Baby Love: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

  BABY LOVE: A BILLIONAIRE BAD BOY ROMANCE

  BY VESPER VAUGHN

  © 2016 VESPER VAUGHN

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  STAY IN TOUCH

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MORE STORIES BY VESPER VAUGHN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE AND SOUNDTRACK

  PROLOGUE

  ZANE

  I brought my feet down from off of my desk. “You are to tell absolutely no one of our deal.” She swallowed hard at this. I knew it caused her discomfort.

  She signed the papers and handed the leather folio back to me. “Now I’ll be known as the woman who was bought and paid for, even if they don’t know about the deal we made.” She smiled grimly at me.

  I walked around the desk and put my hands on either side of her. She was breathing heavily already. “Let’s get started, then.”

  “Now?” she asked, glancing back at the door to my office.

  I reached down to kiss her neck. She trembled at my touch. “Why wait?” I asked. She moaned slightly beneath my lips.

  “I just – I didn’t think that we would. Here?” But soon her eyes were closed and she was moaning. I unbuttoned her blouse and traced my fingers across the tops of her ample, creamy breasts. She was wearing the same white lacy bra that I’d purchased for her.

  Her hands found my cheeks and she brought my lips to hers. It was pure electricity in the air between us, hot waves of energy connecting our skin to each other. She ran her fingers through my hair and lifted her up by her ass.

  I needed her now. I wanted to devour her.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ZANE

  The city of Chicago sprawled out beneath my feet. I pushed my bare toes against the glass and leaned my forehead on the floor-to-ceiling window. If I closed my eyes and opened them, I’d feel like I was falling. Anything that would wake me up and make me feel alive would be much fucking appreciated.

  “Zane!” called two sexy feminine voices from behind me. “Come back out here. We have a surprise for you.”

  I turned around against my better judgment. Standing there were the world’s two most famous supermodels, naked and hugging each other in the doorway of my bedroom. I stepped over empty beer cans and bottles from the night before. If it weren’t for the sun in the sky, I would have no idea what time it was.

  “It’s fuck o’clock,” I said to both of them. They giggled and walked over to me, pulling down my boxers. I sighed as they ran their thin, tanned, manicured fingers down my tattoos on their way to sucking me off.

  What did I really have to complain about, anyway?

  The doorbell rang just as they finished. They took each other’s hands and giggled that they’d be in the shower. I pulled on a pair of relatively clean boxers and wandered through my trashed apartment. There were half-naked women everywhere, some entangled with one another, some sleeping alone. I stepped over a mountain of lacy lingerie. I vaguely recalled a rousing tournament of strip poker from the night before as I opened the front door.

  Roger Morehouse, my best friend in the world, stood in the doorway in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. His green eyes looked over my shoulder to the mess behind me. “Looks like I was late to the party,” he said, holding up a bottle of wine with a smirk.

  I rubbed my hands through my curly hair and yawned. “Come inside, asshole,” I snapped. “And bring that wine bottle over here.”

  The ringing of the doorbell had stirred awake most of my guests. They stumbled over each other and I heard some of them say they were going for a rooftop swim in my private pool. “No drowning,” I yelled. They laughed. Someone else turned the music back on, and a few of the women started dancing their way back to a mostly-clothed state of dress.

  Roger loosened his tie and took off his suit jacket, hanging it gingerly on the arm of my bar chairs. “Is there a non-sticky surface I could sit on somewhere in this shithole?”

  “Sit anywhere and I’ll pay for your suit cleaning,” I promised. “You know I’m good for it.”

  “That you are,” Roger replied, pulling large rectangles of paper towels off the roll and lining a chair with them before sitting down.

  I pulled out a wine glass and a corkscrew. I looked at the label and laughed. “You’re blowing a fifty-thousand-dollar bottle on me at nine in the morning? Not that I object, but this must mean you want something from me.” I pulled the cork out of the neck of the bottle with a loud pop! and breathed in the dab of wine. “Jesus fuck this is great wine,” I said appreciatively, filling up my glass with a grand swirl of deep red vino.

  Roger leaned back in the chair. “You forgot, didn’t you?” he asked me, disappointment dripping in his voice.

  I knocked back half the glass in one gulp. “Forgot what?” I asked. Someone turned up the volume of the speakers.

  Roger looked annoyed but didn’t say anything. “I scheduled someone from the mayor’s office to come here to talk with you this morning. We talked about this. Three days ago. It’s why I’m dressed up. I was hoping you’d remember when you saw the wine bottle. That's your payment.”

  I squinted my eyes at him, trying to remember. “Oh, yeah. That sort of rings a bell.” The two supermodels came out of the bathroom wrapped in fluffy white towels. “Breakfast?” I asked them, ignoring Roger. I knew it would piss him off the longer I didn’t get my shit together. I liked this game. I picked up my phone and dialed downstairs. “Yeah, I’m going to need whatever you’ve got. For about-“ I looked out the window at the women splashing in the pool and counted heads. “Twenty people. Eggs, Danishes, donuts, the works. Leftover pizza – I don’t give a fuck. Just bring it all.” The supermodels smiled and bounced off toward the pool hand in hand. “You’re no fun today,” I said to Roger, who had a fixed look of tension plastered to his face.

  “Man, I never ask you for anything, and here you go fucking this up too,” he said as the doorbell rang. He gave my half-naked body a once-over. “You’re not even getting dressed, are you?”

  I shook my head and grinned, finishing off the glass of wine. “Nope!”

  Roger answered the door, shoving the detritus of last night’s party aside with his feet to clear a path. He came back a moment later with a nervous-looking man in a suit. He was short and portly and looked like somebody’s accountant. “I’m Jim Smithson,” he said, giving my tattooed, ripped torso a nervous glance. I clocked him as the type of guy who always used his first and last name together. His wife probably called out JimSmithson as one word when they were in bed together. If they were ever in bed together. “Should I come back later, Mr. Reid? I thought we had an appointment.”

  I shook my head. “Nah, just clear a
space and sit anywhere. Wine?”

  “It’s nine thirty in the morning,” he replied, obviously not sure if I was joking or not.

  “Your loss,” I shrugged, pouring another glass for me. “What brings you here today, Jim Smithson?” I asked easily, leaning back on the countertop and gazing at him. I loved making people uncomfortable like this; using my power and fuck-you attitude to remain in control.

  “I thought that Mr. Morehouse explained-“

  Roger cut him off. “I did. He’s choosing not to remember,” Roger hissed bitterly.

  A splash and loud, raucous laughter echoed through the glass. Jim Smithson’s eyes nearly fell out of his head when he saw the skinny-dipping women. “If you make it quick, I’m sure you could persuade some of them to come inside and entertain all of us,” I said slowly.

  Roger rolled his eyes. “Cut the shit,” he hissed at me. “Jim, I’m really sorry about this. Just cut to the chase and I can get you out of here.”

  Jim Smithson was breaking out in a cold sweat. I could actually see the beads of moisture forming on his balding pate. “I – I came here on behalf of the mayor’s office. You know how beloved you are to this entire city, Mr. Reid. We were hoping that you could do something for us. We’re having a hard time. The city’s image is in the toilet. The citizens need a morale boost; something to bring the spotlight back on Chicago as the Third Coast that it once was,” he explained.

  I stared at him in silence. He looked like he was going to pass out. “You mean you need tax revenue and for the rest of the country to think that Chicago isn’t the unequal city it is.” I put the pieces together, looking from him to Roger. “So you want me to do Roger’s fucking TV show. Is that it?”

  Jim Smithson nodded, looking relieved that he wasn’t going to have to explain himself any further to me.

  “Mm,” I said, putting down my wine glass. “Let me get this straight. I add my name as an executive producer and I show up to film a few episodes as Chicago’s Golden Boy. Then I distract the country from this city’s stunning segregation and inequality, and that’s all you need?” I shook my head and laughed. “I’ll do it, because why the fuck not, but I’m not sure that people connect me that much with Chicago.”

  Jim Smithson glanced nervously at Roger, who cleared his throat to speak up. “Stop being an asshole, Zane. You know what they want. They want us to move the show here to Chicago to film it.”

  I shrugged amiably. “Here, L.A. What’s the difference to me? Makes it a shorter commute. But I’m guessing you need funding, because the city wants the quid without the pro quo. You don’t have a tax break to offer the network somewhere in the mayor’s corrupt coffers do you? So you need my money?” I stared at him with an intense look. I found myself wondering if it was possible for a man to melt into a puddle from sheer embarrassment and discomfort alone. If anyone was going to do it, it would be Jim Smithson. I kept him waiting like that for a full minute before speaking again. “Fine. I’ll fund the show. We’ll move it to Chicago. When do we start filming?”

  Five minutes later, Jim Smithson rejected my offer of breakfast and lap dances. He twirled the worn gold band that creased his pudgy ring finger as he ran for the exits.

  “You’re a real dick, you know that?” Roger said to me with a laugh. He took off his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, rolling up the sleeves. He poured himself a glass of water as room service finally arrived and set up a buffet on my cluttered dining room table.

  “I’m not a dick, Roger,” I retorted. I held my arms out. “I’m the Golden Boy of the City. I’m beloved by all because I know how to catch a goddamned football. I pay more to this town in taxes annually than ninety-nine percent of Chicagoans will make in a lifetime. I’m the only fucking billionaire in history to not hide my money in tax shelters.”

  “I still don’t know why you haven’t fled to warmer pastures,” Roger said through a mouthful of Danish.

  “I hate your place in the Bahamas,” I replied. “Shacking up in a cozy community with a hundred other billionaires so I can hide my money is not my idea of a good time.”

  “We get it, asshole. You’re better than the rest of us,” he said. His cheeks were turning red, from staring at the women everywhere, which I knew was a great sign. He tilted back the rest of his water and slammed it on the table. “Fuck I miss alcohol. But anyway…it’s party time, I’d say,” he said with a smile. “Ladies!” he called onto the balcony.

  A half hour later, Roger and I were sitting on my sofa getting lap dances from two of the women. He smacked the round ass of the blonde wiggling over him. I was eighty miles away in my mind from the curvy brunette grinding against my lap. “When do we start filming?” I asked Roger over the music.

  “Can we talk about this later?” he asked me pointedly.

  “What? You can’t multi-task? Must be why my net worth’s higher than yours,” I shot at him.

  That got his attention. “We start filming next month. Everything’s in place; we just need your money and for you to sign some papers. The network will send some over here later today.” He shoved his face into the ass of the stripper on his lap. “I fucking love you, man,” he said, coming up for air a moment later.

  I laughed. “Yeah, it’s super creative of me to be a playboy billionaire. I don’t know how I do it,” I said drily. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “I don’t get you,” Roger said, finally peeling his eyes away from the woman on his lap.

  “In college you develop the social media app to end all social media apps and sell it after twelve months of development. You do this while you ace your classes at Harvard on a full-ride scholarship. Then you lead their football team to conference victory after conference victory. You’re a deca-billionaire at twenty-one. You join the NFL anyway. You have three Superbowl wins in as many years. Your brother…well. You know. Then you just…retire. Fall off the map. Disappoint your entire city by doing it.” He shook his head and put his hands back on the waist of the stripper. “But who can blame you? You’re young, hot, and rich. You want to go out on top. But dude. You’re Tony fucking Stark here. Single. No interviews. Nothing. You can have all the women you want in the entire world shipped to your front doorstep, and you do.” Roger rejected the shot of tequila another blonde woman brought to him, her tits jiggling. “Shit, man. I wouldn’t leave this penthouse either if I were you. No fucking way.”

  “Well, that’s all about to change, isn’t it?” I said. “I'll be back on television. Four weeks and counting until I’m back in the public eye. I better clean up my behavior.” I paused before bursting out in laughter. I grabbed the woman grinding on me and pulled her into my bedroom. “I’ll start tomorrow, though.”

  Roger held up another shot glass in a salute. “Tomorrow is another day.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  RACHEL

  The buzzing of incandescent lights overhead felt like it was driving a drill into my skull. The woman sitting at the wooden desk across from me was tapping her manicured acrylic fingernails against the keyboard.

  I was almost certain that she was doing it just to make me more flustered. I imagined that her computer screen, which was turned away from my view, wasn’t open to digital paperwork. I felt like she was actually just playing an old Mavis Beacon typing game to pass the time. I indulged this bitter fantasy.

  Letters crossed my eyes as I remembered the cascading initials that fell from the top of the screen. In my mind, the woman caught them with her claw-tipped fingers, drumming out a staccato rhythm as she rushed to complete the challenge in front of her. K, S, L, J, M, N, Q …I wondered if she was on the expert level with a waterfall of symbols to catch her off-guard. Maybe an ever-elusive tilde followed by a shift-necessary dollar sign, a question mark, an asterisk?

  “Ms. Cobb?”

  I jerked out of my typing-game reverie to see the loan officer smiling condescendingly at me. An overly-gelled curl had fallen out of her perfect topknot. She looked ridiculous and a petty part
of me was thrilled that her perfect veneer was crumbling. Not that it mattered. She was still in control here, not me. And she knew it.

  “Ms. Cobb, I’m sorry to say we won’t be able to help you with the loan for your business. With your credit history, your outstanding business and personal debts, as well as your unusual business concept, I’m afraid we just can’t extend any more money.”

  I wasn’t disappointed. I just felt numb.

  This was lender number thirty-five. My one, borrowed-from-my-sister-Callie, designer-label business outfit was due for a dry cleaning. No matter how much I aired out the Italian silk white blouse in the window of my bedroom, I couldn’t hide that it needed to be cleaned.

  But dry cleaning cost money. And I’d barely had money for the bus fare over here.

  I picked a piece of lint off of the wool of the sleek, charcoal skirt to keep the loan officer from seeing the tears forming in my eyes. These people had been my last hope. I stood up in one swift motion, extending my arm robotically. I was dissociating from my body. I saw with dismay that my three-day-old gel manicure was somehow already chipping.

  How was that even possible?

  “Thank you for your time,” I intoned to the woman, who grabbed my chipped-nail hand with her pristine one. Hers was clammy.

  I stepped out of the lobby of the enormous bank, my heels clicking across the marble flooring and echoing up into the polished-wood ceiling and into the humid and windy Chicago day. I nearly screamed into the wind. I could smell a thunderstorm brewing. In my haste, I’d left my apartment without a rain coat.

  I should have known better. It was summer in the Windy City; the two things you could count on were wind and thunderstorms in the late afternoon. As if on cue, warm raindrops hit my face. I put my head down and trudged toward the bus stop just as my bus pulled away from the curb with a screech of squeaking hydraulics.

  I still had enough dignity to not run after it screaming. I checked my watch. It would be another twenty minutes before the next one came. I knew the water would likely ruin Callie’s impeccable Versace shoes. But there was no way I was going to go barefoot on the streets of this city.