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Alexander couldn't believe he'd just pummeled two men in a scummy alley in France like a proper brute; he'd gotten into a fight like young men his age were supposed to do. Getting into rows and scrapes was what one was supposed to do in his youth, wasn’t it?
Granted, he had been able to win the fight thanks to a decade's worth of martial arts training with a master and almost twice as long at fencing, but it still was a rush to be able to do something “regular” guys did.
Once the bastards he'd beaten up were gone, and all of his senses had settled down, he became aware of the small woman cowering in the shadows. Alexander was aware he still had some blood on his fists, so he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe it away before he approached her. He didn't want her to believe he was as brutish as the men who had tried to attack her, so he cleaned himself up and tossed the dirty kerchief into a nearby trashcan.
The woman was sobbing hysterically, and Alexander gathered her into his arms to try and console her. He hated himself for thinking it, but her curly hair gathered around his face, and she smelled of magnolias, and lavender; he couldn't help but be entranced by just the aroma of her, like a walk through a warm garden in the summer. The firm yet yielding feel of her in his arms—it was nothing like holding Whitney.
Whitney was skin and bones, subsisting on a diet of cigarettes, vodka, and the odd seaweed salad. Skinny girls had their own beauty, but Alexander had always gravitated to women like those in the paintings he loved: curvy, full of life, and soft. He felt like he could hold this girl forever, and he'd never even gotten a good look at her face.
When she pulled away from him, his shirt was soaked through with her tears, but he didn't even care. She balled her fists up like a child and rubbed them at her eyes, smearing her eye make-up, and making her look like a party girl from the 70s. Alexander wanted to laugh, but he held it back. And then, she started staring.
Perfect, he had thought. My cover is blown. Here comes the groveling and the simpering.
But she just stared at him, saying nothing. Finally, compelled to fill the painful silence, he started asking a million questions, some in French, all of which she answered no to. When he finally asked her what her name was, she stumbled adorably.
Paris, he thought. What a thoroughly adorable name. Paris. He avoided making what he knew had to be the obvious remark about her name matching that of the city.
And then, she spoke again—but, he thought he surely must have heard her incorrectly. What did she say?
Had she just asked him his name?
Did she really not know who he was?
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Excerpt from Billionaire’s Baby Bargain
Billionaire’s Baby Bargain
“I’m sorry… what did you say?” Colin Strathmore said slowly. His voice was pure ice.
“We do sincerely regret the mistake—” The clinic director said nervously.
“This is a hell of a lot more than a mistake.”
“Well, it is unfortunate, yes, but nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“And so how do you plan to fix it?” Colin said smoothly. His demeanor was calm, but his voice held a dangerous edge. The rhythmic rapping of his fingers against the mahogany table was the only thing that betrayed his anger.
Doctor Moore looked around the room nervously, unable to meet Colin’s glare. Her eyes lingered on the framed plaques and awards for philanthropy she saw in the opulent office, on the expensive trinkets on the shelves and desk that had been clearly placed there by an interior designer. The room was laid out to be as intimidating as possible, and it was working.
Beside her the lawyer, Clarkson, had interjected. “Well, we have offered Miss Robinson a generous financial package to fix the mistake.”
“Enlighten me. How exactly would that fix it?”
“Well, if Miss Robinson terminated the pregnancy then there would be minimal damages to you.”
“Terminated?” Colin stood up. “You thought you had the right to ask her to terminate the pregnancy?”
“It did seem like the most logical solution,” Doctor Moore offered nervously.
“And you didn’t think I should be consulted before you made this offer?” He was outraged.
Colin turned his back on them, staring out into the immense cityscape that was sprawled before him from his office on the top floor of the Strathmore Financial building. He was known for his stoicism, for his emotional restraint, but by God—! There was only so far he could be pushed.
He wanted to punch the lawyer right in the middle of his face and toss the incompetent doctor out on her ass. He clenched his fist several times as he struggled to regain his composure.
He had made a deposit at the sperm bank at one of the most difficult points of his life. Newly divorced, and diagnosed with cancer when he was only thirty-five, doctors had told him he should do what he could to protect his future chance at having children.
