Have Baby, Need Billionaire(7)

"That's the bottom line, yes." She angled her head to look at him. "I told you this earlier today."

"The question," he continued, again ignoring her input, "is how do we   reach a compromise? I need time with my son. You need the time to   observe me with him. I live in San Francisco and have to be there for my   job. You live here and-where do you work?"

"Here," she said, taking another bite and chasing it with a sip of wine. "I write books. For children."                       
       
           



       

He glanced at the rabbit-shaped salt and pepper shakers and thought   about all of the framed bunnies in her living room. "Something to do   with rabbits, I'm guessing."

Tula tensed, suddenly defensive. She'd heard that dismissive tone of his   before. As if writing children's books was so easy anybody could do  it.  As if she was somehow making a living out of a cute little hobby.  "As a  matter of fact, yes. I write the Lonely Bunny books."

"Lonely Bunny?"

"It's a very successful series for young children." Well, she amended   silently, not very successful. But she was gaining an audience, growing   slowly but surely. And she was proud of what she did. She made children   happy. How many other people could say that about their work?

"I'm sure."

"Would you like to see my fan letters? They're scrawled in crayon, so   maybe they won't mean much to you. But to me they say that I'm reaching   kids. That they enjoy my stories and that I make them happy." She fell   back in her chair and snapped her arms across her chest in a clear   signal of defense mode. "As far as I'm concerned, that makes my books a   success."

One of his eyebrows lifted. "I didn't say they weren't."

No, she thought, but he had been thinking it. Hadn't she heard that tone   for years from her own father? Jacob Hawthorne had cut his only   daughter off without a dime five years ago, when she finally stood up to   him and told him she wasn't going to get an MBA. That she was going to   be a writer.

And Simon Bradley was just like her father. He wore suits and lived in a   buttoned-down world where whimsy and imagination had no place. Where   creativity was scorned and the nonconformist was fired.

She'd escaped that world five years ago and she had no desire to go   back. And the thought of having to hand poor little Nathan off to a man   who would try to regulate his life just as her father had done to her   gave her cold chills. She looked at the happy, smiling baby and wondered   how long it would take the suits of the world to suck his little  spirit  dry. The thought of that was simply appalling.

"Look, we have to work together," Simon said and she realized that he didn't sound any happier about it than she was. "We do."

"You work at home, right?"

"Yes … "

"Fine, then. You and Nathan can move into my house in San Francisco."

"Excuse me?" Tula actually felt her jaw drop.

"It's the only way," he said simply, decisively. "I have to be in the city for my work. You can work anywhere."

"I'm so happy you think so."

He gave her a patronizing smile that made her grit her teeth to keep from saying something she would probably regret.

"Nathan and I need time together. You have to witness us together. The   only reasonable solution is for you and him to move to the city."

"I can't just pick up and leave-"

"Six months," he said. He drained the last of his wine and set the empty   goblet onto the table. "It won't take that long, but let's say, for   argument's sake, that you move into my house for the next six months.   Get Nathan settled. See that I'm going to be fine taking care of my own   son, if he is my son, and then you can move back here … " He glanced   around the tiny kitchen with a slow shake of his head as if he couldn't   understand why anyone would willingly live there. "And we can all get  on  with our lives."

Damn it, Tula hadn't even considered moving. She loved her house. Loved   the life she'd made for herself. Plus, she tended to avoid San  Francisco  like the plague.

Her father lived in the city.

Ran his empire from the very heart of it.

Heck, for all she knew, Simon Bradley and her father were the best of friends. Now there was a horrifying thought.

"Well?"

She looked at him. Looked at Nathan. There really wasn't a choice. Tula   had promised her cousin that she would be Nathan's guardian and there   was no turning back from that obligation now even if she wanted to.

"Look," he said, leaning across the table to meet her eyes as though he   knew that she was trying and failing to find a way out of this. "We   don't have to get along. We don't even have to like each other. We just   have to manage to live together for a few months."

"Wow," she murmured with a half laugh, "doesn't that sound like a good time."

"It's not about a good time, Ms. Barrons … "

"If we're going to be living together, the least you could do is call me Tula."                       
       
           



       

"Then you agree, Tula?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"Not really."

He was right, she told herself. There really wasn't a choice. She had to   do what was best for Nathan. That meant moving to the city and finding  a  way to break Simon out of his rigid world. She blew out a breath and   then extended her right hand across the table. "All right then. It's a   deal."

"A deal," he agreed.

He took her hand in his and it was as if she'd suddenly clutched a live   electrical wire. Tula almost expected to see sparks jumping up from   their joined hands. She knew he felt it, too, because he released her   instantly and frowned to himself.

She rubbed her fingertips together, still feeling that sizzle on her   skin and told herself the next few months were going to be very   interesting.





Four




Two days later, Simon swung the bat, connected with the baseball and   felt the zing of contact charge up his arms. The ball sailed out into   the netting strung across the back of the batting cage and he smiled in   satisfaction.

"A triple at least," he announced.

"Right. You flied out to center," Mick Davis called back from the next batting cage.

Simon snorted. He knew a good hit when he saw it. He got the bat high up   on his shoulder and waited for the next robotic pitch from the  machine.

While he was here, Simon didn't have to think about work or business   deals. The batting cages near his home were an outlet for him. He could   take out his frustrations by slamming bats into baseballs and that   outlet was coming in handy at the moment. While he was concentrating on   fastballs, curveballs and sliders, he couldn't think about big blue   eyes. A luscious mouth.

Not to mention the child who was-might be-his son.

He swung and missed, the ball crashing into the caged metal door behind him.

"I'm up two now," Mick called out with a laugh.

"Not finished yet," Simon shouted, enjoying the rush of competition.   Mick had been his best friend since college. Now he was also Simon's   right-hand man at the Bradley company. There was no one he trusted more.

Mick slammed a ball into the far netting and Simon grinned, then punched   out one of his own. It felt good to be physical. To blank out his mind   and simply enjoy the chance to hit a few balls with his friend. Here,  no  one cared that he was the CEO of a billion-dollar company. Here, he   could just relax. Something he didn't do often. By the time their hour   was up, both men were grinning and arguing over which of them had won.

"Give it up." Simon laughed. "You were out classed."

"In your dreams." Mick handed Simon a bottle of water and after taking a   long drink, he asked, "So, you want to tell me why you were swinging   with such a vengeance today?"

Simon sat down on the closest bench and watched a handful of kids   running to the cages. They were about nine, he guessed, with messy hair,   ripped jeans and eager smiles. Something stirred inside him. One day,   Nathan would be their age. He had a son. He was a father. In a few   years, he'd be bringing his boy to these cages.

Shaking his head, he muttered, "You're not going to believe it."

"Try me." Mick toasted him with his own water and urged him to talk.