Kidnapping the Billionaire's Baby

QUINT LEANED BACK AND GAZED at her steadily.

Amara stared, slack-jawed. “What do you mean, you’ll take both of us?”

“I said exactly what I meant.”

He couldn’t be serious, she thought. “You mean, you want us to live with you? Me and Hampton?”

“I think it would be best for Hampton if we got married. But we can live together first, for a while, if you’d like.”

“That wasn’t any part of our deal.”

“As you pointed out, the conditions of our deal were created before everything changed. We’ll have to be more creative now, in how we handle a difficult and emotionally charged situation.”

“Do you think I’m going to marry you because you want your son, and I want to be with him? Listen, I don’t have a problem sharing custody, but what you’re talking about is crazy. We had our chance at that conference, and you blew it. You really blew it, and I think you know that — don’t you?”

“Back then, yes. But I thought that you and I … I thought the situation had changed during your pregnancy. We were friends, were we not?”

“Yes. Friends.” Nothing more than that, though, Amara thought. A tiny voice inside her squeaked that Amara had spent more than a few lonely nights imagining what it might be like to be more than friends with Quint. She squelched the unwelcome reminder.

Quint raised a hand for one of the roaming waiters. The man leaned down to listen and gave a quick nod, rushing off to the back.

“Amara, I know, you’re right. I can’t expect to appear again after being gone for so long and expect that things will be as they were, or as you pointed out, more than they were. It was presumptuous of me to suggest. I apologize.” A deep frown pulled hard at the corners of his lips, his eyes glistening in the candlelight.

He didn’t look sorry, that was for sure. He looked pissed off, actually. And hurt? No, surely not. More likely, the hurt was the result of the pain he must still be suffering from his injuries.

She reached across the table and placed a hand atop his, stroking softly. She ignored the ever-present buzz she always experienced when she touched him. “I’m so sorry, Quint.”

He pulled his hand away and then appeared to steel his nerves, locking gazes with her. “I want to see my son. You can’t keep him from me. Maybe we can figure out a joint-custody situation, like you suggested. I don’t know.” The coldness and worry in his voice began to wane, giving Amara encouragement that he was coming to a better place, a place where he could truly hear what she was saying.

“I don’t want to keep Hampton from you,” she said softly. “He’s your son, too. And you’ll be good for him, I’m certain. And I’m even more sure he’ll be good for you. He’s such a special baby, Quint. So beautiful and smart and inquisitive. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Oh, don’t get me started. I’ll never shut up.”

“Perfect,” he said.

Amara picked up her purse and pulled out the envelope she’d placed inside it before she left her house. She pulled a photo out of the envelope and handed it to Quint. “This one was taken a few days ago. He was sleeping in his crib, and he looked so angelic I couldn’t resist getting a shot of it.”

Quint reached to take the photo, his hand trembling slightly.

She watched him get his first look at his son.

The intensity on his face was near heart-breaking. His eyes moved rapidly over the picture as he took in every detail. He swallowed hard, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“And here,” she said, pulling out her phone.

She found and cued up the short video she’d taken last week. “Hit play,” she said.

Quint set down the picture as if it were a delicate, prized treasure. He took her phone and played the video.

It was incredible watching him watch and hear his son. He smiled, truly smiled for the first time that night. The longer he watched, the more lit up he became.

“He loves that rattle,” Amara said, smiling at the memory of the video. “He gets to shaking it, and the next thing you know he’s going wild, kicking his feet and waving his arms even faster. He loves making a racket. And that grin of his. I don’t know. We may have a musician on our hands, not a scientist or a business mogul like his parents.”

Quint blinked back tears and laughed at his son’s antics. “That’d be okay,” Quint said, “as long as he’s happy. He’s got my eyes, but everything else … he looks like you.”

Amara couldn’t miss the tenderness in his voice, and it warmed her heart.