by Eve Black
He could clearly remember the bile rising into his throat—not at the thought of being a father, but at the thought of being the father of her baby. No child deserved a scheming, manipulative, gold-digger for a mother.
Unfortunately, that scathing anger had been preceded by a millisecond of joy. A joy that was immediately scorched to ashes.
He knew Rinna’s announcement for the lie it was, calling her on it. He was religious about using protection. Every. Single. Time. Not once had he stuck his cock in a pussy and not been wrapped with a layer of high-grade latex.
Glaring down at the envelope Rick had presented, David felt a moment of relief—but only a moment.
“I will look through them tomorrow once I am on my flight to Shanghai,” he supplied. “Though I am curious to know what you think of what the PI has uncovered.”
Rick’s usually impassive mien sharpened, his smile similar to that of a shark on the hunt for that one drop of blood in an entire ocean.
“There’s enough proof in there to show that not only was Rinna lying about being pregnant with your baby but she planned the whole scheme right down to mourning the loss of the baby once her first child support check cleared the bank. At that point, she planned to sue for emotional suffering, citing that the fight for child support put too much stress on her already frail health.”
Black, boiling anger settled in his chest, the burn akin to consuming molten lava. He bit back a growl. “Her arrogance has cost her, and I will make her pay for all she’s done.”
Rick stood, buttoning this suit coat. “We will make her pay, my friend,” he corrected. “I am just glad you came to me for this.”
As David Brenner, Forbes Top 5 Billionaire Bachelors, and the owner of a billion-dollar tech empire, he had a harem of corporate attorneys, all eager to whore themselves out for whatever he needed. They were good at what they did, he couldn’t deny that, but when he was first served with Rinna’s paternity suit, he knew he couldn’t trust something that personal with someone other than Richard Ayers. He’d met Rick their first day at Oxford. He’d gone to the prestigious university to study business, and Rick had come in from the states to study international law. Now, fifteen years later, very few people knew that Rick was his old college roommate and rowing crew captain. The man had been one hell of a coxswain, and now he was an even better attorney.
Rick had always been one of the good ones, a stand-up guy in a world crawling with worms, despite facing his own divorce just two years ago. Rick and his then wife, Melanie, had agreed to part ways, having discovered that they had simply fallen out of love with each other after ten years together. Their divorce had been amicable, but that hadn’t stopped the vultures from circling, looking for any information they could use to turn Rick and Melanie’s lives upside down for profit. They’d picked Rick’s marriage apart, bringing up old wounds and heartaches, dragging family and friends through the mud, just for the inside scoop on something that wasn’t even a thing. They couldn’t believe that someone as high profile as Richard Ayers didn’t have skeletons in his closet.
Yes, Rick knew what David was going through, and that meant more to him than he could ever tell.
Reaching out, David offered his hand to Rick who ignored it and came around his desk to embrace him instead. A quick squeeze and then a clap on the back—the usual exchange between the long-time friends.
Their meeting at an end, Rick asked, “Where are you staying?”
“The usual place,” David answered easily.
“And when is your flight to Shanghai?”
“First thing. I fly out of Republic bright and early.”
“If I need you for anything, I’ll contact you directly.”
Leaving in the morning for the first leg of his two week-long “good press” circuit in Asia, David knew his PR people couldn’t have picked a worse time for him to be out of the country. With the mess going on in NY, he hated being so far away, unable to keep his eyes and ears on what was unfolding. But he knew he could trust Rick implicitly.
“Safe travels, my friend,” Rick said, grinning. “And when you get back to New York, hopefully, you’ll be one leech lighter.”
David grinned back, something like vindication coursing through him. It felt like lightning in his veins. “I look forward to that.”
“Don’t forget to have a drink for me before you leave, though. They don’t make Tennessee whiskey anywhere else as good as they do here.”
Chuckling, he agreed, “No, they don’t, though I do prefer a finger of Glenlivet over Jack Daniels.” Rick shook his head, a grin tilting his lips. “One whiskey for you and one for me. That’s a promise.”
Slapping David on the back, Rick replied, “Good. Enjoy your last night in New York.”
“I plan on it.”
Chapter 3
Back at their building, an edifice of steel and glass, with a stone wall cloaked in clinging ivy—the architects attempt at creating a “green space,” no doubt, Margie and Diana greeted the receptionist on the bottom floor and entered the elevators. Diana pressed the button for the 34th floor, and Margie leaned back against the wall, staring at the numbers as the lift began to ascend.
“We made it back, just in time—I even have time to come up and see who this mystery not-baby-daddy is,” Margie said, winking at Diana. That’s why the nosey attorney hadn’t pressed the button for her own floor. Diana couldn’t help the smile that tickled her lips.
“Uh-uh,” she chided. “Ayers was clear that he didn’t want this man’s identity getting out before the case was made public.”
“Who am I going to tell?” Margie parried. “I am a lawyer. I have ethics.”
Another snort burst from Diana’s chest and she grinned at her friend’s incredulous expression.
“Those two sentences rarely go together, Margaret,” Diana remarked, using her friend’s full, hated name, allowing her grin to grow.
Margie narrowed her eyes. “You know me, Di. I won’t tell a soul—I need to know. I promise not to go snooping. I’ll just get off on the floor with you, and if I don’t see anyone…mysterious, I’ll get right back in the elevator and not say another word about it.”
Diana knew, better than anyone, how persuasive Margie could be—long before she’d ever been a lawyer. And she won, yet again.
“Fine,” she muttered, holding up a finger. “No asking questions and no slinking by outside Ayers’s office, trying to sneak a peek.”
Margie gasped, pressing a manicured hand to her chest in feigned offense.
God, this girl.
“Me? I will be on my absolute best behavior—even better than when Sister Winifred gave that speech about the fires of hell devouring the genitals of those who diddle themselves.”
The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and Diana couldn’t hold back the roar of throaty laughter the flew from her chest. She’d never been a quiet laugher, much to her mother’s dismay. Her laugh had once been compared to a fog horn fucking a goose, but that didn’t stop her from letting it loose once in a while. Like when her best friend in the whole world reminded her about their high school ethics teacher—Winnie the Woody Killer.
Sucking in a quick breath, she stepped off the elevator, a huge smile on her face, and nearly slammed right into the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
She stared hard, unable to find her voice. Which was uncharacteristic of her.
Steel gray eyes surrounded by long eyelashes that matched the almost raven color of his professionally styled hair. His nose was long, Roman, perfectly proportioned, like an arrow pointing down to the real prize. Diana’s gaze dropped to his mouth. Also perfectly proportioned—and edible. His mouth looked soft, almost as if it should belong to a woman, but on him, it was pure smirking sin. Lips like those were probably capable of sliding oh so gently over the sensitive flesh of her neck. And since he was taller than her by at least a foot, all he would have to do to slide that luscious mouth over her skin was bend forward…just a little—
It was Margie’s nudge that made Diana realize what an utter idiot she must look like, snapping her out of her stunned spell of stupidity.
“So-sorry, sir. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Diana said, drawing her shoulders back to push some strength into her next words. “I apologize.”
The man quirked his sexy as hell lips and pinned her with those steely eyes that made her stomach jackknife into her uterus.
His gaze was bold, intent, assessing her frankly, starting at her feet then slowly ascending her body, catching, only for a second, on the bulging fabric of her borrowed blouse before finally landing on her face. She held her breath—and she didn’t know why. Hell, she knew why. She knew what he was seeing when he looked at her; pretty in face but fluffy everywhere else.
The urge to wrap her arms around myself, to put up a wall between herself and the sensual magnetism flowing from him, nearly undid her. She had never felt so exposed, and she was fully dressed—except for that damn shirt.
A glint sharpened his eyes, and Diana wondered if he knew what he was doing to her. If he could sense how he was dismantling her inner professional piece by piece.
He shrugged broad shoulders, breaking the tightly strung tension. “No apology necessary.” His voice was like melted chocolate, flowing over her like a slow, delectable deluge, and it didn’t help that his accent was so delicious. “I can see you were…distracted.” He glanced at Margie and gave her a curt nod and a quick, polite smile before sliding his big, long-fingered hands into the pockets of his pressed slacks and walking around them—Diana’s eyes glued to his fantastic ass—and into the elevator. Thank God he seemed preoccupied by a large envelope under his arm because he would have caught her gawking at him.
God, Diana! When did you become such a thirsty bitch? Snapping around, Diana took off toward her office—a small, somewhat closet-like room—not even bothering to see if Margie was following. By the sound of heels clacking against tile behind her, she knew she was, and she immediately regretted allowing Margie to talk her into letting her come to her floor.
“Was that him? The guy Ayers was meeting with?” she whisper-shrieked, rushing into Diana’s office and shutting the door behind her.
Diana caught her breath and pressed a shaking hand to her cheek. She felt as though she’d run a marathon while wearing leg weights; her body vibrating with waves of weakness that made her lean down and plant her hands on her desk for stability. Why were her hands shaking? Why was her body acting as if it had lost its damn mind? One run-in with a sexy man shouldn’t make every cell in her body turn to jelly.
“I don’t know. The meeting was supposed to be at one-fifteen…then again, Ayers is known for allowing his better clients to change their appointment times on the fly. Makes him more of an appealing attorney, apparently.”
Margie took out her cell, her thumbs flying over the screen. “Omigerd, omigerd,” she muttered.
Suddenly panicked, Diana blurted, “What? What’s wrong?”
As answer, Margie turned her phone and showed her what she’d been doing.
It was a picture of the man she’d nearly collided with. Mr. Sexy as Sin.
“So what? That’s the guy we just saw,” she said, easing down into her desk chair slowly, so as to not pop any of the buttons on her borrowed blouse.
Margie looked fit to explode. “So what? Don’t you know who that is?” she blabbered shrilly.
Diana shook her head, knowing she was about to get an earful on the guy. “No.”
Margie threw her hands into the air and let out a grunt. “Where have you been hiding? How can you not recognize David Brenner?”
The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She worked, a lot, and didn’t have much time for TV watching—aside from the syndicated shows she binge-watched on occasion, internet sleuthing, or gossip.
Margie probably saw the lack of recognition on her face because she held the image up again.
“David Brenner, British Sex God, CEO of Brexcel Corporation,” Margie went on.
That bit about the corporation clicked, and Diana staunchly refused to linger on the sex god part. “The guy who bought that building out on Long Island and turned it into a gamer’s paradise? Like, where all the computer nerds go when they finally crawl out of their mother’s basement?”
Margie nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, but that’s not the best part—he’s filthy rich. Like a billionaire.”
Diana shrugged. She didn’t care about billions so much as she cared about making sure her car had enough gas, her belly had enough food, her ass had clean underwear to slide into every morning, and her sister had her college tuition payments. Diana was a simple girl with simple needs… And Margie was the girl who loved the flashy, shiny, pretty-pretty things. Money didn’t impress Diana, not as much as character, loyalty, or dedication. Give her a hard-working, blue collar gentleman over a snobby billionaire any day. Not that either of those men were an option. Seemed that thick thighs, curvy hips, and a fleshy belly were kryptonite to the male species no matter what was in his bank account.
“That’s nice for him,” she finally replied, checking the time on her computer monitor.
Sighing dramatically, Margie pushed her phone into her coat pocket. “If he was the one meeting with Ayers, the one Janet was talking about, then he’s the one battling the baby-daddy suit.”
What had Margie heard that Diana hadn’t? Not that she needed to know anything; she already had plenty of other cases to keep her occupied, she didn’t need office gossip to taint her brain.
Rolling her eyes, she made a shooing motion with her hand. She didn’t care why the man was in the building, she just cared that she needed to get her head on straight; she had work to do and she didn’t need the distraction of day-time fantasies that had no chance of becoming reality.
She was a realist, dammit!
Margie clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes right back. “Fine, I’ll go. I should probably get back to my office—this shirt is starting to smell like skunk ass—but don’t think we won’t talk about this later,” Margie said, pointing at Diana.
She waved her off again. “Whatever. Thanks for the shirt. I’d get it back to you tonight—”
“Buuuuuut Blake is coming over…” Margie finished for her, needlessly reminding her that she had a night of hot sex coming up, and Diana was looking forward to a long commute home to Jersey.
“Yup.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll get this one dry-cleaned and invoice you for the charges.”
She laughed and blew a kiss to Margie as she left.
Despite her—honestly—less than diligent efforts to forget the man from the elevator, her body immediately responded to the slightest memory of his gaze, how it skimmed over her, lighting her skin on fire. He was unlike any other man she’d met; beautifully masculine, with a presence that demanded attention. Submission.
Where the hell had that thought come from?
Shaking her head to clear away the horny muck, and despite her earlier desire to put him from her thoughts, she focused on the facts she now knew about him.
David Brenner… Now that Margie had helped her make the connections, she remembered reading about the guy in a Forbes magazine she’d plucked from the month-old pile of reading material in her dentist’s office. He was one of the top five billionaire bachelors in the world.
Good for him, she thought, as a vision of gray-silver eyes flashed through her brain.
Apparently, Mr. Brenner was a self-made man, turning a single sandbox style computer game into a software empire. There had been a picture of him, but the part where his head would have been had been ripped out. No doubt someone wanting to take that gorgeous face of his home to stare at while they drifted off into erotic dreams.
And they would be erotic. Her skin flushed, remembering just how incredibly…masculine he’d been. Tall. Check. Muscular. Check. The man’s tailored suit coat hugged his arms and chest like it was trying to cop a fe
el. Sexy mouth. Check. Fuck me eyes. Check. David Brenner had easily turned her into a brainless stump with a single glance in his direction.
Damn! That had never happened to her before. And it was fucking humiliating! He must think I am some fawning idiot…if he even spares a thought for me at all.
Like that was likely to happen. Out of sight, out of mind. Chubby chick at the elevator, gone from his memory before he hit the 32nd floor.
Her heart still pounding from their incredible (though that was one-sided) and brief encounter, she barely heard the ding from her computer, indicating an intra-office message from her boss. Moving the mouse to kill the screen saver—a fluffy dilute calico kitten in a red rubber boot—she read the message.
MY OFFICE. TEN MINUTES.
Well, there went her chance to calm the hell down and avoid her boss seeing her in her comically tight shirt.
In the time it took her to clock back into work via the company’s internal time-keeping software and check her reflection in the small mirror in the bathroom across the corridor from her office, her heart returned to beating at a rhythmic, neutral pace.
Shit. She knew she looked like a grown woman trying to squeeze into a toddler’s shirt, but unless she wanted to leave work early (which she couldn’t afford to do, since she needed the hours) she had to face her boss despite looking like the ass end of an éclair; overstuffed and spilling out.
Sucking in a breath, she held it as she let herself into Mr. Ayers’s office. Having worked for him for three years, she knew he expected her to be right on time, and she was. And now she was standing in front of his desk while he was staring at the computer screen in front of him. Only a twitch in his eyebrows told her that he noticed her arrival.
Richard Ayers. Sexy as fuck, cold as ice, and as hard as steel. Yes, the man was sex on legs with his platinum hair, slashing brows, deep sky blue eyes, sharp cheek bones, and lips that would look kissable if they weren’t always pressed into a thin line of displeasure. Thankfully, she wasn’t the romance novel cliché; the virgin employee with the hots for her boss. She enjoyed working at Kilgore, Ayers, Beecham, she appreciated Mr. Ayers’s demand for professionalism, and she ignored all the office gossip about him because she honestly wasn’t interested. While many of the female interns swooned over the big boss man, she just kept her head down and did her job.
