The Billionaire’s Secret Babies(10)

He’s in a suit, complete with tie, crisp and pressed. His expression is back to the one he wore when he first met me, dead serious. Not warm or caring at all. “I have a meeting,” he says. “You found everything you needed in the office yesterday, I trust?”

I blink and nod slowly. “Yes, everything was there…”

“Good. Then you can get back to work while I’m out.” Without another word, he’s gone.

I stare after him, frowning. That kiss, the feeling of his body against mine, is still all I can think about.

What would have happened if the babies hadn’t interrupted…?

I guess we’ll never know.





6





I work until late afternoon, when I hear the elevator open again. I’ve made good headway – refiled everything he showed me yesterday, got his calendar transferred, and even started sorting out some spare drawers I found in the office, other papers, older ones, that seem like they could use re-organization.

But when the elevator sounds, I push back from the desk, give the babies a quick pat – they’ve been so well-behaved and calm all day – and head into the hallway.

“Cassius?”

“Good afternoon.” He’s still got his formal face on, suit and all. He meets me in the hall, not quite willing to meet my eye. “How have you been getting along?”

“Fine. I finished the filing. But I need to catch the bus home in a half an hour, so –”

“No need to inconvenience yourself. I’ll have my driver take you whenever and wherever you need to go.”

I blink. “I take the bus every day, it’s not a problem. I just need to pack up the twins.”

“Public transit with children cannot be easy,” he counters.

My face flushes a little. “Well, no. But I’m used to it.”

“So why not take my driver?” he asks, seeming genuinely puzzled.

“I didn’t – I just don’t want to be an inconvenience,” I mumble.

He watches me for another long moment, studying me. Then he starts to walk away, beckoning over his shoulder for me to follow. “I have an idea.”

“What do you mean?” I frown, following him.

Ugh. One moment he’s being overly kind, the next he’s acting like I should obey his every whim. What is with him?

“Get the twins’ things,” he says, waiting beside the elevator. “I’ll explain downstairs.”

Rich guys, I decide, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. But hey, he is paying me. So I grab the kids’ diaper bag, pack up the room I stayed in last night, and then I follow him to the elevator. He hits the lowest floor, below the first. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, confused.

For his part, he’s still avoiding me. This time, though, he avoids me by staring at the kids instead. He sticks his tongue out, and Lucie giggles. Then he crosses his eyes and manages to get Luca smiling too.

If he acted like this all the time, I think I’d be doomed. It’s too sweet, the way he plays with them.

We reach the bottom floor, and he waves me out first. I push the stroller into an underground garage. There’s a few dozen cars parked here, but he passes them all, walks right toward a separate garage, partitioned off from the rest with a locked door. He opens it, and I swallow a gasp as we step inside.

There’s about ten cars in here, all sparkling clean. They range from a few vintage models – iconic cars like a Thunderbird that even I recognize, and I know nothing about cars.

But he passes those and walks straight to a brand new BMW. It looks like it hasn’t been driven at all yet; it’s cherry red, with a roll-down top, and a surprisingly roomy set of seats.

“This will probably work best,” he’s saying, tapping the hood before he strides past the car to a storage locker on the far side of the room.

“Work best for what?” I ask. Then he opens the locker, and my mouth actually does drop open.

He pulls out not just one, but two car seats – rear-facing, designed for children the twins’ age, and tucks one under each arm, carrying them back toward the car.

“Seriously,” I say, almost laughing now. “The bus seems easier at this point.”

“Once we have this set up, it won’t be any inconvenience at all,” he points out. He fastens one car seat into the back, and I give up and cross the garage to join and help him buckle in the other.

“But you’ll have to take these in and out all the time. What a pain.”

He catches my eye. “No I won’t. This car will be yours.” He pats the seats again, and my eyes must pop out of my head like a cartoon’s.

“Cassius, I cannot accept a car from you.”