Lie to Me: A Contemporary Billionaire BWWM Romance (25 page)

The taller man spun around, screaming in French as the man on the ground groaned and gurgled in pain. Paris was far enough in the alley that she couldn't quite make out what was going on, but all at once the taller man was on the ground too, a splatter of blood following him through the air. Time passed in slow motion as both of the men scrambled to their feet, their hands raking against the cobblestones, and ran from the alley as fast as their feet would carry them.

Paris watched them disappear in stunned silence, and then bent over as her breath heaved and she retched several times. She sank slowly to her knees, her hands on the hard, uneven ground beneath her, grateful that she was unharmed.

It was only when she was certain they were gone that the reality of the situation fully washed over her, and she began crying hysterically. There was no holding back now—her body shook uncontrollably. She wouldn’t have been able to stop even if she had wanted to.

And then, there were arms around her.

Strong arms.

Long, muscular arms, pulling Paris tight to a hard, wide chest clad in a leather jacket and an obscenely soft shirt. He—whoever he was—smelled like heaven in the stench of the alley, his cologne subtle, but enveloping, like nothing she had ever smelled in her life.

As she sobbed into the stranger's chest, she took in deep lungfuls of him, her hands grasping his shirt, her fingers curling around the soft fabric, finding strange comfort in the anonymous man's gentleness. He ran his fingers up and down her back and whispered gently to her in an accent she couldn't place.

“Shhh... shhh... you're safe now. You're safe. Just breathe. Breathe. No one will hurt you now.”

Paris tried to breathe deep as he said, but it only came out as choked sobs. She felt his shirt soaking underneath her, and guilt over the fact that she was ruining his clothing was enough to make her pull away. She wiped away her tears, and a small amount of makeup, with her balled up fists as she locked eyes with the man who had just saved her life. And suddenly, she had trouble breathing for an entirely different reason. He was the most gorgeous person she had ever seen in person, or possibly, anywhere at all.

His chestnut brown hair was thick and wavy, with just the perfect amount of muss. His eyes were wide and curious, sparkling crystal blue with freckles of green scattered throughout. He looked as though he was cut from pure marble, chiseled cheekbones and a granite jaw made kind by a defined arch in his lip and a slight dimple in his chin. Paris had never believed in fairy
tales, but if she had, this was exactly what she'd always imagined the hero of one would look like. He looked like a page torn out of a child’s picture book, and she could barely breathe just looking at him. His smile was honest and it changed the entire structure of his face; it practically lit up.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you? Do we need to take you to a hospital? Ah,
merde
… Do you speak French? Avez-vous besoin d'aller à un hôpital, mademoiselle?”

Hearing French pour out of those beautiful lips made Paris’ knees weak. She almost wanted to pretend she did speak French, just so he'd keep using the language. But she knew she'd look pretty ridiculous just nodding at him with a goofy grin on her face. So she was forced to mumble in her very
un
romantic English tongue, “Uh, no. No, I'm okay. They didn't hurt me. They just scared me. Thank you... Thank you for saving me.”

He reached up and gently ran his fingers over her jaw, as if he were checking to make sure she was being truthful. Just the touch of his hand sent shivers through her entire body.

“Are you sure you're not hurt? I'd be happy to accompany you to a doctor... Miss?”

Paris realized that she'd forgotten her own name. This man, his eyes, the way he was looking at her... She'd totally forgotten her own name, and anything else about herself.

“Me? Oh... I'm... Martell. Wait, no. Sorry. I'm Paris. Paris Martell. Gah. Sorry, I think I'm still shaken up. And your name?”

His eyebrows furrowed as if she'd just made a really off-color joke, and he was waiting for a punchline. But slowly, his eyes softened again, his cheeks turning a lovely shade of rose.

“Alex. Call me Alex.”

* * *

A
lexander couldn't believe
he'd just pummeled two men in a scummy alley in France like a proper brute; he'd gotten into a fight like young men his age were supposed to do. Getting into rows and scrapes was what one was supposed to do in his youth, wasn’t it?

Granted, he had been able to win the fight thanks to a decade's worth of martial arts training with a master and almost twice as long at fencing, but it still was a rush to be able to do something “regular” guys did.

Once the bastards he'd beaten up were gone, and all of his senses had settled down, he became aware of the small woman cowering in the shadows. Alexander was aware he still had some blood on his fists, so he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe it away before he approached her. He didn't want her to believe he was as brutish as the men who had tried to attack her, so he cleaned himself up and tossed the dirty kerchief into a nearby trashcan.

The woman was sobbing hysterically, and Alexander gathered her into his arms to try and console her. He hated himself for thinking it, but her curly hair gathered around his face, and she smelled of magnolias, and lavender; he couldn't help but be entranced by just the aroma of her, like a walk through a warm garden in the summer. The firm yet yielding feel of her in his arms—it was nothing like holding Whitney.

Whitney was skin and bones, subsisting on a diet of cigarettes, vodka, and the odd seaweed salad. Skinny girls had their own beauty, but Alexander had always gravitated to women like those in the paintings he loved: curvy, full of life, and soft. He felt like he could hold this girl forever, and he'd never even gotten a good look at her face.

When she pulled away from him, his shirt was soaked through with her tears, but he didn't even care. She balled her fists up like a child and rubbed them at her eyes, smearing her eye make-up, and making her look like a party girl from the 70s. Alexander wanted to laugh, but he held it back. And then, she started staring.

Perfect, he had thought. My cover is blown. Here comes the groveling and the simpering.

But she just stared at him, saying nothing. Finally, compelled to fill the painful silence, he started asking a million questions, some in French, all of which she answered no to. When he finally asked her what her name was, she stumbled adorably.

Paris, he thought. What a thoroughly adorable name. Paris. He avoided making what he knew had to be the obvious remark about her name matching that of the city.

And then, she spoke again—but, he thought he surely must have heard her incorrectly. What did she say?

Had she just asked him his name?

Did she really not know who he was?

* * *

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T
he Billionaire’s Baby Bargain

“
I
’m sorry
…
what did you say?”
Colin Strathmore said slowly. His voice was pure ice.

“We do sincerely regret the mistake—” The clinic director said nervously.

“
This is a hell of a lot more than a mistake.
”

“
Well, it is unfortunate, yes, but nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“And so how do you plan to fix it?” Colin said smoothly. His demeanor was calm, but his voice held a dangerous edge. The rhythmic rapping of his fingers against the mahogany table was the only thing that betrayed his anger.

Doctor Moore looked around the room nervously, unable to meet Colin’s glare. Her eyes lingered on the framed plaques and awards for philanthropy she saw in the opulent office, on the expensive trinkets on the shelves and desk that had been clearly placed there by an interior designer. The room was laid out to be as intimidating as possible, and it was working.

Beside her the lawyer, Clarkson, had interjected. “Well, we have offered Miss Robinson a generous financial package to fix the mistake.”

“Enlighten me. How exactly would that fix it?”

“Well, if Miss Robinson terminated the pregnancy then there would be minimal damages to you.”

“
Terminated?”
Colin stood up. “You thought you had the right to ask her to terminate the pregnancy?”

“It did seem like the most logical solution,” Doctor Moore offered nervously.

“And you didn’t think
I
should be consulted before you made this offer?” He was outraged.

Colin turned his back on them, staring out into the immense cityscape that was sprawled before him from his office on the top floor of the Strathmore Financial building. He was known for his stoicism, for his emotional restraint, but by God—! There was only so far he could be pushed.

He wanted to punch the lawyer right in the middle of his face and toss the incompetent doctor out on her ass. He clenched his fist several times as he struggled to regain his composure.

He had made a deposit at the sperm bank at one of the most difficult points of his life. Newly divorced, and diagnosed with cancer when he was only thirty-five, doctors had told him he should do what he could to protect his future chance at having children.

The radiation therapy had been successful, but the doctors had been right—his ability to father any children in the future had been compromised. It was not impossible, they had told him, but the sperm mobility was quite low and it was unlikely he would be able to have any children naturally.

The deposits he had made at the clinic might be his only chance at having a baby.

His voice was level. “I take it you are here because Miss Robinson did not terminate the pregnancy?”

“Er— yes. That’s correct.”

Colin closed his eyes. “How much does she want?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I presume she has a number in mind?”

“
Um… I don’t think she can be persuaded to terminate, I’m afraid.”

Colin whirled and leaned over the desk, slamming his hand on the hard mahogany surface.
“How much will it take for her to sign over custody of the child?”

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