Kidnapping the Billionaire's Baby (A BWWM Romantic Suspense) Page 2

  Amara’s great-grandmother was Nigerian, and in Amara’s quest to discover her ancestry when she was a girl, she first learned of cassava’s central role in the African diet. Already science-minded as a child, she became determined to make her mark on the world by easing the burden on the families who relied on the root crop.

  With cassava as a mainstay in the Nigerian diet, Vitamin A deficiency was endemic to the region, as were goiters and even hypothyroidism. Moreover, the unprocessed root contained dangerous levels of cyanide. While the starchy root was drought-resistant and hardy, it had to be heavily processed before it was minimally safe to eat.

  Amara had made remarkable strides in raising nutrition and lowering toxins. Her whole life, it seemed, had been leading up to the point where she found herself three days ago — finally ready to move into full-scale production and distribution of the beta carotene-rich, yellow cassava, Amara’s creation. Her hope for a better tomorrow for millions.

  And then the unthinkable had happened, and thanks to lies and deceit, all her hopes and work may have been for nothing.

  As she passed in front of the student union, she almost literally ran into the last person she wanted to see.

  Frederik.

  Damn.

  Standing a full foot taller, he loomed over her in the same sort of way she used to find comforting. But that was back when she thought of him as her protector, not her enemy.

  Before she even looked up, she recognized him by the way the rings on his fingers were arranged, his arms folded over his chest. His spicy cologne filled her nose the moment she approached.

  She kept her gaze low for a long moment, gathering the wherewithal to look up at him coldly, squelching her despair because she’d be damned if she’d let him see what he’d done to her.

  “Ah, best to watch where you’re going, Professor Davis,” Frederik said, his mellifluous voice carrying a heavy Uruguayan accent.

  It was a beautiful voice, but when he was being sarcastic or condescending he laid it on thick, dragging the words out and rolling the “r” wherever present.

  “Where might you be off to in such a hurry?” he asked in a snide tone, as if he already knew the answer.

  Amara looked at him. He was a statuesque, handsome man with distinguished gray side-stripes in his slightly curly jet black hair and deep bronze skin. He dressed impeccably and had always struck her as the image of sophistication.

  But his looks and classy demeanor masked his true, treacherous nature.

  Her mouth set in a hard line. “It’s none of your business. Excuse me.”

  As she moved to walk around him, he placed a hand firmly on her shoulder. “Are you angry with me, Amara? What have I done to you, hm?”

  He pretended to try to suppress a mocking laugh. “Just because we are no longer together does not mean we cannot be friends, yes?”

  She jerked her shoulder back hard, his touch dissolving her efforts to stay cool. “Fuck you, Frederik. Fuck you, you know exactly what you did.”

  “So I do,” he returned with obvious pleasure.

  Damn him, she thought.

  “And you know why I did it,” he said. “You knew better than to cross a man like me, Amara.”

  She refused to respond, but that didn’t deter him from continuing.

  “When I speak, the people, they listen,” he boasted smoothly. “The important people. The people who never would have given you the time of day if not for my endorsement. All the ambition in the world won’t get you funding. I did that.”

  He grinned widely, his perfect white teeth flashing in the sunlight. “And you decide to get holy on me when it is time to reap the rewards of our hard work? You do not play the game as I do, and so, you have lost.”

  Intense anger bubbled up from inside her like a sour taste. “I haven’t lost.”

  He reeked of smugness. “Poor girl. Frederik Orlando always wins. The sooner you know this, the sooner you can try to rebuild what your pride has destroyed.”

  “Go to hell, Frederik.” Amara’s right hand trembled at her side as she suppressed the urge to swing up and get one good slap in. She decided against it and forced her way past him, shoving him aside with her shoulder. “And stay out of my way.”

  He laughed cruelly as she walked away. The tone of his laugh said he knew something she didn’t. It unnerved her deeply, but she wouldn’t show him that. She’d give him no satisfaction.

  She was on the stairs to the second floor of the administrative building before she stopped to dry the angry tears from her eyes.

  VISITING DEAN WILSON’S OFFICE WAS always an unnerving experience. He was a pragmatist above all else, and had a tendency to come off cold and uncaring in pursuit of efficiency and progress. He’d been with the university for well over three decades and, for the last five years, had been its Dean.

  His office was meticulously organized and cleaned, almost excessively so. Amara always thought that, at home, he must be the kind of man to keep plastic on his furniture to preserve it.

  Behind his desk was a massive bookshelf that spanned the entire back wall. Aside from a single, large painting of a university area on each side, the walls were entirely unadorned.

  The one piece of opulence in the room was the desk. It seemed cut from a single massive trunk of mahogany, the grooves and decorative vine and flower carvings masterful and symmetrical.

  Amara was stunned to silence when, upon entering, she saw Dean Wilson was smiling. It was the first smile she’d seen on him in private, his smiles always reserved as public, ingratiating displays for donors and influential alumni.

  His snowy white brow rose, and he motioned to the guest’s chair. “Please, come and sit, Professor Davis.”

  His voice was uncharacteristically bright and warm, almost unnervingly so. Her mind immediately began jumping to every conclusion that could be indicated by a sudden shift in demeanor like his, and very few of them were good for her.

  It seemed likely that he was being kind to prevent her from becoming too angry or vengeful after he fired her. She wasn’t even sure if she could be upset about such a smarmy approach, considering all she’d already lost in the last few days.

  Now, her teaching position would simply be one more thing tossed out the already broken window of her career.

  While she sat down, Dean Wilson arranged the papers spread out over his desk into a neat stack and placed them aside. For a long moment he stared her down, no doubt trying to come up with the perfect way to fire her or urge her to quit of her own accord.

  His fingers drummed lightly against the table, and he gave a low hum of consideration before speaking. “First and foremost, I want you to know that I have nothing but faith in you, Professor Davis. I am utterly unconvinced by the allegations made against you.”

  “Er, thanks,” Amara mumbled, beyond shocked.

  “I’ve been a close follower of your work since you arrived,” he continued, “and I’m extremely pleased to have someone so bright and hard-working teaching our students. We’re a meritocracy, here — seniority means little in matters such as these, so don’t worry yourself. That, however, is not why I called you in.”

  Amara mentally blew out a big breath. No matter how much Frederik had taken away from her, he wasn’t the final authority on her teaching position, at least. Thank God. Considering what a thorough man Dean Wilson was, she now felt a bit silly for thinking he might judge her on one man’s word alone.

  There was no way to hide the rush of apprehension fleeing her, and she folded her hands over her purse in her lap as she straightened up in the chair. “Thank you, Dean Wilson. I’m relieved to hear that you’re in my corner.”

  He appeared surprised by the sentiment. “Of course I am, Professor Davis. I don’t pay much heed to personal accounts. Your data and methods seem sound to me. You submitted everything you had when you returned from the trip, and I don’t need to remind you that the university has a claim on your work, too. Of course I wanted to see what came of
our investment. I was very, very pleased to see the progress made toward making your strain viable and available in the region.”

  Amara’s skeptical side returned in full force. She read between the lines and knew the dean was actually saying it was in the university’s best interest that her results not be dismissed. So it wasn’t so much that Dean Wilson believed in her, but more that he was obligated to believe in her.

  Damn. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  She said what was expected. “I appreciate your faith in me, Dean.”

  He smiled again. “Of course. Regardless of all this, I’ve actually called you in today for a different reason altogether.”

  Amara’s brows shot up.

  “Yes,” he said. “I wish to speak to you about a donor.”

  A donor? Now of all times? Amara’s happiness was replaced by an ugly suspicion. It seemed like he was about to pressure her to sell to the same people Frederik had and was merely buttering her up with all the high praise. That seemed the likeliest scenario, now that firing was off the table.

  As much as the dean’s levelheadedness was a comfort to her regarding Frederik’s allegations, it didn’t bode well for monetary matters, and the quickest way for the university to see a return on its investment was to sell off the research.

  Then again, it was possible Dean Wilson was just eager to show her accomplishments off to a potential donor to secure funding for the University.

  Either way, it was worrying that she was about to be used as either an example of excellence or as a snake charmer meant to assure an otherwise cautious or undecided donor to open his checkbook.

  The Dean cleared his throat softly to break up the silence that had fallen between them. “Anyway, as I said, there’s a donor here who would like to speak with you. He could very well become not only a vital supporter of your work, but also a cardinal donor for the university.”

  Her true feelings must have shown on her face because his voice became more strident. “I’d ask that you give him a little bit of your valuable time, and hear what he has to say.”

  He sat up, seemingly ready to spring out of his chair to fetch the aforementioned benefactor the second she agreed.

  After some hesitation, she said, “Yes, Dean Wilson. That’s fine. Considering the problems I’m having with funding currently, it’ll be good to speak with someone who’s interested in the work. I’d be happy to help secure more funding for the university too, if I can.”

  The dean picked up his office phone and opened a line with the front desk. “Please send our guest in. Yes, thank you.” He hung up quickly and stood. “I’ll leave you two to it. It’s important to have time for a private discussion before things move forward. Again, I have nothing but confidence in you, Professor Davis.”

  He nodded once before making his way around the desk and out the door.

  How bizarre and abrupt, Amara thought. She was left perched on the edge of her seat, feeling more like bait than a professor, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it now.

  She stood and turned to face the door, waiting for the guest to enter. The whole interaction was strange, and out of character for the dean. Not only was he never so ingratiating and kind, the concept of privacy in a matter of funding was fundamentally at odds with his usual policy.

  The door opened, and Amara’s stomach took a dive. She knew the man instantly. He closed the door firmly and stood there, his gaze taking in Amara with a possessiveness she remembered well.

  Oh yes, she knew that gaze, this man. He was no stranger.

  Billionaire investment shark. Quint Forbes.

  He was dressed, as he always was, in a suit which undoubtedly cost more than her car. From the narrow waist and broad shoulders to the immaculately coiffed, dark hair, Quint was a man who demanded notice.

  She avoided meeting his pale blue eyes that flashed brightly. She could never forget those eyes. They were the seat of his power, and this man was power personified.

  Dean Wilson’s deference and uncharacteristic good grace suddenly made sense. Quint was an unimaginably wealthy man, with untold worth and business interests in multiple sectors and most countries. He was a perennial player in both science and commerce, oftentimes together.

  He was most well-known as an angel investor for start-up biotech endeavors, and his support was generally seen as a one-way ticket to success.

  His gaze traveled over her and he broke into a full-on smile when she finally met his eyes. “Amara Davis. It’s been far, far too long,” he said in his rumbling, deep voice.

  When she didn’t respond, he continued speaking while he crossed the room to stand before her. “Perhaps a year, now? A bit longer?”

  Amara found her footing, nodded slowly. “Something like that,” she said, her voice steadier than she anticipated from her shaky start.

  “So you haven’t forgotten me,” he said, more statement than question.

  Forget Quint Forbes? Impossible. No one who’d ever met this man could forget him. Especially not a red-blooded, heterosexual woman.

  Or, more specifically, not a woman who’d kind of, almost, slept with him. Like Amara.

  Chapter Three

  MORE THAN A YEAR AGO, Amara met Quint Forbes at a conference on economic development in third-world countries.

  Everyone knew who Quint was, billionaire extraordinaire. She’d hardly checked in to the hotel where the conference was held when she overheard the excited buzz that Quint Forbes was attending. She’d had to have been a diehard Luddite living in an underground bunker not to know the man.

  Amara had given a presentation on hunger solutions, and Quint was in the front row of the audience. To say he’d thrown her off her game was an understatement. He’d nearly made her forget there was a game at all.

  She’d managed to complete her lecture passably enough, but it had been a challenge to keep from staring continuously at the striking man. He drew her eye to him both with his amazing good looks and with his flatteringly attentive regard. And he was older, in his mid-thirties, which was right where Amara liked her men.

  After the presentation, Quint had approached her with a load of questions and a heady dose of personal chemistry. Amara couldn’t help but wonder how anyone kept their focus around him. No wonder he got the better of so many business deals.

  When he asked her if she’d like to continue their conversation over drinks in the hotel bar, she hadn’t hesitated for even a moment. His obvious pleasure at her agreement set her insides tingling in a delicious, unexpected way.

  She may have giggled more than once. But she hoped not.

  Amara eventually came back to her normal self, more or less, once they’d settled into a cozy corner booth of the old-world-style bar. They shared a healthy spark of attraction for one another, and for Amara, the spark was made even brighter by the fact that Quint was so interested in her work and philanthropy in general.

  Before long, the conversation had moved to dinner. To this day, Amara couldn’t remember what she ate that night, and she kicked herself for it. It was the only time she’d eaten in a Michelin-starred restaurant, and all she recalled was that she had some kind of fish that melted on her tongue.

  But her inability to recall what she ate was more than made up for by her memory of the first time Quint touched her. They’d both been reaching for some bread when their hands collided, and Amara half-jumped from the jolt of electricity that passed between them.

  She’d never felt anything like it: a hard-wired shock that went up her arm and shot straight down to her lower belly. It was a delicious thrill, and she thought, “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want this man.”

  Later, she’d brush off that bit of silliness, chalk it up to the effects of too much fine wine and the potently masculine scent of Quint’s exotic cologne.

  But in the moment, it had been a perfect storm of seduction. His interest in her work, in her, his considerable personal charms — Amara defied any woman to have resisted him.
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  And when all was said and done, she hadn’t resisted. She wound up in Quint’s lavish suite.

  That was where he’d first kissed her, right inside the door. He held her waist and pulled her close, looked deeply into her eyes and said all the right things.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said, his deep voice sending delicious shivers down her spine.

  She leaned forward in invitation, so there’d be no doubt. She wanted him to kiss her.

  And he did.

  He tasted of expensive wine and something indefinable, something that was uniquely his. If lust had a flavor, then he tasted of it, and it was intoxicating.

  Before she knew it, he unzipped her dress, and she pulled off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt.

  He had a chest like a Greek statue, all defined curves and hard, unyielding muscle covered by unblemished, smooth, tanned flesh. She pressed her hands against his pecs, and he moaned and pushed her dress down, peppering kisses across the top of her bared cleavage.

  Like everything else with him, she was swept up in a whirlwind that was bigger and faster than anything she’d experienced before. He soon stripped her naked, and she didn’t once worry whether she looked good enough, was enough.

  She saw in his pale blue, wolf eyes that his desire for her was so pure, there could be no doubt of what he thought of her. In that moment, she was flawless, as was he, to the point that there was no thought attached to it at all.

  She wanted him. He wanted her. It was more than enough.

  It was everything.

  When he swept her up into his arms and carried her toward the bed, she threw her head back and laughed in abandon.

  “This is crazy,” she cried.

  He smiled a million watts worth of pleasure. “I know. And I don’t give a damn. I want you too much. You are perfectly lovely.”

  Floating in a fog of euphoria, she batted her eyelashes. “You’re sure it’s me you want, and not my perfectly lovely cassava, right?”

  He lowered her to the mattress and lovingly set her down with care. “I don’t give a damn about your cassava right now.”