Chapter 6

“Holy. Shit.”

Those are the first words that tumble from Nick’s parted lips as I enter the spacious great room/kitchen and he apparently gets a whiff of my expensive fragrance and shoots another glance over one of his broad shoulders.

And takes me in from head to toe. Then back up.

Slowly.

Sexy-slow.

Turn-my-blood molten, slow.

“Hi,” I say, breathlessly. And give a little wave of my fingers. Attempting to appear nonchalant.

Though every single nerve ending has just ignited as his jaw drops at the sight of me.

Yes. Okay. I’ve definitely rocked him. 

I can’t help but flirt a little. “Still me. The girl you sent off to change her clothes.”

“I just thought… You might want to… You know… See the collection.” His eyes are huge. He swallows down what I can only guess to be a lump of lust. I mean, his gaze is blazing and now he’s turning toward me, fully facing me, and I can see in his expression one plainly earnest sentiment: To hell with the soup. Let it burn.

I smile. Probably quite brilliantly because it occurs to me that no man has ever, ever looked at me like this.

Granted, I’ve already established that I’ve never looked like this.

Still.

I’ve had men stare when I’m wearing a bikini on the beach.

This is a million times different.

This is…

Unexplainable.

He’s searching for words. I can see that clear as day.

But he’s not coming up with anything further to say.

All that does is light my insides brighter.

Well, it does more than that. It sparks a bit of verve within me, so that I’m the one to fill the gaping silence.

I tell him, “Your personal shopper is a genius. I walked into a treasure trove. I didn’t actually know where to start, so I tried simple.”

Now his eyes smolder.

“Simple?” He lets out a harsh rush of air. “Bailey.” He gives a sharp shake of his head.

And then…

Oh. God, then…

He takes a step toward me. And another.

A heartbeat later he’s mere inches from me and I can smell him. I can feel him. He’s not touching me. But somehow, I can sense his masculine heat and his hard muscles surrounding me. Engulfing me. Inflaming me.

So that I’m the one who’s now at a loss for words. Again.

Christ, he turns the tables on me so damn fast.

But his jaw is working rigorously, I note.

As though…

As if…

Like he might actually…

No.

No way.

But… Yes.

Like he’s dying to kiss me.

I gasp.

His head dips.

He murmurs, “You are so fucking beautiful.”

Our eyes lock.

His lips are nearly grazing mine. Nearly.

My pulse almost stops.

My eyelids are instantly heavy.

I almost beg him to do it.

Yet he shifts away.

Clears his throat.

Rakes a hand through his thick, dark hair.

And says—without even looking at me—“Let’s eat.”

I am caught in a cyclonic maelstrom of sensation and confusion. And perpetual longing.

I wring my hands to alleviate the tremors through my fingers. However, there’s little I can do to chase away the subtle quaking throughout me.

I have no real understanding of the spontaneous combustion that seems to be mounting. I only pray it doesn’t erupt in the form of me insisting he take me right here and now.

Luckily, Grayson escorts me outside, a small distraction. But a welcomed one.

He takes me to the long table on the deck that runs the width of the great room and then wraps around the two adjacent, jutting wings, both of which have double-sided, indoor/outdoor fireplaces with low, ambient flames in them. There are lit candles on the table and in the numerous decorative lanterns scattered about, which accompany the comfy sofas and chairs.

The fountain in the center of the lush green courtyard below is edged by velvety roses.

Palm fronds from sky-high trees sway along the perimeter of the property.

The ocean sprawls before us, undulating and rolling onto the sandy shore.

Even in all my wildest childhood fantasies, I couldn’t have conjured a more perfect landscape, a more perfect visual.

Except this one’s made even more sensational by the devilishly handsome man in black who takes the chair at the end of the table as Grayson assists me into the one just right of Nick. So my view of the ocean is completely unhindered.

Again… As though Nick knows all the things that appeal the most to me.

And he’s literally laying them at my feet.

I get that he’s determined to have a kid.

I fully understand that he’s a formidable man who’s accustomed to getting what he wants.

I’m just a bit glazed over that he seems to know all the positive buttons to push with me.

I’m guessing I must have made mention of my love of water and crashing waves to Cristoff and he relayed them to Nick when they spoke.

Because he’s nailing all of my deepest desires.

Save for one.

I’m completely and totally hot for Nick Angelini.

Though that’s moot.

I can’t for the life of me fathom that he would complicate this business arrangement with personal feelings or sexual intimacy.

Us having dinner together is, I surmise, the most intimate we’ll ever be.

Once I sign that contract, I’m a vessel. A means to an end. Not a romantic prospect.

And, yes. I have made the decision to sign. I can’t pass all of this up.

Plus, I’m not the maternal type, so I already know I’m not getting attached to his baby, in the sense that I couldn’t hand it over to him when it’s no longer inside me.

It won’t be mine.

It will be his. And his alone.

Or his and his future wife’s.

I trip a little over that sentiment.

Still. Point being.

It won’t be mine.

I want a different type of baby, and that’s what he’s giving me in return.

I’ve worked it all out in my mind to be absolutely clear on the subject and to be able to disassociate my emotions.

Not my physical cravings, obviously.

I’ll have to work on that.

However, as Grayson pours the champagne, I’m convinced I’m actually better off than Cinderella.

But…

Every fairy tale has its evil element, doesn’t it?

And I am instantly and unexpectedly blindsided by mine as Nick gets down to the dirty deets on his terms and conditions.

Ones I have not thought of previously… But should have.

Nick informs me, “I’ve hired a concierge healthcare team that will provide all of your medical and dental needs, effective as soon as you sign on the dotted line, throughout your pregnancy, and for twelve full months after you’ve given birth.”

Grayson serves us the lobster bisque, then also delivers to me a slim, black leather portfolio that apparently contains the contract for this business transaction.

I’m slightly embarrassed we’re having this conversation in front of him.

It gets worse.

Nick adds, “Unfortunately, the first phase of our arrangement is a bit invasive. I apologize for that, Bailey. But it is necessary.”

“Invasive how?” I ask, then dip my spoon into my soup in hopes of not appearing as on edge as I suddenly am. I’m not a fan of the word “invasive,” especially when it comes with an upfront apology.

He tells me, “To ensure everything’s in proper order, the medical team will do a full workup on you. Blood panels, scans, complete medical history, and fertility tests. This is a substantial investment I’m making. Please understand that, naturally, I must know all the variables before we proceed.”

Oh, fuck me.

He’s just cued the princess’s evil stepmonster and she’s instantly darkening the scene.

I set aside my spoon.

Damn it all to hell, the needle has just been dragged across the vinyl record in one long, eerie screech and the fairy tale has come to an immediate halt.

An immediate halt.

“Bailey?” Nick can see something’s horribly wrong.

And now I really and truly must thoroughly humiliate myself.

I am mortified that I didn’t mull this over to the nth degree, where Nick would do more than just dig into my college, or even my high school, credentials.

He would demand much more, because he requires a worthy pedigree from the mother of his child.

And that put my head on the proverbial chopping block.

I glance around and am at least relieved that Grayson is in the kitchen, prepping the next course and, thus, out of earshot.

Turning back to Nick, I tell him, “I’m afraid we have a problem. I can’t give you complete medical history. I’m not exactly who Cristoff thinks I am.”

His brow furrows.

I rush on. “Yes, my mother lives in Paris and has more money than she knows what to do with, but all of that came from her second husband. A man I never lived with. I only used his address on my school and job applications because… Well, because… It’s an incredibly prestigious address.”

I’m wholly unnerved, having to tell this man—this devastatingly handsome and affluent, royal, man—where I’m from, how I grew up.

It’s downright painful.

I existed in filth and poverty. I feared every morning and every night that the verbal assaults on the streets as I hurried to and from the bus would escalate beyond that. And a time or two, they nearly did.

I reach for my glass once more. Try to get a steady airflow to my lungs.

While Nick more softly, cautiously says my name again.

The worst part about that is that he sounds genuinely concerned about what has suddenly rattled my cage.

Or perhaps the agonizing part is that I am fully captivated by hearing him say my name in his deep, intimate tone. I want to close my eyes and listen to him murmur it as his lips brush my skin.

But that’s never going to happen.

Clearly, it wasn’t going to happen even if I had a stellar lineage, as he believes I do.

In vitro isn’t sexy, it’s clinical—no seductively murmured words necessary.

I have no choice but to take a deep breath and make my confession.

“I can’t provide detailed and accurate information on my biological father, Nick. On my mother, yes. All good there. No issues,” I assure him. “But her first husband, the man I lived with until he died, wasn’t the man who got her pregnant. That was some other guy, who didn’t want to take responsibility for the ‘accident’ that I was. So, she slept with someone else, lied to him about the baby being his, and didn’t tell him the truth until she couldn’t stand their life together anymore—and she divorced him. I don’t know anything about my biological father. I don’t know who he is. I can’t give you the information you want.”

I could have just stopped there, right?

He needs documentation I can’t offer.

That’s that.

Done deal.

But, no…

For some reason, and maybe it’s because he’s gazing so intently at me and I feel as though I have to be one-hundred percent honest with him—he is right, after all, that this is a substantial investment he’s attempting to make—I give him the complete lowdown.

“I didn’t grow up at that exclusive and elite address in San Francisco that I provided. I’ve never been to Paris to visit my mother. I’ve never even been out of the country. I grew up in a neighborhood that’s famous for being… Less than desirable.” And that’s an understatement. “It was harrowing, at best. Traumatizing on most levels. But it was what my dad could afford. When my mother left him, she didn’t take me with her. What she did was send me to a private school that took numerous Muni buses to get to and from, and I had to change my uniform there. Then change back into my street clothes, so no one saw the crest on my blazer in my neighborhood. That would have made things… So much worse for me than they already were.”

 He’s quiet for several suspended seconds.

Too quiet.

I’ve just ripped the rug from beneath him.

And all I can think is that he’s wondering why the hell I came here tonight, knowing I was lying to him from the very beginning.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him and push back my chair.

A hasty exit and a clean break are the only way to handle this extremely awkward and excruciating scenario.

But—

“Bailey, wait.” He’s quick to come around and reaches for my hand.

His skin is warm and supple and—oh, God help me—I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to feel his hands all over my body.

Yet I’ve fucked up this whole interaction, the entire potential for both of us to grasp our brass ring.

I pull my hand away. And solemnly say, “I didn’t think about the DNA aspect. About what your concerns might be in that regard. I apologize for that. I’ve wasted your time and your money.”

I turn to leave.

He’s instantly and stealthily on his feet, gently tugging me back to him with his hand on my upper arm.

“I didn’t say this was a dealbreaker,” he staunchly tells me.

Tears flood my eyes as I vehemently contend, “Do you not comprehend how so far beneath you I am? How demoralized I am for having to divulge things that are none of your business and that I would prefer no one on this planet ever knew about me?”

“They are my business when we’re discussing a contract of this nature,” he reminds me.

“Those men I mentioned… They would say things about my ass when I walked by—and what they wanted to do to it,” I blatantly reveal. “And the women who were shooting up or whoring themselves out offered advice on how to get me started down either path. I was ten when all that began, Nick. Ten.”

Now his hands cup my face, and he stares deep into my eyes. “Look how far you’ve come, Bailey Storm. You graduated a private school, got a college degree—with honors—and you manage a restaurant that can be so much more than it currently is, under your direction. You think I don’t fucking know where you come from? Of course, I do. I did a background check on you, remember? I hired a private investigator. I don’t blindly enter into business agreements—especially not one like this. I know what I’m dealing with before I make proposals. So the true question here, Bailey, is—”

He takes a breath.

Gazes more intently at me.

And throws me for yet another loop. “Can you accept my need to know everything about you? Every tiny detail? For the purpose of our arrangement?”

My jaw slackens.

Every. Tiny. Detail.

Like…

The fact that I want him?