Kidnapping the Billionaire's Baby

“Well, if that’s how it is then that’s that. I hope, though, that because I raised you alone you don’t think that was how I wanted it. I didn’t. I wanted a father for you, Amara. It just didn’t work out that way.”

“You’ve never told me why not.”

Raneesha took a deep breath. “Your father was a decent boyfriend, and I was gonna marry him, but the closer your delivery came, the more things started falling apart. He and I couldn’t make it work. So I raised you on my own, and I’m proud of that.”

“See? You did it on your own. So can I,” Amara said.

“Nobody can tell me not to be proud, because I worked hard to give you everything you needed and as much of what you wanted as I could. I’ve tried to be a good mother. But Amara, baby, you gotta understand that Hampton has different needs than you did. He’s a boy. He needs a father, a man who’ll teach him what it means to be a man. Someone to guide him through those trials only men know about and experience, same as how I got to guide you through those pitfalls of being a growing girl.”

Amara found it impossible to argue the point. “I get that. But my situation is complicated.”

Raneesha sat forward. “Any decent father might be better than no father, Amara. He doesn’t have to be perfect. If this man has made mistakes with you, remember that people can change.”

Amara shook her head. “No. No, I’m sorry. Momma, I can’t talk about this right now. I have a dinner to get to.”

She stood quickly, grabbed her purse, and then made her way toward the door without a word of parting. She was stopped by a gentle hand at her shoulder.

Raneesha spoke softly, and reassuringly. “Whether somebody else raises that boy with you or not, he belongs to his father as much as to you. People can change, Amara. I simply want Hampton to have a chance at a life with two parents.”

This was the moment, Amara thought. This was the moment to come clean, to admit everything to her mother, all she’d held back, all she hadn’t said.

Tell her, tell her now that you lied, and that you made a devil’s bargain with a billionaire.

She looked into her mother’s gentle brown eyes, so caring and earnest, so well-intentioned. How could Amara do it, break her belief in her daughter? Amara couldn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever. Damn.

She gently slipped out from under her mother’s hand, turned and blinked the tears away as she headed to her car. She waved goodbye. There was simply no acceptable way to explain what was going on. Not yet anyway.

She hoped everything would become clear after the meeting with Quint.

AS AMARA MADE HER WAY TO THE front desk of the Forsythia, a wave of dizziness overtook her. The relatively low chandelier-light of the room where she knew Quint sat seemed so far away, though she only stood across the lobby from the door. It seemed like another world entirely, and one she was having a very hard time convincing herself to enter.

The suited front desk clerk leaned in toward her. “Are you okay, Ma’am? May I help you with something?”

Amara’s lips moved silently as she stared through the large glass panes of the ballroom door. When she realized she hadn’t answered, she turned to the kind-looking young man and nodded. “Yes, I’m here to meet someone. I’m Amara Davis.”

The man smiled brightly. “Of course. We’ve been expecting you. Let me call someone to escort you to the ballroom.”

“That’s not necessary. I see the doors right there.”

“As you wish. Enjoy your meal, Ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

Amara strolled slowly toward the doors, unconsciously slowing down the closer she got. That glittering room wasn’t her world, and never could be. Aside from a single short dinner with a sponsor of her work, the closest she’d come to it before was the handful of board meetings she’d attended in one of the hotel’s conference rooms.

Even with all the nice restaurants in town, the hotel’s dining room was constantly booked for out-of-town businessmen, ambassadors, wealthy citizens, and upper-crust professionals of all stripes. With the soft accompaniment of a symphonic quartet, the place had an air of not only sophistication, but secrecy, with the tables spaced out as far as they were.

She stepped through the doors. Several beautifully dressed couples waltzed on the large, parquet dance floor. The small string ensemble was seated to one side, playing what Amara thought was a Strauss composition.

The room was sumptuously appointed in its original art deco style. The only detail missing was joyful flappers shamelessly flirting with men in tuxes.

Quint was easy enough to pick out in the corner even from so far away. His hunched posture and dark, gle

aming hair drew her notice immediately.

She hovered in the doorway. She hardly acknowledged the maitre’d who stepped up beside her. She told him her name, and with a brief bow, he led her toward Quint.

Quint’s eyes were firmly trained on the wine menu in front of him. He sighed. Had she kept him waiting? After all he’d been through, she could have at least given him the courtesy of being punctual, whether she wanted to be there or not.