Kidnapping the Billionaire's Baby

Chapter One

AMARA SAT HUNCHED OVER HER desk, staring at her laptop in despair. On the screen, perched atop nearly a dozen formal withdrawals of funding from various grant sponsors, there was an unread message from the largest of them.

It had already sat unopened for a day. The last few emails had been exceptionally rough, and Amara was certain that opening the final one would be the end of everything.

She pushed back from her desk and stood, hands rising to slide through her curly, voluminous hair, disheveled from her frustrations. For the last three days, Amara had canceled every class she taught, including a guest-lecture gig at another campus.

What else was there to do when your life’s work was falling to pieces right in front of you? Withdrawing seemed the only option.

The sunny scene outside her office window mocked her misery: laughing couples holding hands, people studying together around the fountain, an impromptu touch football game among a number of the new arrivals. Their enthusiasm marked them as freshmen, and she knew they’d be stripped of that perkiness before long by the academic load they’d carry in their second year.

She easily recalled her time as a student at the university, the sleepless nights poring over texts about not only agriculture, her chosen field, but also economics, ethics, and sociology. All those classes helped cement her future path.

Amara drew the blinds and began pacing back and forth from bookshelf to bookshelf, half-whispered curses and frets spilling from her lips. The vibrancy of the young, hopeful students outside only further drove home the fact that her life’s work was coming to an end right in front of her … and for the most pedestrian, pointless reason possible.

An asshole of an ex.

“One wrong decision is all it took,” she muttered, heaving a sigh of frustration.

She stopped pacing and stared up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe this. If somebody could come in and wake me up, that’d be great. Any time now. Anyone?”

She paused for a long moment, indulging in further theatrics to vent her frustrations. “Worst. Nightmare. Ever.”

It was time. Time to get it over with. Time to open the final email.

As she turned back to her laptop and leaned over the desk, her phone chimed quietly in her pocket. She pulled out the phone and read the text message from her best friend, Kari Henson.

Are you in your office?

I’m coming over.

Be there in a sec.

Kari, usually upbeat and vociferous, was uncharacteristically terse in her wording. Amara pocketed the phone.

Of course it was Kari. Every time Amara was in need, whether she knew it or not, her best friend always tried to parse out and solve her problems for her — not that either of them minded the arrangement.

Amara was grateful to have the support, and despite Kari being something of a meddler, her intentions were always good. Unfortunately, she was a little late to rush to the rescue this time, and she’d likely kick herself over it for months.

Amara spoke aloud to no one in particular. “What’s the point of rushing now? It’s done. It’s all done.”

Her hand hovered over the laptop’s touchpad. She dreaded opening the email from FoodFirst and stalled by reading the subject line. It read much like the others:

Re: Cassava grant

She clicked on the line, her eyes instantly scanning the length of the page, trying to take it all in at once.

Amara practically slumped over in relief. The subject line may have been the same as the others, but the content was most definitely, miraculously different.

FoodFirst wasn’t withdrawing the grant. They would continue funding her while awaiting the outcome of their independent investigation into the accusations against Amara.

Unshed tears of gratitude burned her eyes. Her work might yet survive.

This grant was substantial and gave her hope that she might be able to continue her humanitarian work in Nigeria specifically and sub-Saharan Africa in general. The funding from FoodFirst would allow her to expand into several other countries and work closely with local farmers in rural areas where her assistance was needed the most.

Amara had been working for years to turn the humble cassava root into a safer, more nutritious staple food. Not a first choice because of its ample shortcomings, cassava was nonetheless cultivated year-round by subsistence farmers as an insurance crop for periods of drought or famine.

Because of its safety-net role in the all-too-often occurrences of shortage, it was vitally important that the root be made safer and more nutritious. For many people in developing nations, it could mean the difference between life and death.

Amara closed the laptop with trembling hands. To say it had been a long couple of days was a dramatic understatement. She’d hardly seen anyone and had spent most of her time trying to do damage control with not only her sponsors, but the university.

She couldn’t face anyone. The outrageous accusation that she’d fabricated the results of her field trial with false data had put her entire professional and humanitarian future at risk, and there seemed to be no stopping the momentum of the train wreck.

A loud knock sounded at the door, and it was opened almost immediately as Kari strode in with purpose. Her relaxed curls bounced as she made her way to Amara’s desk and let the door swing shut heavily behind her. She held her hands out in a gesture of disbelief.

“What the hell’s going on?” she asked. “I haven’t heard from you in days, and now I hear Frederik is lying and telling everyone you falsified your results?” Her dark eyes flashed

. “How could he say something like that? More importantly, how could people believe him? I haven’t been this mad in ages.”

Amara nodded mutely.

Kari scowled. “I should’ve known something was up with him. I was going to tell you as much when you got together, that his aura was all kinds of malicious looking, but you know that’s one area I try to steer clear of. What could drive a person to do something like that, honestly? What kind of vindictive little —”

Amara sat up straighter, giving a slight wave of her hand. “Just … sit down. Thanks for coming to check up on me. I was going to call you, but … well … I didn’t because I’ve totally lost it.”

Kari pulled her paint-stained apron off, folded it with practiced precision, and placed it in her lap as she sat in the plush guest chair across from Amara.