Pregnant By The CEO

But despite my anger, I have to admit that Miss Casey Henderson is still pretty damn attractive. I’d correctly guessed her hair color from the newspaper photo: rich chocolatey curls. She’s a bit flushed, perhaps from the warm spring day, and I can’t help but think it might be from me. After all, women have a tendency to fall at my feet. Heck, I could snap my fingers, and a couple females would appear from thin air, begging for attention.

But back to Casey. She must be dressed for work. Her blouse, a buttery yellow sleeveless chiffon, gapes a bit to reveal a peek of her ample cleavage. I can see a tiny peek of her bra, a soft pink in color. She’s in a charcoal grey pencil skirt, which accentuates both the round curves of her lovely tummy and her sizeable bottom. Her skin is smooth and creamy, like the palest milk spattered with just a few freckles here and there.

I quickly shake my head. Snap out of it, Pierce. She may be beautiful, but she’s also the hag who wrote that trash about you in the paper. Don’t let her charm you with her looks.

Finally, Casey looks up.

“I’ll have a cappuccino, please. And a raspberry croissant.” She smiles graciously at the waitress, who nods in response, scribbling our simple orders onto her notepad.

“You sure you don’t want a pastry?” the dreds-girl asks me. “We’ve got these lovely muffins that just came out of the oven—”

“No, my espresso will suffice. Thank you.”

The waitress shrugs again and leaves. I’m left staring at Casey, who is watching the bearded barista churn out coffee. Is she avoiding my eyes? I clear my throat. She notices and that amber gaze flicks towards me.

“So, how can I help you?” she asks, finally looking back at me, her chin quivering ever so slightly.

I snort in response and the woman breathes in deep and sits up straighter.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s do this. You expect women to put up with your shit, right ? The way you treated that girl, not to mention nearly plowing me down on the sidewalk …. Well, you’re a real piece of work, Mr. Lane.”

I feel anger flash through my brain. Even more surprising, I feel dismay at hearing this gorgeous woman speak to me with such dislike. Why does it matter? Why do I care what this person thinks, anyhow? She’s just a random journalist and I’ve dealt with journalists in droves before.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say evenly, keeping my expression neutral.

“Sure I do,” she flicks her glance away as if impatient for her food. “I know enough.”

“Great. Who am I, then?”

She turns towards me and looks me straight in the eye.

“Let me see. You’re a playboy who thinks he runs New York because he’s rich. Right so far? Extravagant lifestyle, floats through life with moneybags at his feet. Raised to think he could do no wrong and actually deserves his luxurious possessions.”

She’s completely wrong, and it stings that someone I don’t even know thinks this of me. I’m angry, but there’s something else too. I hate to admit it, but I’m aroused. Being so close to this luscious female has made my male instincts go haywire, and I’m five seconds from sweeping her off her feet and into my bed. So I focus harder on my anger. This is your nemesis, the voice in my head warns again. Don’t lose it.

I glare at her. “Wrong, Miss Henderson. You are so wrong.”

She lifts a graceful eyebrow. “What about my assessment is wrong, exactly?”

The waitress returns to the table with our coffees. She places a little pastry in front of Casey, who promptly breaks it in half. Chocolate and raspberry preserves ooze out onto the plate. With a little eye-roll, she offers me some.

I shake my head, instead opting for a long sip of my espresso. The hot liquid scalds my throat.

I watch Casey swirl the chocolatey foam floating at the top of her cup. She dips the corner of her croissant into the frothy beverage, takes a nibble of the soggy pastry and sighs again with delight. Man, who knew food could be such an aphrodisiac? I glower in her direction even as my body heightens with arousal. The zip of my pants is positively straining now.

“Your assumption, Miss Henderson, is wrong,” I say flatly. “You don’t know where I come from. You don’t know who raised me. You don’t know anything about my values or what’s important to me.”

She laughs. “Oh, a self-made man, are we?”

I shake my head. There's never any use in lying to a journalist.

“No. I’m not,” I admit. “My father is Winston Lane.”

She raises an eyebrow, but is unfazed by the name-dropping.

“I don’t care who your daddy is, Mr. Lane. I care about how you treated that poor woman who wrote me.”