The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride: A BWWM Romance (9 page)

I can feel the moment the last of his restraint leaves his body. His breath hitches. His eyes lose focus. And his grip tightens, just barely, before he crashes his lips into mine.

His kiss isn’t soft, beautiful and sweet, like he’s trying to paint a picture of an honorable man with his lips. No, this is full of something raw and primal and undeniably
him—
so recklessly strong that it almost feels like I’m being swept away.

But I’m strong, too.

I make my own story. I don’t let others make one for me.

So instead of breaking, meet his fire with my own flames. I grab his shirt, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. The heat from his body spreads out over my skin. I feel his ripped body tightening against my torso, his muscular arms flexing as he cradles me against him. And lower, I feel that other part of him already so hot and hard that it’s burning through the fabric of his pants.

Yes
, I think, pulling him closer.

I kiss away his hesitancy. He thinks all those memories are best forgotten. All those feelings best left buried. That he should never allow all those desires to surface. He says he loves my art because it reveals things, and yet he wants to still hide himself.

I won’t let him. I need to show him he’s wrong about one important thing.

He’s perfect for me.

He gets out of his seat, takes hold of my hips, and pushes me up against the back of the limo. Plush leather cushions my back as hands slide up my thighs, pushing up the hem of my dress. When he reaches my neon pink thong, he lets out a low growl.

He looks up at me, eyes dark, realizing that I planned this—that I wanted this—him and me, limbs tangled, unbridled passion that’s been brewing beneath the surface to finally come to an edge.

He pulls away. “I can’t do this.”

“What?”

“Look, I want to. I’ve dreamed about fucking you for ten years, and after it happened, I walked around with a hardon for weeks. Right now there’s nothing I want more than to sink into that tight, hot pussy and claim it as my own, but it’s not right. Not until you remember.”

The car stops.

“We’re here, Tachell,” he says, opening the door.

I’m tempted to not get out. If I strap myself in and start flailing, he’ll have to risk more headlines to send me on my way. But that wouldn’t be right…at least not yet.

I accept his hand as I get out. Together, we walk to my front door as the bodyguards hold back the paparazzi.

“Thank you, Tachell,” he whispers, kissing me on the head.

I raise my eyebrows and step back. He shouldn’t thank me yet, because I’m not letting this go. I will discover whatever it is he’s hiding, and then I will show him it doesn’t matter. I’ll show him that he does deserve me. And, even more than that, I’ll show him that he deserves to be happy.

I walk into my apartment with slumped shoulders.

Sondra frowns from the couch. “You’re home early.”

“Yeah, well, all we did was eat lunch,” I inform her.

Her shoulders slump. “Really?”

I nod. “He wants to wait until I remember everything.”

She pouts as my mom walks in. “Hey sweetie! How was your lunch date with Preston.”

“It went alright. He was a gentleman.” Too much of a gentleman if you ask me.

“Well, that isn’t surprising. He always has been.” Her eyes go wide. “Oh yes! And before I forget, you had a call while you were out.”

“Is that so?” I ask, not surprised.

“It wasn’t Reggie,” my mother says. “Well, alright, Reggie did call and ask if you needed anything. He was a little upset you saw Preston without telling him. He thought you guys might need a chaperone.”

“And let me guess, he graciously offered to take-up the position?”

My mother smiles. “You know your brother.”

“It isn’t hard to know him,” Sondra mutters under her breath.

My mother tries to frown at Sondra, but can’t. It really isn’t hard to figure out Reggie. It was simultaneously one of his best and most annoying qualities.

“So who else called?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s right! Priscilla Easterbrook. Preston’s mother.”

Chapter 11

Priscilla Easterbrook wanted to meet in the Easterbrook Garden Club. She considered the quaint (by modern mansion standards, at least) miniature gothic castle in the middle of town a second home. This was probably because it
had
been her grandmother’s second home—or at least one of them. Yes, Priscilla Easterbrook (Preston’s mother was named after her grandmother, as it turned out) loved to “summer” (whatever the hell that means) here. It had apparently been bought for her by her doting husband after she’d heard that he had an affair with another woman.

Nevermind that the two hadn’t even met yet at the time of the affair.

He’d apologized profusely for his errant ways. How he’d given into his baser passions at the age of 15.

I thought it would make me a man
, he explained.
I didn’t realize that I was still acting like a boy.

Priscilla said the only thing that would make her feel better was gardening. They were in the middle of New York City at the time, but Preston Easterbrook (yes, Preston was apparently named after his great grandfather, which made listening to this
really
weird if you ask me) would not be dissuaded. He bought his princess a garden.

Did I mention all of this glorious green space was in the middle of New York City? It was practically another Central Park, except it had all belonged to one person.

This sordid history was engraved on a big ass brass plaque in the entrance, right beneath a fountain and a statue of Priscilla Easterbrook. It was then repeated to me by the secretary of the Easterbrook Garden Club on our way to the Rose Court, where I was to meet with Priscilla.

The secretary—who knew how to walk in a tight pencil skirt and impossibly small high heels, let me tell you—pushed open the large, brick red antique wooden Chinese doors and ushered me inside.

The room looked like a rose court. The conference room had an unmistakably female touch. There was a single white rose in a glass vase in front of every chair around the conference table. In the middle was a fantastic bouquet of white flowers. Lilies. Roses. Of the twenty other kinds of flowers, those were the only two I recognized. It billowed out over the table like a cornucopia of feminine power.

“Take your seat,” a cold, confident, and calculating voice snapped.

I looked up to find an elegant older woman sitting on what can only be described as a throne. Except instead of the stereotypical gold it was silver, and instead of red cushions they too were white.

I take my seat at the opposite end of the conference table.

“No, next to me so I can see you,” the voice instructs from behind the gigantic white bouquet.

I do as I’m told. It is the kind of voice you do
not
want to hear say something twice. I start walking around the room, closer to the woman. She starts shaking her head when I get about three chairs from her. I take my seat, figuring that means she doesn’t want me to get
too
close.

Her silver hair is swept back in a tight, elaborate knot. Eyes the same complicated blue as Preston’s glare at me. However, her gaze has significantly less nuance. I know exactly what she’s thinking, and it isn’t good.

“Tachell Jones I presume?”

“You presume correctly,” I respond.

Her eyes narrow into lethal slits. Shit, did I just insult her? I was trying to class up my response!

“So
you
are the one carrying my grandchild,” she states. “Or, I am to believe it is my grandchild. There
will
be a paternity test after birth. I don’t like waiting, but in this case it is unavoidable. I will do
nothing
to jeopardize the health of a future Easterbrook.”

“Alright. A test is fine with me,” I tell her honestly. Maybe I should be offended, but I’m not. Hell, even I don’t know if it’s for sure Preston’s, I’m just taking his word on it. And apparently his word is based on something I said before I started running around like a chicken with its head cut off, which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, if you ask me. Which, no one up until this point has.

Priscilla Easterbrook didn’t seem to expect me to acquiesce to her request immediately. And, apparently, unexpected assent also pisses her off. “I heard you had amnesia.”

“Well, yes. I do.”

She studies me for a moment, and during that moment I really wish I’d picked out something better. Yes, my cream sweater was cashmere, but it had been picked up at a thrift store. I’d rolled my eyes at my mother when she told me I should really iron my navy slacks before leaving. “They look good enough,” I’d told her, but they weren’t good enough. Not even close. Yes, this was how intimidating Priscilla Easterbrook was—I was worrying if the articles of clothing she could not currently see were up to snuff. I felt like an old, stubborn wine stain on an otherwise pristine white tablecloth.

After a long moment, she announces, “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, the diagnosis doesn’t require your belief in order to be true,” I reply.

Alright. I have a bit of an attitude, and I’ll be the first to admit it has gotten the best of me this week. I’m sure it also got the best of me in the numerous previous weeks as well, but I can’t remember so I can’t say with certainty.

Oh man, her pupils are hot iron pokers she wants to stab into my chest. I think she would, too, if doing so wouldn’t potentially compromise the health of a possible future Easterbrook.

“Let me make one thing clear,” Priscilla Easterbrook begins, “If that child is indeed my son’s, it will be raised as an Easterbrook.
My
grandchild will be raised properly.”

“What exactly are you saying?” I ask slowly.

Her nostrils flare. “I know what you’re doing. You have manipulated my only son. Maybe it is through trickery. In fact, I have reviewed the situation and ascertained it must have all been a calculated move on your part—however, I cannot discount the possibility that all this was all due to one reckless mistake made after another. Well, at least without proof I cannot discount it. In any event, it does not matter. You have already damaged my son’s heart. I will not have you hurting him any more. And, even more importantly, I will not allow my precious grandchild to be used as a pawn in your selfish schemes.”

She pauses, as if she’s expecting me to say something. Well, alright, I will. But there is really only one thing I
can
say to all of that. “What?”

“Don’t you dare try to lie to me,” she says. “I know your kind. Young and beautiful. ‘Artistic.’ You probably squat over a canvas and squirt paint all over it in some manner that resembles your menses, and then proceed to sell the monstrosity to wealthy men so burdened by their ennui that they are able to force their broken, desperate minds to find meaning in anything.”

Um…what?
WHAT?!?!?!
What kind of art was this lady looking at?

Her lips thin. “I know you think you will receive more in a divorce settlement, but you needn’t bother. I simply will not allow Preston to get married without a prenuptial agreement. If the child is my son’s, I am willing to overlook your character, but
only
for the sake of my grandchild. In exchange for granting us custody, you will be receive a generous stipend and visitation rights. I think that one weekend every quarter shall be sufficient, excluding holidays, of course, which the child will spend with the Easterbrook family. You will be expected to visit whether you want to or not—I will not have the child thinking you abandoned him or her. However, at the same time, I do not want them to become overly attached.”

Under the table, my hands are trembling. “You expect me to give you my child?”

She regards me dismissively. “It is best for both of you. You may continue with your artistic…well, I don’t want to call them ambitions, but I suppose I must. Still, you will be able to live out your life in luxury which is what you wanted in the first place, wasn’t it? Here.” She groans as she tosses a mountain of paperwork almost as big as the bouquet on the table. “Sign this.”

I grit my jaw. “No.”

Her perfect eyebrows rise. “No?”

“No. I’m not even going to look at it.”

She crosses her legs. “Maybe you should. This offer will not last forever. If you try to marry my son, I will make your life a legal hell.”

“I don’t think
you
understand. I appreciate your concern for my child’s welfare. And, should he or she be Preston’s, I have no doubt you will be a formidable grandmother. But while my child may grow up with the
privilege
of an Easterbrook, he or she will also grow up with the
love
of a Jones.”

“Are you suggesting I do not love my own?” Priscilla Easterbrook sneers.

“No. That’s not what I’m suggesting. However, I don’t think that you have the right to get an attitude with me when you are the one who invited me here, and it was just to condescend my family, question my motives, and doubt my love for my child.”