Chapter 8

“Is it just me, or did you feel that kiss all the way to your toes?”

Okay, that’s probably an amateur thing to spew to this man. I can’t, for the life of me, imagine or believe he’s as rocked as I am. This amazingly worldly and highly sophisticated royal isn’t going to be knocked out of the ballpark by my not-so-skilled kiss. He was the one to command it, after all. I was basically just along for the exhilarating ride.

Yet...

He grins.

His arm is still twined at my waist and his other hand is in my hair as his head remains lowered to mine, his warm breath caressing my cheek.

“I think we can consider this a fringe benefit to our deal,” he murmurs.

It’s a valid point. Also a scary one. I’m supposed to be detached. That, however, is not happening. Because my entire body is responding to him. My skin tingles and my insides blaze. There are ripples along my legs. I can’t catch my breath.

I’ve reacted this vehemently to him with just a kiss. What the hell is going to occur when he’s naked? When he’s touching me? When he’s—

Oh, Jesus.

This has now become a dangerous proposition.

I should extract myself from this risky situation to regain some perspective and clarity. But then his thumb under my chin hitches it a degree and his mouth is on mine again and I’m melting into him. And it’s just as searing as the first time around.

But...damn it.

He pulls away.

While the kiss was a steamy one that leaves me reeling, it’s only the briefest of liplocks.

Nick says, “Just seeing if that initial kiss was a fluke.”

My eyelids drift open and he’s staring intently at me, his irises glowing seductively, a hint of mischief flickering in them.

“So, sexual chemistry isn’t going to be an issue for us,” he casually adds. “Good to know.” He winks.

Then he unravels from me and pulls my chair out, gesturing for me to sit.

He’s barely taken his own seat when Grayson materializes with the next course and the appropriate wine pairing.

My face flushes and I can’t make eye contact with the butler. Discreet though he is. So much so, he instantly leaves us, taking our soup bowls with him.

“He’s quite efficient,” I note.

“He’ll be a huge help if you want to keep him on, once you’ve moved in. Consider that you’re going to have your hands full with remodeling the restaurant, hiring more chefs and servers, and launching a new venue. I don’t want you overdoing it, Bailey. That’s a stipulation. Your health will be of the utmost importance when you’re pregnant.”

It is wildly bizarre to be having this conversation.

It is wildly bizarre to be at the table with Nick, resuming our dinner following those two scorching kisses. He’s calmly reaching for his wineglass and I’m trying to draw in a decent stream that’s not wispy and quavering.

Worse...

All I’m really thinking about now is sex.

Scathingly hot sex.

That’s not on this evening’s agenda, however.

More food and wine are, though. And a decadent dessert.

He tells me about his country and it sounds beautiful. He tells me a little about his personal lines of business and they seem complicated. He tells stories from when he and Cristoff were growing up.

I’m fascinated by his deep, intimate voice and his shimmering eyes. Not to mention how he chuckles resonantly and grins every now and then to counter his naturally serious disposition.

Before I know it, Grayson has cleared the table and has collected my clothing from the master suite. Everything is neatly tucked into a tote bag.

Nick says, “Read the contract thoroughly, Bailey. Talk to anyone you need to, whomever you trust. Ask me questions—my private number is on the last page. All I require is that you make a decision by Friday at six p.m.”

I fought a gape. “That’s in two days.”

Two. Days.

“The urgency is regrettable; I apologize for that. But I need to know sooner rather than later if you intend to go through with this.”

Now I’m back to asking myself if I really and truly can go through with this.

I only have two days to figure it out.

He lingers close to me at the front door, but his hands are in his pockets and he’s not going to kiss me goodnight. I mean, why would he? This isn’t a date. This has effectively served as an interview—for both of us.

I tamp down the disappointment bubbling in my throat, and I commit to Friday at six for giving him an answer. Then I’m in the back of the limo and being whisked off the premises and returned to my own reality.

Here’s where my decision-making process gets skewed... And I suspect Nick has anticipated this all along.

Crossing the threshold of my crappy bungalow when I’ve just been tempted by a mansion and butler service and all things rich and self-indulgent—also by the ultimate goal of owning that restaurant and the very tantalizing prospect of slipping between the sheets with Nick Angelini—I take one look around and... Suddenly, it seems impossible not to sign on the dotted line.

Once I read the very straightforward and pithy contract, that is precisely what I do.

I am essentially handing over my life to Nick for nine whole months.

Knowing that when it’s solely mine again, it will be significantly, fantastically altered.

I’ll be giving up a child, yes. I fully comprehend that. But Nick’s kid will have the best of everything, including a father who went to the extreme in order to have him or her in his life.

I’m not going to lie and say the mortal coil doesn’t trip me up a bit. Of course, it does.

But as I’d mentally contended previously, I’m not the least bit maternal. I’m pretty sure I can handle this.

Pretty sure.

I let the thought of the benefits outweigh the potential difficulties I’ll encounter.

But also—and for some inexplicable reason above and beyond what I’m going to get out of this deal—I am wholly compelled to do this for Nick.

Plus...

And this one’s a doozie...

I want hot and wicked sex with the man. Desperately.

So there it is. All laid bare.

And this is how our story, with many twists and turns awaiting us, begins...

~ * * * ~

“You made the right choice.”

The warm timbre of Nick’s voice oozes along my spine and steals my breath. The tremble in my fingers makes me drop the menus I’ve just picked up from a table. Thank God I wasn’t holding glasses or dishes.

There’s a tantalizing wisp of air against my bare neck that sends a shiver through me. I realize I’m much too cognizant of this man, that I react much too quickly and passionately to him.

Yet again, I must remind myself that we are not embarking on a romantic journey; this is business.

However…

One of his arms snakes around me as he’s standing behind me. Then there’s a huge bouquet of flowers filling my line of vision. They are astoundingly gorgeous.

I gasp.

Nick murmurs in my ear, “Congratulations on your new restaurant. And… Thank you for what you’re giving me in return.”

His voice is low and intimate. It is also filled with gratitude. So genuine, tears prickle the backs of my eyes.

This is why I can’t refuse him.

As many times as I’ve dissected this and thought of what he’s asking me to hand over—a baby—I believe, to the depths of my soul, that he’s asking out of his own particular desperation.

He wants this. More than I want the restaurant, I’d wager.

The positive spin is that I have the extremely instinctive feeling this kid of his—if we successfully conceive—will be loved to pieces.

This child won’t grow up the way I did. This child will have every advantage, every hope, wish, and want fulfilled.

And that’s when I realize… I want to do this for Nick as much as I want to do it for a baby I create. I want him to take the partial mini version of me, whether girl or boy, and give that child everything I never had—the utmost emphasis being on safety, security, and the ability to dream big. To wish upon one star and potentially end up with all of them.

Perhaps even the moon as a bonus.

I turn to him, and that basically puts me in his arms.

I say, “You don’t have to shower me with gifts. We’re in this together, for what we both hope to get out of it. And it just dawned on me that I want something additional from this deal—and you’re going to easily provide it. No renegotiation required.”

His gaze narrows on me.

I quickly tell him, “You’re going to expand a part of me, take it to the next level. Someone related to me will become significant—because of you. How can I not find that appealing? How can I not be appreciative of that?”

His head inclines to the side. He doesn’t necessarily have to speak in his low tone, because there’s no one in the dining room at present—other than his bodyguards—but he keeps the conversation between us. Keeps it personal. Because this is delicate. It involves surrogacy laws that he is working within, and he has even stipulated he’ll pay for any behavioral health counseling I might need before, during, and after the conception/birth.

He asks, “You do understand what you just said, right? That I’m taking a part of you.”

“I fully comprehend that. And I’m telling you in return,” I pointedly say, “that I somehow feel excited about it. Proud of it. A part of me gets a whole different life from the one I’ve lived. From the moment this baby is born, Nick, they’ll get a vastly different life experience. No hellscape. No fear. No struggling. No hardship. And…maybe it’s selfish on my end…I don’t know. But the thought of a fresh and amazingly wonderful start for a piece of me makes me feel—”

I don’t quite have the words.

Emotion sweeps through me, and a tear pops up on the rim of my eye.

Just as it tumbles over, Nick’s free hand reaches up and whisks it away with his thumb. Before it even touches my skin.

“Bailey,” he whispers, his irises darkening in color. “I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered—”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Nick. And there’s nothing for you to apologize for.”

“I’m telling you,” he persists, as I had moments before, “that I understand where you come from and what you’ve endured. I can ensure that your past is far behind you. I can ensure my child will never experience anything like that. What I can’t do,” he more adamantly tells me, “is change or erase your history. I can’t even alleviate any lingering pain or torment.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I contend.

His gaze is intent, unwavering. Holding mine hostage.

“You deserve more,” he avers. “I can give it to you. I can give you a future. A huge future. Because, while I’m only offering the foundation, I know you’re going to build something substantial with this restaurant.”

More tears flow.

His fingertips glide over my cheek.

I pull in a shaky breath.

This isn’t supposed to happen.

I’m not supposed to get so choked up over all of this.

I’ve made up my mind. I’ve made peace with what I’m giving up vs. what I’ll gain.

But…

He’s just so…

So.

I give a slight shake of my head.

He’s so perfect when it comes to recognizing what drives me and what I’ve gone through and what I want to achieve.

In fact, he’s thought well beyond what I want to achieve, professionally.

He’s considered what I might want to achieve personally.

That’s the elevation of a part of me that starts with an embryo and morphs into a royal.

A fucking royal.

And while I still can’t fully wrap my mind around having an attachment to something that, in the grand scheme of things, does not belong to me, I do—of course—comprehend that the tiny royal human will be half of me.

Truthfully, I don’t feel as though an attachment will form; however, I do accept the fact that I will be thrilled to know there is someone I helped to create who has an infinitely better life-launchpad than I did.

And again… I have no doubt this kid will be loved.

Therefore, I sniffle, give another shake of my head, and buck up.

“My turn to apologize,” I tell Nick. “I’m not going to fall apart during month nine or in the delivery room or thereafter, I assure you. I’m mostly emotional right now because I want to spawn something more. I want something to come from me that has all the best laid at its feet—and that includes love,” I very specifically say.

Nick grins. “Consider your wish granted.”

His eyes glow and I swear… I swear I’m so swept away, I want to kiss him right here.

I don’t.

But I want to.

Perhaps that’s the attachment I should fear the most—the one I’m feeling toward him.