CAROL DEVINE - The Billionaire's Secret Baby

Except Allen’s hands had been stubby, tentative and damp. And she hadn’t been gripping her mug as much as playing with it, using it as ballast, as a focal point, as she spilled her tale of woe to the boy she once knew as Al-the-pal Betz.

And the overeager and earnest sheen of Allen’s eyes. would have been lost on Jack, lost in the darkness of his soul. For he was after her daughter, claiming to care, claiming to know. As he once claimed her.

Allen had not been able to break that claim, despite his kind and generous heart. The only thing Allen claimed was that he wanted to help her, if only she would let him. He claimed she didn’t have to confess the shame of her pregnancy or name the baby’s father to another living soul. He would be the baby’s father. He would raise it as his own. Say yes to his proposal, he told her, and she would make him the happiest of men. That’s when Allen got down on his knees and begged her to marry him.

Jack Tarkenton wasn’t one to beg, however. He had gone on his knees before her, though, the first time they made love. He’d kissed her and stripped her and knelt at her feet, and she was haunted by needs she never knew she had. Jack satisfied every one of them, leaving her lost to Allen, lost to any other man.

Even now, Jack dared her with his wicked smile, the smile that once enticed her to be wicked, too, and guilt billowed inside her. Guilt chased by a terrible drenching of shame.

For if he proposed what Allen had, if Jack asked her to be his wife, Meg wanted, in her heart of hearts, she wanted, to her great and everlasting shame, to say yes.

Two

The day had taken its toll.

Subtle blue bruised Meg’s skin, especially under the eyes, those ocean blue eyes Jack had worked long and hard to forget. The ebony of her dress brought out the depth of their color, as did the mahogany frame of her hair.

Even in deepest mourning, she radiated an ethereal beauty. It showed in the elegance of her bearing, in the finely wrought bones of her face. Her milky skin heightened the bold contrasts in her coloring, emphasizing the lush rose of her lips set against the cool white of her smile.

Except she wasn’t smiling. And once he got through with her tonight, she wouldn’t be smiling for a long time to come.

Jack crushed the prickling of his conscience, the conscience he thought he’d lost on his first go-round with the lovely Meg Masterson. But her beauty had blossomed in the five years since he had last seen her, when she’d been fresh-faced, and willowy of body, packaged in a style and sophistication that came directly from Paris, France.

Later he learned that she had studied art there, and was as poor as she was proud. But when they first met, all he knew was that he must have her, and he targeted her like a hunter would, swift of speed and hard of heart.

And he did have her, that very night. Despite the family and festivities that surrounded them, she allowed him to woo her and lure her, until he spirited her to his hotel room where she stayed with him until dawn. He seduced her the next night, and the next, breaking his most cardinal of rules to not get too involved with any woman. Nobody on this earth had a right to expect a thing from John B. Tarkenton Jr.

Jack reached inside his jacket and pulled out the black velvet ring box. The sight of it made Meg feel something, that much was certain, but the expressive narrowing of her eyes told him it was anger more than anything else.

He couldn’t blame her. He’d done plenty of underhanded things in his life, but proposing marriage to his intended on the day of her husband’s funeral topped the list. Yet it couldn’t be helped. He’d wasted enough time as it was.

He opened the box, revealing the diamond solitaire ring inside. To her credit, her gaze never faltered, never even dropped to see what he offered.

“A gift,” he said, placing the open box on the table between them.

“No, it’s not. It’s a bribe. You want me to marry you.”

Baldly stated like that, he wanted to throw up his hands and say, Hey babe, you got it all wrong. But she wasn’t wrong. Meg had done more than grow up. “I’m impressed,” he admitted. “You took the words right out of my mouth. Does that mean you approve?”

“I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

It stung. Not much, but enough to put him into attack mode. He left the box in the middle of the table and lounged back in his chair. “You do realize what the alternative is.”

“You take me to court and sue for custody of Katie? Given your reputation, that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

“Ah, yes. The familiar ground of my reputation.” He gave her his laziest smile. “I’m a Tarkenton, Meg. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“It means you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. It means that despite the best education money can buy, you waste your time on wine, women and song. It means you think so little of your family’s good name, you bring heartache to your mother and your sister, the only two people on earth who could possibly care about someone as selfish as you. That’s what it means.”

He’d learned to shrug off such gibes. He had also acquired the correlated ability to ride roughshod over people. “It means, dear Meg, that when people look at me, they see my father. They want to believe I’m him. They want to believe it so badly, that no matter what I say or what I do, they think I’m the one to lead them to the promised land. You know what being John B. Tarkenton Jr. means? I get away with everything.”

“You won’t get away with Katie. I’ll take her to the ends of the earth to keep her away from you.”

“I’m one of the privileged few who has the resources to follow you there. You won’t be able to hide her, not from me. I have too much money and too many connections. There are Tarkenton interests all over the world. And when I do find her, I’ll use your refusal to acknowledge me as her father against you, not only in a court of law, but in the court of public opinion. Don’t forget, Meg. My name and face are recognized around the world. Which brings me to the most pertinent fact, a fact you seem to have forgotten. My being a Tarkenton means Katie is a Tarkenton, too.”

“You want to ruin her life by making this public? Is that it?”

“I’m her father. It’s a statement of fact. I am not going to go away. I laid out my proposal. You have two weeks to come up with a better one. If you don’t, your choice is simple. You can either turn this into a public custody battle or marry me and keep Katie’s paternity private, just between us. As her mother, I happen to think you are the most qualified person to make this decision. Unlike you, I believe both her parents have Katie’s best interests at heart.”

He shoved the box at her, and then he was gone from her house.

The moment Meg pushed open the thick glass-and-brass doors of New York City’s poshest and most exclusive athletic club, she realized she had made a mistake. It was one thing to show up without an appointment at Jack’s Wall Street office. It was quite another to confront him here, far from the trappings of executives and professionals.

Her smart navy business suit clashed with the fluorescent glare and neon graphics of the club. Behind a metallic reception desk stood a cute and bouncy girl who wore a brilliant green polo shirt with the club’s insignia stitched above her name. “May I help you?” she asked brightly.

Debbie’s short sleeves showed off muscular biceps and veins that bulged on her forearms. Intimidating arms they were, too, especially to a woman who was in a crisply tailored jacket, slim skirt and the highest of heels. “Do you happen to know where I can find Jack Tarkenton?” she asked.