Toward the night, p.27
Baller's Unexpected Baby: Billionaire Enemies to Lovers Romance, page 27
BALLER’S UNEXPECTED BABY
CHARLY HANA
CONTENTS
1. Eloise
2. Hunter
3. Eloise
4. Hunter
5. Eloise
6. Hunter
7. Eloise
8. Hunter
9. Eloise
10. Hunter
11. Eloise
12. Hunter
13. Eloise
14. Hunter
15. Eloise
16. Hunter
17. Eloise
18. Hunter
19. Eloise
20. Hunter
21. Eloise
22. Hunter
Epilogue
Next Book
Surfer’s Surprise Baby
1
ELOISE
“Do I see twenty-six thousand?”
The auctioneer swept his gaze around the packed room. I felt a frisson of electricity go up my spine. I’d always loved a buzzing, crowded auction room, and I loved winning a brilliant piece of art even more. And today, I was in the running to get my client a fantastic and rare oil on canvas by the celebrated artist simply known as Story. Well, oil and bitumen and crush nightshade flowers on canvas, that was.
The painting was rare because Story more usually created with audio and video, cutting and repurposing old tape. He also sculpted work using anything from metal scaffold poles to discarded medical equipment to, once, memorably, fresh air – he’d cordoned off a corner of a room and put up a sign that announced it had been cursed by a witch. Sotheby’s would have had a hard time selling that one.
I smiled to myself, keeping my cool even as a collector I knew pretty well from the Paris rooms outbid me. Then it went to a phone bid and then we were back in the room, and I was raising my paddle for twenty-eight. I smiled again – there was a time when I could have gotten myself a piece of Story’s work for two hundred and eighty dollars. Or even for free, after one of our late-night hang outs in his favorite dingy dive in Chelsea – wow, almost a decade ago now.
The smile fell from my face and my heart sank, remembering who else had been there with us. Hunter Williams – my boyfriend at the time. Yankees star player Hunter Williams. Handsome, ripped, and incredibly fucking hot Hunter, with whom I’d had a sexual chemistry I’d never known in my life – before or since. Left-a-hole-in-my-heart Hunter, who I hadn’t seen since the night I…
“Any more at thirty thousand?” asked the auctioneer. “Ma’am?” He knew my name, of course, although he didn’t use it publicly. And he knew how much I wanted this painting. I jolted back into the room, raised my paddle, and focused. One of my private clients in Rome, Fabiana, really, really wanted this one, after I’d introduced her to Story’s work, and I was damn well going to get it for her.
Someone from across the room bid higher. I glanced over to see who it was, but I couldn’t see through the crowd. I raised and took back the bid. But whoever it was outbid me again. The phone bidders were all done, and it seemed to be between me and the one other bidder. We went to thirty-five thousand, then forty, then forty-five, and I began to get nervous, although, of course, I’d never show it. People were looking from one side of the room, my side, to the other, as the price went well past what had been expected.
Then the voice came, “Look, can’t I just bid a hundred thousand and be done with this?”
I was stunned for a moment. That voice. It went right through me, jolting my bones. I’d have known it anywhere. “Excuse me, excuse me,” I found myself saying, as I weaved through the standing crowd at the back of the room, poised as ever, with an easy smile on my face. No one would have suspected that my heart was beating hard in my chest, or that my legs felt like they might give way beneath me. I had to see… The auctioneer was saying, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, sir,” and there was a genteel ripple of good-natured laughter around the room. Then came the change of atmosphere – excitement, electricity - as people realized who was speaking, just like it used to be when we went places…
And then, I saw him. Well, we saw one another. My heart stopped and the whole room fell away into nothing, as I stared into his green eyes. The man I’d loved more than life itself was staring back at me.
I don’t know which of us looked more shocked, and I felt the subtle attention of most of the room on us. There was no way I was going to let my professional composure slip, not for one minute. I felt waves of joy, thrill, and pain breaking through me… mainly pain. What I wanted to be doing was driving along a deserted highway, with the windows down, the music full up, screaming and cursing and crying and getting everything out that this unexpected blast from the past was bringing up within me. I loved doing that – it was my release and therapy. Sometimes I screamed so hard I saw stars and had to pull over. But for now, I allowed myself the briefest of eyebrow raises. It said, ‘Okay, mister. Wanna do this?’
Hunter’s shoulders shifted under his tailored shirt and he flashed his eyes at me. ‘Game on.’
“The bid is with the lady,” said the auctioneer. “Do I see fifty thousand?”
Hunter raised his paddle, his eyes still locked with mine.
I bid fifty-five, with a cool smile as, inside, my heart raced. I had some headroom in my budget – Fabiana trusted my judgement and I’d secured her a couple of pieces for less than expected recently. But I hadn’t expected to have to go near the top of my budget. If Hunter was serious about the hundred grand, then I was in trouble. But I couldn’t let him know that. I’d have to keep my cool and play my cards carefully. But there was hardly any time to think, because it was fast and furious after that.
We tore our eyes away from one another and focused hard on the auctioneer. Hunter went straight to sixty without blinking, and I countered at sixty-five, and then he nodded to seventy. The atmosphere in the room became electric as the price soared way beyond what had been expected. In my case, sexual chemistry and professional pride were adding to the heady mix. Every time I glanced at Hunter, heat shot up my spine, making my stomach draw in sharply. God, I still wanted him, just as powerfully as I had when we’d been together…
Jesus, Eloise. Get a grip. Focus.
Time to take the heat down a little – at least over the painting, even if I was powerless over the building sensations in my body. Stop looking at him, Elle, I told myself. I fixed my gaze resolutely on the auctioneer, took a deep breath and steadied my nerves. Then I deliberately hesitated as he asked seventy-five for the painting. Fucking expensive nightshade flowers and road surfacing this was turning out to be.
But then, a hotly-contested auction would only spark interest in the artist and bring kudos to the work’s new owner. In Fabiana’s case that was just as valuable as future profit, or even more so. I could still turn this situation to my advantage and win out for my client, in a different way. If I pulled it together. Not looking at Hunter helped a little – but I could still feel him, his energy fizzling and crackling beside me. Then I caught his scent, which made me gasp and almost undid me again. Concentrate, for fuck’s sake, woman.
When, fortunately, no one in the room suddenly decided to swoop in, I made a subtle hand gesture to the auctioneer, meaning to please take it up in smaller increments. “Do I see seventy-two?” he asked, taking my cue and then sweeping his gaze around the room. I nodded.
Hunter raised to seventy-four, and I went to seventy-six. Up we went all the way to eighty-eight, without looking at one another. Well, perhaps he had been looking at me, because finally I couldn’t help myself and the moment that I turned my head, his eyes locked with mine again.
Attraction was mixed with anger now, and my glare said, Do your worst, you fucking bastard. This was my job – I couldn’t lose. Well, I could, and I had, many times – that was all part of the ups and downs of being a boutique modern art dealer for wealthy private clients. The thrill wouldn’t be the thrill if I left every sale with a win.
But not this time, not to this man. He was only playing, messing around. Maybe he’d heard through the grapevine I’d be in town. Maybe he was doing this on purpose… I breathed in hard. These stupid thoughts were distracting me. I had a decision to make – and fast. I was authorized to go up to ninety-four thousand. If I went beyond and it wasn’t approved by my client, it was my own money on the line. Fabiana trusted me, yes – but how far?
In another flurry of intense focus we were at a hundred and twelve. I was so competitive I’d lost my cool head for a few minutes, and, of course, Hunter was competitive too. And then… with regret, I had to let the piece go. I was a dealer with a client and a budget – he was a billionaire sports star having fun on a lazy afternoon by outbidding an old flame on a painting he probably didn’t even know or care about at all. Fuck him, he could have it. The quicker I got out of here the better. The gavel came down at one twenty and, to be honest, I was grateful that I didn’t have to face twenty-six grand’s worth of financial risk just because of trying to outbid an ex.
Well, not just an ex – the ex.
As Hunter was distracted, being congratulated by the elegant female collectors to his right, I slipped from the room. Out in the corridor, after making double sure that no-one was around, I leaned against the wall and breathed in, long and deep. I was actually shaking – I needed a drink, and not the long kind with a twist and a little umbrella. The kind that came in heavy le
ad crystal, make it a double and hold the ice.
I hadn’t been planning to go to the little art world soiree at Salome’s just off Madison after the auction. But that was where the drinks were, and at least enough people I knew to have some company and to keep my focus on the job. I’d only been in New York forty-eight hours and had spent most of the day before sleeping off a grueling two-week schedule in Paris and the infamous red-eye to New York. It would have been too sad to go anywhere else, and have sat all by myself, thinking over past love lost (and present art lost too – dammit).
What I most certainly didn’t expect, as I sat at the bar enjoying my highly medicinal third double scotch no rocks, was to hear a voice behind me, like the long, cool drink I wasn’t having. It said, “Well, hello again, stranger.”
I couldn’t help smiling as my eyes met his. “I gave you a run for your money there, didn’t I?” I said warmly. Huh – annoying alcohol making me lose my ice queen façade.
“You sure did.” He smiled too, but then he shook his head, and his fist clenched and unclenched at his side. When he spoke again his voice had an edge. “At least it was only over a piece of art this time.”
My defenses were up right away, and, unfortunately, my inhibitions were down a notch or two. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means.”
There was a silence as frosty as the glass of beer that was placed on a mat in front of him at that moment. The smartly-uniformed barman then slipped away to serve someone else, probably sensing the tension. Places like this that catered to the rich and famous pretty-much had trained ninjas for staff who appeared to see and hear nothing and could become virtually invisible when required.
The silence stretched out while my mind churned. Of course, it was unthinkable that Hunter Williams would get out his wallet. His tabs were probably settled by his PA at the end of each month and the paperwork sent directly to his accountant. I don’t know why, but that annoyed me. It annoyed me even more when he leaned over the bar a little and said, “Thank you so much, Andrew.”
He knew the staff member by name and he still had all his Midwest courtesy and humility. Damn.
“Why the intense frown?” he said then, softening a little. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“You’re annoying me by not behaving like the overprivileged asshole I’m desperately trying to frame you as,” I answered. Twice curse you, alcohol! But it broke the ice that had frozen over us, and he smiled.
“Oh, and for a moment there I thought I was annoying you by being the overprivileged asshole who won a painting you obviously desperately wanted.”
Our eyes met, and I fell headlong into his gaze. Ocean blue eyes, deep, deep, deep. We both knew what the other was thinking, and it was the same thing. About that first night together. Way back when we’d only been on a couple of dates that had crackled with chemistry and ended in white hot kissing and then gentlemanly cab hailing. That night when we’d been at that grimy little back street gallery in Chelsea, way off the main art drag, risking getting ourselves shot or mugged to see an exhibition by up-and-coming artist Story. And then meeting the artist himself. And then going to my place – well, my mother’s place, to be precise, and having the hottest sex of our lives. Clearly, that was the part we were both reliving, and seeing in one another’s eyes.
I blushed, and he smiled. But then I felt suddenly vulnerable, and I panicked and found myself snapping, “You probably don’t even care about that painting. I bet you don’t know what series it’s from, or what it means, or how it was made, or… anything. You just wanted to beat me in the auction.”
His eyes flashed with sudden anger. “And why would I want to do that, Eloise?” he demanded. “Because you ran out on me without so much as a note, or even a text? Because you ghosted me after six months together, during which I thought we were deeply in love? Because you didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face that you were done with me? The only way I knew you weren’t fucking dead or abducted was by seeing you in the fucking socialite gossip columns. Who does that to someone? I didn’t even know you were at that damn auction until we saw each other. The whole world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”
I glanced around, rattled by his intense emotion. People were sliding discreet looks our way. I couldn’t have that. Art world haunts were basically the office to me – that’s why I always held it together, and usually had a two-drink rule. I picked my purse up off the bar and got to my feet, flicking my long blonde hair off my shoulders, straightening, returning to steel. “Nice to see you again, Hunter,” I said smoothly, and then I sashayed away.
2
HUNTER
I don’t know what came over me, when Eloise stood up to leave. All my anger with her had come pouring out, as well as the memory of all the fear and worry I’d been through when she’d left. Then I relived the bewilderment and hurt of getting the news, via public media, that she was alive and well and sipping champagne on the Champs Elysees in fucking Paris.
All the potent sexual chemistry we’d had was alive and well in me too, it turned out, and being so close to her at the bar, breathing in her scent, had given me a huge hard-on, which strained against my pants. Fortunately, it had been hidden by the bar. Even more fortunately, my initial shock at seeing her again had stopped it from presenting itself in the crowded auction room. I don’t know why I followed her. But I couldn’t help myself – my feet were walking me out of the bar behind her, into the carpeted entranceway. I just knew that I didn’t want it to be the last time I saw her.
In the empty antechamber, its rococo yellows only dimly lit with amber lamps, she whirled round on her heel and glared at me. “What do you want, Hunter?”
I flailed, helpless, like a man drowning. “I don’t know. I… I just…”
And then our eyes locked and I was falling deep into her again. Into the real her, underneath the bravado. Into her soul, and… Suddenly we reached for one another, and my arms were around her, almost crushing her, pushing my face into her neck, her hair, breathing her in. Her arms slid round my waist and held me tight – her fingers lowering then, digging into my hips, making me gasp with wanting, and remembering. And then, we were kissing – our mouths crushed together – hard and deep and urgent. I moved us around a corner, where there was only one tiny table with a couple of chairs, out of sight, and pushed her against the wall. She gasped and tilted her head, grabbing the back of my neck and pushing her tongue deep into my mouth. I ground my rock-hard cock into her stomach and we both groaned. Mercy, it was too much, and also not enough… I needed her, wanted her…
“Oh God, Hunter, oh God,” she gasped in my ear, then burying her face in my neck, kissing and biting it like she used to, in the way that made my cock pulse and push against her, hungry to yank down her panties and get inside her. To push through her delicious wetness. To move with her. To…
But then I pulled away so sharply that she gasped, her hands wrenched from behind my head, her lips still parted, her eyes wide. “At least I know now that you didn’t leave because you stopped wanting me,” I said savagely. “I bet no-one’s ever made you come as hard as I did.” I leaned in again, lips close to her ear. “Every. Single. Time.” I turned and walked away, throwing words like arrows over my shoulder, “Goodbye, Eloise. Enjoy the life you left me for. And I’ll enjoy my damn painting.”
I didn’t look back.
Needless to say, because I’m not an absolute asshole, I didn’t feel very proud of myself by the time I’d gotten around the corner, let alone after the brisk half-hour walk back to my apartment building. I could have hailed a cab, but I needed to move, and I needed to breathe. I craved the fresh, almost frozen evening air to clear my head – and perhaps, after my performance as World’s Biggest Asshole – to cleanse my soul too.
