Billionaire's Baby Promise. Sarah M. Anderson
a very important part of your father’s campaign and he insists on bringing you back into the fold.”
She hadn’t heard from the man since his last concession speech—a garbled screed against sin and the devil where he had apologized to his faithful believers for his daughter, who had stained his quest for truth, justice and the American way. “He’s had almost two years to bring me back in the fold and he can’t even bring himself to do it. He has to get his lapdog to call me.”
White chuckled. “I can see this is a bad time. I’ll call again in a couple of days, when you’ve had time to think the proposition over. You are going to want my help, Ms. Murray. Because without it...”
It wasn’t so much a threat as a statement of fact. She was about to lose control of her life all over again and for what? For her father’s misguided attempts at winning a political office?
Last time had been bad enough. Her every misdeed, her every bad picture—all that had suddenly become fodder for the gossip mill. The television commercials had been the worst—her photos had been distorted so she looked like a stupid cow chewing cud instead of a woman who was six months pregnant. It had been the darkest time of her life.
This time would be so much worse because they wouldn’t just come for her. She had survived that kind of attack once before. It was awful and painful, but she had survived.
No, this time they would come for Marie. Her precious little girl.
Christine hung up the phone and somehow made it to the ladies’ room. She locked herself in a stall and sobbed. Why was her father doing this? Why was he doing it to her? She knew Clarence Murray didn’t love her. But surely he had a little human decency—just enough that he would want to shield his only granddaughter from the media?
Oh, who was she kidding? Her father had never considered anyone else’s needs. The only thing that mattered was what he decided God had meant for him to do.
“Christine? Are you okay?”
It was Sue, a teller who was Christine’s best work friend. How long had she been in there? She dried her eyes on industrial-grade toilet paper and opened the door. “I’m fine.”
But even as she said it, Sue gasped and recoiled in horror before throwing her arms around Christine’s shoulders and hugging her. “Oh, honey—who died?”
Christine almost laughed because if she didn’t, she would start crying again. “It’s nothing.”
The ramifications of her father’s latest campaign began to spin out for her. The bank’s owner, Mr. Whalen, would not appreciate this sort of attention. She might have to uproot her life. Go somewhere new and start over.
The prospect was daunting. With what money? She had a couple hundred socked away in the bank, which was not a heck of a lot. She didn’t want to have to give up her life, her identity—to say nothing of her privacy and sanity—just so her father could lose a campaign again.
What was she going to do?
One of the reasons she had moved to Denver was that fewer people knew who she was. Murray was just another last name here.
So Christine did what she had to do—she lied again. “I’m hormonal and Marie is teething and I’m so tired.” Not that it was much of a lie. She merely left out the bits about political intrigue.
“Here, let me fix you up.” Sue produced her purse, which was sixty-three percent makeup. Christine felt a moment of longing for those days. Currently, her purse consisted of diapers, wet wipes, bibs, crayon stubs, random Cheerios and things she didn’t want to think about. Glamour and beauty were low on her list right now.
Still, there was something comforting about letting Sue apply under-eye concealer and powder her face, especially since Sue was relatively close in coloring to Christine and was only a few inches shorter—they’d been able to swap clothes a few times.
“Am I in trouble, do you think?” She had no idea how long she had been hiding in the ladies’ room. All she knew was that Brian White and Clarence Murray and the media couldn’t reach her in there. If she did not have to pick up Marie tonight from day care, she would never leave the ladies’ room. This place was her sanctuary.
Except for the small detail that she was still at work. “There’s some guy out there waiting to talk to you.” Christine must have looked stricken because Sue quickly added, “He’s not mad or anything. He’s hot. Tall, dark—extremely handsome. I didn’t see a ring.”
It was all she could do to get her mouth closed. “You checked him out?” But even as she said that, she felt the weight on her shoulders lighten ever so slightly. After Brian White had ruined her life, she’d looked him up on the internet. He was not tall. He was not dark. No one would ever accuse him of being handsome. The man was short, pudgy and balding.
Which meant that whoever was waiting for her at her desk was not a campaign manager representing her father.
“Of course,” Sue said. “Wait until you see him. I bet he’s a male model. Maybe even a movie star—he’s that hot.”
Christine snorted. She didn’t need hot—she needed help. Real, tangible help. She needed someone who would get Brian White and her father to leave her alone. She needed someone who could help her protect Marie. She needed brains and brawn. And she needed enough money to pay for all of that.
She might as well ask for a unicorn for her birthday. “We don’t give out loans based on hotness.”
“We should. There,” Sue added. “You look human again.”
Christine hugged her friend and strengthened her mental resolve. “Thank you. I better get out there and meet Mr. Hot.”
If she couldn’t get through one day at a time, she’d take it one hour at a time. One minute at a time.
Sixty seconds. She could do this.
God, she hoped.
Her courage fortified and her under-eye bags hidden, Christine headed to her desk. She rounded the corner and pulled up short—Sue had not been lying. The gentleman waiting for her was beyond hot. His dark hair was perfectly slicked back, giving him a smooth look. And was that suit custom-made?
Even though he was casually sitting in the chair in front of her desk, one leg crossed over the other, she got the impression of a knife—sharp and potentially dangerous. When he noticed her, he came to his feet like a cat uncoiling from a nap. She revised her earlier opinion. He was not potentially dangerous—he was dangerous.
“Ms. Murray.” There was a tone of the familiar in his voice and she felt herself gritting her teeth. Did he know who she was?
“Welcome to the First City Bank of Denver.” Because she was at work, she extended her hand in a polite businessperson’s handshake. “And you are?”
He stared down at her for a moment and she almost got lost in his light brown eyes. Up close, she realized that his hair wasn’t black—there was a hint of red that lightened the color to a deep mahogany. It was a striking look on the man.
Against her will, her pulse began to flutter in her neck. Men generally did not look at her with interest. She was short and chunky and she couldn’t be one hundred percent sure she didn’t have oatmeal stains from Marie’s breakfast on her shirt.
“Lee.” He slid his hand into hers but instead of the acceptable three-pump handshake, he just held her hand, palm to palm. “Daniel Lee.” As he said his name—slowly and carefully—he studied her.
What was this? Was he checking to see what her reaction would be?
She swallowed nervously. Was she supposed to know who he was? Something about him seemed familiar. Maybe he was a movie star? Or at least a cable TV star? But his