Ruthless Billionaire’s Secret Baby (Dirty Billionaire Club #5)

Chapter One

Alisha

“Hello, Laurel. It’s nice to meet you.” Or is it? I’m honestly not sure why I’m even here.

I stare at the stranger, wondering why she requested a meeting with me at her dental practice. This is easily the strangest meeting spot I’ve ever been called to, but I need another job and if she’s looking to hire a personal chef, then I’m here to listen.

She smiles, her beautiful white teeth a testament to the quality of work she does, obviously. Her smile could be an entire promotion for her practice, and they complement her pretty pop-star face perfectly. Her soft brown eyes study my face for a second, then she inhales to speak.

“Thank you for meeting me here.” Her delicate, lyrical voice solidifies my thoughts that she missed her true calling as a pop star. She turns her head, causing her brown ponytail to slip off her shoulder to dangle down her back as she continues to study me. “I wanted to know if you have any availability. You come highly recommended.”

I nod my head. “I do have some availability.”

Her smile widens, the brightness of her teeth nearly blinding. “Excellent! If you don’t mind, please show up to this address. You’ll start work tomorrow.”

I take the slip of paper she’s handing me, wondering if she’s always this old-fashioned. I’m so used to a digital age where people use texts, email, and video apps to communicate that I’d almost forgotten what paper feels like in my hands.

I’m kidding, of course. I love reading smutty novels in my downtime, so I know what paper feels like. Though I’m guilty of enjoying reading on devices too.

I want to ask her why she wanted me to meet her here if she was just going to give me a piece of paper to meet her somewhere else. Everything feels very smoke and mirrors, and I'm kind of worried I'm going to take a dagger in the back at some point.

“Thank you, I think,” I say, tucking the paper into my pocket.

“The passcode for the door is on the paper. Make sure you bring a photo ID to get past the gate.” As she says the words I try to follow along, but I’m confused. Passcode for the door? ID for the gate? Where is she sending me?

“Just to be clear, you know I’m a private chef, right?” This almost sounds like she's planning to have me work in a facility, and I don't do that. Not since... well, that’s not a thought train I want to ride at the moment.

Her words suddenly register and I glance at her. “Wait, I start tomorrow?” That’s pretty short notice, and I have to make arrangements before I can start work anywhere. Most places require at least a few days of planning before just hiring me. I need time to come up with a meal plan, go shopping, and discuss important details like allergies, food preferences, and goals for the person I’m cooking for. Some people hire me to help them lose weight, or eat healthier, or simply because they don’t have time to cook for themselves because some people are workaholics balancing social lives.

She nods her head, blinking her pretty brown eyes. “Yes, tomorrow. Is that a problem?” Her smile dims slightly and something about the way she says the words makes me want to be agreeable. If she needs me to start tomorrow, I'd like to start tomorrow.

Instead of voicing my concerns, I just nod my head, swallowing hard as if that’ll get rid of the nervous tension squeezing my throat. “Tomorrow is fine,” I say.

Is tomorrow fine though? Is it really?

Her face lights up again and she lifts her chin in an expression of approval. “Great!”

“Your next patient is ready,” the front desk girl says, poking her head into the office I’m meeting Laurel in. Laurel stands, adjusting her white skirt with large-printed red flowers before offering me her hand. A diamond bracelet sparkles on her wrist, and I notice the huge diamond on her finger.

“Somebody really wants the world to know you’re theirs,” I say, and she laughs while I shake her soft hand. Her skin might be smooth and cool, but her grip is firm.

“Yeah, my husband is an incredible guy.” She absentmindedly runs a hand across her belly and I smile.

“Congratulations?” I whisper and she stares at me in stunned surprise. I gesture to her midsection. “In my experience, when a woman rubs her hand across her belly like that, it's because she's pregnant.” I keep my voice low, in case I’m wrong or in case I’m right and she’s keeping the news a secret.

“You’re right. And thank you!” She sounds thrilled as she says the words and the front desk girl peeks in again, as if checking to see what the holdup is. “I have to go, but it really is a pleasure meeting you.” She leans toward me with a smile before making her way out of the room, a slight skip in her step.

For the first time, I glance down at the paper in my hand, unfolding it to read the words. I don't recognize the neighborhood, and I'm not sure if this is a private residence or an established business. I can only hope that whoever referred me to Laurel also told her that I do not work outside people’s homes. My worst nightmare would be to find out that I work in a bar or something.

Next to the address are the words Please show up at your earliest convenience. and I lift both shoulders. No time like the present, I suppose. I’d planned to meet about this job today anyway, and this seemed like a preliminary meet and greet, so I’d better go see what all the secrecy is about.

Because this is certainly the strangest set up for a job I’ve ever experienced and some part of me is morbidly curious what’s going to happen next, I can only hope I don’t wind up on the news as “body found.” That would be embarrassing.

Then again, Laurel didn’t seem like a killer, and couples with babies on the way are always calm, reasonable, and easy to get along with, right? Right?

I drive to the location, then stop, staring across the sprawling grassy area separated from the road by a heavy-duty black fence. The oversized gate has a little booth next to tall, heavy cherry-wood pillars and I pull up to the booth.

“ID and business?”

I stare at the guy who looks more like a club bouncer stuffed into a nice suit than a security guard. “Uh, yeah...” I hand over my ID and he takes it, arching an eyebrow at me as if still waiting and I try to make words.. “Cooking?” That’s my business, right? This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I’m so out of my depths I’m off balance and uncomfortable.

He nods his head and hands back my ID. “Have a great day, Ms. Skye.”

With that, he closes the window and the gate in front of me swings open. I swallow hard and drive forward, keeping on the one-lane black concrete road leading up to a mansion of a house. I lean forward to stare at the bright, sparkling home covered in windows framed by dark wood and black metal. My mouth drops open, and I pull up into the courtyard of a drive and kill the engine of my car.

I’ve never felt so out of place as I do when I open my door and get out of my car. I’ve worked with wealthy individuals before, but this home makes the people I’ve worked for before seem like peasants.

Clutching my purse tight to my body as if the leather will offer some support, I make my way to the front door. I stop, lifting my hand to knock, before remembering the code on the paper Laurel had given me. Checking the numbers, I face the silver faceplate. Reaching for it, I see the numbers lit up in the metal and put in the code.

The unmistakable sound of the door unlocking makes me jump, and I turn to face the huge front entrance. Pushing the door open, I step inside, instantly overtaken by the sheer size of the place. Graceful wooden beams tower overhead and natural light streams through windows as I inhale.

“Ah, you’re here.”

I meet the owner of the rich, thick voice’s gray gaze. His thick black hair shines in the bright light and his eyes seem slightly narrowed as he studies me.

I walk up to him, offering my hand. “I’m -”

“Alisha Skye.” His hand meets mine and a shiver sneaks down my spine at the warmth and power in his grip. As his attention stays locked on me, I sense he’s digging deep to ferret out my secrets - joke’s on him, I’m a master at hiding them.

“You may call me Charles.” He releases my hand and puts both hands behind his back, his gaze searching my face, then sweeping down my body and back up to meet mine again. I’d swear I see a light of approval in his expression, but I’m not sure.

Well, he seems like he’s a bit full of himself. I don’t think anyone has ever told me what I “may” call them, and for some reason, the phrasing doesn't sit well with me. I try to shrug off the feeling and glance around his home. “Beautiful place you have here.” Clearly he likes to surround himself with beautiful things: this home, the drive up, Laurel...

“Thank you. Would you like to see the kitchen?” With that, he makes his way through the huge front room and into another open space as I hurry to keep up.

I guess him asking me if I want to see the kitchen wasn’t actually a question, but that’s fine.

The huge open kitchen gives another angle of this stunning home, and I see the windows all along one wall as the room opens up to an incredible space. Nobody needs a kitchen this big and the ceilings tower above, the beautiful wooden beams and wood walls giving the place an incredible warmth.

He walks up to the fridge and turns to me, as if patiently waiting for me to catch up. “The fridge can order food to the door with voice commands. You can request overnight delivery, or for last-minute items you may have forgotten, they can be sent within thirty minutes.”

I stare at the glass and light front panel door of the fridge, trying not to feel stunned. I've worked in high tech kitchens before, but nothing this high tech or amazing.

I nod to let him know I’m keeping up as he moves toward the counter. He puts his hand down on six different spots. “These are the burners. Small, medium, and large.” His hands move with his words, showing me where the burners are, but I see nothing more than slate gray countertops. He must be messing with me.

I give him the side eye, wondering why he’s making jokes instead of helping me prepare to cook for him.

He must see the annoyance in my eyes because he touches a little glass rectangle and takes my hand. The contact sends a current of electricity through my arm and I gasp, nearly pulling away. His gaze darts to mine, but his expression is so calm and cool I don’t know if he felt the spark. He guides my hand over the countertop, and I feel the heat rising off the stone in six different locations.

I want to ask him what witchcraft this is, but I figure I better keep things professional. “Thank you.”

“We’ll sync your phone to the cook top, too.” He nods his head before leading me to an overlarge cabinet door. He pulls the door open and I see it’s not a cabinet at all, but a huge pantry well stocked with every dry and preserved good I could ever imagine, all neatly categorized and stored on pristine stainless shelves. I walk over to freeze-dried blueberries, strawberries, and assorted other fruits, stunned by everything that’s available to me. “You’re welcome to use anything you like, just replace things and rotate them out.”

I nod, mute, as I think of all the foods I can cook with these ingredients.

“I eat a high-protein diet,” he says, and I tense up.

“Did you make the lists I requested?” I ask, pulling out my phone.

He nods, taking out his. A moment later, I receive a message from him with his meal list and open the doc. I’m thrilled that he made a spreadsheet of them, but I’m dismayed at his eating habits. He eats far too much red meat - daily steaks and burgers - in addition to pork, bacon, chicken, and tuna. I see very few greens and even fewer fruits and almost no carbs, healthy or otherwise. There’s no balance to his diet at all and I glance at him, surprised.

But first, I need to make sure we don’t need to wait to have this conversation, so I shelve my concerns. “Do we need to wait for your wife to get here to make a meal plan?”

His brows furrow. “My wife?”

He seems genuinely confused and I nod, swallowing hard. “Laurel? I just met her and she’s a doll. I don’t want to get started without her.” I plaster a smile on my face, but he’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Lauren isn’t my wife. She’s my best friend’s wife.” He’s so deadpan and cool I feel a shock of humiliation heat my cheeks. I feel stupid. What a mistake to make.

Trying to redirect the conversation, I quickly apologize. “My mistake, I’m sorry. So what are your meal goals?”

He seems confused again; his eyebrows furrow and he studies my face, then speaks slowly, as if I’m too dense to understand normal talking speed. That raises my hackles. “To get fed?”

Well, no crap, sir.

“I mean, are you looking to get healthier?” I need to be delicate in my wording so I don’t offend him, “or have a more well-rounded diet, try new recipes, do you have any meal goals?”

With every suggestion I give, his eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch. “I am healthy.” With that, he glances down at his body, spreading his hands out to his sides before glancing at me with a playboy smile.

I hold back the urge to sigh. “Sometimes we can look healthy on the outside but be doing damage internally with an unbalanced diet.” Surely he knows that his diet isn’t ideal, right? A doctor must have broken down good eating habits for him at some point in his life, right?

He lifts a hand as if to shush me. “I’m sure I’m healthy inside and out, thank you.”

I’ve never heard someone say a “thank you” that sounded so much like they were saying “screw you” before in my life. The sheer willpower it takes to keep my mouth from dropping open at his rudeness should earn me a medal of some kind, because I really want to slap some sense into him.

“I am a professional in my field.” He has to respect that, if nothing else.

But the way he goes completely still and stares me down has me uncomfortable and shifting my weight from one hip to the other. After several moments of sizing me up, he speaks in a low, overly-cordial tone that makes my blood freeze in my veins.

“You can work for me, or you can do it your way. One will result in you having a job, the other won’t.”

I’m stunned by his ultimatum and grit my teeth. He’s domineering, insufferable, and downright rude. I don’t like him, but I do need this job. “Fine,” I say through my teeth. “I’ll do it your way.” Except I have zero plans to let him eat himself into heart disease. He thinks he’s won, but he’s so damn wrong.