The British Billionaire's Baby Page 2

  No, Sebastian preferred to keep things simple; and really, he was usually so busy with his business ventures that he found little time to lose himself in a woman. Unlike his numerous other relations, he didn’t plan on relying on his title to keep him afloat. Yes, when his father died he would be the next Duke of Raithwithe, but he didn’t plan on being only the Duke of Raithwithe. Since he’d finished his stint in the army he’d managed to amass quite the fortune of his own – outside his parents’ realm of influence.

  However, as much as he might want to escape his mother and father, there was no escaping the British political machine. A man in his position was expected to marry and have heirs, and both the press and the political upper crust were having a field day with his continued bachelor status.

  Though he would have liked nothing more than to tell the lot of them to sod off, Sebastian had long learned that one couldn’t always say what one felt in his position. He supposed that eventually, he’d settle down with some positively mind-numbing European Literature major daughter of some Earl or the other, but until that point, he planned to enjoy any time away from his parents that he could get.

  “Everything’s clear, sir.”

  Amir, his head of security, delivered the message curtly as the rest of his team beat a hasty exit.

  “Lovely.” Sebastian drained the last of his first glass of whiskey, relishing the slow burn. “Now get out, and don’t come back until I’m drunk.”

  “Very well, sir.” Amir dipped his head respectfully, an amused smirk playing about the corners of his mouth. If he had to be guarded, Sebastian had to admit that there were probably worse men to do it. Amir had served with him in the army and was as efficient as he was tolerant of his compatriot’s bullocks. Turning on his heel, he retreated, leaving Sebastian blessedly alone.

  Thank Christ.

  He poured himself another whiskey, savoring it more slowly this time as he crossed the plush room to venture out onto the balcony. The late March air was brisk, and in the streets below, gray tinted slush still endured, winter’s fingers clinging to the city. He had to admit that he didn’t have a very high opinion of the city in the early spring. It was grayer and duller, even, than London. But beneath its colorless exterior, he knew that some of the world’s best culinary and artistic gems were hidden here.

  If only he could get past the brash exterior of the Americans that frequented them.

  First, he resolved, he would get drunk enough to sleep for a few hours, and then tomorrow, after another business meeting, he would start fresh. He was going to enjoy this trip even if it killed him.

  **

  “You’re joking.”

  “I assure you, dear, I’m not.”

  Whooping, Gabby leapt into the air, mindless of the art supplies she scattered about the interior of her tiny apartment. Tristan had ventured uptown to bring her some of his homemade Italian wedding soup – one of her biggest weaknesses. However, that wasn’t the only treat he had for her.

  “They really want my work?”

  Tristan grinned, the gesture lighting up his handsome face. “Phillip took a few of your smaller pieces and, apparently, they were chomping at the bit. They want to feature you at an event this Friday.”

  The young woman’s eyes widened. “Friday? That’s in three days!”

  “It is, indeed.”

  Whirling, Gabrielle immediately picked her way through her cluttered apartment to the tiny closet in the corner. Yanking the door open she immediately began to rifle through the space for something appropriate she might wear. According to Tristan, Estelle’s was one of the hottest and most upscale wine bars in the city. Being featured there suggested poise, class, and connections.

  Unfortunately, nothing she owned conveyed any of those things.

  “No.” She tossed aside a paint-streaked sweater dress. “No.” And then a slinky black number that was two sizes too small. “No, no, no.” Within minutes, her floor was further littered with clothing as she grew more and more frustrated. Finally, the young woman threw her hands up and turned to face Tristan, her expression desperate. “Tristan, help me!”

  He placed the glass container he’d bought on the nearest available open space – which just so happened to be a book on her unkempt bed. “Help you what?”

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” Gabby groaned in horror. “Everything’s too small. Or too old. Or covered in oil paint.”

  “Well, that’s what happens when your creative moments take over your life.”

  “Ha, ha.” Gabby’s reply was dry as she fixed her companion with a displeased look. “Very funny. I’m serious! I need to look like a professional.”

  Tristan gave her current outfit – that dwarfed her small form and a plaster-splattered crop top – a once over before the gravity of the situation seemed to strike him. “Oh, Lord. Gabby…we need a shopping trip. Immediately.”

  “Great! There’s a thrift store down on 128th! Let me grab my bag-”

  Before she could even reach for the years-old canvases tote, Tristan took her firmly by the arm, his expression horrified. “I am not going into a thrift shop with you. Darling, this occasion calls for something a bit more impressive than Osh Kosh circa nineteen ninety five.”

  When she started to protest, he cut her off firmly. “Don’t worry about how much it’s going to cost. Consider it a loan. You can pay me back when you sell all of your paintings. We’re going to Saks.”

  Gabrielle’s eyes widened in disbelief. Despite living in Manhattan her entire life, she couldn’t recall ever stepping onto Fifth Avenue in anything other than transit to another part of town. Of course, one would have to be blind not to notice the sparkle and shine of the name brand stores and the goods in expertly lit windows, but to her, one name brand was just the same as the other – equally expensive and equally out of her reach.

  “Tristan, I can’t let you. It’s just a one-time thing. That’s way too much-”

  “A one-time thing that will lead to more times. No, stop. I don’t want to hear it.” He actually covered her mouth with a slender finger to keep her from rebuffing him. “Listen to me: I’m telling you what you’re going to do. You’re going to find somewhere in this mess for us to sit and then we’re going to have soup. Then we’re going down to Saks and we’re going to find you a knockout dress and I’m going to pay. If you say one more word on the subject I’m going to have Phillip design a glass box to seal you in. Is that understood?”

  She couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled to her lips at the empty threat. Slowly, she nodded and Tristan slowly drew his finger away from her lips, his own curving upward in approval. “Lovely. Now, do you have any clean bowls in this place at all?”

  CHAPTER 2 - Exhibition

  Three days later, Gabrielle stood in front of the mirror in Tristan’s expansive master bath, examining herself critically. He’d refused to let her dress on her own, at her apartment, for fear that she’d be taken in a creative moment and ruin her five hundred dollar dress.

  Even thinking of the price was enough to make the young woman cringe. It was half of her rent – as much as she made in two weeks; and an absolute drop in the bucket to Tristan. However, she was bound and determined to pay him back. It might take her a good two months, but she was going to find the money if it killed her.

  Or, she could sell all of her paintings tonight and pay him back immediately.

  The thought made her laugh at its ludicrousness. Gabrielle would be ecstatic if she sold even one piece. Though she knew Estelle’s was a prestigious spot, that didn’t make her or her art as high class as she was going to pretend.

  Even if she admitted that the dress was a damn near perfect costume.

  It was gorgeous enough for even a jeans and t-shirt girl like herself to appreciate – a confection of navy silk that fell in a low sweetheart neckline across her chest and exposed her shoulders. She knew she wouldn’t be able to eat much in it, as the garment fit her like a second skin, hugging her from he
r bust to her knees.

  Tristan had also procured for her a pair of sky-high stilettos that already hurt her feet and she’d barely been wearing them for five minutes. Her shockingly painted toes were exposed by the open front style, matching the French manicure she sported. Tristan had assured her that the details were necessary in order to keep up her elegant appearance.

  Someone had been called in to do her hair and makeup and she’d been stuck, immobile, in a chair for three hours; but she supposed the efforts of the two women who had painted and yanked her to within an inch of her life were rather astounding. Her face was contoured, the fullness of her mouth emphasized and her eyes rendered hooded and sensuous. Her usually untamable mahogany locks had been set in a series of soft waves swept back from her face and tumbling halfway down her back.

  The addition of her mother’s diamond pendant and earrings – some of the few things she had remaining from the woman who had raised her – served to make her into a very striking figure indeed. She barely recognized herself.

  Carefully, she did a little three sixty before the mirror, cursing her pinching heels. How the hell was she supposed to survive in these things all night and be charming?

  “You look amazing.”

  She whirled, stumbling in her sky high heels and almost falling before Phillip caught hold of her arm to steady her. It was funny – for all of Tristan’s flamboyant, masculine beauty, the man he loved was actually quite ordinary looking. Phillip hosted run of the mill brown hair cut close to his head, brown eyes, and thick glasses, without which he was completely blind. He did stand about an inch or two above his husband, and Gabby knew enough about the man’s generosity and artistic brilliance to know exactly why Tristan had chosen him.

  Smiling at his compliment, she straightened, once more working to find her balance in her heels. “Thanks, Phillip.”

  “That, my love, is the understatement of the century. She looks ravishing. Glorious. Absolutely breathtaking.”

  As Tristan entered the bathroom, himself looking absolutely stunning in a perfectly tailored black tux, Gabrielle merely rolled her eyes at his opulent flattery. “I can’t breathe and I can barely walk.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Tristan stepped forward to take her chin between his fingers, turning it this way and that critically. Waiting for his assessment, Gabby arched a brow.

  “So am I ready, or what?”

  The designer smiled widely. “As you’re ever going to be, dear. Let’s be on our way! Our carriage awaits!”

  The carriage turned out to be a taxi and Gabby had plenty of time for her stomach to work itself into knots as they headed downtown towards SoHo. Tristan and Phillip had assured her that quite a few of the city’s social elite frequented Estelle’s, and even though her paintings weren’t astronomically priced, she could expect to see quite a buzz over them.

  Gabby was more concerned about keeping her head than she was about selling her paintings. She was used to not selling. What she wasn’t use to was milling around with a bunch of people who made more in a minute than she’d made in her entire life.

  “You’ll be fine.” Her gaze rose to meet Tristan’s as he reached across the seat to take her hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly. His amber eyes were warm with confidence. “This night is going to change your life, Gabby. I can feel it.”

  To call Estelle’s posh would have been the understatement of the century. Nestled between an art gallery and a designer boutique, it was artfully lit, its interior buzzing with a bevy of New York socialites, all sipping on the latest and most expensive vintage wines. When Gabby took her first steps into the plush interior, it took everything she had not to turn tail and flee.

  She didn’t know anything about the upper crust. She had grown up in Harlem and a fancy night out for her and her mother had consisted of Manna’s Soul Food and a movie. This…velour everywhere and a candlelit wine bar with classical music playing and diamonds sparkling…she felt distinctly out of her element.

  That was, until she caught sight of her paintings. She had selected about twenty pieces to be hung in the wine bar for her showing, and the moment her eyes fell on the first – under a beacon of light and surrounded by appreciative arts enthusiasts, her heart leapt in excitement. Not a single person in the crowd that surrounded the painting had an expression of disdain or boredom. They were all gazing at the piece as though transfixed as they spoke in low murmurs.

  They liked her art. They liked it!

  “There, you see?” She looked up to see Tristan beaming down at her, his expression smug. “You’re a star. Now,” he pressed her gently in the direction of the throng. “Go introduce yourself. They’ll salivate over you. I’m going to go grab us some drinks. Coming, darling?” As always, Phillip was hot on the heels of his rock star husband and the two of them hurried off towards the bar, leaving Gabby utterly alone.

  Taking a deep breath, the young woman gazed around the space, stiffening her spine. She could do this. She could. Her head held high, she marched towards one of her pieces, hoping to God that her feet didn’t shrivel and die before she could establish herself as the golden child.

  **

  What a day.

  Sebastian had risen at five thirty in order to make an early meeting downtown with a financial investor that promised to double his income within the next five years. While the presentation itself had been rather forgettable, he had gotten to watch the sun rise in the floor to ceiling windows behind the pompous man’s head. Seeing the city bathed in hues of red and gold light had certainly been something.

  He’d been running for the rest of the day. There had been more meetings – a short interlude with the mayor for coffee to discuss the economic state of things in Britain and then, of course, his mother had wheedled him into heading down to Fifth Avenue and popping into one of her favorite shops to procure a new bag. As much as the woman professed to detest Manhattan, she certainly didn’t mind sending him off on her expensive chores.

  It was evening before he had a moment to breathe – and Sebastian hadn’t wasted it. Though he knew it was bad decorum, he had slipped Amir and the rest of his guard to head out into the city on his own. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t take care of himself, and anyway, Amir and the suits needed a break. They might lose their heads for a minute or two, but he wouldn’t do anything rash. He merely needed a moment away from all the pomp and circumstance to be himself. The title that followed him was often a great deal more trouble than it was worth.

  He meandered around the southern part of the city, taking in the architecture and reacquainting himself with the wide streets before straying into SoHo. After purchasing a pair of polished leather shoes that caught his fancy, he stumbled upon the front display of an intimate looking wine bar. The place was packed, with a sign announcing the exhibition of an up-and-coming artist.

  He would have passed the place by, if he hadn’t been stopped in his tracks by one of the paintings itself, which took up a large portion of one of the front windows.

  Sebastian stared.

  He’d seen his fair share of large portions of canvases taken up by “works of art” which were really just children’s attempts at flicking paint around for fun. Watching such idiocy sell for thousands of dollars had always astounded him. Despite all his mother had tried to instill in him, he’d never really been an art fan.

  Until now.

  The piece before him had all the markings of the abstract – no defined pattern or edges and no distinct rhyme or rhythm. However, it was evident, if one looked into the masses of color, that someone had taken deliberate strokes and placed the hues in specific places in order to convey…something.

  He considered the image before him – a widespread spiral of blues, oranges and greens interspersed with streaks of black. Expression, it was called, and it was on sale for about five hundred dollars. The price alone was enough to give him pause. He’d seen pieces that contained half the forethought and depth of this one go for ten times as much. This was
a piece that spoke to him. Oddly, he, who had never truly appreciated Rembrandt or any of the classical painters, found himself moved by the wild strokes of the panting in the window. It was, he decided, a woman artist. One with a lot of pent up passion and frustration – perhaps prone to childish fits.

  He was completely enamored.

  Immediately, he entered Estelle’s and inquired about the piece. To his delight, it hadn’t been sold yet. Within moments, a deal was made and the painting was his. He acquired a celebratory glass of champagne before moving away into the crowd to take a look at some of the other pieces. He was instantly glad he hadn’t passed over the place, as the champagne was top notch and the music inside very tasteful.

  He felt slightly underdressed, in a simple pair of slacks and a dark polo shirt, but the proprietor hadn’t seemed to mind. No distinctly untoward looks were cast his way and within moments, he was absorbed in yet another piece – this one called ‘Fury’. It was a series of violent arcs of gold, silver and red done on a diagonal piece of canvases and the moment he saw it, he pictured it in the study of his London town home. He bought it in short order.

  Sebastian was retrieving a second glass of champagne when a very solid shape collided with him before stumbling slightly. Reflexively, he reached out to take hold of a slender arm to keep the victim from falling as a low curse reached his ears.

  “Shit. I’m so sorry. I hate these goddamn things.” An obviously feminine voice floated up to him, spouting epithets that would have made his polished mother blush. Sebastian immediately arched a brow in amusement as she righted herself before him.

  “You hate art exhibitions?”

  “No.” She huffed before raising her face to meet his gaze properly. “Heels.”

  For a moment, rational thought fled Sebastian’s mind. The woman was absolutely breathtaking – a vision in a navy silk dress that displayed a tantalizing view of her cleavage and slender shoulders. Her figure was lush in all the right places, her waist fetchingly small and her legs long. She did indeed seem to be slightly unsteady in her sky-high heels, but her uneven stance couldn’t take away from the exotic beauty of her face – dark caramel hued skin, soft gray eyes, a pert, small nose and a mouth so full he instantly longed to kiss it. Her hair tumbled almost to her waist in dark waves and she tucked an errant curl behind her ear as she inspected her dress to make sure she hadn’t spilled any champagne on it.