Baby Love: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance Read online

  I gazed through the window and saw a nervous-looking white guy in his late forties holding a football under his arm. I felt my stomach drop slightly. I could smell the field in my memory, hear the roar of the crowd. I shook my head to get myself out of it. No good could come from any of that. The guy opened his mouth and started talking. I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  “Fuck,” Roger said, standing up to hit a speaker button on the wall. He pressed it multiple times. Nothing happened. “I guess the sound’s not working. Oh well.”

  “Everyone at home thinks we don’t know these people until we sit down in those armchairs, right?” I asked, still staring at Football Man, who had dropped his glossy binder that undoubtedly contained his business plan. Jane stood up to help him collect the papers that had flown everywhere.

  Roger nodded. “Yup.”

  “Is any of this real?” I asked him skeptically.

  “The deals are. I mean, not the ones you see on camera. Typically, we make an offer, there’s a soft verbal acceptance onscreen. Then off camera everyone’s lawyers go five rounds, and we crush them and take their souls as payment.” He grinned devilishly.

  I sighed in response.

  Roger rolled his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Ethics. Half these people need us. The other half are using the show as free publicity. Most of these companies garner six times their annual sales in the twenty-four hours after the show airs. It’s all helping someone.” Football Guy finally stood up, flop sweat running down his face. “My bet is he’ll pass out on camera,” Roger said flatly. “It’d make for good TV though.” He finished off the last of the Red Bull, crumpling up the can and using a basketball throw to get it in the trashcan in the corner of the room. He made it. “And the crowd goes wild!” he yelled with over-acted enthusiasm.

  I laughed.

  “So, what have you been up to over the last month?” Roger asked. “Other than skulking around Wayne Manor with your British butler and wandering the dark streets of Gotham in spandex, of course.”

  “Fuck off,” I said congenially. “My spandex is at the cleaners, unfortunately.” Roger chuckled. “Mostly parties,” I said. “I figured there was no need to turn over a new leaf until we started filming.” I checked my watch as a joke. “Twenty-four more hours of partying left.”

  “Ah, yeah I heard the last one you threw was a real rager. Supermodels this time?”

  My smile gave me away. “Sisters,” I replied. “From Milan.”

  “God Bless Italy,” Roger sighed. “Sorry I couldn’t make it. I was in Tokyo.”

  “Can’t really tell one party from the next at some point. You’ll catch the next one and it will look exactly the fucking same as the last. Minus the Italian sisters.”

  “Eh, I don’t know. I hate being away from my phone right now. I’ve got a few deals going in Saudi Arabia. You know, it’s the ultimate irony that a billionaire who made the most popular social media app in the history of the universe doesn’t allow the use of said app at any of his own functions.”

  One of the requirements of my parties was that everyone put their phones in a cabinet when they walk in the door. No pictures. No tweets. No social media. The last thing I wanted was confirmation that I was a sleazy man-whore. Even if that were entirely true. “Business deals? Eh, the oil will be there when the party’s over, Roger. It can wait.”

  Roger fidgeted uncomfortably.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Oh Christ. It’s not a business deal. It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

  “Okay, okay. You caught me.” But his eyes lit up. “Her name’s Christine. I met her in Los Angeles a few weeks ago.”

  “Another heir to an American fortune?” I asked. Roger was in line to inherit several billion from his father’s father’s father’s steel business. The Morehouses were American royalty.

  “Not exactly,” he said evasively, not meeting my eyes. “She’s…a waitress.”

  I guffawed. “Oh, certainly it must be true love then.”

  “She didn’t know who I was.”

  “Right! Of course! Because your face is so damn unrecognizable. Jesus, Roger, you wear the same goddamn suit everywhere you fucking go. And your douchebag haircut? You’re like the Pope. Everyone knows who you are.”

  Roger shrugged. “I don’t always go out looking like this. Seriously. I was in L.A. It was late. I gave my bodyguards the slip, put on the clothes I use to work on my car along with the baseball hat you thought I’d thrown away in college and went to this little diner. I was unrecognizable. Trust me.”

  “You met a woman wearing that piss-rag?” I asked him, incredulous. “That thing is an environmental hazard, Roger.” It was a formerly red Harvard hat that he’d bought our freshman year of college. It was made up more of beer than fabric at this point. I’d tried to burn it one night when we were shitfaced drunk. He dove after it and rescued it from the glowing embers just in time.

  “She likes me for me. You believe me now?”

  “Did you ever tell her who you are?”

  “Next week I am,” he said.

  “Oh God. You’re actually nervous. Are you planning on proposing to this woman?” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but only barely. “Fuck, man. You’re leaving me all alone.”

  Roger laughed. “One day you’ll get it, okay? This one’s different. She’s just different. I can’t explain it. But it’s like they say. When you know, you know.”

  I shook my head and looked out the window. The producers had settled back down. A woman walked into the room carrying not a binder, but a single sheet of paper.

  “Yeah, great. Here comes another Holly Hobby college girl trying to launch her super duper original party dress line! For clubbing with friends!” He said this in cruel, high-pitched imitation of every trust fund honey we’d ever met in a bar.

  I laughed. Then she sat down and I looked at her face. Her long, red hair was pulled into a low ponytail. Her green eyes had the fiery intensity that I usually only saw in cutthroat Wall Street hedge fund managers. And her creamy skin was dusted with a smattering of cinnamon-colored freckles that cascaded across her nose and cheeks before settling across the skin that topped her rosebud, full lips.

  I suddenly found myself wanting to walk out the door, grab her by the arm, and fuck her in the green room.

  “Midwest Molly,” Roger groaned. “She just fell off the corn truck from Des Moines.”

  My eyes were busy following the open, cream-colored silk of her blouse down to the top of her mostly concealed cleavage. When she talked, she moved her hands and her tits jiggled. I realized that I was unintentionally tracing the outside of my lip with my tongue.

  And Roger was watching. “You think she’s hot? No way. Not your type. At all.”

  “I don’t have a type,” I retorted. “My type is women.”

  “No, your type is tall, nine percent body fat, fake breasts, dark hair, and faces that land the covers of the most prominent fashion magazines in the world,” Roger replied.

  He was right. And yet my pants were telling a different story as I stared at this woman. She was talking so excitedly a strand of auburn hair fell out of her ponytail. I wanted to sweep it off her face and then move my hands down into her shirt until she begged me to finish her off.

  I was looking forward to watching her walk away. “Wonder what her voice sounds like,” I said, trying to keep my voice light and even.

  Roger groaned. “Oh Jesus, man. Let’s just pretend that she sounds like the mice in Cinderella. Okay? Because with a one-sheet business plan and a plain-fucking-Jane face, she’s not coming on this show. No way.”

  “I’m sorry, does it say executive producer in the credits next to your name?” I asked sarcastically.

  Roger turned to face me. “Number one: yes, it does. Number two: I’m telling you, this doesn’t end well. Don’t play your EP card the first goddamn day on the job. It’s unseemly.” He shuddered dramatically and picked a piece of lint off of his pristine suit.

  The mystery redh
ead stood up and leaned forward to shake Jane’s hand. Her shirt fell slightly and I was greeted by several inches more of cleavage. I imagined her tits hanging in my face, her breasts falling heavily from her chest and into my waiting mouth.

  Her walking away was exactly as good as I imagined it would be.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RACHEL

  I got the part.

  I didn’t think I would; the guy who went before me had a business plan that looked like it weighed as much as I did. Patrick had stayed up late with me to tailor my single-sheet business plan. He told me they were looking for uniqueness and personality and to not overburden them with details. So I’d kept it as simple as possible and let my excitement do the talking.

  I was exhausted from a full forty-eight hours of so much social exertion. Now I had to be in the studio the next day, bright and early, ready for filming.

  I was sprawled on Callie and Patrick’s bed. Callie was pulling out dozens of designer dresses from her own closet. “You want something that says professional but not dowdy,” she explained. “And it can’t clash with your hair of course, which is tricky because most of my clothes are for brunettes. And for a different size. But I do have some from when I first started working…” I ignored the slight against my own weight. Callie, who used to be pudgy, now had a personal trainer and a strict meal plan.

  I groaned. “I’ve been in here for an hour, Callie. I so appreciate your help but honestly you’re losing me. It shouldn’t matter what I wear anyway.” I was getting nervous about tomorrow. “See? This is why I didn’t want to do this. This is all flashiness over substance. It’s bullshit.”

  “You really are mean when you’re feeling insecure,” Callie replied with a pointed look. “So you better start again.”

  She was right. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really, really appreciate your help.”

  Callie nodded and handed me a navy blue dress wordlessly. “Change. This is the one. I promise.”

  ***

  I stood in the studio looking at the four black armchairs sitting under hot studio lights. The production team was setting up the first business; something to do with goats. The assistant was cursing as he tried to herd a baby goat the size of a Bichon Frise into a holding pen. Another was stacking cylinders of creamy product that was either ice cream or lotion. A few more minutes of it sitting there under boiling lights would solve that mystery.

  The navy blue dress had indeed been The One. My hair was curled in loose waves and falling around my face. It looked great against the jersey fabric of the dress. It was sleeveless with a scooped neckline and hit me at mid-thigh. The fabric grabbed onto my body but there were pin tucks and ruching in all the right places to accentuate my curves without showing any lumps. I actually felt better than I had in years. Usually I was in a lab coat with goggle marks on my face.

  Jane the production assistant strolled by me. She looked harried and frazzled, but flashed me a smile. “You’ll be going last, Rachel,” she said. “That’s a good thing. We put the strongest first and last.”

  “Me?” I asked, stunned.

  Jane smiled. “You,” she replied. “You really wowed me the other day. Just bring that same personality to the show and there will be nothing at all to worry about.”

  I grinned in spite of myself. Several of the other contestants were glaring at me and whispering to one another. I couldn’t understand why that was. It wasn’t like this was a competition; each deal was considered on its own merits separate from the rest.

  Jane called for quiet on the set, and the four “Engineers” strolled onto the stage. I felt my breath catch in my throat as I saw Zane Reid. He was more boyish looking in person, his face slightly less angular. His eyes were so blue they were like icebergs, his dark, curly hair pushed back from his face. He walked with confidence. His suit hugged his body in all the right places. I suddenly realized I was staring at his ass and blushed.

  Zane took the first armchair. Then came Roger Morehouse, everyone’s favorite Hollywood-handsome playboy heir apparent. Liz Anders, her sharp features, ebony skin and braided, dark hair pinned up neatly, took the third chair. An icy silence fell across the room as Scott Friend crossed the stage. He said nothing to anybody and sat down with a grimace on his pale face. He was the only person on that stage who couldn’t have moonlighted as a handsome actor or actress. I thought about his ironic nickname as he glanced impatiently at his Rolex. Mr. Friendly.

  Emphasis on ironic.

  Ryan Angel, the host of the show, broke the tension with his overly-bleached smile and his movie-trailer voice. A spotlight appeared on him and he adjusted his tie. The director counted down, and suddenly we were rolling. “Welcome to Boiler Room, the show where four billionaires turn up the heat on entrepreneurs in desperate need of cash.”

  “Desperate seems like a strong word,” I whispered to the straight-laced, middle-aged dad next to me. He was here to promote an eternally-inflated football. I had my doubts about the product after his four-year old son managed to impale it on a screw back in the green room.

  The guy grimaced in response. He looked like he was going to pass out. “You have mustard on your tie,” I whispered to him. He did. He looked down, panicked, and practically ran into the bathroom.

  Ryan Angel was still talking. “We’re happy to welcome you all here, to Chicago, the new home of our beloved show. Behind me sit our Engineers, who make the deals that could change the lives of the six eager entrepreneurs we have tonight. First off, we have Mr. Zane Reid, Superbowl champion three times over and billionaire who made his money in Silicon Valley.”

  Zane inclined his head in recognition of Ryan’s words. I bit my lip and blushed again even though I knew he wasn’t looking at me. God he was gorgeous.

  “Then we have Roger Morehouse, who has turned his first-stage trust fund into a billion-dollar oil company of his own.” Roger flashed his perfect smile at the camera. “And there is the lovely Liz Anders, fashion mogul turned real estate tycoon who presides over her own billion-dollar empire that spans continents.” Liz waved with a perfunctory flip of her hand. “Last but not least, Scott Friend, everyone’s favorite grumpy deca-billionaire, who started out running a hot dog stand on the streets of New York City and now could buy out everyone in this room six times over.”

  The camera panned to Mr. Friendly, who gave the camera his trademark icy stare.

  “Let’s get boiling!” Ryan uttered his trademark phrase, stepping out of view of the camera as the cameraman panned to get a wide shot of the Engineers.

  The director yelled “CUT!” and everyone took the opportunity to cough and sneeze.

  Liz leaned across Roger to whisper something to Zane and he laughed, his face breaking out into a wide smile. My heart felt like it had stopped beating. This, a smiling version of Zane, was a face I recognized from every Superbowl win he’d managed to pull off in his too-short career. Though this version was considerably less sweaty and disheveled than the football one. I wondered what he smelled like. Shivers went down my spine.

  The entire city of Chicago had been in mourning when he retired after three perfect seasons with no explanation of why he was walking away from his contract. His brother had died; that was the only thing amiss. He’d never divulged any reason beyond that.

  The woman with the goat stepped onto the stage and the lights went back into position. Then they were filming. It was brutal watching her. The deal went on for almost an hour. It turned out she had edible goat’s milk lotion. The goat shit itself twenty-minutes in and then passed out from the hot lights. Mr. Friendly walked off the set point-blank in a moment of dramatic tension, and nobody offered her a deal.

  She left the stage crying. The next three deals went off with varying levels of success. Deal number two was some cell phone app that I couldn’t comprehend; no deals. Deal number three was a stay-at-home mother with laundry detergent that smelled like candy flavors. A simple but brilliant idea. She got an offer from Liz and, shockingly, Mr.
Friendly. She accepted Liz’s deal with glee as Mr. Friendly glowered in disappointment. The fourth person was a tall man with a proprietary design for an umbrella that withstood forty-mile-an-hour winds while folding up into a packet the size of a tube of toothpaste.

  Everyone but Zane offered him money.

  Then came Football Guy, whose tie had mercifully dried.

  I was nearly next. I felt like vomiting on my shoes. Well, not my shoes. Callie’s shoes. The reminder that I would owe her a pair of custom-dyed Jimmy Choos if I barfed on them abated my nausea.

  I watched Zane’s face carefully as Football Guy made his pitch. I’d expected Zane to be excited, and so had the inventor, since he gave his pitch mostly to him. Zane had held up his hand when the guy finished and said words that actually made his fellow Engineers do a double-take, including Mr. Friendly. “I’m out.” He said it before anyone even had a chance to ask the guy questions.

  “Okay. Thank you for your time, Mr. Reid,” the dad said, his face turning as red as a cherry tomato.”

  Roger had his ankle crossed over his knee and spoke up first. “That’s a shock, even to me. Well. I love your product. And I’m going to make an offer.” Roger put the top of his pen to his lips and stared dramatically at the pad of paper in his lap where he’d been scribbling notes. “I’ll offer you one million dollars in exchange for thirty percent of your company.”

  I could feel the contestants behind me trying not to gasp. I swallowed hard. This was going to be a tough act to follow.

  “I’m out,” Mr. Friendly said. “I don’t do sports. Ever.”

  Liz stepped up to the plate and offered one million for twenty percent of the company with a dollar royalty on each football until her investment was paid back; then the royalty would go to fifty cents.

  Considering Football Guy had offered a valuation of only three million dollars for his company, I could tell he was in shock. Liz’s offer put his company value at five million dollars.