The Baby Clause: A Christmas Romance

by Tara Wylde

  The downside to Bora Bora is that it’s a twelve-hour flight from O’Hare.

  The upside to Bora Bora is literally everything else. And, of course, the fact that we had access to Atlas Security’s private Gulfstream jet to take us there. Plus, recovering from jet lag is easy when you have nowhere to go, and all day to get there.

  Our tiki hut is one of a dozen at the private resort, each with its own private dock and catamaran. If anything else in the world exists outside of these things, I don’t want to know about it for at least a few days.

  The sky is the same clear blue as the water below us. Sara’s bikini, on the other hand, is emerald green. With her floppy hat for that infamously sun-sensitive redhead’s skin, and her huge sunglasses, she fits in perfectly on her lounger with all the jetsetters around us.

  She’s forgiven me for making her wait last night – or the night before last, or – I don’t even know what day it is anymore. Anyway, while she was in the tub, I was arranging this honeymoon.

  She shades her eyes as I hand her a mojito that’s sweating away its ice in the tropical heat.

  “Thank you, dahling,” she says with some made-up foreign accent. “Do I sound Eurotrash enough for our neighbors?”

  “Hey, don’t be judgmental,” I say, lying down beside her. “Some of these people are nouveau-riche American trash, too. Including us.”

  She giggles. “I know I say this all the time, but could you honestly have imagined this when we were kids? I know my imagination just wasn’t that powerful.”

  “Maybe not this specifically,” I say. “But I always imagined us being successful together. Whether that meant living in a bungalow in the suburbs, or vacationing in a tropical paradise, didn’t really matter to me.”

  I think I’ve made her uncomfortable, because she turns her gaze back toward the ocean. We keep running into these awkward moments. I guess that’s inevitable, given the circumstances.

  Fortunately, they don’t last long.

  “Whoever invented the mojito deserves a medal,” she says, smacking her lips. Her glass is nothing but ice, lime and mint now.

  “What about the guy who gets you another one?”

  “He deserves something else. He’ll just have to wait to find out what it is.”

  I jump up and run back to the hut as fast as my feet will carry me.

  Later, after sunset, we’re floating naked in each other’s arms in the shallow water under our raised hut. I suppose one of our neighbors could see us with binoculars if they really tried, but I don’t really care.

  The only sound is the light splash as we bounce lightly, and the distant sound of faint conversation from the other huts.

  “Do you believe in heaven?” Sara asks.

  “I never thought about it,” I say.

  “I think maybe, if we’re good, we get to choose our own heaven. I hope so, anyway. If we do, this will be mine. This moment, right here, right now, for eternity.”

  “I could get behind that,” I say. “Maybe we should start our own religion. If we get enough people to join us, we can make it happen. That’s how it works, right?”

  She wraps her arms around my neck as her breasts bob in the water. I’m still recovering from our most recent trip to bed after the mojitos, but my cock is still doing its best to stand at attention.

  “We should be philosophers,” she says. “All those old guys I learned about in college were way off. So depressing.”

  I sigh. “Here’s something depressing: we have to go back to the real world in a couple of days.”

  Sara frowns. “Says who? You’re rich, and I’m your wife now, ergo I’m rich, too. We can just live here.”

  It suddenly occurs to me that she’s right. Not about living here – although that would be incredible – but about the fact that she’s rich now. In the crazy whirlwind of our wedding, it never occurred to me to think about a prenuptial agreement. She’s legally entitled to half my money.

  Like I care. I’ve got much more important things to worry about. Like the fact that my flagpole is standing tall again.

  I plant my lips on her neck, eliciting a moan from her. Then my erection brushes her mound and she gasps.

  “The mojito delivery guy is looking for his reward again,” I whisper.

  She sighs in mock exasperation as she grabs my member.

  “Probably would have been easier just to give him the medal,” she mutters.

  She turns and tiptoes through the water, back toward the ladder that leads up to our hut’s living room, towing me by my cock.

  As I follow, my mind begins to go over the “living here” scenario with a lot more serious thought than before.

  After our lovemaking, we lie awake in bed, feeling the tropical breeze through the open walls of the hut, Sara’s head on my bare chest.

  She turns to look up at me.

  “Did we win, Chance?” she asks. “Maybe?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “But we will.”

  She gives me a faraway look. No doubt she’s wondering the same things I am: whatever happens, where do we go from here? We’re married now – will we stay that way? It’s a huge step, and we’ve only just reconnected.

  So many what-ifs. So many things to think about.

  But not right now. I lean forward and kiss her softly.

  “Whatever happens in the future,” I say. “This, right here, right now, is a win.”

  “Heaven,” she sighs sleepily. “Right here, right now.”

  She drifts off with her head still on my chest, but it’s a long time before I follow her into sleep.

  99

  51. INTERLUDE: QUENTIN PEARCE

  “You’re obviously wondering why I’ve asked for another emergency board meeting before the thirty days is up,” Pearce says as the Sullivans take their seats around the table in one of Empire Group’s boardrooms.

  “And while our chairman and chief shareholder is absent,” Agnes Sullivan says, cocking an eyebrow. “Of course you know that’s highly unusual.”

  “Yes,” Pearce replies. A muscle twitches in his jaw. “On his honeymoon with my former investigator, if my sources are correct.”

  Agnes smiles. “They are. It was a surprise, obviously, but I’m over the moon for them. Chance deserves to be happy, and Sara seems like a wonderful woman. I never thought you really needed an investigator, anyway.”

  There’s no humor in Pearce’s smile.

  “No, I don’t suppose you would. And yes, it certainly was a surprise that they decided to get married the day after Sara came to me with a shocking revelation about your company.”

  That gets the old bird’s attention. She looks like a mother who’s just been told her child has been caught shoplifting.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says as the rest of the Sullivans murmur amongst themselves.

  “Then by all means, let me fill you in,” says Pearce. “Ms. Bishop confirmed information that I’d gleaned from other sources about Chance Talbot’s relationship with your late husband.”

  Agnes frowns. “Patrick and Chance loved each other like family,” she snaps. “We all know it.”

  “Is that right? And your husband willed Chance his own controlling shares, rather than passing them along to his own son, out of love?”

  She glares at him in stony silence.

  “What if I told you that Mr. Talbot was, in actuality, a blackmailing thug who got where he was by threatening to expose your husband?”

  “I’d say this meeting is over.” She stands, but her son puts a hand on her arm.

  “Wait, Mom,” he says. “We’re already here. We should at least hear him out.”

  Agnes sits back down but levels a warning finger at Pearce.

  “Listen to me very closely, Quentin,” she says. “If you came here to peddle scandalous rumors, you might as well tear up your offer right now.”

  “I actually did tear up my initial offer, but I’ll come back to that. First, though, I’ll assure
you that this is not a rumor. As I said, it was confirmed by Ms. Bishop.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then ask yourself this: you saw her and Chance meet again for the first time in, what, fifteen years? And less than three weeks later, they’re married. How convenient.”

  Agnes scowls, but stays silent.

  “As you know, a wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband. And now here is Sara Bishop, married the very day after she passes along incriminating evidence to me.”

  “What are you trying to insinuate?” Agnes asks.

  “I’m not insinuating anything,” Pearce says mildly. “I’m stating a fact: Chance Talbot found out about what Sara discovered, and he either bribed or threatened her to marry him so that she wouldn’t testify against him.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Chance would never do something like that.”

  “Ah, yes, our noble, upstanding Chance Talbot. A paragon of virtue. The man who threatened to expose his mentor to the Central Intelligence Agency after discovering him embezzling funds during a covert operation in Mosul, Iraq.”

  Agnes’s mouth drops open. The rest of the Sullivan clan look equally stunned.

  “Where do you think Patrick got the money to expand Atlas after he and Chance returned from Iraq? Very convenient how it just showed up out of the blue. A couple years later and everyone had shares – including the man who had no capital invested in the company, just time.”

  “I won’t sit here and listen to this –” Agnes starts, but Desmond stops her again.

  “Hear him out,” he urges.

  “The money was part of a CIA operation to identify and neutralize insurgents who were killing Christian civilians in northern Iraq,” says Pearce. “Chance came up with a way to convince the CIA that the cash had been destroyed, and demanded his share of the company in return. Exposure would likely have resulted in Patrick being assassinated, or at best imprisoned, so he agreed.”

  “Now you’re slandering Chance and my husband!” Agnes barks. “I won’t stand for it!”

  “I believe Patrick had only the best of intentions,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Misguided, yes, but ultimately, he built Atlas into what it is today: a unique company that’s desirable to many investors. Chance Talbot, however, is nothing more than a thug and an opportunist.”

  Agnes shakes her head. “No. That’s not true.”

  Pearce reaches into a folder on the table and pulls out a sheaf of paper.

  “Mrs. Sullivan, we’re you aware that Chance Talbot has a lengthy criminal record?”

  She frowns. “No,” she says. “He doesn’t talk much about his life before the military. I know he grew up in foster care. I assume that’s not an easy life for anyone to survive in.”

  Pearce flips through the papers. “Assault and battery, theft, breaking and entering. Does that sound like surviving?”

  “How did you get those documents?” she asks. “If he was allowed to enlist, his juvenile records had to have been sealed by the courts.”

  “I’m a resourceful man, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “It still doesn’t prove anything.”

  “No,” he says. “And now, thanks to Ms. Bishop – I’m sorry, I mean Mrs. Talbot – we won’t be able to prove anything in court, either.”

  “If this is true,” Desmond pipes up, “We can’t afford to screw around with this deal. I say we sell while we can and let Chance fend for himself.”

  The older lady rounds on her son.

  “We will not sell until I’ve talked with Chance and given him the opportunity to explain himself, is that clear?”

  Desmond glances down at the table. “Yes.”

  She looks to her other children and their spouses.

  “The rest of you?”

  They all mutter their agreement.

  “Fine. Then it’s settled: I’ll talk to Chance as soon as he and Sara return to Chicago. Until then, we don’t do anything different.”

  The Sullivans rise from the table and cross the boardroom to the door. As Agnes passes Pearce, he holds up a hand to halt her.

  “What is it?” she snaps.

  “I understand how you must feel right now,” he says. “And I respect your wishes. But may I give you some advice before you leave?

  “Don’t trust Chance around any of your family members.”

  “Mr. Pearce,” she says archly. “Chance is a member of my family.”

  “As you say. But I feel the need to point out that one of his assault charges was against his own foster father. They were eventually dropped when the man refused to testify. Sound familiar?”

  Agnes glares at him before turning to walk out of the room in silence.

  As she slams the door behind her, Quentin Pearce smiles his first genuine smile in a very long time.

  100

  52. SARA

  “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want a big party?” I sigh.

  “Why is everything about you?” Grace snips on the other end of the line.

  “Because I’m the bride, dumbass!”

  “Sure, rub it in. Listen, you and Chance eloped without me, fine, I’ll get over it. But you have to let me celebrate it somehow!”

  “Fine,” I say as I round West Shubert onto North Wayne. “Who are you going to invite? You’re my only family, and Chance doesn’t have any at all, unless you count the Sullivans.”

  “Okay, we’ll make it a small party then!”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, I give up. Do what you want.”

  “Yay!” she squeaks. “So are you just going to give me your credit card, or what’s the deal?”

  I stop in my tracks, prompting the guy who’s been walking behind me with his dog to do a dance step onto the boulevard to avoid running into my back.

  How are we going to handle finances now? Is Chance going to give me a credit card? In the days since the wedding, I haven’t been in a situation where I had to pay for anything. And are we married enough for him to give me access to his money?

  I guess the fact that I just thought the words “married enough” is kind of an answer in itself. Crazier and crazier.

  “Look, sis, I’ll have to call you back. I’ve got a bunch of things to do.”

  “All right,” she says. “Hey, you don’t mind me staying at your apartment, do you? It’s so much nicer than mine.”

  Another thing I hadn’t thought about. I have a lease on the place, but I live with Chance now. But for how long? Do I keep paying rent on it until we get our marriage figured out? More questions for the pile I have to start asking once Pearce’s deal blows over.

  If it blows over. Chance still has to come up with a compelling reason for the rest of the board not to sell.

  “Yeah, of course,” I say absently. “Might as well. Just don’t wear my clothes.”

  “When are you going to pick them up, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Chance kind of bought me a new wardrobe while we had a layover in Mexico City on our honeymoon.”

  “Ugh!” she barks. “How come you’re always so lucky? Why can’t I meet a rich hot guy who wants to marry me after two weeks?”

  “Stop whining. It was a lot longer than that, and you know it.”

  “Fine, whatevs. I’m going to wear your clothes. ‘Kay, bye.”

  She hangs up, leaving me with my head spinning. We didn’t even talk about the clients I’ve left hanging since the day Quentin Pearce picked me up in his limo and flipped my life on its head.

  I spend the next three blocks trying to focus on the thousand different things running through my head. And trying to figure out why the guy with the dog is behind me again. He should be a good block in front of me.

  I drop to one knee and pretend to tie my running shoe, long enough for him to pass by a second time. I shake my head at myself. Guess I still have my investigator’s suspicion, even if I’m not doing much investigating these days.

  That’s something else to add to th
e pile: when am I going to get back to my cases? They may not be as high-profile as a billion-dollar corporate takeover, but they matter. Every one of those girls matters.

  Which brings me back to money again. Will Chance subsidize Bishop & Associates to keep me afloat? Should I even ask him to? If he doesn’t, will Grace have to find a new job?

  It’s more than enough to keep my mind occupied until I reach Chance’s – I mean our – front door. I’m so deep in thought that I barely notice the guy with the dog has fallen behind me again.

  101

  53. INTERLUDE: QUENTIN PEARCE

  “Nice little office, Mr. Carter,” Pearce says as the receptionist ushers him into the room.

  “It does the job,” Tre says politely. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  Pearce shrugs. “My ears are always open. Although I very much hope this isn’t just a rehash of Mr. Talbot’s speech against the sale, only coming from your mouth this time.”

  Tre motions for him to take a seat, then takes his own.

  “Definitely not,” he says. “In fact, I was hoping to talk to you about what might occur after the sale.”

  Pearce raises an eyebrow. “After? So you believe the Sullivans will sell?”

  “Let’s just say it’s in my best interests to be prepared for every eventuality.”

  “Forgive me if I’m a bit confused – aren’t you the head cheerleader on Team Talbot?”

  Tre flashes an annoyed look. It’s enough to make Pearce sit forward in his chair.

  “We haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately on the future of the company,” he says. “Chance has made some… questionable decisions.”

  “Marrying Sara Bishop for one, I assume,” Pearce says, standing to peruse the various certificates on the wall beside Tre’s desk. “Hm. Harvard. Good for you.”

  “Thanks. As for Sara, it’s their personal decision to make. That said, it has definitely taken Chance’s head out of the game for several days now.”

  “Leaving you as president to run things in his absence,” Pearce says. “But I imagine you’re used to that, with him flying around the world and parachuting into war zones and all that.”