The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride: A BWWM Romance Read online

  The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride

  by Imani King

  ***

  I just had the best sex of my life with New York's most eligible playboy bachelor, billionaire Preston Easterbrook. There are only three problems.

  #1: He's my brother's best friend.

  #2: I hate his guts.

  #3: I’m now pregnant with his child.

  Actually, make that four problems. After I told Preston he was going to be a dad, he chased me down on the street and proposed marriage. Unfortunately, the paparazzi were there too. I fell during all the commotion, hit my head, and now I can't remember anything.

  When I wake up with amnesia, I'm being cared for by the New York's sexiest bachelor. Supposedly I hated this guy, but I can't figure out why. He's strong and successful. He's loving and patient. He treats me like I'm the only girl he's ever wanted. Was I too blind to see it all these years, or is there something really big I'm forgetting? Maybe it's best if I don't remember. There's a wedding coming up, and I don't want this fairy tale to end.

  ***

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  Copyright Information

  The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride

  Copyright © 2015 Imani King. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, celebrities, characters, places, businesses, trademarks and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons alive or dead is entirely coincidental. None of the celebrities, trademarks, works of art, artists, or businesses mentioned in this book endorse this book unless otherwise specified. All stock art and fonts were either purchased or made availalbe free for commercial use by the artists/designers. None of the models, photographers, artists, font designers, etc endorse Imani King or her work unless otherwise specified.

  Chapter 1

  Preston Easterbrook.

  There isn’t a person in Manhattan that doesn’t know that name. He’s New York’s most eligible bachelor and most notorious manwhore. Men want to be him and women want to marry him—or at least be under him for one glorious, unforgettable night.

  I knew him before he was all that.

  Back then he might have been half the size, but his ego still burned as hot and bright as the sun. And every time he deigned to visit my humble childhood home, he made sure he’d burned his cocky visage into my retinas before he left.

  At ten, he had the shiniest bicycle on the block with the loudest bell. At sixteen, the hottest car on campus with the loudest horn. And now, at the ripe age of 25, Preston Easterbrook decided to stick his office in the biggest building in Manhattan. I swear, the only reason you couldn’t see it from space was because he couldn’t secure the permit.

  Was he overcompensating for something? Oh, most definitely. And I wish I could say it was for the size of his dick, but I unfortunately I knew from experience that it wasn’t.

  Or should I say fortunately? Because that night was, hands down, the most…

  I shake my head. No, I was not going to finish that thought.

  “Arrogant ass,” I whisper under my breath. I know exactly how Preston would respond if he heard me say that: But it’s a sexy arrogant ass, isn’t it? And after he said it, I’d tell myself rather sternly not to encourage him, but I wouldn’t listen to my sound advice because when it came to him I just couldn’t let anything go. I mean, my blood is already boiling and we haven’t even started talking. This meeting was going to be hell, and my only comfort was that he’d be dragged into the flames with me.

  The paparazzi circling the entrance for scraps of gossip like vultures pay me no heed, and why would they? Sure, I was a hot up-and-coming artist, but it wasn’t like my face was plastered all over every magazine in the city. With my paint splattered jeans and hair pulled back into a messy bun with one of those gigantic, neon multi-colored scrunchies from the 90’s, they probably thought I was here to clean the toilets. Little did they know I secretly carried what would have been the biggest scoop of their entire careers if they’d cared to notice.

  Which they didn’t.

  And thank God for that. I didn’t know how I was going to tell my brother. As Preston’s best friend and business partner, he wasn’t going to take it well. Still, he’d want to hear it from me, not from the front page of the Times as he leaned back to enjoy his morning coffee.

  You can do this, Tachell, I tell myself as I slip through the gold rotating doors. Preston first. The rest of the world could come later.

  The inside of the building is even more decadent. The marble floor stretches out over the lobby like a black mirror, reflecting the emerald leaves of exotic plants. My boots clack as I make my way to the front desk.

  An older man impeccably dressed in a black suit and tie raises his eyebrows instead of greeting me.

  I drum my fingers on the dark, polished wood of the desk. “I’m here to see Preston.”

  Those bushy salt and pepper eyebrows of his immediately drop into a frown. “Last name?”

  “Easterbrook.” I’m tempted to say Easterbutt; I don’t because I’m no longer six.

  His pointer finger starts clicking frantically. I bet I interrupted a game of Spider Solitaire. “I don’t see you on the schedule,” he informs me.

  “That’s ‘cause I’m not on it.”

  “I can’t let you see Mr. Easterbrook without an appointment.”

  “Oh, he’ll see me.” Even though he had no idea what was coming, Preston never turned up an opportunity to infuriate me. Me showing up where he worked would make it easy. Hell, he’d probably be thrilled…at least until I opened my mouth.

  The impeccably dressed man took a long look at my less than impeccable attire. “I’m sorry, miss.”

  “Just give him a call,” I begin.

  He sighs, reaching for the phone. “Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave—”

  “And tell him Tachell Jones is here,” I finish.

  The man tilts his head to the side. “Did you say your last name was Jones?”

  I give him a dazzling smile. “Yeah. I’m Reggie’s little sister.” It wasn’t often dropping a name like Reggie got you anywhere, so I decided to milk the moment for all it was worth.

  “Oh,” he says, as if that explains everything.

  Wait a minute! I’ve never even met this guy, how would he know about me? But before I can ask, he’s on the phone and talking to whom I can only guess is Preston.

  “Mr. Easterbrook, I’m so sorry to bother you—yes, I know you’re busy—”

  My heart starts beating faster.

  “However, a Miss Tachell Jones is here to see you and she’s quite insistent—”

  Actually, I’m feeling a bit light headed. Maybe I should sit down. Get a coffee. Yeah, coffee sounds good. Vodka sounds even better. Too bad I wouldn’t be enjoying any alcohol anytime soon.

  “Yes. Right away, sir. Of course, sir.” He then hangs the phone up quietly and looks at me.

  “Preston’s office is on the 70th floor. You’ll find the elevators to your left.”

  Even though I have never seen Preston’s office, I know exactly where it is and what it looks like. The man will not shut up about it and it’s glorious view of the water—a view that is especially beautiful at night and, apparently, best enjoyed when he’s “working late.” Still, I thank the man at the front desk for his directions and head for the elevators.

  There are six of them all lined up in a row. I press the little up arrow closest to me and watch the n
umbers descend.

  50…49…48…

  I still have time to leave. I don’t have to do this in person. Actually, why was I doing this in person? I could do this over the phone. Text. Email.

  22…21…20…

  Yes, email was a brilliant idea! And then, I could cancel my phone. It was getting way too expensive, anyway. Despite the success I’d enjoyed at last month’s show, I still fit the description of a starving artist. Yeah, phones were overrated. So was checking my email. In fact, I bet I could get away with checking it once a month.

  9…8…7…

  Yeah, checking my email once a month was more than enough. And next month, maybe I’d be ready to talk to Preston. Maybe.

  3…2…1…

  The elevator doors open with a ding.

  No, I can’t hide from this. It doesn’t matter how much I hate him, he deserves to know. And telling him face to face is the only way to do it. I push my shoulders back, straighten my spine, and step into the elevator.

  Then, I hit the number 70. It starts glowing like a scarlet A.

  It takes a long time to go up that high in an elevator, leaving me way too much time to think. I start to doubt the wisdom behind my decision to come here right after work. I look like a mess, and not a hot one. I should have gone home, showered, done my hair, and put on something nice. That’s what a smart woman would have done. But no, I didn’t want Preston to think I was dressing up for him.

  But this might have been going too far in the opposite direction. My fingers are smeared with charcoal. My jeans and boots are covered in gesso, and the only reason my black shirt wasn’t covered too was because I’d been wearing my potato sack smock. Thank God I hadn’t decided against wearing that. Sometimes, when life turned to shit, you really had to step back and appreciate the small things.

  Finally the doors open on floor 70. I strut out of the elevator like I’m dripping in diamonds instead of splattered in paint.

  His very cute—and very blond—receptionist raises her perfect brows. “Miss…?”

  “Tachell,” I tell her.

  Her entire demeanor changes. In a flash, she goes from the stereotypically bitchy cheerleader captain to that sweet girl who bakes everyone brownies on Valentine’s Day. “Oh, you’re Tachell! I’m so sorry!”

  Sorry for what? And why did she say my name like that?

  She smiles. “I’m sorry, I’ve just heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  What the hell? What has Preston been telling her about me?

  She gestures behind her. “You painted this, right?”

  I glance behind her and stop.

  It’s the still life from my first show. I’d done it for a class assignment, but had ended up turning in another painting because this one was too personal. We were supposed to paint something from our childhood. I’d picked a small bouquet of lavenders.

  My father was the groundskeeper for a super exclusive k-12 prep school. Because of that, we were able to attend the school tuition-free. Every day, I saw him watering flowers, landscaping, and pruning trees on campus. Unfortunately, the other kids saw him too.

  Is that your dad, Tachell? They’d asked. Is he a gardener?

  I was too ashamed to answer. Their fathers were senators, lawyers, doctors, and CEOs.

  Tachell’s dad is a gardener! Are you really poor? Is that why you brought old bread to the class party?

  I didn’t answer. I just looked straight ahead until it was time to go home to the quaint cottage just behind the High School dorms.

  Every night, as my mother cooked dinner, my father would tend to the small garden he kept in our backyard. He grew practical things like leafy green vegetables, winter squash, berries and herbs. But there was a small part of the garden you could see from the kitchen window, and there he grew lavender for my mother.

  Love, for me, had never been roses or lilies. It was a small, light purple color and possessed a calming scent so strong it could clear your head or fill a room. It was the way my father quietly smiled whenever my mother entered the room. It was the way she’d softly place her hand on his shoulder. It was the way you knew just by looking at them that there wasn’t a single thing they’d change about their lives, because all of the tragedies and heartache they’d faced had brought them together.

  I’d wanted to paint that.

  Instead, I’d defiled it.

  I couldn’t think straight at that time. Love had broken me. Love had scarred me. And so I’d taken that sacred image of love and twisted it. The bouquet looked damaged, like it had been squeezed in a fist and then thrown to the floor. Dark, brutal lines filled the background, threatening to devour the delicate lavendar’s petals. The painting didn’t depict love, it depicted anger.

  I remember how relieved I’d been when the coffee shop had accepted it into the show. It was a powerful painting, but not one I ever wanted to see again. Still, the day I walked into the coffee shop and saw a little red sticker by the label signaling it had been sold, I’d never been so happy. Someone had actually bought something I’d done.

  So why did Preston have it?

  Preston had no right to have this painting.

  He was the last person I wanted to have it.

  “I just love this painting,” the receptionist says.

  I blink, suddenly back in the present. I look up to find her staring at me expectantly.

  “Oh. Thanks,” I mutter.

  “I’ve asked Mr. Easterbrook if he’d be willing to sell it to me. I don’t make enough to buy one of your paintings, of course…but I thought maybe he could gift it to me instead of a Christmas bonus. I’d even leave it up in the office. But he says it’s not for sale. I swear, he guards your paintings like a dragon guarding his gold.”

  Paintings? As in, he had more than one?

  I glare at the over sized red doors. They were so obnoxiously bright and big I just knew his office had to be behind them.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to keep you,” the receptionist stammered. “You can go in now. Mr. Easterbrook is expecting you.”

  Expecting? More like he’s lying in wait, ready to pounce the moment I open the door. But that was alright. I was ready to fight back.

  I storm through the doors into his office.

  The doors close immediately behind me.

  I rub my arms. It’s unnervingly chilly in here. I guess it’s apt. Hell would have to freeze over before I stepped foot in Easterbrook’s office. I squint in the dim light. Maps, bookshelves, and art adorn the dark wooden walls. And most of that art is mine.

  I clench my hands into fists, grit my jaw, and look forward.

  Preston wasn’t joking. Two of the walls in his corner office are floor to ceiling windows with a fantastic view of the city. It probably is breathtaking at night. Even right now, on such an overcast day, it’s breathtaking. I feel like I’m floating above the city. It would be wonderful if I wasn’t also floating with him.

  My eyes still haven’t adjusted to the dim light, so I can just make out his dark, lean, muscular form lounging on the edge of his desk. There’s a dazzling flash of white as his sexy lips curl back into a devilish smile.

  “Hello Tachell.”

  Chapter 2

  His blonde hair is tussled and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone. His tie is nowhere to be seen. Knowing his reputation, that’s probably for the best. I bet it’s next to a frilly pink thong on the floor behind his desk.

  I try to be disgusted. Really, really, really try. But goddamn, it’s hard to feel anything other than my pounding heart and tightening stomach as a sickeningly sweet giddiness gallops through my core like a hundred wild stallions.

  Yes, Preston Easterbrook is The Devil. And do you know what? The Devil is hot as hell.

  He’s got high, sharp cheeks and a chiseled body that belongs in a museum of very fine art. The man redefines the term mind fuck. He’s everything your mother would not even dare to warn you about because she knew it would put truly dangero
us thoughts in your head. Thoughts like the ones in my poor head at this very moment.

  Those dark, piercing blue eyes of his narrow on me. For a moment, I can’t breathe. I feel well and truly caught. It is then that his lips curl up into a smile, and I’m immediately transported to that night two months ago when I made the biggest, sweetest mistake of my life.

  I was locking the door to my studio, drained and eager to go home, when I heard him speak.

  “I heard about Clarence.”

  I stiffened, trying hard not to allow his low, dark voice to affect me. My keys jingled as I plopped them into my pocket. “Oh yeah?” I asked without turning.

  My neck tensed as he rested his hand on my shoulders. Preston rarely touched me. Oh, he offered to plenty enough and he started early. I think the first time he asked if I wanted a free mammogram was when we were thirteen. (I declined. Then kicked his shin. Next time he came over to my house, he was wearing shin guards.)

  Luckily, the guy did nothing more than offer. There were times when he almost made a move, but whenever he touched me he pulled away so fast that it left me wondering if it had even happened or if I was just imagining it.

  But that night his hand lingered, and I stupidly didn’t pull away.

  Slowly, his hand moved down to the small of my back.

  I shut my eyes as an awareness that was both welcome and unwelcome at the same time flooded me.

  He leaned in almost close enough to touch. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he whispered as his minty breath caressed my neck.

  And you do? I almost asked condescendingly. Clarence’s cheating ass definitely didn’t deserve all the time I’d given him…but then again, Preston definitely didn’t deserve me either. But sometimes when your heart is broken, you don’t think about mending it. That night, I didn’t dream of a fairy godmother coming down in a sparkling rainbow beam and magically making everything better. For a few hours, I just wanted to forget.