equal share in the company.

  A sudden bright flash startles all of us.

  “Sorry,” the photographer says as he lowers his camera. His eyes meet mine. “It’s just that the two of you looked so in love, so happy right there, I couldn’t resist taking one last shot. I wish all of my clients were as happy and lucky as the group of you are.”

  As he packs up the rest of his things, I wish the same thing for the world.

  Part II

  Keeping Her

  On the run?

  Check.

  Sleeping with the enemy?

  Check.

  Yeah, things got a little messed up.

  Everybody deserves a second chance.

  And this is mine.

  $150,000 to dig up dirt on some billionaire CEO?

  Easy money.

  Until I walk into the boardroom and see Chance’s gorgeous face.

  But there’s no smile on that chiselled jawline.

  Not for me.

  Not for the girl who broke his heart.

  Now I’m not just the girl who left him.

  I’m the woman trying to take his company, too.

  He’ll do anything to save it.

  Even me…

  38

  1. SARA

  I wake up to the sound of an air horn blaring in my ear, and the taste of used cat litter in my mouth.

  I vaguely remember being at the Toad & Turtle with Grace. Shots. Cosmos. Dancing with some guy with a man-bun. His hand roaming around under my shirt.

  My clumsy, hung-over attempt to grab the iPhone from my bedside table sends it crashing to the floor, where it lands on the hardwood with a sickening clack. The initial stab of panic subsides when I remember the screen was already cracked to shit anyway.

  The thing lies teasingly close to my fingertips as I reach for it from the bed. Fuck. My throbbing head is telling me I really don’t want to lift it from the pillow unless this is a life-or-death emergency that can’t be ignored. Why the hell did I make an air horn my ringtone?

  Oh yeah: because every call I get could be a life or death emergency that can’t be ignored.

  My fingers finally close around the mobile and carry it up to the ear that’s not muffled by my pillow. Somehow my thumb finds the answer button.

  “Sara Bishop,” I mutter. “This better be good.”

  “No, Ms. Bishop,” says the man on the other end of the line. “You better be good, or you won’t be getting a six-figure paycheck for a month’s work. Is that clear?”

  Suddenly my eyes are wide open. Did he just say six figures? For a month’s work?

  I lurch forward in my bed, prompting a wave of protest from both my head and my stomach, and cover the phone with my hand as I clear last night’s bottle of Stolichnaya from my throat.

  “I’m very sorry,” I say in my most professional tone. Thank God he can’t actually see me right now. “I thought you were one of my employees. They have strict instructions not to disturb me while I’m on a case.”

  In reality, I don’t have any employees. The only “associate” in Bishop & Associates is my sister, Grace, and she was just as blitzed as I was last night.

  “Well, you’re going to drop that case,” says the voice, “because my driver will be meeting you in the lobby of your building in about thirty minutes. Got it?”

  I glance at my watch – it’s 7:00 a.m. Who the fuck does this guy think he is, phoning me up in the middle of the night and giving me orders?

  “Pardon me,” I say with a touch of coldness. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

  “My name is Quentin Pearce, and if you don’t tell me who I am in the next ten seconds, I’m hanging up and moving on to the next name in the phone directory.”

  A jolt of adrenaline runs through me, and with it comes a throb in my poor head. Anyone who doesn’t know the name Quentin Pearce must be completely unplugged from the business world: he’s the financial rock star who came out of nowhere and built Wall Street’s largest private equity firm out of the ashes of the 2008 market meltdown.

  Suddenly, the six-figure offer becomes all too real – Pearce probably spends more than that on shoes in a year. And he’s not known for his patience.

  “You’re the head of Empire Group,” I say quickly. “Obviously, I can be available immediately for such a high-profile client.”

  “Right answer,” he says. “I’ll see you at 7:30.”

  He hangs up before I can say anything. Perfect – I’ve got thirty minutes to shake this hangover, get showered and dressed, and run the three blocks from my apartment to the building where my office is located.

  Piece of cake. Groan.

  It’s a good thing Pearce is too busy to come to the office itself, or he’d see it’s actually just a couple hundred square feet that I sublet from a law firm that owes me a favor. Grace and I do almost all of our business by phone and at various locations around Chicago, but the prestigious downtown address helps attract the right kind of client.

 
; I hit Grace’s number in my phone as I yank an outfit out of my closet, then put it on speaker as I pull off last night’s clothes and crank the shower to hot. She finally picks up after the fifth ring, by which point I’m already in the process of washing the stank out of my armpits.

  “Leave me alone,” she groans. “Let me die in peace.”

  I give my nether regions a good once-over with the body wash before rinsing off and hopping out onto the raggedy bath mat. I may feel like shit, but at least I’ll smell like cranberries.

  “Listen up,” I say. “Quentin Pearce wants to pay us six figures for a month’s work. I’m meeting him in twenty-five minutes”

  The line is quiet for a full ten seconds as I lather up my toothbrush.

  “Ihd ooh heah me?” I say through a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “Why did you wake me up just to tell me a stupid lie? You really need help, you know that?”

  I rinse and spit. “It’s the real thing,” I say. “A year’s worth of income for a month of work.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t just dream this?”

  I might wonder that myself if the act of buttoning my blouse didn’t cause my eyes to cross and my hands to shake. This hangover is anything but a dream.

  “Trust me,” I say. “I recognized the voice from TV.”

  I shrug into my suit jacket and slide on my shoes before realizing my skirt is still in the closet. I drop my phone into the crook of my shoulder and retrieve the skirt to finish getting dressed.

  “That’s crazy,” says Grace, finally sounding awake. “What does he want us to do for the money? And why us?”

  I grab my keys and purse as I dash through the door into the hallway and toward the stairs. There isn’t time to wait for the elevator to get to the sixth floor.

  “I don’t know,” I say, my heels echoing through the concrete stairwell. “And to be honest, for six figures, I don’t really give a shit.”

  39

  2. SARA

  Quentin Pearce is just as good-looking in real life as he is on television: flowing silver hair, chestnut eyes, a jaw that looks like it was chiseled out of marble, impeccable Italian suit.

  Charm, on the other hand… not so much.

  “I’ll cut right to the chase,” he says by way of introduction after his driver, a tall, muscular German woman, silently ushers me into the back of the limo. “You’re on the clock as of right now. In a few minutes, we’ll be in a board meeting at Atlas Security. Ever heard of it?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I say in my business voice. “Should I have?”

  “No,” he says. “In fact, if you said you had, I would have accused you of lying and told you to get out.”

  Like I said, charming. But his money’s as green as anyone else’s, and right now, Bishop needs it. So does the “& Associates,” so she’ll stop bumming money off of her sister.

  Pearce flips through a stack of papers for a few moments, so I check out the limo’s interior. It’s a late-model Bentley with four captain’s chairs, two on either side facing a workstation in the center. This is a mobile office, not one of those party buses that college girls rent for a twenty-first birthday weekend in Vegas.

  I see my reflection in the tinted glass and marvel at how together I look: my auburn curls somehow managed to not tangle themselves into a rat’s nest overnight, and the undersides of my baby blues are remarkably bag-free. I’m batting a thousand.

  “Atlas Security is a multi-billion-dollar company,” Pearce says, eyes still on his papers. “They work with governments and corporations to handle the kinds of problems that are too messy for most people.”

  “Such as?”

  He glances up at me and cocks an eyebrow. His eyes wander over me for a moment before looking back down at his papers.

  “You’re hot,” he says. “Good for you.”

  Easy, Prince Charming, I might swoon.

  “Atlas specializes in humanitarian paramilitary work,” he continues. “Yes, I know, that sounds like an oxymoron. It started out as a typical defense contractor in 2005, in the aftermath of the invasion of Iraq. In 2010, it refined its focus to handle crisis situations – hostage negotiations and extractions, protection duty for aid workers and refugees in war zones, post-disaster security – basically anything that might require a soldier, outside of actual warfare.”

  I nod. Private security companies have been a reality since before 9/11, though I’ve never heard of one with a humanitarian focus.

  “Since then, the company’s value has soared,” Pearce says. “That’s why Empire Group is going to buy it.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I say. “But I still don’t see where Bishop & Associates fits into the equation.”

  He slides the papers back into a slim leather briefcase and snaps it shut as the limo comes to a stop. Outside the window is the familiar bustle of Michigan Avenue.

  “You’re a private investigator,” he says. “You specialize in digging up dirt, right?”

  Actually, I specialize in locating and helping abused girls. But for what he’s offering, I’m willing to do just about anything.

  “It’s in my wheelhouse,” I say. “Now let’s discuss my fee.”

  “Later,” he says, grabbing the door handle.

  “Now,” I say.

  My heart and head are pounding with adrenaline – I’m taking a risk by pushing the money, I know, but I can’t shake the feeling that Pearce is the kind of shark who senses weakness. And exploits it.

  He gives me another appraising glance before opening the door.

  “Five thousand a day, plus expenses,” he says. “One hundred and fifty grand and change for thirty days. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it,” I say as I slide out of my seat and step onto the avenue.

  I play it cool, but inside my heart is doing backflips. That kind of money will pay our bills for the whole year and then some, so we’ll be able to take on the kind of cases that really matter.

  I smooth my skirt, but Pearce is already opening the door to the building’s lobby, so I jog to catch up, or as close to jogging as I can get in these heels. I get the sense the world is always five minutes behind Quentin Pearce.

  “Now, the question is: what do I have to do?” I ask.

  “Follow my lead,” he says, stabbing the button for the elevator. “And keep your mouth shut.”

  40

  3. CHANCE

  “Quentin Pearce can kiss my ass,” I say.

  Tre sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as I stuff the last bite of my breakfast burrito in my mouth and wash it down with the dregs of my coffee. His tailored gray suit is impeccable, as usual, highlighting his dark skin and a physique that could get him a tryout with an NFL team if he was willing to take the pay cut.

  Personally, I can’t be bothered to wear a suit at the office, and it drives him nuts. At least I’m not wearing cargo shorts today.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Tre says. “This isn’t a bar fight, Chance. You can’t just flip the guy the bird and challenge him to settle it outside.”

  “No, you can’t do that,” I say with a grin. “Because you’re a big ol’ pencil-pushing geek. I, on the other hand, fought with the Marines in Iraq while you were going to Harvard Business School.”

  “You’re damn lucky I did, white boy. You need me around here to tell you to keep that swinging dick of yours in your pants with Pearce. He’s a shark, dude; he’ll bite it off.”

  “I’m a shark, too,” I remind him.

  “No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re a tough guy. There’s a difference. I know guys who’ve dealt with Pearce – he’s crazy smart, and he doesn’t give a shit about anything except money. In fact, I think the guy might actually be a sociopath. He’s going to walk into that meeting with a big fucking check, and you better believe the board is going to take it seriously.”

  I brush the crumbs off my casual cotton shirt into my office sink and pour myself another cup of coffee.
Tre declines my offer of a cup for him.

  “I trust the board,” I say. “They believe in me and what I’m doing to preserve Sully’s legacy. They’ve told me so plenty of times.”

  “I know that,” Tre says, propping his butt on the edge of my desk. “But money’s got a way of making people do weird shit, like selling out and buying an island somewhere. And remember, you may have the most shares in Atlas, but the Sullivans combined have more than you.”

  He’s right. If they did choose to sell, Pearce – or, more likely, whoever buys Atlas from him – will have controlling interest.

  “I’m not going to let them get suckered into anything,” I say. “I put my heart and soul into this company, and Quentin Pearce can’t compete with that, no matter what he’s offering.”

  Tre’s eyebrows go up as he tilts his head. I’ve seen that look a thousand times since we were kids – it means he doesn’t agree.

  “Okay, Chance,” he says. “You’re the boss.”

  I frown. Much as I hate to admit it, Tre is smarter than me, even though I’m the CEO and chairman and he’s the president. I’ve got guts to spare, but he was the one who always got straight As.

  “All right, whenever you say that, it means I’m doing something stupid.”

  He shrugs. “I’m just saying be prepared to fight for your company. Maybe it won’t come to that – I hope it doesn’t come to that – but if it does, you need to be ready.”

  The clock on the wall rolls over to 8:00 a.m., so I get up and drop an arm on Tre’s shoulder, leading him to the door and the boardroom beyond.

  “I know you got my back, just like always,” I say. “And I’ll watch my step. But I really don’t see anything in this meeting to be concerned about.”

  41

  4. SARA