The Billionaire's Christmas Bundle Of Joy - A Secret Baby Romance Read online

  THE BILLIONAIRE’S CHRISTMAS BUNDLE OF JOY

  By Holly Rayner

  Copyright 2016 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Table Of Contents:

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  ONE

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  Mia held the microphone with immaculately manicured fingers, blinking her doll-like eyes at the camera. She stood in her dark blue blazer, in front of the blaring green screen, drawing her mouth into a confident smile as she addressed the SNO News cameras.

  “A local Portland retiree is holding on to that holiday spirit the rest of us bolted up in our basements sometime around January 2,” she began. “66-year-old Christopher Parsons, a former school principle and apparent Christmas addict, refuses to take down his extravagant holiday decorations.” She heard light tittering from the camera crew. “And his neighbors want him to be stopped. But we at SNO News must disagree. You see—if you look out your windows, folks—Portland has kicked up an unseasonal winter storm. If Portland can’t make up its mind about what time of year it is, Christopher Parsons can keep his Christmas decorations up all year, I say.”

  She giggled into the microphone, knowing she sounded a bit ridiculous. They paid her for this personality; they loved the way she made these fluffy, filler-type stories shine. She had to keep up the act.

  “Now, we head to my recent interview with Christopher Parsons’ next-door neighbor, Barbara, for an in-depth look at this breaking news story.” She winked at the camera, then. A bit of tongue-in-cheek never hurt anyone.

  “And…CUT,” Jeff, the station manager, called out.

  Mia bowed her head, smiling slightly. Now, on televisions all over Portland, her interview with one of the neighbors was sounding out.

  She remembered it well: a chilly afternoon just four days before, on April 6, when she’d shivered in the garage of Christopher Parsons’ next-door neighbor, who had explained to her that having Christmas decorations up for the duration of the year “just wasn’t right.” Neighbor Barbara said he didn’t even bother to put up Easter decorations and that he just flat out skipped July 4 as well, which just wasn’t patriotic. “So what’s up with this Christmas obsession?” Barbara had asked.

  Despite her enthusiastic head-nods throughout the interview, Mia didn’t actually agree with Barbara. The magic of the Christmas season made her feel electric and she parted with it begrudgingly every year, taking her Christmas tree to the curb and stomping her feet in the browning snow.

  Always, that post-Christmas disappointment reminded her of her childhood; when they’d strip the decorations, making the children’s home glum and dank once more. Everything that had made the children’s lives worth living was suddenly obliterated. Still, as the year swept on, Mia would find the scraps of tinsel stashed beneath her crooked bed and hope for the future.

  “Mia. Mia. Hey—”

  Mia shook herself back to consciousness, turning her head toward her friend and confidant, Theresa, the production studio’s lead makeup artist. She was holding a tiny makeup brush, covered with snow-like powder.

  “I just want to touch you up, in case they want to film that other segment this afternoon.”

  “Right,” Mia said, giving her a smile. She brushed her fingers through her long brown hair.

  “And don’t play with your hair!” Theresa teased. She began to dot Mia’s face with makeup, humming to herself.

  Mia and Theresa had met two years previously, when Mia had started working at the studio. Theresa was two years older than her, with a sense of hard-earned know-how and confidence. “This studio is a man’s club; you have to know how to work it,” she had told Mia once. “It might take a long time, but with hard work and determination, you can work yourself out of those fluffy stories and to the real, gritty journalism. Like you want.”

  But Mia wasn’t so sure. It seemed that no matter how well she performed, and no matter how many extra hours she crunched at the newsroom, no one took real notice. She was the pretty anchor, and she was given fluff stories: Christmas decorations in April, squirrels dressed in sweaters, you name it.

  Theresa balked, her eyes darting from Mia’s face to the window in the hallway. “You know, the snow is really starting to come down out there.” She pointed to the window; sure enough, great white fluffs were streaming through the sky.

  “And on April 10, no less,” Mia whispered, shaking her head. “Are we ever going to get a summer around here?”

  Theresa laughed. “You’ve been in Portland long enough to know we won’t.”

  Mia giggled. Her eyes passed from Theresa, who parsed through her makeup bag, toward a kerfuffle erupting among the camera crew. She frowned. “What’s going on?”

  Theresa spun her head, emitting a slight, hardly-audible gasp. She drummed herself up on her toes to fully see. “He’s back,” she whispered. “James.”

  Mia couldn’t help but roll her eyes. James Chance. A name like Oliver Twist or Usain Bolt—seemingly meant for great things. And the man had certainly made a career for himself; James Chance was a self-made billionaire and TV mogul, the CEO and owner of SNO News and its mother agency, Chance Media—and all at the age of 30. Mia didn’t understand how he’d achieved so much in so little time. But, when he came into the office from time to time, she could see the obsession with his work in his eyes. And of course, she could see something else. She felt the initial tug of attraction every moment he entered the office.

  James parted the sea of cameramen, glancing toward her. Mia felt her face grow red. She could stand in front of the cameras all day, reporting the news, but something about James’ penetrating gaze gave her pause.

  She felt Theresa scuttle toward the makeup room to her left, her brush tossing powder into the air as she went. For a moment, Mia was certain she would sneeze. She touched a light finger to her nostrils, halting the motion. Where was Theresa going? Fight or flight mode, perhaps. The previous time James had arrived at the newsroom, he’d given Theresa a bit of sass about the mess at her makeup station. “Why would he ever care about that?” Theresa had hissed.

  Jeff, the cameraman, burst through the crowd of sound workers, breathing heavily. He halted, bracing his hands on his knees, bowing his head before his employer.

  James Chance raised a single eyebrow, assessing him, and Mia watched without speaking, just three feet away from the commotion.

  “Jeff. What is it?”

  “James. We have—we h
ave a problem with the last clip. I wanted to let you know. It cut out slightly. People have been calling in to complain about the missing interview—”

  James raised his hand, causing Jeff to bite back his breathless words. His eyes blinked out to the window. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the incredibly beautiful, summery weather we’re having, does it Jeffrey?”

  Jeff looked uncertain. He didn’t generally take well to sarcasm. “Um…”

  Chance batted his hand, as if chasing off an imaginary insect. “Jeff, it’s perfectly all right. These things happen. And I don’t really believe that the entirety of Portland is dying to hear what the next-door neighbor of this Christmas-obsessed loon has to say. What was his name?” He turned to Mia for a moment, gesturing.

  Mia’s heart clenched. She searched her brain. “Christopher Parsons,” she said finally, her brown hair swirling across her shoulders. She gave him a broad, news anchor smile. “And his neighbor was a real find, let me tell you. It’s a shame the people of Portland won’t see her face.” Barbara had been obsessive, with eyes that looked like moons.

  Chance tilted his head at Mia’s words. Jeff wasn’t speaking, leaning heavy on one shoe and wheezing. “I’ll have to look over the footage myself,” he finally spoke.

  “But James,” Jeff sniffed. “We have loads for you to look over. Some really hard-hitting journalism. None of this silly stuff. If you’ll just come with me.” He gestured toward the open door, behind the cameras, and back toward the director’s room. “I know you wanted to see what we’ve been up to since your last visit home.”

  The CEO waved his hand, his dark eyes still centered on Mia. “I’ll get to it in a minute, kiddo,” he said to Jeff.

  Mia felt her eyebrows inch down at the words. After all, James was only thirty years old, and Jeff was nearly fifty.

  Jeff’s face grew blue. His lips pressed together. He backed toward the cameras, saying something about meeting in the office when James was ready.

  Mia felt her eyes connect with James’. She gave an awkward giggle. She hadn’t seen James Chance in something like two months, and the last time, he hadn’t given her a moment’s notice. He’d lent that sarcastic remark to Theresa, and he’d yelled at Jeff in the office kitchen—and therefore, wasn’t exactly the most popular person in the studio.

  But God, he was attractive. Those deep brown eyes gleamed beneath thick eyebrows, which had personality all their own. His beard was just the right amount of stubble; never a millimeter too long. He was broad, sturdy: the very definition of tall, dark and handsome. Mia crossed her arms over her chest, closing herself off.

  “You know,” James began then, taking a step forward. “I’ve been watching your report from the director’s room.”

  “The Christopher Parsons story,” Mia affirmed. “Or, as you put it, that Christmas-obsessed loon.”

  James chuckled. “I really have a way with words, don’t I?”

  Mia giggled; her laugh wasn’t flirtatious; rather, she focused on friendliness, on banter. She knew that if she was ever seen flirting with one of her superiors, she’d be written off as someone who slept her way through the ranks of the office. Sure, she was beautiful, with her slim, almost boyish figure. But after all she’d been through, she couldn’t imagine tainting her reputation that way. She wanted to be a real, seasoned journalist, and she would blast through as many Christmas loon stories as she needed to in order to get there.

  James’ expression grew serious. “I must say that I have some notes for your most recent performance.”

  “All right, sir,” Mia said. She crossed her arms tighter, leaning heavy on her left hip. “I suppose I’m always ready for criticism. Hit me.”

  “Well, Mia. It is Mia, isn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’ve been working here for a couple years now, and I’ve enjoyed your segments far more than you could know. You’ve been incredibly professional, even when faced with some not-so-desirable stories. I mean, that crisis about Portland-wide babysitter costs was really quite—”

  “It was what the people wanted to hear,” Mia affirmed. She swallowed, remembering how she’d gone back to her apartment after filming that segment and wept shuddering tears. She’d spent a grueling four years earning her journalism degree, and yet, as a 24-year-old professional, she’d found herself interviewing a 13-year-old babysitter on Sleater Street. According to Monica, the 13-year-old in question, babysitters should have a set rate of six dollars per hour. She’d been popping her gum the entire time.

  “Well. I must give you my highest respect, then,” James said. “You always handle these stories with such positivity, despite their fluffiness. However, I must disagree about your recent handling of this crazy Christmas guy.”

  “Christopher Parsons,” Mia corrected him. She felt her throat tightening. “And I’m sorry. Please elaborate. How could I improve my handling of the story?”

  “In my eyes, the story is about a crazy old man who is irritating his neighbors’ everyday lives. They’ve asked him to do a simple task—take down his Christmas decorations—and he’s refused every single time. I don’t find anything heroic or remotely cute about that. I think you’d have to be a bit crazy to think that Christmas should be extended for so long.”

  “Hmm.” Mia frowned.

  “Let me sum it up for you,” James said, his voice cocky. Did he not think she understood? “This man views himself as a champion of all things Christmas, but I find myself on the side of his neighbors. He is an eccentric annoyance. Christmas was nearly four months ago, and he’s driving his neighbors insane just for the sake of his personal, nutso existence. And we should have used this news segment to address that.”

  Mia smirked. She felt her heart bumping in her chest. This man clearly didn’t love the holidays the way she did. He couldn’t begin to comprehend how she’d clung to the concept of Christmas through those lost years at the children’s home. He couldn’t understand how Christopher Parsons, a sad, lonely retiree, might need Christmas to survive.

  “I have to disagree with you,” Mia said. She continued that news anchor smile, but her eyes no longer shone with friendliness. “In fact, I think what we need to understand about this particular story, and about its subject—” She paused; James’ eyes had darted to the window, panicked.

  “Have you looked outside lately?” he asked, his tone suddenly harried. He stomped toward the sill and placed his hands on the pane, looking out with animalistic eyes. “It’s April 10. It was in the 80s in Tennessee just two days ago, when I was there. I can’t believe how quickly it’s coming down out there. Portland, what are you doing to my schedule?”

  Mia cocked her head. “You aren’t going anywhere tonight. Too dangerous.”

  James tossed his taut, perfectly suited body toward the exit, then. “I’m meant to be at the airport to fly to Chicago in less than an hour.” He blinked at his watch, addressing her absentmindedly. “It’s been really lovely chatting with you, Mia. I hope we can catch up again.”

  Mia pressed her lips together, frustrated. She didn’t want to waste her time trying to force herself to agree with him. She looked over at the camera crew, all of whom were packing up for the day, and decided to snag her purse and head out into the blizzard as well, before the roads grew too dangerous to drive. A previous spring blizzard had swept her off the road, several years prior, and she’d found herself nose-deep in a ditch. She’d had to curl up beneath her car blanket, waiting for help. She hated being the damsel. She’d bought her jeep the following week. Growing up in foster homes, she’d learned to take care of herself. No one else would.

  She grabbed her purse and darted toward the door, waving a quick goodbye to Theresa in the makeup room. Theresa twiddled her fingers at her in a cheeky wave. “How’d it go with the big cheese? He bee-lined toward you.”

  “Who?” Mia asked, winking at her. “I’ll see you later.”

  She didn’t want to dawdle. Knowing Theresa, she would a
sk about every intricacy involved in her conversation with James. But there was no time for that; Mia needed to escape.

  Theresa cackled as Mia walked away, tossing her wavy caramel hair. In front of her, Mia watched as James Chance darted down the newsroom steps like a manic rabbit. Even if she’d distracted him for a moment, she knew that his focus was always centered on work. Another woman would fall into his line of fire in just hours, in Chicago, and Mia would be another forgotten moment in his career-driven life.

  But she didn’t care. Not for a moment.

  TWO

  When Mia reached the exit, her eyes widened madly. She let out an involuntary laugh, stretching her fingers over her chest. The snow was full-force, maddening, coming sideways out of the blustery sky. It was the type of snow you yearned for on December 24, minutes before Christmas Day, when all you wanted was to be cuddled up in your bed, hidden from the mania of the rest of the world. It was the kind of snow that made you hope for a lover to curl around, beneath mounds of blankets, sipping eggnog, enamored with each other.