Niobia Bryant - Tempting The Billionaire

“Let’s all get ready for work, and I’m sure breakfast will be on the table by the time we’re ready to go and conquer the world,” Val said, lovingly stroking Horace’s chin before rising to come over and squeeze her daughter’s hand.

At the thought of another meal, Ngozi wished she had dipped inside the bakery, enjoyed the eye candy that was Bill the Blond and Buff Baker, and gobbled down one of the decadent treats he baked while resembling Paul Walker.

Bzzzzzz.

Ngozi reached for her iPhone from the small pocket of her jacket. “Excuse me,” she said to her parents before turning and leaving the office.

She smiled genuinely as she answered the call. “The early baby gets the mother’s milk, huh?” she teased, jogging up the wooden staircase with wrought iron railings with a beautiful scroll pattern.

“Right.” Alessandra Dalmount-Ansah laughed. “The early bird has nothing on my baby. Believe that.”

Alessandra was the co-CEO of the billion-dollar conglomerate the Ansah Dalmount Group, along with her husband, Alek Ansah. Ngozi served as her personal attorney, while corporate matters were handled by other attorneys at Vincent and Associates Law. The women had become closer when Ngozi successfully represented Alessandra when she was mistakenly arrested during a drug raid. She’d been in the wrong place at the absolute worst time, trying to save her cousin Marisa Martinez during a major drug binge.

“How’s my godchild?” Ngozi asked, crossing the stylishly decorated family room on the second level to reach one of the three-bedroom suites flanking the room.

“Full. Her latch game is serious.”

They laughed.

The line went quiet just as Ngozi entered her suite and kicked off her sneakers before holding the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she unzipped and removed the lightweight jacket.

“How are you?” Alessandra asked, her concern for her friend clear.

“I’m good,” Ngozi said immediately, as she dropped down onto one of the four leather recliners in the sitting area before the fireplace and the flat-screen television on the wall above it.

Liar, liar.

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

Then she heard a knock.

“Alessandra, can I call you back? Someone’s at my door,” she said, rising to her feet and crossing the room.

“Sure. See you at the baptism Sunday.”

“Absolutely.”

Ngozi ended the call and opened the door. Reeds, her parents’ house manager, stood before her holding a tray with a large bronzed dome cover. She smiled at the man of average height with shortbread complexion, more freckles than stars in the sky and graying brownish-red hair in shoulder-length locks. “One day my mother is going to catch you,” she said as she took the tray from him and removed the lid to reveal buttered grits, bacon, scrambled eggs and toast.

He shrugged and chuckled. “The rest of the staff wouldn’t know what to do without me after all these years.”

“I know that’s right,” Ngozi said with a playful wink.

“Just remember to at least eat the bowl of fruit at breakfast,” Reeds said before he turned and began to whistle some jazzy tune. He stopped in the middle of the family room to glance back. “ Or you could just tell your mother you’re not vegan. Your choice.”

Ngozi ignored his advice and stepped back into the room, knocking the door with her hip to push it closed.

Chapter 2

Alpine, New Jersey

T he day of reckoning is here.

Chance splashed his face with water and pressed his hands to his cheeks before wiping the corner of his eyes with his thumb. He stood tall before the sink and eyed his reflection in the large leather-framed mirror above it. He released a heavy breath and studied himself, rubbing his hand over his low-cut fade haircut.

Today he would face his friends for the first time since what was supposed to be his wedding day. With the last bit of pride and bravado he could muster, Chance had stood before all those people and admitted that the wedding was called off. The swell of gasps of shock and whispers had filled the church as he strode down the aisle with nearly every eye locked on his stoic expression. He would admit to no one the embarrassment he felt, and didn’t allow his head to sink one bit until he left the church.

He had instructed Alek to have the wedding planner, Olivia Joy, turn the reception into a party, but he had not attended the event. The idea of being pitied or ridiculed by Helena’s betrayal was too strong for him to swallow. He spent what was supposed to be his wedding night ignoring all attempts at communicating with him as he nursed a bottle of pricey Dos Lunas Grand Reserve tequila, stewed in his anger and envisioned Helena being bedded by her lover.

Early that next morning, with a hangover from hell, he boarded his private jet and flew to Cabrera with no foreseeable plans to return. His consultant work for the same firm that purchased his app could be handled from anywhere in the world with Wi-Fi. All he knew was he had to get away. So he did.

Now I’m back.

He eyed his reflection, hating the nerves and anxiousness he felt.

It took him back to his school days as a poor brown-skinned Latino kid from the Bronx trying his best not to feel less than around students who were predominantly white and absolutely from wealthy families.

He flexed his arms and bent his head toward each of his shoulders, instinctively trying to diminish those feelings from his youth. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled under his breath, removing his towel and drying his body before tossing it over the smoothed edge of the cast concrete in the center of the dark and modern bathroom.

He quickly swiped on his deodorant and lightly sprayed on cologne from one of the ten bottles sitting on a long ebony wood tray in the space between the large tray sinks atop the concrete vanity.

Naked, he strode across the heated marble floors and through the opening in the tinted-glass wall to his loft-style bedroom suite. His motorized open-front closets lined the entire wall behind his king-size Monarch Vi-Spring bed, but the suit he’d already selected was laid across one of the custom chaise longues at the foot of it. His long and thick member swayed across his thighs as he moved to pull on his snug boxers, having to adjust it to comfort before he finished dressing in silk socks, his off-white wool-silk suit and a matching open-neck shirt. The fit against his athletic frame spoke to its custom tailoring and his desire for both quality and style.

Not wanting to run late, he hurriedly selected one of a dozen watches to buckle around his wrist while slipping on shoes that were almost as comfortable as his bed.

Life was good when it came to the creature comforts. The days of squeaky rubber-sole shoes from the dollar store were over.

I hated to walk in ’em , he remembered . Felt like everyone heard me coming.

He rushed through his opulent two-story villa-style mansion, which sat on two gated acres in Alpine, New Jersey, styled in muted tasteful decor with vibrant pops of color that were a testament to his dynamic Latino culture. Chance lived alone in the six-bedroom luxury home, and he usually kept music or his 4K televisions on to break the silence. Hip-hop from the 1990s played from the sound system, and he rapped along to Big Daddy Kane’s “Ain’t No Half-Steppin’” as he grabbed his keys from beside the glass-blown structures of nude women atop the table in the center of the foyer.

Soon he was out the double front doors and behind the wheel of his black-on-black Ferrari 488 Pista, taking I-280 to Passion Grove. He drove the supercar with ease with one hand, effortlessly switching lanes on the interstate as he lightly tapped his fist against his knee to the music playing. The commute was hassle-free because it was Sunday morning, and he was grateful as he finally guided the vehicle down the exit ramp and made his way through the small town. He didn’t think he could find an upscale town more laid-back than Alpine, but Passion Grove proved him wrong.