The British Billionaire's Baby (2 page)

“Darling, you know you don’t have to do this. If you need a loan – a few month’s worth just while we work on getting your name out-”

A single warning look from the young woman stopped him in his tracks as Tristan swallowed the offer. It seemed like every week he was trying to get her to take his money in an effort to keep her from burning the candle at both ends. However, Gabby’s mother had taught her to depend on no one but herself, and as much as she adored Tristan, she wasn’t going to let him support her. He was already doing enough. “I’m going to go get that shower.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Let me know where you guys go for drinks after dinner. Maybe I can catch you for dinner.”

“Of course, darling.”

It was a better compromise this way anyway. She wouldn’t have been able to afford much for dinner as her funds stood now.

**

New York. It never changed.

He visited the city at least once a year for business and everyone was always in a rush to go nowhere, so wrapped up in their own little worlds that any attempts to distract them usually resorted in some kind of animosity.

Or perhaps that was just the New York State of Mind.

From the back of the limo, Sebastian watched the city through discreetly tinted windows. He’d gotten in mere hours ago and gone into a business meeting straight from the airport. As a result, he was jetlagged and hungrier than a horse. His usual room at the Ritz Carlton awaited him – and if he was lucky, he might just manage to duck his retainers and get a few hours of rest.

At that moment, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Sebastian extracted the slim device to see who was calling and immediately groaned. Of course, it would be his mother. She never relented. Reluctantly, he answered.

“Hello, mother.”

“How are things going darling? Business strong?” The duchess of Raithwithe’s voice was cultured with the tones of British high society. Though Sebastian knew she had been born and bred to marry into a life in the spotlight, he sometimes couldn’t help thinking that his mother’s over the top speech was mostly just for show.

“It’s fine. I should be back in a few weeks.”

“Oh, but Sebastian, the Queen’s Ball is next Thursday.”

He scowled. Of course. The bloody ball. He’d specifically planned this trip so he could avoid attending the damn thing and here his mother was expecting him to return to Britain in a mere week at her whim. He’d be damned if he’d scurry back across the pond just to give her a few extra hours to brag about him as she attempted to set him up with eligible women who bored him out of his mind.

“I’ll have to miss it mother.”

“You wound me. I’ve told several mothers of wonderful ladies that you’d speak with their daughters. Bright, beautiful girls, all of them.”

“Mother, leaving New York in less than two weeks would be utterly impossible. I told you I was going to be gone for a month and so I shall be gone for a month.”

“Oh, can’t you make it three weeks, love? For me?”

Sebastian ground his teeth, praying for temperance. His mother knew exactly how to whittle him down. It was a caveat of being a part of British nobility that one could never escape one’s family. And Sebastian’s family was particularly torturous.

“I’ll see what I can do, mother.”

“Wonderful, sweet.” Now he would be expected to cut a month off of his business trip just to please her. He had a lot of rearranging to do. “Have a nice trip.”

“Of course.”

Once he’d hung up with her, he slumped back against the seat, in a black mood. In the ten minutes it took him to reach his hotel, he called ahead to have a bottle of whiskey with ice sent up to his room and he broke it open the moment he entered the suite.

As usual, three immense men clad impeccably in all black swept the room for danger as he poured himself a drink. Each of them was roughly the same size as he himself, picked for their forms and their ability to intimidate. Of course, each of them had also served a predetermined amount of time with the British Secret Service and were never to leave his side.

Personally, Sebastian found them a bit of an insult. He himself had had extensive hand-to -hand combat training and was well versed in the use of a select few guns and knives. The experience had come from his own mandatory seven year stint in the British army. It had, oddly enough, been one of the most liberating experiences he’d had. Being in the armed forces had given him one of the only opportunities he’d ever had to escape his parents influence. Of course, their names and prestige had followed him, but in the service, he’d been able to build his own reputation, and he’d worked hard at it – earning not one, but two medals of valor during his service.

He’d been teased by his compatriots about his size – at almost six and a half feet tall and close to three hundred pounds of pure brawn, he was certainly no poncy, pencil-necked coward. Despite his parents’ protests, he’d chosen assignments in which he’d seen action in Middle East Ireland, and was better-rounded for it. It meant that he had a hard time making pleasantries with his cousins during social functions. While they had military titles as well, they were the kind earned from sitting around doing nothing while one’s parents pulled strings.

He tended to make people look twice wherever he went, and it wasn’t only because of his family name. According to his female relations, he supposedly cut quite the dashing figure. Tall, with pale skin, striking blue eyes and the thick, untamable locks signature of his family that fell to his shoulders in raven waves, more than a few women had swooned over him.

Batting close to forty, he had yet to marry.

Sebastian simply didn’t have the patience to deal with the plethora of women who came after him. Certainly, he’d had a token few encounters with them – but he’d learned well to hide his identity when it came to the casual lay. If he didn’t, then his partners would scramble after him, grabbing for money or making ridiculous claims.

And he didn’t dare lie with any of the nobility that his mother was so eager for him to hob knob with. Not after the fiasco in which one young duchess had
lied
about his seducing her in an attempt to wrangle him into marrying her.

She’d been all of nineteen years old.

No, Sebastian preferred to keep things simple; and really, he was usually so busy with his business ventures that he found little time to lose himself in a woman. Unlike his numerous other relations, he didn’t plan on relying on his title to keep him afloat. Yes, when his father died he would be the next Duke of Raithwithe, but he didn’t plan on being
only
the Duke of Raithwithe. Since he’d finished his stint in the army he’d managed to amass quite the fortune of his own – outside his parents’ realm of influence.

However, as much as he might want to escape his mother and father, there was no escaping the British political machine. A man in his position was expected to marry and have heirs, and both the press and the political upper crust were having a field day with his continued bachelor status.

Though he would have liked nothing more than to tell the lot of them to sod off, Sebastian had long learned that one couldn’t always say what one felt in his position. He supposed that eventually, he’d settle down with some positively mind-numbing European Literature major daughter of some Earl or the other, but until that point, he planned to enjoy any time away from his parents that he could get.

“Everything’s clear, sir.”

Amir, his head of security, delivered the message curtly as the rest of his team beat a hasty exit.

“Lovely.” Sebastian drained the last of his first glass of whiskey, relishing the slow burn. “Now get out, and don’t come back until I’m drunk.”

“Very well, sir.” Amir dipped his head respectfully, an amused smirk playing about the corners of his mouth. If he had to be guarded, Sebastian had to admit that there were probably worse men to do it. Amir had served with him in the army and was as efficient as he was tolerant of his compatriot’s bullocks. Turning on his heel, he retreated, leaving Sebastian blessedly alone.

Thank Christ.

He poured himself another whiskey, savoring it more slowly this time as he crossed the plush room to venture out onto the balcony. The late March air was brisk, and in the streets below, gray tinted slush still endured, winter’s fingers clinging to the city. He had to admit that he didn’t have a very high opinion of the city in the early spring. It was grayer and duller, even, than London. But beneath its colorless exterior, he knew that some of the world’s best culinary and artistic gems were hidden here.

If only he could get past the brash exterior of the Americans that frequented them.

First, he resolved, he would get drunk enough to sleep for a few hours, and then tomorrow, after another business meeting, he would start fresh. He was going to enjoy this trip even if it killed him.

**

“You’re joking.”

“I assure you, dear, I’m not.”

Whooping, Gabby leapt into the air, mindless of the art supplies she scattered about the interior of her tiny apartment. Tristan had ventured uptown to bring her some of his homemade Italian wedding soup – one of her biggest weaknesses. However, that wasn’t the only treat he had for her.

“They really want my work?”

Tristan grinned, the gesture lighting up his handsome face. “Phillip took a few of your smaller pieces and, apparently, they were chomping at the bit. They want to feature you at an event this Friday.”

The young woman’s eyes widened. “Friday? That’s in three days!”

“It is, indeed.”

Whirling, Gabrielle immediately picked her way through her cluttered apartment to the tiny closet in the corner. Yanking the door open she immediately began to rifle through the space for something appropriate she might wear. According to Tristan,
Estelle’s
was one of the hottest and most upscale wine bars in the city. Being featured there suggested poise, class, and connections.

Unfortunately, nothing she owned conveyed any of those things.

“No.” She tossed aside a paint-streaked sweater dress. “No.” And then a slinky black number that was two sizes too small. “No, no, no.” Within minutes, her floor was further littered with clothing as she grew more and more frustrated. Finally, the young woman threw her hands up and turned to face Tristan, her expression desperate. “Tristan, help me!”

He placed the glass container he’d bought on the nearest available open space – which just so happened to be a book on her unkempt bed. “Help you what?”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Gabby groaned in horror. “Everything’s too small. Or too old. Or covered in oil paint.”

“Well, that’s what happens when your creative moments take over your life.”

“Ha, ha.” Gabby’s reply was dry as she fixed her companion with a displeased look. “Very funny. I’m serious! I need to look like a professional.”

Tristan gave her current outfit – that dwarfed her small form and a plaster-splattered crop top – a once over before the gravity of the situation seemed to strike him. “Oh, Lord. Gabby…we need a shopping trip. Immediately.”

“Great! There’s a thrift store down on 128
th
! Let me grab my bag-”

Before she could even reach for the years-old canvases tote, Tristan took her firmly by the arm, his expression horrified. “I am
not
going into a thrift shop with you. Darling, this occasion calls for something a bit more impressive than Osh Kosh circa nineteen ninety five.”

When she started to protest, he cut her off firmly. “Don’t worry about how much it’s going to cost. Consider it a loan. You can pay me back when you sell all of your paintings. We’re going to Saks.”

Gabrielle’s eyes widened in disbelief. Despite living in Manhattan her entire life, she couldn’t recall ever stepping onto Fifth Avenue in anything other than transit to another part of town. Of course, one would have to be blind not to notice the sparkle and shine of the name brand stores and the goods in expertly lit windows, but to her, one name brand was just the same as the other – equally expensive and equally out of her reach.

“Tristan, I can’t let you. It’s just a one-time thing. That’s way too much-”

“A one-time thing that will lead to more times. No, stop. I don’t want to hear it.” He actually covered her mouth with a slender finger to keep her from rebuffing him. “Listen to me: I’m telling you what you’re going to do. You’re going to find somewhere in this mess for us to sit and then we’re going to have soup. Then we’re going down to Saks and we’re going to find you a knockout dress and I’m going to pay. If you say one more word on the subject I’m going to have Phillip design a glass box to seal you in. Is that understood?”

She couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled to her lips at the empty threat. Slowly, she nodded and Tristan slowly drew his finger away from her lips, his own curving upward in approval. “Lovely. Now, do you have any clean bowls in this place at
all
?”

CHAPTER 2 - Exhibition

Three days later, Gabrielle stood in front of the mirror in Tristan’s expansive master bath, examining herself critically. He’d refused to let her dress on her own, at her apartment, for fear that she’d be taken in a creative moment and ruin her five hundred dollar dress.