Scoring the Billionaire(15)

"What?" she asked softly, and then, realizing my intention, shook her  head. "You don't have to leave, Wes. She's fine. On her way home from  St. Luke's now. She saw a doctor I know and trust, and my brother is  with her."

"But you're leaving, right?"

She paused, confusion influencing the features of her face to pull tighter. "Well, yeah."

"Then I am too."

"Wes … " she started, but I didn't let her finish.

"I'll take you. I have my car, and it'll get you there a lot faster than the subway."

That sealed it-without even a moment of question.

"Okay."

Apparently, I wasn't above using a mother's love for her child to get my way.

The real surprise, though, was the way I was fighting so hard to get it.

By my own doing, I, Wes Lancaster, self-proclaimed kid-phobic and anti-family man, was about to meet her daughter.

Fuck.




Winnie had only been surprised briefly that "my car" was, in fact, a car  service. I did, after all, drive myself to the stadium daily, and our  timing had been such on a couple of days that she'd witnessed this for  herself.

But driving around the city was a nightmare I didn't particularly like having-especially not in a recurring capacity.

Because of that, I only used my personal vehicles when I was driving  outside of the city or somewhere I knew would have easily accommodated  parking.

Winnie lived in a nice brownstone uptown, and thankfully, the traffic  had been sparse as we'd catapulted our way there from The Metro in  Midtown.

But she hadn't paused to take in the scenery upon our arrival, so I  hadn't either, following her into the house and signaling my driver to  wait for my call with a gesture over my shoulder. There wasn't time for  anything else.

Winnie didn't even notice I'd followed her, so intent on laying eyes on  her daughter that nothing else mattered in a consequential capacity. I  didn't blame her for it, and more than that, I made absolutely no  attempt to call attention to myself. I had the distinct feeling the only  reason I was actually gaining entry into her home was because she  didn't realize I'd done it.

Down a long, molding-lined hallway, we made our way to the kitchen, the  bright lights of it shining like a beacon the entire way. Winnie didn't  pause or falter in her quest to touch her daughter and reassure herself  of her safety, moving across the room swiftly and with purpose, but she  did it in a way that wouldn't rekindle the flame of her daughter's own  anxiety. A soft kiss to her cheek, a sweep of her blond hair from her  tiny shoulder, and a look into her daughter's eyes were all Winnie  needed to know she was all right. One brief perusal of the six or so  stitches on Lex's chin, and Winnie's shoulders visibly relaxed like a  deflating balloon.

So entranced by the interaction, I didn't even notice there was anyone else in the room.

"Who the fuck are you?"

I couldn't say the same for the man stalking in my direction with steel  in his gray eyes and menace in his posture-a man who, I presumed, was  Winnie's brother Remy-because, boy, he had noticed me.

His features mirrored Winnie's, and his authoritarian presence reminded  me of the drive I saw in her every day. But he was dark to her light,  his nearly jet black hair and olive skin at complete odds with the blond  and fair nature of everything Winnie.

And murder raged behind his eyes.

At once, a thought I'd never before popped unwittingly into my mind:  thank fuck for Thatch. Years of standing unblinkingly in the face of the  big, bulky giant's threats had prepared me for this moment.         

     



 

The answer to Remy's question didn't come from me, though. And it didn't come from Winnie either.

"You're Wes Lancaster," Winnie's daughter stated boldly into the tense  room. Remy's surprised eyes left me immediately, but I didn't take  notice for long. My gaze followed his to the source, and at roughly  three-and-a-half-feet tall, Winnie's daughter, Lexi, made a far more  imposing sight than I would ever have expected.

With a rough swallow to suppress my nerves, I jerked my head up until my  eyes found Winnie's. She smiled a little, unsure but confident all at  once. "Lexi is pretty into the Mavericks," she explained, tilting her  head down to look at her daughter. "Right, Lex?"

Lexi looked up to me and back to her mother quickly. I expected her to  meet my eyes again, but they never quite made it back, instead focusing  vaguely on the column of my throat.

God. I wonder if she noticed the nervous swallow.

"Self-made restaurateur, one of Forbes' wealthiest men under thirty-five  with a net worth of four-point-six billion dollars, owner of the New  York Mavericks for six years with a five-year stretch including five NFC  East titles, two NFC Championships, and three trips to the Super Bowl  with one Super Bowl victory," she rattled off easily, counting off each  number she said with a flick of the appropriate number of nimble little  fingers.

Apparently, when your eyes almost bug out of your head, it makes you stutter. "Yeah. Uh. Yeah. That's … that's me."

Remy's assessing gaze found mine again immediately. I avoided his eyes  in all the ways I could think to-by looking at literally every other  person in the room.

I glanced up at Winnie, but her face was hidden as she put some cookies  out on a plate on the counter, so I forced my awkward attention back to  her daughter. Her attention was so intimidating, I found myself  considering looking back to the angry, two-hundred-or-so-pound man.

"Do you have a favorite player?" I asked, trying to be normal and  thanking my lucky fucking stars I had knowledge of the subject matter.

"Quinn Bailey went for over five thousand yards in the regular season  last year, fifty-five touchdowns, and only threw ten interceptions."

I looked to Win again as my eyebrows shot to my hairline. Her daughter was fucking incredible.

"Where does she go to school, Win? College?"

A blush flushed the apples of her cheeks before trailing slowly down the  line of her neck. It was unbelievably fucking inappropriate, with her  brother and her daughter in the room, but I couldn't steer my mind away  from one thought.

I hope to God she's turned on.

You're such an idiot, my brain rebuked. And I knew it was right. I  cleared my throat in an attempt to banish any such inappropriate  thought.

Tipping my gaze back down to her daughter, I found Lex looking at me  intently, her intelligent eyes like laser beams straight to my insides. I  hoped like fuck she couldn't read minds.

"So … " I ventured. "Quinn Bailey is your favorite?"

She blinked, her chin tucked to her chest as she peeked up at me from  below. She looked slightly evil and like she might eat my soul. Which,  ironically, was exactly how I'd been picturing children for years. My  illusions of them weren't nearly this smart, though. Fuck, I wasn't this  smart.

"No."

Done with me, she turned and walked right out of the room without  looking back. I half expected her to give me the old middle finger  salute over her shoulder as she left.

I wasn't really sure what was going on, but I thought, maybe, just  maybe, Winnie's six-year-old daughter had just schooled me. Hard.

It took me a minute to turn around as I stood there staring after her retreating form.

Winnie spoke hesitantly from behind me. "I'm sorry. She's … well, Lex is different."

Her voice sounded funny, and not the kind that made me laugh. I turned  to face her in the hopes that visual cues would provide some kind of  clue as to the reason.

A line pinched the skin between her brows, and the corners of her lips  turned up. It was a self-conscious mix of embarrassment and pride. And  for the life of me, I couldn't understand the first.         

     



 

"Don't apologize to this guy," Remy told her caustically.

Unflaggingly, I agreed with his message, but unlike Remy, I had no plans  to address it directly, and I sure as fuck wouldn't have used that  tone.

Working hard to turn my glare down to a simmer, I looked from Remy to  Winnie and softened everything about myself when I saw the insecurity on  her face.

Winnie was a brilliant woman-one who didn't need me or her brother or  any-fucking-body telling her anything about the way she raised her  daughter or didn't. She could draw her own conclusions from the awe in  my voice.

"She's awesome. I can't believe she knows all that shit," I told her, confessing, "I don't even know all that shit."

Remy nodded, seemingly satisfied with my response, and turned back to  his sister, his hands going accusingly to his hips when he noticed  something other than his night of crisis and the "stupid fuck" her  sister had brought home for the first time. At least, that's what I  figured he thought of me.

"What in the fuck are you wearing?"

She rolled her eyes and waved him off. "It's a long story."

When he raised his eyebrows like he was waiting for her to tell it, she went on, "One I'm too tired to tell."

I watched like a ping-pong ball, oscillating back and forth from one to  the other as they exchanged an entire additional conversation with just  their eyes.