Secrets of a One Night Stand--A pregnant by the billionaire romance Read online

  After a brief hesitation, Achilles accepted that slim, smaller hand in his own. And exhaled a low, long breath when his completely encompassed hers. “Achilles.”

  “Achilles,” she repeated, and he clenched his jaw when she emitted a little hum afterward, as if savoring his name on her tongue and finding it satisfying. “I like that name. Well, Achilles.” She picked up her beer bottle once more and tipped it toward him in a toast. “Here’s to strangers meeting for a night.”

  He lifted his mug, tapping it to her beer. And he couldn’t prevent his rebellious gaze from traveling down the graceful column of her neck, past her slim shoulders to a pair of beautiful breasts that might not fill his hands but would damn sure make their presence known. Her open suit jacket offered him an unhindered view of high-waisted pants and a slightly rounded belly that he found sexy as hell. A woman who ordered the kind of meal she had, who didn’t starve herself...

  He shifted his scrutiny to her face of contrasting angles and curves and narrowed his eyes, studying her anew. Her clothes, those shoes with their red bottoms that even a fashion idiot like him recognized, her flawless makeup and smooth, pampered, almond-brown skin—all of that shouted wealth.

  But the decadence of her food order, the roundness of her stomach, the gorgeous lushness of curves that society dictated she diet away, even her laid-back choice in beer and bar... Those all pointed to a woman who indulged herself. A woman who knew restraint but also understood that abandon wasn’t always the opposite of losing control.

  What would it be like to have this woman lose control all over him?

  “To strangers and one night.”

  As they sipped their respective drinks, and the Guinness flowed over his tongue and down his throat, he couldn’t shake the sense that his words had never been more prophetic.

  Good thing he didn’t believe in that shit.

  Two

  “Team Dean or Team Sam?”

  Achilles lifted his mug of Guinness to his mouth, and for some odd reason Mycah Hill found herself studying the length and width of his fingers. Before she’d entered her favorite Beacon Hill bar tonight, she’d always considered herself a shoulders-and-arms woman. God knew, Achilles had that covered, as well. Massive. That black thermal cotton showed off the wide, tight, big perfection of both.

  But his fingers.

  She’d never been so fascinated by the proportion, length and...elegance of a man’s fingers. Until tonight.

  “Dean.” His answer snatched her from her inspection of his blunt-tipped fingernails. “Natural-born leader and selfless. Let me guess.” He arched a dark, thick eyebrow. “Sam.”

  She scoffed. “That wasn’t the least bit condescending.”

  He stared at her.

  “Oh, so what?” she snapped. “Sam was resilient, and he had a lot of obstacles to overcome. Being half demon. Losing his soul. And through it all he learned discipline, had to work through guilt and remorse and learn to forgive himself. Plus, he was self-sacrificing.”

  “You loved his abs.”

  “They were straight out of the God’s Handiwork Supermart, aisle eight.”

  Oh, wow. The corner of that deliciously carnal mouth twitched. All night, images of his face wreathed in a full-out smile had fluttered through her head. And all night, she’d hungered to see one. That desire hadn’t been fulfilled. Yet each quirk of his lips like the one she’d just been given lit her up. Ridiculous, considering they’d just met, and she didn’t know him and wouldn’t see him again after they both left this bar, but still...

  A gift.

  It’d taken greasy bar food, a couple of rounds of drinks and several rounds of “Who’s better?” to break the sheet of ice between them, but she was enjoying herself. And even the buzz of her cell phone in her pants pocket for the sixth time—yes, she’d kept count—couldn’t ruin it.

  Surrender to the demands of her parents to arrive at their home and perform like a perfect show pony? Or sit here and indulge in this brooding, bearded, sexy enigma with long, dark hair and piercing bright eyes?

  Her Harvard education wasn’t needed to make this decision.

  And in a year where she’d been questioning so many of her choices—her career trajectory, her relationships, hell, the flavor of jelly on her English muffin—tossing out her usual reserve to talk up this fiercely beautiful stranger had been her best decision yet.

  Even if initially everything from the stiff set of his massive shoulders to the cold of his stark facial features to the grim line of his carnal mouth had initially told her to fuck off. Although, someone should really inform him that lips that full, that sensual could never truly flatten...

  “You’re staring.”

  Mycah hesitated, beer-bottle-number-three a couple of inches away from her mouth. The blush tried to crawl up her throat to her face as she lifted her gaze from his lips to his narrowed blue-gray eyes. And if it hadn’t been beer-bottle-number-three, maybe that rush of heat would’ve met its destination, but a little liquid courage and a lot of I-don’t-give-a-damn went a long way toward eroding modesty.

  Besides, Achilles hadn’t said those two words as other men would’ve—flirtatiously, with an invitation for her to tell him more about how hot she found him.

  No, his words had been a statement of fact, as no-nonsense as his black Henley and scuffed boots. Almost a challenge...an accusation. Why did that have arousal eddying low in her belly?

  “I am.” Challenge accepted. She sipped from her beer. “Why does that bother you? Because it does. Bother you, that is.”

  His eyes narrowed even farther. “Because I’m not an animal in a zoo.”

  She rocked back on the stool, only her fingers clutching the edge of the bar preventing her from losing her balance. Blinking, she gaped at him. Shocked. Stung. Angry.

  Slowly twisting around, she signaled for the bartender. When the woman who’d been eye-banging Achilles all night approached, Mycah swirled a finger around his empty shot glass and nearly empty beer mug. “Another round for him, please. On me.” His eyebrows jacked down low over his bright gaze, but Mycah shot up a hand, forestalling any argument. “Oh, no, this is about me, not you.” Glancing at the woman behind the bar, Mycah flashed her a tight smile. “Please bring those drinks.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Achilles demanded on a low rumble that rippled over her skin, vibrated in her taut nipples and echoed lower, much lower.

  That voice of thunder had been wreaking havoc on her all night, and though he’d pissed her off with that unfair comment about treating him like an animal, her body apparently didn’t give a damn.

  “Hold on.” She drank from her beer, waiting until his shot of Jameson and Guinness had been replenished. Only then did she lean forward and meet his gaze, unflinching and all business. “Was she Black?” When he stared back at her, confusion flickering in his eyes, she explained, “The woman I’m the substitute for and getting thrown attitude at on her behalf. Was she Black?”

  His scowl could’ve peeled the paint off the Longfellow Bridge. “What the fuck? Are you actually calling me racist?”

  She crossed her legs, cocking her head to the side. “If the bigotry fits...”

  “Woman, I know the lighting in this place is for shit, but this skin is brown. My mother was Hawaiian.”

  Of course, she’d suspected Hawaiian or maybe another Polynesian culture. It was in his high forehead, bold cheekbones, beautiful wide mouth, his thick, dark hair, in his skin kissed by the sun and wind.

  And yet, right now, she focused on none of that.

  Was.

  That was shimmered with grief even as mother and Hawaiian rang with pride. Hurt for him echoed in her chest. For his loss. His pain.

  “And your father?”

  A shutter fell over his face, and that, too, echoed inside her.

  “My father was
an asshole.”

  She nodded. God, did she get that. But that particular trait transcended race, religion, creed and culture.

  “You’re not a misogynist. Or rather, you don’t resent all women. Because when I arrived, you and the bartender—” she dipped her head in the direction of the tattooed brunette on the other end of the bar “—were basically eye-banging each other—in a respectful way. So there’s something about me that’s had your back up from the moment I sat down and opened my mouth.”

  He didn’t say anything, but he did knock back the shot of Jameson.

  “The tattoos?” Mycah tapped her fingernails on the bar top, swinging from side to side on the stool, scrutinizing that impassive face. “But for all you know, I could have ink underneath this pantsuit...” The truth slammed into her, and she straightened. “That’s it, isn’t it? The pantsuit. You think I’m slumming it.”

  He still didn’t say anything. Didn’t confirm her guess.

  But he damn sure didn’t deny it, either.

  And it hurt. More than it should considering he was a stranger, and she didn’t even know his last name.

  “You don’t know me,” she whispered.

  “Then tell me why you’re here.” He propped an arm on the bar and leaned forward until she could detect the ring of lighter blue around his dark irises. Until she could inhale his woodsy pine-and-fresh-rain scent underneath the beer. “And don’t lie this time,” he ordered in a soft tone that a less discerning person would’ve called kindness. And that person would be an idiot.

  She was tempted to tell him to go fuck himself. That she didn’t owe him answers, and he didn’t deserve any part of her.

  But there was a part of her that wanted—no, needed—to prove him wrong. Needed to share something with this man, whom she wouldn’t see again, that she couldn’t with anyone else. Maybe because she wouldn’t see him again. He couldn’t use the information against her. Couldn’t throw it back in her face. Couldn’t call her ungrateful or disloyal.

  She needed to be...honest. For once in her life, she needed to be honest with someone and with herself.

  “Family.” The confession slid out of her before she could corral it. “I’m hiding from family.”

  She could tell him so much more. Like how as soon as her plane had landed at Logan International Airport, her parents had been blowing up her phone, leaving increasingly...vociferous voice mails insisting she join them at their home for their latest dinner party. Or how it didn’t matter that she’d just arrived home after an eight-hour flight and a weeklong business trip. There wouldn’t be welcoming messages of “welcome home” for her. No “We missed you.” Just “Get here because we have an odd number of guests and Janet Holloway is bringing her son who’s in wealth management. Be presentable, and for the love of God, don’t embarrass us with talk of your boring job.”

  She could share how since she didn’t put it past either one of her parents to send their butler—yes, in this day and age they still had a butler—to Mycah’s house to hunt her down, she’d escaped to the bar.

  But Mycah didn’t tell him any of that. She just left it at hiding. Because that alone was incredibly...sad.

  And the second after she uttered the word, she fought the pointless urge to snatch the truth back from between them.

  Achilles’s expression didn’t alter; it remained as still, as stony, as it had when he’d basically dared her to prove him wrong. Yet his eyes... His eyes no longer resembled shards of ice. They were heated. And fierce with an emotion that surpassed sympathy.

  “Me, too.”

  She stared at him. Shocked. Two simple words. But like a decoder ring from a cereal box, the words unlocked the meaning of his gaze.

  Connection.

  Affliction.

  Gratification.

  “Who would’ve thought we would find ourselves here?” She surrendered to the desire that had been pulsing within her since spotting him the moment she’d entered the bar. Reaching out, she captured a dense lock of his long hair, rubbed the silken strands between her thumb and forefinger. Her palm itched to scrape over that thick beard. Achilles’s sharply indrawn breath echoed between them, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched her, those lupine eyes steady and unblinking on her face. On a trembling inhale, she released his hair and leaned back, reaching for her beer and moistening her parched throat. “On common ground,” she added, her voice uneven as she attempted a note of levity.

  Mimicking her, Achilles lifted his own ale and drank from it. The taut moment vibrated with tension, but then he arched an eyebrow and said, “Yeah, amazing, considering you believe Daniel Craig is a better James Bond than Sean Connery.”

  She snorted. “I said what I said.”

  Achilles shook his head. “Blasphemy,” he muttered.

  Mycah laughed, and when his beautiful mouth quirked again, she mentally chalked in a point for her. She was a businesswoman, and even if her parents refused to acknowledge it, a damn successful one.

  Yet... In this moment, all her accomplishments seemed to fade in comparison with one faint, reluctant smile.

  Oh, she was in deep.

  And she wanted more of him.

  The thought jolted through her before she could cage it. There was no getting rid of it. Not when the idea had already sown deep and even now its roots were spreading, reaching, growing...

  Her heart thudded against her rib cage, a heavy bass that reverberated in her sex. In the space of one breath to the next, the arousal that had been frolicking in her veins all evening had flashed into a serious, I’m-not-fucking-around fire.

  For the first time in her twenty-nine years, she wanted to jump into the flames and burn.

  “You’re staring again.”

  “I am.” She switched her legs, recrossing them. And damn his too-observant gaze; he didn’t miss the gesture. Probably knew why she did it, too. Not that the action alleviated the sweet pain pulsing inside her. “Does it still bother you?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Why you’re staring.”

  She slicked the tip of her tongue over her lips, an unfamiliar case of nerves making themselves known. Again, his eyes caught the tell, dropping to her mouth, resting there, and the blast of heat that exploded inside her damn near fused her to the barstool. What he did with one look... Jesus, it wasn’t fair.

  “Because you’re so stareable. Don’t do that,” she insisted, no, implored when he stiffened, his eyes going glacial. Frustration stormed inside her, releasing in a sharp clap of laughter. “This is ridiculous. The ability to communicate is literally in my job description but I seem to fuck it up with you.” She huffed out a breath, shaking her head. “You should grant me leeway because you don’t know me, and I don’t know you. And you—all of you—” she waved her hand up and down “—are a lot.”

  “A lot of what?” His body didn’t loosen; his face remained shuttered. But that voice...

  She shivered. Her breath caught. Her breasts swelled. Her thighs squeezed. Was it possible to orgasm from a voice alone? She might be the test case.

  “A lot of—” she spread out her arms the length of his shoulders “—mass. A lot of attitude.” She exhaled, her hands dropping to her thighs. “A lot of beauty,” she murmured with a tremble she hated but couldn’t erase. “A lot of pride. A lot of...” Fire. Darkness. Danger. Shelter.

  Passion. So much passion. And sex. A promise of hot, burn-her-alive-and-leave-nothing-but-ashes sex.

  Her fingers curled into her palm.

  “A lot of intensity,” she finished.

  Achilles stared at her. And she fought not to fidget under his hooded gaze. Struggled to remain still as he leaned forward. That tantalizing, woodsy scent beckoned her closer.

  “Mycah, come here.”

  She should be rebelling; she should be stiffening i
n offense at that rumbled order. Should be. But no. Instead, a weight she hadn’t consciously been aware of tumbled off her shoulders. Allowing her to breathe deeper...freer. Because as Achilles gripped the lapel of her jacket and drew her closer, wrinkling the silk, he also slowly peeled away Mycah Hill, the business executive who carried the responsibilities of several departments... Mycah Hill, the eldest daughter of Laurence and Cherise Hill, who bore the burden of their financial irresponsibility and unrealistic expectations.

  In their place stood Mycah, the vulnerable woman who wanted to let go. Who could let go. Just this once.

  So as he reeled her in, she went willingly, until their faces hovered barely an inch apart. Until their breaths mingled. Until the fire from his bright gaze heated her skin.

  This close, she glimpsed the faint smattering of freckles across the tops of his lean cheeks and the high bridge of his nose. The light cinnamon spots should’ve detracted from the sensual brutality of his features. But they didn’t. In an odd way, they enhanced it.

  Had her wanting to dot each one with the tip of her tongue.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Say it again.” He released her jacket and trailed surprisingly gentle fingers up her throat. “I want to find out for myself what the lie tastes like on your mouth.”

  Lust flashed inside her, hot, searing. Consuming.

  God, she liked it.

  If she wasn’t careful, she could easily come to crave it.

  “Do you still think I’m slumming it?” she murmured.

  Achilles stared at her. “I don’t care.”

  She blinked, not certain how she felt about that answer. “Why?”

  “Because.” He didn’t remove his gaze from hers as he lifted a hand to her lips, stroked a thumb across the bottom one. “I want be buried inside here.” He pressed against her. Hard. “I want to get lost in there.” His eyes flicked down to her thighs. Between them. “I want that more than I dislike your...suit.”

  No man had ever talked to her like that. And his words hurled kindling on the inferno already burning inside her. She wasn’t a stranger to men. Even enjoyed them. But never had she felt so desired. No, that didn’t describe this. Never had she felt so vital. As if she were as necessary to him as food, as water...as oxygen.