The Billionaire's Secret Baby [Part One] Read online

  The Billionaire’s Secret Baby (Part One)

  Paige North

  Favor Ford Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by Favor Ford Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Want To Be In The Know?

  The Billionaire’s Secret Baby (Part One) by Paige North

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Want To Be In The Know?

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  The Billionaire’s Secret Baby (Part One) by Paige North

  Chapter 1

  I’ve finally made it!

  The windows of my new corner office reveal a beautiful New York morning: the skyline is majestic, the city streets bustle with cars and people, and I feel as if I’ve just stepped into a movie entitled Remi Jordan’s Awesome Job Promotion. Okay, so it’s not a superhero flick that’ll make millions at the box office, but I sure feel like Wonder Woman, kicking ass all the way from her junior editor cubicle to an acquiring editor’s headquarters. I am every single comic book origin story made good right now, and I’ve been scrapping my way to get here, to my own office in Glover Publishing, for the last few years.

  Yay me!

  I turn away from the window to look at my desk, where I’ve already set up my laptop, my e-reader and tablet, and my favorite item of all, the framed picture of my adorable three-year-old daughter Madeline. My heart warms. She’s got brunette curls like mine, and her mouth is what some of the romance novels I edit and adore would call “generous.” She gets that feature from me, too. The only thing about Madeline that isn’t me is her father’s pale blue eyes, and every time I look at them, I try not to think of that one night I had with Jet Bishop back when I was just 21 and waitressing at a fancy charity event at a luxury mid-town hotel.

  One night of heaven…

  I sigh, and as shivers run down my skin, I hug myself. It happens every time my thoughts wander back to that night, when I had the best sex of my life by far with the most gorgeous, seductive man who’d ever crossed my path. Hell, I was pretty inexperienced and didn’t do one-night stands, but he was unbearably handsome in his tuxedo and so very magnetic with those penetrating light blue eyes and dark hair. He wanted me and took me, just like that. Even in the first moment when our gazes locked, I knew that no one else would ever come close to making me come as much as he made me come, over and over. He was mysterious, sure-handed, and intoxicating, and when he left me the morning after without a damned word, I thought I’d never hear of him again, much less from him.

  I was right about that last part, even though I’d tried to get in touch with him after learning I was pregnant, but I was so very wrong about finding out who he was.

  I was too new to The Big Apple to have heard of him, but the society pages and especially the business ones educated me quickly. Jet Bishop was a rapacious billionaire, and one of the hottest men alive—and he’d chosen me to be with him.

  Me, a lowly, stars-in-her-eyes server.

  These days it’s impossible not to know who he is. I see him every day online, the 27-year-old wunderkind who did things to my body that still have my clit humming, the father of my daughter, and the nickname that all the headlines refer to him as.

  The Angel of Death.

  As I suppress another shiver—and not because of the ominous nickname—I rub away the turned-on goose bumps on my arms, then get back to business. Forget Jet Bishop, because only yesterday I was promoted, and I have everything I need now.

  A new desk. A new office. A new life.

  Who needs him?

  I glance at Madeline’s photo again. Just you and me in the big city, Kid. And you know what? This pay raise is going to give my daughter a great life, and I’m going to do it all on my own as a single mother. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve arrived, dammit.

  I grab my e-reader, turn it on, then wander over to the roomy leather couch next to the bookshelves filled with advanced reader copies as well as my favorite all-time romances. Then I cuddle into the corner and open a file for a manuscript I downloaded from the slush pile last night, a sexy, flirty contemporary romance called Mr. Sexty that I already finished in one sitting. I want to read it again because I need to see if I can possibly be this lucky, discovering a book right off that bat that has the potential to be a huge hit.

  It could happen, right?

  My heartbeat flits around as I dig in to what could be my first acquisition. I don’t know how much time goes by—I’m lost in the sweeping romance, the breathless sense of being in love for the first time, the elation of being the editor who discovered this wonderful new author—when I hear something outside my office.

  It sounds like sobbing.

  I look through my floor-to-ceiling windows, but all I see is a sterile beige hallway decorated with large framed prints of Glover Publishing’s biggest bestsellers. When I hear more sobs, I put my e-reader down.

  “God, no!” someone shouts.

  Now I’m out of my seat and through the door in record time, and after I rush into the hallway, I see a bunch of my coworkers gathered near Harvey Dahlman’s office. He’s the alpha editor in the building, and he’s leaning his wiry body against his doorframe while an admin assistant shows him something on her tablet. He’s running his fingers through his blond hair and shaking his head as everyone around him either frowns or covers their mouths with their hands.

  As I approach, one of my glamorous romance coeditors, Michelle, turns her widened gaze on me.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  She blinks her Mila Kunis eyes and whispers, “A mass email was just sent out.”

  Harvey looks at me. “It’s from The Angel of Death.”

  It’s as if the words are coming at me in slow motion, waves of sound that strike me once, then again, then another time, trying to get through my thick head. At first, it’s easy to think that Harvey has only suggested a possible title for one of our adventure imprint books: The Angel of Death. But that’s not it.

  Could it be that I’m imagining Harvey said the words? I mean, it wasn’t but a half hour ago that I was looking at Madeline’s picture and inevitably thinking of the night I spent with Jet Bishop, just as I do every time I look at her. They call him The Angel of Death in the papers because he’s one of the most successful corporate raiders of our time, buying struggling companies and then whipping them into shape, selling them off and making huge profits. They say that when Jet Bishop comes knocking, you know your days at the office are numbered.

  But they can’t be talking about the same man.

  Harvey goes on. “Glover Publishing has been bought out by none other than Jet Set, Inc.”

  Jet Set.

  Jet Bishop.

  I still don’t quite get it, but panic sets in anyway. I don’t even know what to panic about first—the fact that I know damned well who Jet Bishop is—and on a very up close and personal level—or that he’s a pirate who’s just boarded our ship, intent on destroying it.

  My throat closes up, because now I start to get it: my new office. My life new with Madeline…

  I’m back to being just as scared as I was on the day I learned I was pregnant, how terrified I was about becoming a single mothe
r in NYC and how determined I was to kick ass at it without having Jet Bishop in our lives. I think of how, soon after Madeline was born, I got my dream job as an admin assistant here at Glover, and how I knew that we were going to make it after I climbed my way up to junior editor, then an acquiring one.

  This is not how it was all supposed to go.

  No one is saying a word. The air is thick, shrouded with fear, until an editor from our cozy mystery imprint says, “You know what this means. Within a month or two, that son of a bitch will have laid off or fired seventy percent of our workforce.”

  Lila Harding, the grand dame who runs our longest-standing imprint for sci-fi, has an immovable look on her craggy face. “We’ll be liquidated, then Bishop will sell off whatever he can at a profit, leaving the rest as dust and rubble.”

  Harvey has a sad glint in his eyes. “Who knew that Glover, the largest independent publisher left in New York, would go out this way? I should’ve known this wouldn’t last. If we weren’t going to be swallowed up by some multinational conglomerate, we were sure to get on The Angel of Death’s radar sooner or later.”

  As everyone looks around at each other, I’m reeling, backing toward a wall and using it to help me stand up. I’m going to lose this job I need so badly for Madeline, and it’s happening as a result of her father.

  The man who doesn’t even know he has a child.

  Oh God.

  Everyone is breaking into their own horrified side conversations, and Nancy, my other romance coeditor, is whispering to queen Lila. “Maybe Bishop’s not all that bad. He’s not from old money and wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’s a self-made man, so maybe he’ll have some sympathy for a traditional business that’s been around for eons because of good old-fashioned hard work.”

  “Doubtful,” Lila says. “He’s a bitter, hard bastard. You’ve heard about his history. He’s been very clear to the media about it ever since they started trailing him around in fascination. The whole world knows about him.”

  Madeline’s father, I think numbly while still using the wall to hold me up. The man who’s about to destroy everyone’s lives in this hallway…

  Lila raises her voice so the crowd can hear. “The more everyone knows about Jet Bishop, the better we’ll be able to deal with him. He’s got a messed-up past, so that explains why he seems to have a vendetta against the world.”

  Someone pipes in. “Wasn’t he the baby who…?”

  “Was abandoned in a run-down motel room downtown?” Lila says. “That’s him. A maid found Bishop there when he was just days old. The parents didn’t care enough to leave even a note of explanation.”

  I close my eyes. I’m still too shocked to say anything, even though I’ve memorized every bit of information that’s coming out of Lila’s mouth. I researched Jet Bishop as thoroughly as I could back when I was trying to get a hold of him to tell him he’s Madeline’s dad. But after he wouldn’t return my calls, I gave up. Knowing his history, I was sure he wouldn’t want a child, anyway.

  Everyone is hanging on every word Lila gives them. “He was a foster kid who went from one home to another, so that explains why he’s such an infamous loner. But he was as smart as they come, as handsome as the devil trying to get into an angel’s pants, and as determined to succeed as hell. He worked his tail off so hard that he got into college when he was sixteen.”

  “Sixteen,” someone whispers in tense awe.

  Lila ignores him. “He forged through college, graduated when he was nineteen, and got hired by a hedge fund. Needless to say, he was blazing a bloody trail through the city even before he founded Jet Set. Never forget—he’s relentless and brilliant and will do anything to make a profit, no matter how much of an asshole that makes him. Don’t, for a minute, think that he’s going to cut us any slack.”

  People start to whisper amongst themselves again, even though Lila hasn’t finished. I numbly wander back to my office, because I know the rest. Establishing Jet Set, Inc. was only the start of things for Jet. As his star rose in the financial world, the press latched onto him, and not only in New York. As Lila said, the whole world eventually got to know about his savvy business acumen, and tabloids loved him because of the way he looks and the luxurious lifestyle he leads. He’s the media’s reluctant darling, the one they can’t quite figure out even though he revealed his ugly, strange past to them.

  I have no idea why he made that move. There’s got to be a calculated reason. But then again, what do I truly know about him, anyway, except that he rocked my world that night? The only thing I am sure of is that he doesn’t get attached to any one woman—and I’m an obvious case in point. Maybe he even has a thousand illegitimate kids running around besides Madeline. Then again, maybe not all of his women found out after he’d left that one of his condoms broke during sex, then realized later that her birth control had been cancelled out while stupidly taking St. John’s wort for some insomnia. But you know what? Because of those happy accidents, I have Madeline.

  But I also might not have a job because of Jet Bishop.

  Shit, I need to find other work. No, wait—I just need to get out of here before he sees me, because what if he remembers that night?

  As everyone keeps buzzing outside, I start gathering up my things in my office. I should quit before the crap really hits the fan. I can’t face him.

  He discards everyone.

  I’m just about to flee the office when the halls go silent.

  All I can hear is my heart banging around in my chest. All I can feel now is the ice-cold blast of adrenaline in my veins.

  It’s almost as if someone important has interrupted the meeting out there.

  When I peek around the door, an electric jolt wracks me, because I’m right on target.

  The Angel of Death himself is striding down the hallway like a tall, beautiful, dark-haired god in an impeccably tailored Italian suit, acting as if he owns everything around him.

  Which the bastard totally does.

  Chapter 2

  The sight of Jet Bishop coming down the hallway is tearing me apart inside, reducing me to a series of sparks and fury as I keep peeking out of my office at him.

  He comes to stand in the middle of the cowering crowd, towering over everyone while ignoring how intimidated they are. As he impassively takes stock of the surroundings, electricity starts eating at me everywhere—on the surface of my skin, then below it, then traveling through my bloodstream to pool between my thighs. Just looking at him gets me damp. He’s got the face of a model and the rocked body of an action star. His thick, dark hair is perfectly coiffed, his features strongly chiseled. Stubble roughens up and balances out the dark brows and the thick eyelashes that frame his light blue eyes.

  As I remember the first time I saw him at that hotel charity event, my clit throbs. He’d been reclining in a chair at a table, a lone wolf who didn’t have to approach anyone because they all kept warily approaching him. Once he’d locked those beautiful eyes on me as I offered him a plate of canapés, the breath caught in my chest. My pulse had stopped beating for a moment until it settled in my belly, pounding at me, urging me to either throw myself at him or run.

  Clearly, nothing much has changed since that night, and I hate myself, because even though I should know better, this jerk still draws me like no one ever has before. How I can possibly be so attracted to a man who treats people the way Jet Bishop does? But you know what’s even worse? I’m letting him get away with it, and I’ve never been one to stand down. I grew up with a shitty mother, and I’ve spent my life fighting back, so why am I shivering in fear now?

  I think of Madeline, I think of this dream job I just got, I think of my goddamned dignity…

  I step into the hallway, revealing myself to him, girding myself for him to recognize me.

  Here I am. I’m not disposable, and neither is anyone else.

  It seems that every gaze in that hallway turns to me, but my eyes are only on Jet Bishop as I wait for him to st
op looking at the surroundings and see me.

  An aching, pounding eternity seems to pass as he drags his gaze away from the blasé décor. As his eyes connect with mine, I hitch in a breath. Memories explode inside of me: that first, wild kiss as he carried me into his penthouse hotel room; the way I moaned as he reached under my server uniform’s skirt then expertly stroked my clit, bringing me to a fast, crazy climax; the way his huge, stiff cock filled me up and made me claw at his skin and cry out again and again as I came hard, hard, and harder for him…

  Now, as I hold my breath, my pussy throbs and soaks my panties. I can’t help it. I want him to remember that night just as clearly as I do…

  But his gaze only remains cool. Not even a spark of recognition. He only looks right through me as if I’m another cheap, framed print on the wall.

  Then he turns down a connected hallway, leaving me in his wake.

  I feel as if something has just hollowed me out. He didn’t remember. But what did I want—for him to fall to his knees and shout to the office that he’s been searching high and low for me and, Lordy Lord, he’s finally found me again? I was just a one-night stand to him, and now I’m his latest business casualty.

  As I piece myself back together, an efficient little rooster of a man in a navy designer suit breaks through the milling crowd. He’s holding a tablet and wearing nerd glasses. “Everyone must report to the conference room, STAT. Mr. Bishop will be offering the details of the takeover.”

  The officious guy trails down the connected hallway after his boss, leaving everyone to stare.

  “STAT,” says Harvey in a mocking voice. “When did we become an emergency room?”

  Lila is just as ornery. “Bishop is ‘offering’ details. The only thing he’ll be ‘offering’ us is walking papers.”