Quadruplets for the Billionaire (Babies for the Billionaire Book 2)

by Ana Sparks

  “He’s right. I appreciate the thought, Mike, but Carson isn’t going to suddenly change for me, of all people. I have nothing to offer that the dozens before me haven’t had,” I manage weakly.

  I wrap my arms around myself, inhaling a shuddering breath before turning my back on the pilots. They remain silent even as I step through the curtain, and I feel more foolish than ever.

  To make matters worse, Carson had been so insistent that I allow the men to hear my desperate cries of pleasure. Yeah, desperate was right. Desperate for something that’s so obviously out of my reach, I had ignored common sense in favor of it. I know I should plan to have a long talk with Carson when I slip back into the seat beside him. However, I’m reluctant to throw either of the pilots under the bus, even with as callous as Taylor had been towards me.

  It just seems so…unnecessary. I like to think Carson could have been upfront with me about his true feelings, and perhaps I wouldn’t be hurting so much now. It makes sense, though. He’s the sort of billionaire playboy who only cares about himself. I wish I could say he’s different, but every man boils down to the same formula, at base level. All he cares about is eating, screwing, and sleeping.

  Speaking of, he’s gotten two of those immediately upon boarding the jet with me. I watch his sleeping form with disdain, my heart aching at how fondly I had considered him what seemed only moments ago. Strange how much things can change in so short a space of time.

  I watch his face, tracing my eyes along the well-sculpted features. He looks so peaceful in his sleep, so sweet, that I can barely stand the thought of being cold towards him. I try to ignore the voice in my head that insists it’s my fault. I should have known better. It’s not as if a man like him would see anything of value in a simple woman like me.

  Just as well, I’m not about to let him under my skirt again, knowing where those hands have been. I don’t know how I’m going to explain the abrupt shift in my attitude, but the nice assistant who had been so eager to play is no more. I imagine he’ll be cold, seeing little use in me without the appeal of my body. Perhaps he’ll send me home ahead of schedule. Or maybe, just maybe…

  Maybe Mike was right. Perhaps Carson just needs to meet the right woman. Maybe I’m the one who will change his outlook, the one he can’t look into his future and see himself without.

  Realizing that I’m just fooling myself, I exhale a bitter chuckle. I slouch in my seat, chills going through my body. Carson hadn’t been as kind to explain where the spare blankets are, and apparently is doing just fine without one. Then again, he has the satisfaction of a plan well executed to keep him warm. All I have is my misery and disappointment to keep me company.

  Shivers run through my body as I turn away from him, an unbidden tear streaking down my cheek. Get it together. He’s just a fling. It’s not as if I had expected to find my happily-ever-after with someone like Carson Sharpe. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I stare out the window of the jet.

  The clouds look like fluffy piles of cotton candy, sweet and delicate. The jet rips through them, not caring what effect it might have on the skies around it. I suppose it’s fitting. The perfect metaphor to describe the owner of said jet and the women he’d torn asunder.

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the thoughts, trying to tune out the sound of the engines. Moreover, I try to ignore the gentle lull of Carson’s snoring—an obnoxious, but strangely comforting sound that a lesser woman would find herself falling for.

  Allowing everything to slip away, I drift into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Carson

  When I open my eyes, I glance to my side to see Aimee sleeping restlessly at my side. I smile to myself, a sense of adoration sweeping over me.

  I brush my fingertips across the troubled crease of her brow, wondering just what sort of nightmares are running through her head. I can only hope that I should appear as the knight in shining armor, but the only real way to ensure that is to wake her from her uncomfortable sleep.

  “Wake up, Aimee,” I whisper, brushing my lips against her ear.

  She jolts upright, turning wide eyes upon me. Her expression is baleful, and I wave off her apparent concern.

  “You seemed to be having a bit of trouble sleeping. Is there something on your mind?” I inquire gently, reaching out to brush a lock of hair away from her forehead. To my surprise, she draws away from me. I can’t help feeling a bit spurned, but I try not to take it to heart. Perhaps her nightmares had gotten to her more than I expected.

  “Nothing important, Mr. Sharpe,” she says coolly, refusing to meet my gaze.

  My eyebrows shoot upwards at the use of the formal title, and doubt wells up inside me as I try to reason out what could have her upset. A surge of fear rushes through me as I glance towards the cockpit, wondering if she could have had a worrying talk with the pilots.

  “Oh…all right. What did you do while I was sleeping? Did you enjoy the flight—lap of luxury, and all that?” I smile teasingly, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. She tenses beneath my grip, and an intense sense of unease rises up in me. I swallow thickly, forcing down a painful lump in my throat.

  “I just slept. Just like you,” she murmurs, glancing past me.

  The skyline of Saint Petersburg spears the sky beneath us, and I smile in spite of myself. No matter what has her so upset, she won’t be able to hold a grudge when I show her the beautiful city. It’ll be the ultimate romantic escape, unlike anything she’s ever experienced before. In a way, it will be much the same for me. I’ve never actually been on a trip with someone I’ve felt such adoration for.

  “We’ll be touching down in five,” Mike calls from the cockpit, an edge of uncertainty in his voice. I can hear the two pilots bickering quietly, but I try to put little weight on whatever may be troubling them. They usually get antsy on long flights, and I am fairly confident they won’t have divulged any…uncouth secrets. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time. Mike has a heart nearly the size of his gut, and Taylor might not have the best opinion of my actions in the past.

  If I find out that they revealed my sordid past to the woman I’m falling for, I would be tempted to fire the two of them, but I know I could never follow through on that threat. Aimee deserves to know the truth. I can only hope that I’m the one who reveals it to her, and she doesn’t hear it from an outside source, but it might be too late.

  Shaking off the worrisome thoughts, I turn to take in the angelic face of the woman at my side. Her heart-shaped lips, usually curved into a sly smile, are pouting slightly. Upon close inspection—at least as close as she’ll allow for the moment—it seems that she’s been nervously gnawing on her lip since she woke up.

  Even more troubling is the rim of redness around both eyes, an obvious indication that she has been crying. Though I can’t claim to know Aimee as well as I should someday hope to, I feel as if I know her well enough to know that she wouldn’t cry over just anything. Something important is weighing heavily on her mind.

  As the wheels of the jet touch down on the runway, I struggle with the words to explain myself to the woman before me. Perhaps if I take her out to a romantic dinner, something for just the two of us, she’ll feel comfortable enough to reveal what is troubling her.

  I plan to show her all of my favorite landmarks, to form grandiose memories with the woman I’m coming to adore. I hope we find new places to explore, together. At the end of this trip, I plan to ask her to be mine. Not just to screw around with her, but also to love her as a man should love a woman.

  “It’s 11 a.m., local time. I hope you’re well rested; we have a busy day ahead of us. The meeting is at three, and we’ll have time after to explore some of the local landmarks. If you’ll indulge me, though, it’s just early enough to catch lunch somewhere nearby,” I say with a smile, certain that she’ll be thrilled by the suggestion.

  Instead, she turns dull eyes upon me. She unfastens her seatbelt, standing somewhat shakily and slipping towar
ds the exit. She trails behind Mike and Taylor, and the look of concern Mike turns upon her only raises my suspicions higher.

  I quickly shuffle out of my seat, realizing with a start that my fly is still unzipped. I feel my cheeks flush as I adjust myself, zipping up my slacks and brushing a hand through my sleep-rumpled hair. I rush after Aimee, finding her lingering towards the back of the jet where Mike and Taylor are talking together.

  My sweet Aimee watches the men with crossed arms, a sour expression on her precious face. What I would give to strike the uncertainty from her gaze, to sweep her into my arms and shout to the heavens that I’m falling in love with her.

  I step closer to her, and she glances towards me with something that can only be described as disdain. There’s also something else in her gaze, what I recognize as a deep and unfathomable sorrow. I know I should come clean right here, right now. There’s nothing actually stopping me, save my ego. I just want to be somewhere more private, beyond the probing gazes of my pilots.

  “Aimee, if you would follow me, I’ve rented a car to take us to our hotel room, and then we can see about getting lunch,” I offer nervously.

  She stares at me for a lingering moment before nodding her head. She’s silent as we walk side by side to the car, and as I sit behind the steering wheel, I want nothing more than to reach across the center console and grip her hand in my own. Her hands are folded in her lap, however, and she stares forlornly out the window of the passenger side.

  Remaining silent, I try to stay upbeat. I don’t want to be obnoxiously cheerful, but maybe my sweet Aimee will find my good mood infectious.

  I part my lips to speak, but she rests her forehead against the window and obviously tunes out my presence. My good mood is rapidly diminishing, but I’m confident that things will still turn out in my favor.

  As we pull into the hotel parking lot, I slide out of the car and wave down a porter to take our bags. The young man smiles politely at Aimee and me, but Aimee doesn’t return the expression. Instead, she slinks towards the front entrance of the hotel. I rush behind her, desperate to keep pace. She’s moving remarkably quickly, and it’s obvious that she’s trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

  Seeming to realize she can’t get into the room without a key, Aimee pauses by the front desk and waits for me. I fall into place beside her, trying to regain my composure as swiftly as possible. The hotel clerk watches me with a bemused expression, but when I wordlessly present my identification for her to see, her eyes widen dramatically.

  “Mr. Sharpe, of course. Your VIP suite has been prepared for you. You’ll find champagne as well as a selection of other choice beverages. As always, don’t hesitate to call if you need something,” she says in a rush, slipping the suite’s keycard into my hand. She hesitates as Aimee sticks her hand out, glancing to me for permission.

  “This is my guest, Aimee Rhodes. She’s free to have the other keycard,” I say warmly, grimacing as Aimee snatches the card from the woman’s hand. It seems that being cordial is the last thing on my normally sweet girl’s mind, but I can’t say I blame her. I can only hope that getting a delicious lunch into her stomach will soothe her nerves so that we can discuss the issue like adults.

  It’s several beats before I realize Aimee’s walked away to the elevator without me, and I sprint to catch up. I manage to jump inside just before the doors close.

  “You only booked one room?” she inquires. There is a tinge of bitterness to her words.

  “Well, there are multiple rooms in the suite, so I thought it unnecessary to get you a room on another floor. After all, we’ll be spending a lot of time together,” I explain.

  She averts her eyes, muttering under her breath. A bit of irritation at her attitude begins to make itself known within the recesses of my brain, and I clear my throat.

  “You’ll have to speak up, Aimee. I can’t hear you if you’re mumbling,” I say with as much tact as I can muster.

  “I said that it was rather presumptuous of you. Not to mention unprofessional—” she pauses as the elevator dings pleasantly to indicate we’ve reached our floor. “But I suppose it’s fine,” she adds as an afterthought, walking out of the elevator without looking back and following the hallway to the VIP suite.

  I stare after her with my mouth agape, snapping it shut when I realize I must look ridiculous.

  It’s becoming increasingly evident that she knows more than she cares to discuss for the time being. In spite of how childishly she’s behaving, I also know that she’s entitled to her feelings. I trail behind her, the young man who’d brought our bags lagging behind us. I hadn’t even noticed his presence in the elevator, and I find myself growing more incensed because of it.

  I manage to swallow my growing irritation, however. If anything, the patience I’m showing for this young woman only serves to make obvious how I feel about her. It would be a lie to say I’m not having second thoughts about those feelings, however. It would almost be better if she took some pleasure in making me miserable, but she simply continues to wear that ever-sour expression.

  It’s as if she thinks there’s no way that things can be fixed. It’s almost as if…I’ve broken her heart.

  “We’ll just step in for a moment, then we’ll have to rush if we want to make lunch. I know a nice café nearby, and we can have a discussion I’ve been putting off,” I say gently, reaching out to take her hand.

  She yanks herself free of my grip, staring at me for a long moment before letting out a deep sigh.

  “I’m not hungry. You go ahead; I’ll just explore the room a bit. I need time to settle in,” she mumbles, and I feel an inexplicable sense of betrayal.

  She’s…turning me down?

  I part my lips to try to continue the conversation, but she turns her back to me and walks deeper into the suite. While I know I could follow her, I realize there’s little reason to do so right now. Maybe when she cools down, we can discuss things openly.

  Until then, I suppose I’m off to lunch on my own.

  Chapter Twelve

  Aimee

  The VIP suite is about as wonderful as you would expect, if you’ve never been inside such a thing. A small town girl like myself finding her way to such an extravagant place would likely bring my mother to tears. Tears of joy, that is, until I told her what exactly I’d gone through to get to this point.

  The thought almost brings a smile to my face, but I’m not sure when Carson will return to prepare for his meeting, and I don’t want him to catch me smiling. I know that seems petty, and that’s because it is petty, but I have every right to be. What goes around comes around, you know?

  Perhaps it was cold of me to turn down Carson’s lunch invitation, especially considering the supposed discussion he wanted to have. I have my suspicions about the direction that conversation would turn, and I’m not entirely prepared to launch into a screaming match with my boss in a foreign country. Granted, as sour as I’ve been, he’s yet to really lose his cool. I suppose I vaguely respect that.

  Then again, he’s likely had to deal with this situation several times over. I’m probably reacting by the book, and for some reason, that thought only serves to make me angrier. I launch myself out of my position on his fancy king-size bed, stomping towards the mini fridge in the corner of the room. If you could even call the monstrous thing miniature, in any way, shape or form.

  Yanking open the refrigerator door, I take a moment to reflect on how entirely unprofessional it would be for me to show up to the scheduled meeting three sheets to the wind. A smirk works its way onto my face as I grab the bottle of fancy champagne that had been promised to Mr. Sharpe.

  Struggling with the top for a moment, I take my teeth to the foil and grab hold of the cork. With a bit of skillful prying, bubbles begin to spew from the top of the bottle. A victorious laugh spills past my lips, and I take a long swallow from the bottle.

  It might have been how restless my sleep had been on the flight here, but the champagn
e serves to make me feel rather warm and fuzzy all too soon. I hiccup, continuing to drink from the bottle even as I hear the door to the suite open.

  Uh-oh. Busted.

  Laughing at the thought, I turn to face the entryway to the bedroom as Carson steps inside. His eyes widen as he takes me in, and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing in his face. His jaw clenches, and a part of me hopes that he’ll throw me on the bed and show me what a bad girl I’ve been. I’m a horny drunk, so sue me.

  Unfortunately, he simply steps forward and yanks the bottle out of my hand. He groans upon seeing how much is missing from the bottle and turns a stern look upon me. I feel myself smiling much like the cat that got the canary, and his cheeks redden faintly. In spite of how angry we’re making each other with every misstep, it seems like we’re drawn together like moths to a flame. I bite my lip, fixing him with a sultry stare as I step towards the bed.

  Obviously, he has more restraint than I do. He tosses the bottle in the garbage, grabbing his suitcase off the bed and turning his back on me. He rolls the large bag into another section of the suite, beginning to unbutton his shirt. I trail after him, angry that he’s turned down my advances. After all he’s done to me?! Then again, I suppose it’s a noble thing, not taking advantage of an inebriated woman. I settle against the back of the couch, watching him with pursed lips as he changes clothes.

  My eyes take in every minute detail of his skin as it’s exposed to the open air, and I curl my nails into the carefully upholstered leather of the sofa. I’m torn between anger and simply wanting to launch myself at him and rip him out of that fancy suit. He doesn’t want anything more than a plaything, and right now, I almost feel like I can allow that.

  All at once, the nausea washes over me. I lurch towards the bathroom, clutching the porcelain and retching into the bowl. Christ, I should have eaten. I hear his footsteps as he approaches me, and he silently pulls my hair back. He wraps a hair elastic around the bulk of it, and I notice him placing a carefully folded dress on the tiled floor.