Chapter 15

No, we’re definitely not playing by the rules.

He’d called me “babe,” for one thing.

Terms of endearment are… Such a no-no in a scenario like this. Correct?

Second… We’re being reactionary with each other, rather than paying close attention to the fertility testing and the monitoring that’s at our disposal, which can accurately alert us of the perfect time to copulate.

And, hell… We’re not exactly “copulating” in a clinical sense.

What we’re doing is something altogether different.

Nick and I are hot for each other, plain and simple.

Except… There really isn’t anything plain or simple about this.

We should not be so caught up in each other, so tangled up.

He knows it too. And murmurs, “This is going to be a problem.”

He withdraws from me and climbs off the couch. He crosses the vast room that’s filled with other sofas, chairs, and accent tables. He ducks into the bathroom, of which I’ve discovered there’s one in each of these wings. When he returns, he’s wearing the shirt I’ve all but shredded, letting it hang open. He flips the switch on the mammoth fireplace set against the far wall, across from me, with a ginormous flat screen mounted above it.

I groan inwardly. The doors at the end of the wing are opened to the deck and the sound of the waves undulating onto the shore now mixes with the crackle from the flames. The soft illumination casts feathery shadows and it’s all just too romantic to contend with. Especially given I’m completely liquified and trembling and can’t pull in a steady breath.

Nick rejoins me on the sofa, draping my legs over his thighs and then wedging his torso between the back of the leather couch and my side. My head rolls on the pillow and I gaze up at him as he’s propped on an elbow.

“I’d prefer to say it was the nightgown that I responded to,” he tells me. “But, honestly, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. I’m literally hard in a heartbeat when I see you.”

My stomach flips.

He holds my gaze, but his hand is skimming slowly over the satin that is haphazardly covering me, smoothing it slightly, but mostly… Mostly, his fingertips are massaging as they move upward, toward my breast. When his palm is just below the mound, he stops.

I can’t even claim that the breath is stuck in my throat in anticipation. I don’t have a sliver of air in my lungs to begin with.

His eyes smolder and that raw intensity radiates from him again. Perhaps from both of us. It’s not only sexual tension that arcs between us. It’s also emotional friction.

We’re not supposed to be engaged like this and we both know it.

Yet it seems inescapable.

His jaw clenches. His thumb sweeps over my pebbled nipple, back and forth, lazily, almost absently. Though there’s really nothing absent about it because Nick is wholly attuned to what he does to me, how his touch sends shivers through me and makes my skin tingle.

I’m certain I’m supposed to say something enlightening here. Maybe something reasonable, logical, responsible, all wrapped around a contract neither one of us is thinking of at present. Or adhering to, abiding by.

It’s instinct that guides us. That and an incessant, insatiable desire for one another. I feel it burning through my veins and pulsating within me. I sense it boiling in him too.

The heat emitting from him warms me. The faint caressing of my breast melts me further. And the way he’s staring at me, unwaveringly and with unmistakable need in his eyes, tells me he’s not done with me tonight.

Again, I attempt to prompt myself to remind him that we aren’t meant to be casually having sex. But therein lies the crux of the problem he’s mentioned.

There is nothing casual about the way he gazes at me or kisses me or touches me or makes love to me. There is blatant intent and genuine passion in every look, in every action. And as our fifteen minutes drift away (really, the only protocol we’re currently following), I convince myself all of this is okay, since he’s already said he wants this to be a natural progression, not a clinical or medical one, per se. And if we screw up the results the first time around, we can reset for the next time. In fact, we could find we just require getting this surprising and instantaneous attraction under control. As in, perhaps this need to ravage and pillage will ebb. And we’ll be much more civilized during the next go-around.

Yeah, I laugh at that one too. Not. A. Chance.

Something indescribable flares scorchingly when we’re alone together. And I refuse to wish it away.

There is a delicate chime from either his phone or the timer in the kitchen, I’m not sure which, that interrupts my errant thoughts.

He quietly suggests, “We should eat.”

“Right.”

He doesn’t shift away, though. We don’t break the physical or the eye contact.

Oh, boy.

This truly is risky.

I’m already deeply, deeply infatuated with this man. For him to appear so taken with me, in return, can’t possibly bode well for us.

Fortunately (not really), he comes around. His hand slips away from my breast and he shoves himself into a sitting position. He very carefully lifts my legs and then sets them gently on the cushion as he stands. He rakes a hand through his hair, as though he’s thoroughly vexed. He spares a glance my way, then he struts off in wide, solid strides.

I watch him go, fixated on his enticing backside. I want him naked. I want to crawl all over him, claw at him, make him so desperate for me that he can’t think straight.

That doesn’t help matters, does it?

I force myself to my feet, though I’m not markedly unstable. My knees are weak, nearly knocking together.

I laugh and shake my head at how extensively he affects me, when he’s not even in the same room with me.

Granted, I’m a little alarmed as to how I’m going to survive this entire experience.

Note to self: You’re not Nick Angelini’s girlfriend.

Technically… I’m not even his lover.

I’m his surrogate.

I do my best to remember that as I join him on the deck. He pours sparkling water in champagne flutes for us both and the duck confit is too mouthwatering to pass up. We don’t speak. Not for a while. I’m cool with that. I need to collect my thoughts and right my personal axis. I need to still my nerve endings and my hands. Regulate my heartbeats. Breathe normally.

I’ve just about succeeded when Nick says, “We ought to have dinner at the yacht club, when you’re available.”

My brow lifts. What new devilry is this?

He adds, “You do want to emulate the overarching style for your restaurant, yes?”

He has me on that one.

With a nod, I tell him, “I’ve considered that as well, but I’m not a member, of course.”

“You will be in the morning,” he assures me.

I blanch. He’s left me speechless. Momentarily.

Then I say, “Nick, that’s not—”

“Bailey, it’s advantageous for you to study the nuances of a highly acclaimed dining room. Observe the staff, check out the full menu, sample the food. Dissect the ambience, the place settings, and the service. The whole nine yards.”

I’d thought of this before, naturally. At least a dozen times.

There’s even more to the “research field trip” than what he’s just outlined. Another crucial component is for me to acclimate myself to an upscale clientele so that I’m comfortable in a prestigious environment and confident when dealing with the uber-rich, people who are accustomed to the very best of the best. I want to deliver a first-class experience—I made that statement loud and clear to my employees. I must accomplish this in all facets, from start to finish, in both stellar attitude/performance and in attention to detail. Nothing can be overlooked, discounted, or forgotten.

It is an exciting and daunting prospect at the same time.

“Eat,” Nick prods, because I’ve set aside my fork as I partially stall out.

“I have so many lists,” I mutter. “So much to do.”

“Maybe you need an assistant,” he ventures.

“I’m going to have my hands full hiring servers, an executive chef, and a kitchen crew. Not everyone who currently works at the restaurant wants to participate in a reboot of the establishment.”

His gaze narrows on me. “They don’t want to work someplace that’s refreshed, nicer, where they’ll earn more money?”

“I know, right?” I reach for my fork and enjoy a few bites that are decadent and, as if I need this additional component, euphoric. The duck is its own aphrodisiac. Coupled with the gorgeous man sitting to my left, at the end of the table so as to not obstruct my ocean view—he’s that conscientious—and I am close to sensory overload again.

Perhaps all the fertility tracking isn’t necessary. We could just go at it like bunnies, and I’m bound to get pregnant without all the scientific parameters. A consideration that’s been in my mind from the get-go, I mentally confess.

However, I try not to let that notion derail me. Instead, I say, “A membership is a brilliant strategy. I’ll find some way to pay you back.”

Though that’s going to be a challenge unto itself, because I have a very good idea of how much it costs to gain access to this private club. Hell, I’m well aware that even money doesn’t guarantee an accepted application. I could win the lottery tomorrow and still not make the grade. It’s Nick’s credentials that will get my foot in the door.

I’m smart enough to know this.

I’m also savvy enough to be grateful Nick is seeing my big picture—and that he’s doing everything in his power to help me achieve my goals, attain my dream.

Ironically, it’s hardly to my benefit that he keeps piling on extra layers that have me more and more ensnared where he’s concerned. I’m in awe of him, I’m hot for him, I’m breathless because of him.

What’s next? I’m going to have to fully concede that I’m in love with him?

Oh. My. God.

That’s a complication I can’t tackle at present.

Apparently, I don’t have to—another complexity arises as Nick changes the subject and very earnestly asks, “Now…why don’t we discuss how I’m going to keep my hands off you?”

Everything within me goes haywire. My inner thighs quiver and my nipples tighten.

Yet somewhere from the depths of my soul comes a mischievous counteroffer: “Or…we could continue to give conceiving the old-fashioned way a shot…”

I’m pushing boundaries by the boatload. Clearly.

Nick lets out a low laugh, as though he doesn’t mind, and the sound rumbles through me. Then he pins me with a blistering look and says, “You mean, enjoy each other whenever the mood strikes and see what comes of it?”

“You did express the validity of taking an organic approach,” I remind him. “Despite the medical team you’ve hired.”

He appears reflective and replies, “There is something to be said for authenticity. The fact that we share mutual admiration and desire. Respect.”

“Considering some of the alternatives to conceiving…” I give a small shrug. “This is neither impersonal nor manufactured. Pre-arranged, sure, and agreed upon, regardless of how we accomplish our ultimate goal. But, most specifically, we are sort of following a natural implementation. It is authentic,” I concur. “And even if we’re both looking for something different in the end, at the moment…”

I really don’t have to say more. He gets it. He’s nodding slightly and his eyes are shimmering and one corner of his highly tempting mouth is quirking upward.

We’re not just fooling around here, obviously. We both have a contract to fulfill. We each want something definitive and non-negotiable at this point.

However… A genuine attraction is a huge bonus. Not so much in terms of how it might shred my heart in the long run, of course. But primarily within the context that I’m quite mesmerized by Nick and I truly do want his hands and mouth on my body—every opportunity we get. So, again… Going with the flow, so to speak, for this initial attempt at getting me pregnant is certainly appealing.

For numerous reasons, including…

“Plus,” I say this new thought out loud. “We might be more successful with less pressure, less clock-ticking in our brains and must-be-available-to-the-exact-minute stressfulness. I’ve read that can cause issues when trying to conceive. So what if we just kind of hang loose for now? If we don’t get our positive pee stick, we go the regimented route next month.”

It seems logical, in my mind. Perhaps not the most efficient process, but then again… We don’t know that for certain, do we?

Granted, I’m not aware if Nick’s on some sort of designated time schedule for conception; though, our binding conditions did address a review at six months. While it is solidly stated that I maintain everything promised to me even if I don’t produce an heir—Nick had approved of this, given all the testing I went through that indicated there absolutely should not be a barrier to me getting pregnant (a miscarriage would also preclude him from canceling his end of the deal)—I committed to doing everything in my power to achieve our objective.

Neither of us would forget or overlook we were on a mission.

Yet even sitting at the patio table with the dinner Nick had prepared and served couldn’t divert us from discussing what was really going on between us.

I find a huge amount of comfort and also fight a massive bout of anxiety over this.

I can’t allow myself to get so wrapped up in Nick Angelini. I already know every rationale as to why this is a no-no.

Still, I wind up saying, “There’s nothing terribly wrong with us not forcing anything, even potentially alleviating some of the strain that comes with a running hourglass… Right?”

One elbow is resting on the table, and he rubs his chin with his finger as his thumb crooks under it.

I’m suddenly on pins and needles.

I suppose it’s a bit bizarre to venture in this direction with this particular man.

Except… I don’t know…

Every fiber of my being is screaming at me, telling me that if I were to get out of my chair and slip into his lap at this very second, our meal would be instantly shoved aside, and he’d totally do me on the table.

He has that look about him. The one I have come to recognize. It’s sensual and hungry at the same time. Erotic and greedy with a tinge of awe. Like I might move him emotionally, as much as I arouse him physically.

But he’s gone to all this trouble for our dinner and, truthfully, I am starving.

So I drag my gaze from his and reach for my fork.

I die a fabulously delicious culinary death as the duck melts on my tongue and Nick continues to eye me as though he’s contemplating what I had fantasized about previously—him taking me, right here on the table.

That thought and the perfect blend of spices, along with the result of Nick slow-cooking the duck, has me near orgasmic.

Yes, I’m a foodie. And any sort of decadence sends me to the edge.

But the man who’s gazing so intently, so heatedly at me does that as well. Even more fiercely. Coming damn close to sending me over.

“Jesus,” I murmur as the sparks between my legs sends a restless jolt through me. My mouth twitches. I want to smile, but I know it’ll be… So revealing. Too revealing.

Evidently, though, everything about my breathy voice and the visible tremor in my fingers and the squirming in my chair is illuminating enough.

He leans toward me and whispers, “You enjoying my food is sexy, without doubt. But that’s not all that turns you on, Bailey.”

“I’m that transparent?”

“Mm, you are.” His lips sweep over mine. “But… One thing at a time here. Dinner first. Then… Whatever else you want.”

Our gazes lock.

That is an enormous statement he has just quietly, yet vehemently made.

It might be a blanket one.

I cautiously jog his memory, saying, “My experience is limited. Should you feel compelled to expand my sexual horizons, you wouldn’t hear me complaining.”

He grins. “Consider me duly compelled.”

Now I’ve got rampant tingles rippling through me and I am ridiculously entranced.

So it’s helpful that he sits back and reaches for his sparkling water. Then he dives into the duck.

While I try to breathe. And not vibrate right out of my seat.

I’m in desperate need of deflecting my attention so that I can get myself under control. In between nibbles, I query, “What’s it like being royalty? Does everyone call you Your Highness?”

And how surreal is it that I’m even asking this question?