At the Billionaire's Beck and Call? / High-Society Secret Baby. Rachel Bailey
too much time building my professional reputation to see it destroyed over a fling.”
“What makes you think I’m only interested in a fling?”
Her eyes held a world of pain and cynicism. “Experience.”
She’d been hurt. Thinking of her being hurt, betrayed, made him want to reach for her all the more, to offer words of comfort, but he knew she wouldn’t want sympathy so he bit them back and waited.
She glanced at the spot where the intruder had been, then back to him. “I’m sorry, I never should have agreed to this date.” She pulled herself up to her full height, spine stiff. “Thank you for the drink, but you have to realize we can’t repeat it.”
He frowned. This was clearly going to be a problem he’d need to overcome before he could convince her to marry him. Or, more pressingly, to kiss him again.
He needed to tread gently. Lifting her chin with a knuckle, he said, “Macy, don’t let a parasite of a photographer ruin our night. We were enjoying ourselves until that flash went off.”
Her eyes softened for a moment and he thought she was with him, but then her shutters came down.
“I—I have to go.” She whirled and walked a little too fast toward the elevator. Jaw clenched, he watched her leave, telling himself not to follow, not to come on too strong and ruin this. No matter how much he wanted to go after her, comfort her, his whole future depended on not scaring her away.
When the elevator pinged and she disappeared behind mirrored doors, he was left alone. The empty feeling that over took him was strangely hard to swallow for a man who prided himself on being a loner. He just didn’t want to leave this blasted foyer where they’d kissed only moments ago.
Don’t be sentimental and stupid. Ryder turned and strode outside to find another cab.
Their wedding couldn’t come soon enough.
Three
Macy stepped into the hall, letting the door to her serviced apartment click shut behind her. The night had been long and sleepless with images of Ryder replaying in her mind. His face so close as his mouth descended to hers … his short hair spiked between her fingers … his breath warming her cheeks …
Sensations from that kiss had tormented her body until the sheets had become a twisted mess and she’d had to trade any hopes of sleep for early morning coffee.
She pressed the elevator button and tapped the toe of her three-inch heels until the doors swished open. Facing him this morning would be difficult, knowing how she’d acted last night.
She’d kissed her boss.
Would he take her seriously in the office now?
Would he try to repeat the intimacy?
Would the other staff members be able to tell she’d been kissed by the CEO of the company, and if so, would they snigger behind their hands thinking she’d tried to sleep her way to a promotion?
She’d worn pumps higher than the normal kitten heels she routinely wore to work to eliminate some of his height advantage, even though they’d still only bring her to his forehead or so. And she’d chosen a professional look—a duck-egg-blue silk blouse with a high collar and a fine wool skirt. She’d pulled her hair back tightly into a French twist to make sure she sent no sexual signals.
The kiss, bone-melting as it may have been, could not be repeated if she wanted to keep her reputation. Or her sanity.
As the elevator arrived at the ground floor, her phone rang. She flicked it open and thumbed the talk button.
Ryder’s deep voice came down the line. “I can explain.”
She smiled grimly. It was a little late, but at least it was a step in the right direction.
She waved to the doorman and stepped out onto the misty street. “I’d rather forget it. One kiss, it’s over, we’ll move on.”
There was a pause on the line. “Have you read the papers?”
She pulled her scarf a bit tighter against the early morning chill. And frowned. “No.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll be at work in ten minutes.”
The phone disconnected.
She threw it in her bag and walked just a little faster into the office building next door that housed the temporary Chocolate Diva suites.
He’d mentioned the papers. It could be something about the company’s tentative plans to move into the Australian market. Or … it could be about the photographer last night. He’d been at a distance and shooting through glass for the few seconds before Ryder had given chase. She’d hoped any shots he’d fired off would be unusable.
But either way—a company story or a paparazzi shot—why would Ryder need to explain?
Reaching her office door, she had to stop herself rushing as she booted up her computer and clicked on the link to the Melbourne papers.
And then her stomach dropped clear to her toes.
There on the front page was a shot of Ryder kissing her in the foyer of her apartment building. The photo was a little grainy but there was no doubt it was them. Her eyes flicked to the headline.
Bramson Buys Ashley Int. Heiress.
She read down, her breath coming a little faster with each line.
“… in a secret deal between Bramson and Ian Ashley …”
“… our source said off the record that Macy Ashley’s hand in marriage was the price …”
“… Bramson wanted to marry the younger, prettier Ashley heiress but was told the only option was Macy …”
“… Bramson is believed to have completed the deal with Ms. Ashley last night …”
Macy’s hand flew to her mouth as her body shook. Her brain screamed to turn off the screen but she couldn’t look away.
It could all be lies.
Could be.
She bit down on her lip. He’d said on the phone he could explain.
She heard the elevator sound a second before Ryder strode into the office looking more like a commander on a battlefield—leading legions of men, his orders obeyed without question—than a man who’d come to apologize.
He pulled up in front of her desk and slid his hands into his pockets, making his charcoal suit jacket bunch above his wrists. She couldn’t stand up—her knees may not have supported her weight—so she remained in her high-backed office chair.
Ryder looked down into her face, assessing. “You’ve read it.”
Those were his first words? Not, “It’s a pack of lies"? She leaned back into the executive chair, ready to be lied to. “Is it true?”
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Some of it.”
She focused on his burnt orange shirt with its neatly knotted charcoal tie as she took calming breaths. It was easier than looking into the eyes of yet another betrayer. “When were you going to tell me? Ever?”
“I intended to tell you last night,” he said, his voice deep and rumbling.
She remembered him asking her to invite him up, that he had something important to say. She’d doubted him at the time, thinking he had something more physical on his mind. But it was possible he’d planned to explain this mess.
Slowly, she stood, stretching to her full height plus the three inches of her heels. “Which parts are true?”
He speared long fingers through his hair, held them there,