Sun God Seeks...surrogate? (6 page)

“Fuck you, Sunshine Boy,” Guy growled under his breath. “You’re not getting my vote. Emma’s nesting, and if I don’t give her a baby, she’ll have my balls.”

“Since when does a female—or anyone— decide your actions?” Kinich challenged.

Guy narrowed his luminescent aqua eyes. “I still decide. And I decide to make her happy. After everything that happened with her grandmother, all the suffering she’s endured, I her owe this much.”

Emma’s grandmother, one of the first Payals, had disappeared several years ago, and was believed killed by the Maaskab. Emma, Guy, and others later learned the hard way that they were wrong when she turned up on Guy’s doorstep in Italy, leading an army of Maaskab. Obviously, her mind had been poisoned.

When the dust finally settled, they’d killed the Maaskab and captured the woman. But before they could cure her, she escaped. A traitor named Tommaso had made sure of it.

“Besides,” Guy added, “have you ever seen Emma when she doesn’t get what she wants? Now that she’s been honing her powers and we’ve given her immortality…” He shivered. “No, thank you. She could make my life a living hell for eternity. I would rather face banishment.”

Guy glanced at his watch. “Christ. Speaking of, I’m supposed to meet Emma and her parents for dinner. I’m late. She’ll have my head.” Guy promptly swallowed the last of his glass and gave Kinich an overly sharp slap on the back, thrusting Kinich forward on his stool.

“Good luck,” said Guy, “but unless you can prove that having a child with Emma is detrimental to humanity, I’m sticking with marital harmony. And sex. Lots of sex.”

Kinich swallowed hard, partially from the pain of the slap and partially from his current confusion.

How was it possible that a god as dedicated as Guy, who’d sacrificed so much of himself throughout his existence to safeguard humanity, would say he’d rather be banished than displease a woman? He might expect such a response from mortals—their lives were fleeting and they were known for being overly obsessed with love. But Guy was the infamous God of Death and War. He was ruthless. A goddamned beast of destruction.

Good gods, what is happening to us?

If Kinich were going to convince the gods that procreation with humans would ultimately lead to their demise, then he needed to understand what he was truly up against.

CHAPTER 7

Almost twelve hours after I’d left Cimil’s home, I stood across the street of yet another building, staring at its ornately carved stone entrance and revolving glass door. Only this time, it was a posh boutique hotel named Eden situated in Manhattan.

I’d managed to walk the entire eight blocks through the snow from the subway in three-inch heels and a tight black silk dress—the only suitable outfit I owned for a formal restaurant. Five hundred thousand dollars richer or not, I could never throw away money on frivolous comforts, even on my birthday. Not when there were so many people going without.

So there I was—10:00 p.m. on the dot—perfumed, plucked, slightly frozen, and ready for a meeting with a man I didn’t know, was inexplicably obsessed with, and determined to leave behind forever once I’d upheld my part of the bargain: listening.

And drooling
.

I slipped my mirror from my black handbag and made one last check. The walk and sprinkle of snow hadn’t undone my sleek bun or makeup. I’d done a fantastic job of masking the circles under my dark green eyes, which now appeared greener than usual due to my red-tinged whites.

I sucked in a deep, fortifying breath and plowed across the street, with my knees wobbling, toward the hotel. A thin man in a black suit immediately greeted me at the door. He reached for my no-frills parka, and I slid it off while reminding myself that breathing mattered.

He returned quickly with smile and a claim ticket. “Here you go, miss. Do you have a reservation?” he asked.

“I’m meeting someone.” My eyes swept the formal, candlelit room to my right filled with cozy couples sipping wine, eating, and laughing. To the left, through a large open doorway, was a dimly lit bar decorated in a Deco style—mirror-covered walls, paintings of swanky 1920s flappers, and high-polished maple floors—packed with elegantly dressed patrons.

My eyes immediately gravitated toward the far end of the room. With his size, he stood out like a hi-def, larger-than-life giant among a sea of washout gray.

I lost my breath for multiple heartbeats.

It seemed odd for such a magnificent man to be sipping wine alone. I expected to see a posse of adoring women groveling at his feet, perhaps nibbling on his ankles and kissing his toes. But a tiny part of me rejoiced. I didn’t want to share him with anyone, a realization that instantly scared the hell out of me.

Sigh.
Who was I kidding? I wasn’t there to listen. I was there to gawk and fawn. Who could blame me?
Double sigh.
With eyes that pierced your very soul, those strong, full lips—the kind you wanted to run you tongue over and suck on or watch as they did delicious things to the most intimate parts of your body—his stratospheric height, wide shoulders, and thick caramel-colored hair hanging just past his collar…
triple sigh
…he was simply a specimen of divine masculinity.

I shook my head, realizing the bizarre truth
. Devil crackers, I want that man.
He was a complete stranger, yet I’d already had one erotic dream and played ten rounds of imaginary house with him.

I forced the breath into my lungs and willed my feet to make the journey.

Weaving through the crowd, I caught several brief glimpses of the male morsel in question as he stared into his wine glass. A prominent frown occupied his sublime face, and he clenched something in his fist. Whatever it was, he seemed troubled by it.

So there I was, facing his back and ready to wow him with my brilliant wit, when I realized I didn’t know his name. Cimil had said it once, but I couldn’t recall
.

Ugh.
I groaned inwardly
. Well, why not make the situation extra-extra awkward?

“Hi,” I said.

Cimil’s brother continued staring at his glass.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

He was completely checked out—
a family trait?—
and now, several people to my side noticed I was being ignored by the delicious, brawny man sitting at the bar who everyone was desperately trying to avoid staring at.

Now I felt like an idiot.

I poked the back of his shoulder. “Hey—um…” Hell. Why couldn’t I remember his name? “You.”

With an irritated, deliberate slowness, he turned on his barstool, apparently ready to unleash a fury on whomever had disturbed his wine-templation.

His angry eyes settled on my face. “Oh. It’s…you.”

Me? It’s…me? Is that how a man greets the future mother of his child?

Whoa! Penelope! You’re here to listen. Remember?

Yes, yes.

And lucky for him, I wasn’t going to hold a little thing like sorry manners against him, because I was frightfully close to losing my cerebral skills once again—
holy hell, a man has no right being that good-looking—
so I was pretty sure my own manners were about to fall off a cliff.

Is groping a stranger in public considered bad manners?

“Yep. It’s…me.” I shrugged, grasping my evening bag in both hands.

He stared.

I stared.

He stared some more.

Is this the standoff at the OK-we’re-going-to-have-a-baby corral?

Penelope! Listen! Just…listen!

Oh! Yeah.

I finally decided to make the first move. A smile. Wasn’t the most original icebreaker, but it was a timeless classic.

His intense turquoise eyes examined my face for several moments before a forced smile shaped his lips. “Care to sit?” He stood and held out his hand to offer me his seat.

His large…strong…manly hand. Sigh…

“Thanks.”

“You look…nice,” he commented in slow, hypnotically deep voice.

Trying to ignore the sensuality embedded in his timbre, I flashed another polite smile and slipped past him. His gaze slid down my body, all the way to my black heels, and then swept up over my bare back as I lowered myself onto his barstool.

I lifted my chin a little higher then; he’d taken a detailed inventory.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked, wedging himself sideways in the space between me and the man next to us talking to his date.

The warmth of his touch made my insides light up and spin like disco ball, but I played it cool. “I’ll have a double, extra-dirty vodka martini.”

He raised one brow.

Well, jeez. I’m not pregnant.

Yet.

Oh stop that!

But we want him! We want him!
My tiny eggs cheered in unison.

It was then that I noticed how his dark, tailored pants and gray sweater displayed every masculine bulge of his insanely ripped body. To be clear, he wasn’t overbuilt like those artificially enhanced TV wrestlers who spend every waking moment pumping iron. No. This man was all hard, lean muscle, more like a champion stallion or a jaguar. Raw power draped in fine, expensive fabric. Speaking of, where did a man of his girth and stature find clothes? Well, whoever was responsible for clothing him should be shot; he looked too perfect.

But he’d get cold if no one sold him clothes.

I’d warm him up.

Just like he was doing to me. He was so darn tall that from a sitting position, I was at eye level with his nipples. No, I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. Did they want to meet me as much as I wanted to meet them?

I cleared my throat. “I like a good stiff nipple”—
gasp!—
“I mean…
drink!
I like a stiff
drink
every once in a while, but I’m not a big drinker if that worries you.”

Ignoring my mental blip, he leaned over and planted his elbows on the bar. “And why would that worry me?”

Okay. Because I’m sure you don’t want the mother of your child to be a lush.

Pen! You’re not on a job interview…

“I don’t want people getting the wrong impression, that’s all,” I clarified.

He ordered from the bartender who apparently knew him well because he scrambled to bring us our order ahead of everyone else.

“So,” he said, his face a brick wall of seriousness, “what brought you here?”

Wow. It was such a complex question to answer straight out of the gate. My mother’s life? A nagging little voice that told me I had to see him again? My awe-inspiring ability to ignore the weirdness of the situation? Take your pick. But something told me we weren’t yet ready for a deep dive into Honesty Land.

I gave him my brightest smile. “They make the best dirty martinis in town. And you?”

I still couldn’t understand why a man of his caliber needed a surrogate. Unless…unless he was the kind of man who was afraid of commitment.

Then why have a child? Isn’t that the biggest commitment there is?

I mentally gasped
. Oh no! He’s gay! Dammit. No!

It all started to make sense. He was beyond gorgeous. He was also well dressed and wealthy.

Yep. Totally gay. The best ones always are, Pen.

Gravity gripped hard and pulled me crashing toward Earth while my secret little fantasy of making him all mine deflated with a whiz.

He gave a little chuckle. “Why am I here? I am staying here, of course.” He raised his wineglass toward me and then took a sip.

“How long are you and your…”—I mustered a polite smile—“your boyfriend in town for?”
And where is he? I’ll scratch the bitch’s eyes out!

He hacked on his wine, but managed not to spit any out.

“I am…alone,” he finally said. “And while I appreciate humanity in all its shapes and sizes, I place infinitely more value on the female form.” His eyes traveled down to my breasts and lingered for several shocking, yet exhilarating moments.

He’s not gay! He’s not gay! Glory be thy name! And he just looked at my tatas!

Penelope. Focus. You’re here to listen. Then you should definitely leave. You don’t want to get mixed up with these people.

Yes. What I needed was to get the conversation moving so I could get out of there. I’d promised to listen to his pitch, and I would. I’d even keep an open mind—I owed him that much—but in my heart of hearts, I knew he couldn’t do or say anything to convince me to move forward with this…transaction.

Right. So let’s get this show on the road.

But how could I? My swooning was getting in the way. Maybe I needed to remind myself that men like him didn’t go for girls like me. Any interest he might’ve shown was simply the male libido flashing its little tail feathers.

Boooo! Booo! Quitter!
screamed my eggs.

Oh my God, I so needed to get out of there.

But what could I say to get things rolling and break the ice? It wouldn’t be easy when Cimil had given me three very, very weird rules.

One: I could not ask why they’d chosen me. That alone was a monumental sacrifice because the question burned in my gut like a festering ulcer. There had to be a reason. Perhaps something to do with the genetic testing I’d volunteered for when a group of specialists researched my mother’s illness? It was plausible that my information ended up in one of those databases.

Two: I had to let her brother bring up the topic du jour first. He apparently felt very sensitive about the surrogate subject and found it difficult to discuss. She insisted I start out by getting to know him a little and waiting for him to open up.

Then there was demand number three: Under no circumstances could I tell anyone about our arrangement. Doing so would land me in…“a very hot and dark place,” she’d said.

Cuckoo. Cuckoo.

I cleared my throat and rallied my determination to see this meeting through. “So, you live here? All alone?” I asked the beautiful man whose name I still couldn’t recall.