To Want A Billionaire (The Billionaire's Baby Series Book 1) Read online

  “Face me.”

  Still getting my bearings, I slowly turned back to him and was rendered speechless all over again. This time, it had nothing to do with orders or ball gags. This was all Jacob.

  How was it possible that he still snatched the air from my lungs, like he had when we met? The very sight of him in all his glory made me want to pinch myself. My eyes met his cool blue ones, the waves swirling with power, authority, and a love that made me blush and wring my hands. It was like the quarterback asked the geeky girl to the prom and would take down anyone that questioned his sanity.

  The rest of my perusal was anything but an ‘aww’ moment. His nostrils flared like a man on the hunt and the prize was in his sights. His lips, thick and delicious, were slightly parted as he did his own perusal...and I did not come up wanting.

  His muscles glistened in the morning sun. Perfection in the flesh.

  Mine.

  When I met the perfectly cut V and my eyes rested on the part of him that was as insatiable as I was, I nearly fanned myself. It bulged and stood erect, every inch crying out for my body. Crying out for me. He was so still, so freaking gorgeous that when he moved it was like a Greek statue had come to life. Like a warrior who was home from battle, and ready to claim his woman.

  He turned his back to me, striding toward the bed. I watched, speechless, as he moved to the center. He situated himself, folding a pillow behind his head and set me ablaze with his eyes.

  “If you want it, come and take it.”

  It was a challenge, and I wasted no time accepting it. I rode the pulse that vibrated between my thighs. Dizzy with arousal, I mounted the bed like my life depended on it. I held my stomach when the logistics and the fact that I hadn’t been on top in awhile, flitted through my head.

  The heat in my cheeks depend to my bones. “Are you sure? I just-”

  “Leila.”

  It wasn’t an admonishment, his tone was too gentle for that. It was an invitation. It was Jacob telling me to stop listening to that tiny, insecure voice in my head and listen to my body. To his body.

  I straightened my spine and muzzled the part of me that struggled with my changing body. I still had scars from a childhood of being told I was inadequate by my peers. Shrinking myself so I wouldn’t take up too much space.

  He wanted to see me. He wanted to feel me. Every part of me.

  I wrapped my hand around his shaft, biting my lip when his eyes flashed with excitement. I lowered myself onto him, feeling every inch stretch and pulse inside me as I took all of him inside me. I couldn't believe I'd hesitated, that I thought this would be anything but bliss.

  I was a woman possessed, throwing my head back as I worked my hips. We both made sounds; flesh slapping, moans weaving in and out of each other, the hum of pleasure flooding my ears.

  I raked my nails down his chest and gave him a command. “Come for me, Jacob.”

  His gaze registered surprise but it quickly melted away when he let out a bellow that told me he was mine. For the first time in a long time, Jacob Whitmore obeyed me.

  His climax set me free and we came together, both of us howling and clawing and panting and lost in our bodies. Lost in the bliss.

  Chapter Three

  I strutted off the elevator, ready to slay.

  Our Hawaii vacation was only a week long but the businesswoman in me felt like it was longer, and not in a good way. A week—careers were made and destroyed in less time. The news was no help because it seemed to be business as usual back on the mainland. A couple of red carpet events that went off without a hitch, a movie release, a charity ball that surpassed its 5 million goal, and a slated apology blitz for a company embroiled in scandal after the CEO commented that the homeless problem in the city could be easily remedied if those less fortunate were rounded up and put elsewhere.

  Out of sight, out of mind, I thought, rolling my eyes with disgust. He was an asshole, plain and simple, and I was glad he was Jacob’s problem, and not mine. There was nothing that annoyed me more than people with privilege who were so insulated, deluded and self centered that they saw people who had less as inconveniences and lazy leeches on society. People like my mother in law, Alicia Whitmore.

  Plus, if Jacob was tied up trying to talk some sense into the insensitive tech mogul, he would be too busy to buzz me every five minutes to make sure I was easing back into work. His concern was sweet, but futile because I didn’t ease into anything. I was tenacious, an overachiever who only gave over control to him. In this building, and in my career, I called the shots. When I used that line on Jacob, it was usually met with a glare, laced with love.

  Like his ears had been burning, my cell shuddered in my hand.

  Jacob: If you need anything let me know.

  My warrior face softened, his concern, his love, radiating from the screen. I couldn’t resist plunking out a response that would probably result in a tiny smile that the insensitive CEO would quickly erase, because the man was completely oblivious to the outrage at his comments.

  Sending good vibes to Jacob’s conference room, I kept a few for myself because there would be no getting around the icy reception that was in store when I faced Natasha Lancaster, the executive secretary. She usually intensified the modern lines and design of the executive floor. Made it sterile and suffocating with thinly veiled animosity, turning our brief exchange—messages or pressing appointments and meetings I had—into a trip to the gynecologist. Necessary, unavoidable, and woefully uncomfortable.

  My usual greeting was a crisp one. A ‘Good morning’ that was entrenched with an undercurrent of disdain, like it was a good morning until I ruined it with my arrival.

  This morning, she looked up from her computer and stared at me in silence. She turned the corridor from the elevator to her desk beneath ‘Whitmore and Creighton’ sign into a catwalk. She started with my feet, nothing to write home about because flats had become my go-to with my swollen feet and ankles, but she lingered for a good ten seconds before she continued her evaluation. You’d think my slacks were Dior from the way she gaped. When she hit my white blouse and onyx colored jacket, she leaned forward, her complexion matching the ivory hue of my shirt, then deepening to the shade of my candy apple colored briefcase. That made me double take because I wasn’t aware that she was human enough to blush.

  She scooted back in her chair, chewing on the end of her pen like she was trying to figure something out. “You’re back.”

  I slowed my stride. “Yes?”

  She pulled the pen from her mouth and pointed at me. “But you’re not tan.”

  “I don’t tan, I burn.” I explained. I wasn’t sure why I was explaining anything to her. Or how to react to anything coming from her that wasn’t poison darts or attitude. Maybe she was finally warming to me and we could work on being cordial instead of just tolerating each other. “Hawaii was so beautiful-”

  “Oh, I’ve been numerous times,” she interrupted putting pen to paper, her tone taking on its usual haughty octave. “To every island. And I certainly didn’t come back looking...” She trailed off, her eyebrows arching, eyes widening with her silent insult.

  High on hormones and the fact I was back at work, I didn’t miss a beat. “Fabulous? It’s hard work, but someone has to do it.”

  She glanced up briefly, her cold eyes registering a different kind of surprise. She was still shocked when her insults were met with poise and an edge of my own. Once upon a time, women like Natasha would get under my skin. If I was being honest, they still did, but I knew beneath the phony smiles and mocking was a person that was more insecure than me. Why else would she hurl insults engineered to make me feel small other than it made her feel powerful and important? She was neither in my book, and I made a mental note to never let my guard down with her again.

  Putting aside the urge to spar with her to really kick off my welcome back, I cut right to the chase. “I’m assuming you forwarded all my messages?”

  “That’s my job,” she said c
urtly, swiveling her chair away from me. “If there’s nothing else, I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do.”

  There was a lot more I could say, a lot I’d fantasized about doing like flipping her desk over WWE style and demanding that she treat me with a modicum of respect, but I knew it would just pour gasoline on an already volatile situation. A reaction from me was her goal, so I did something that would really give her a reason to drop her jaw. I said thank you, complete with a smile, then headed to my office.

  Once I clicked the door shut, some distance from the drama and in my zone, I exhaled. I kicked off my flats and made my way to the desk, sighing as I sank into the leather embrace of my chair. The blinds on the window were shut so I swiped my phone and opened the app that controlled everything in the room from the blinds, to the lights, to the massage function on my chair. When Jacob had the room retrofitted, turning my office into a ‘smart office’, I’d been skeptical and said it was too much. At the moment, walking over to the window seemed like too much so I felt zero guilt for tapping the icon that let sunlight into the room.

  If the lobby (and Natasha) were as cold as ice and all business, my office was the exact opposite. I made these four walls a place of peace, productivity and inspiration. I’d brought in rugs I’d bought at a street fair outside of Venice. Allegra DeLuca, a bittersweet slice of Jacob’s past, had spotted the vibrant colors first. She’d grazed the intricate designs with her fingers, exchanging a greeting with the vendor before she turned to me with a smile that lit up her face. She’d commented that the green that weaved throughout the rug matched her eyes.

  Then there was the ivory colored throw, marked with gold thread and memories. I’d found it in Dublin, when I was left to my own devices while Jacob paid Cole a surprise visit. The books that lined the shelves on the far wall told stories that inspired me, worn selections from high school and college tucked in between books on celebrity culture and crisis management. Notebooks were filled with laminated copies of write ups I’d secured for clients. Photos that were perched around the room grinned from behind the glass. Wedding pictures, nights out with Jacob...my heart swelled in my chest when I glanced at two in a single frame. One was Jacob and I. It was the morning after the wedding, me in his white button down shirt, him in boxers, standing ankle deep in the sand, our backs to the camera. The other picture was smaller, with a black background, fuzzy gray and something amazing forming in the center. It was the first picture of our baby. The ultrasound image that changed my life forever.

  Ultrasound pictures, honeymoon and trip knick knacks, even the heels my mom forced me to wear to my interview at Whitmore and Creighton, were tucked in the nooks and crannies of my office. They were pieces of me and the people I loved. These things were my fuel, my story. My foundation. It kept me grounded, so I could help others tell the story they needed to tell.

  Scooting up a few inches and resting my palms flat on the desk, I got to work. I cycled through my emails, my guilty pleasure, classic boy band tunes, oozing from my computer speakers. The rest of the world didn’t stop turning because I stole away for a few weeks and I had quite a bit of catching up to do. Mia Kent, once written off as another child star cautionary tale, was in London, working on a new studio album, and her boyfriend Liam was in the market for a publicist. I fired off a message to her, smiling to myself when I opened the attachment. It was a picture of Mia and Liam at a concert; Mia beaming on his shoulders, his grin telling me that things were well with the two of them.

  Jessica Lenoir was up next, her email all business, just like she was nowadays. Gone was the party girl with a bottomless bank account, lighting up social media with her reckless antics and hungover smiles. After her father’s passing a few months ago, I’d worried she’d revert back to old habits, but she stayed the course and took the reins of the company. She was being heralded as a ‘CEO To Watch’. She congratulated me on the baby and while she’d be in Tokyo on business during the baby shower, she assured me that she was sending me ‘the best present ever, naturally.’

  I shuffled through a few more press releases and ideas compiled by my assistant, Jessa Blake. I approved some prospective events, ranging from benefit dinners to social media campaigns.

  Pulling up the folder that contained the research and ideas for a benefit concert I was putting together, I made a note to ask Mia if Liam would be interested when a commotion in the hall outside made me freeze in place. My pen was forgotten, my hand shooting to my tummy. The fleeting moment of panic was quickly replaced by something Xena Warrior Princess-esque and I knew that whatever was going down, I could handle it.

  Before I pushed away from my desk, I phoned security and wiped everything from my face except ‘I will take you down.’ My money was on some enterprising paparazzo who was trying to get a few pictures to hawk. Or maybe a fan who took their obsession to trespassing territory.

  I twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, Natasha’s agitation seeping into my office.

  “I don’t care, ma’am! No one sees Mrs. Whitmore without an appointment. You can’t just stroll in and-”

  “Look me up,” a thickly accented voice cut in. “I’m going to make your little company billions.”

  Indignation put a little pep in my step and I hustled out of the office. I glared down the hallway, met with the statuesque back of some woman dressed in a slinky black dress that cradled her slender frame, jet black locks spilling past her waist. She had to have been at least 6 feet tall without any assistance, but her heels vaulted her to Amazonian heights. She squared off with Natasha and the strangest thing happened.

  I felt the rumblings of respect for Natasha, because she didn’t back down one inch.

  Minus the extra height and the flowing onyx locks, it had to have been like looking into a mirror for Natasha. Both women could have easily fit in backstage at Fashion Week with their stature, perfect skin, and angular noses in the air. Regardless of their similarities, Natasha looked ready to take the woman down by any means necessary, which was a far cry from past situations when she just let clients mosey on up to my office.

  I didn’t overanalyze Natasha’s sudden concern for protocol and respect, following up the intruder’s obnoxious comment with one of my own.

  “Maybe you’re unaware that this ‘little company’ is already worth billions, and if you were half as important as you think you are...oh my God!”

  The woman spun on her heels with an effortlessness that told me she used to be a dancer. When I saw her face, I knew that she was more than merely important.

  She was the Holy Grail of clients.

  “Angelique Entoine,” I mouthed, glancing at Natasha, then back at Angelique.

  Natasha’s frown didn’t budge as she gave Angelique a scalding once over. “Who?”

  It was pretty rare that I found myself star struck, especially when faced with a female celebrity. I leaned toward the male idolatry end of the spectrum, probably because I would pick a popcorn, guns blazing action flick over a sweeping romance or heart wrenching drama any day of the week, but I’d made an exception for the foreign film, Train. It told the story of an actress, played by Angelique, who was at the top of her game, with everything in the world: awards, all the best movie roles, a husband who looked at her with stars in his eyes, and fans that worshipped the ground beneath her feet. One day, instead of getting off at her stop, fully disguised and incognito, she stays on and runs away.

  Angelique had a screen presence that hypnotized. Me, and the rest of the world (minus Natasha, apparently), were entranced. She was Hollywood’s latest ‘It’ girl and she was here, at Whitmore and Creighton, outside my office. Making me stammer and blush because it was clear that her aura wasn’t limited to the screen. Her skin was like alabaster and the combination with her dark hair should have made her look vampiric, but instead, she looked ethereal. With her accent and black dress words like ‘gothic’ and ‘castle’ should have come to mind, but there was a glow that radiated from her intense blue e
yes. It was 9 AM and she was dressed to kill, but when she took me in, I saw none of the repellant attitude she’d hurled Natasha’s way.

  “You must be Mrs. Whitmore.” Her French accent turning my name into something sweeping with cursive letters. She took a step in my direction but froze abruptly, her cerulean eyes falling to the floor.

  I followed suit, my cheeks reddening when I realized I forgot to put my shoes back on. “I just-” I cleared my throat and smiled tightly. “Let me grab my flats-“

  “No, S’il vous plait,” she cut in gently, shaking her head. “You are pregnant, you should be as comfortable as possible. In fact-” She bent at the waist and unbuckled the straps on her heels and kicked them off with a sigh. “I think we should all take better care of ourselves and say ‘Fuck fashion!’” She righted herself, holding up a fist in solidarity. She peeked over her shoulder, remembering Natasha, who was no longer scowling, but still thoroughly confused. “You too. Liberté!”

  Natasha just blinked, speechless.

  No one said a word, the chime of the elevator breaking the silence. Frank, with his walkie talkie and warrior face of his own, marched into view.

  Angelique turned her ire back to Natasha, her voice as cold as the grave. “You called this man?”

  “I called security,” I answered quickly, taking a few more steps toward the trio, making eye contact with Frank. “I think there was a misunderstanding, Frank.”

  He was unfazed by Angelique, looking right through her to me. “Is she the intruder?”

  “Yes!” Natasha didn’t miss a beat, smiling triumphantly. She practically stuck out her tongue, for good measure. Frank had his walkie at the ready and I had a feeling if security had the clearance for tasers, Angelique would be convulsing on the floor.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t come with me, I’ll have to call the police-”

  “There’s been a mix up!” I interjected, trying to diffuse the situation.