Billionaire’s Missing Baby (A BWWM Romance) Page 6

  He flashed another grin. Their matching disdainful expressions didn’t change.

  James continued, “But it’s all coming to a head now. If you’ll accept thirty thousand now I can give you the rest when the old man kicks it, I promise.”

  Juan tilted his head. “You know, these old guys, they’re tough. Even the rich pampered brats like you,” he said nastily.

  James took in his Italian leather shoes, sharply tailored suit, and privately thought Juan lived like someone his father might even tolerate despite his olive-skinned features. But, since he valued his own features and wanted them to stay as intact as possible, he wisely refrained from saying so.

  “I’m not sure I really want to wait until he kicks it,” Juan said. “I mean, in all fairness, you’ve kept me waiting… what is it, six months now?”

  “Eleven,” intoned George, who flashed a beaming smile that was incongruous with his stern features, leaving James chilled with dread. “According to my calculations,” he added quietly. James swallowed again.

  “God, almost a year. Really?” Juan looked innocently at George, as if he had no idea. James felt the shiver run up his spine.

  “I’ve been making payments,” he protested weakly. Juan nodded approvingly.

  “You have been,” he agreed. “And it’s that very simple fact that has, up until now, kept all your bones and organs in their optimal places… if you'll forgive a little crassness.”

  Next to him, George cracked his knuckles. Juan casually examined his nails.

  James nodded and coughed, clearing his throat before he was able to answer. “I appreciate it.”

  “Good. Since we’ve been so very patient with you, Costanza, and since we know how much you appreciate us, and of course we appreciate you, we’re giving you a month."

  James paled and Juan, damn him, took notice of it.

  “A month?” It would take him at least two months as it stood to put the final touches of his plan in motion.

  “Call it an anniversary present,” Juan answered pleasantly.

  James gulped, lost for words as panic spread over him.

  “One month,” Juan repeated. “And if you can’t get the old man’s money, hey, that’s alright. We might even allow you to keep a portion of your spleen when we have George remove it. How’s that for fair?”

  All of this was said in a calm, measured tone, as if it were the weather they were talking about, or the state of the economy. Shakily, James nodded. Juan clapped a hand on his shoulder, hard, and beamed at him.

  “Good man, good man,” he crowed. “Glad we had this chat. I’ll expect the thirty thousand dollars to be transferred to my account by midnight tonight and the rest of it by the end of the month. What do you say?”

  Again, James could only nod weakly. Juan grinned genially at the bartender, who had just arrived with their drinks. He sipped his delicately, as though it were wine, then beamed at the bartender. “I love this guy.”

  When the men left forty-five minutes later, with two crumpled bills tossed down on the bar, James pulled out his cell. He looked at the number that was flashing on his phone and groaned. He'd expected to have more time. Cutting it this close ran the risk of that desperate bimbo of a nurse changing her mind and trying to get her child back. He would have to worry about that later, though. He pushed autodial on the unmarked number. With every ring, he could practically feel his blood pressure rising.

  “Olivia Stamos speaking.”

  “Liv! Thank God. You know that stuff I sent you last month?”

  “Sure do, best expose piece I’ll ever do,” she said enthusiastically. “Why, you haven’t changed your mind about it, have you?”

  “Not at all,” James replied. “I was just wondering if you did all the research like I asked you to.”

  “Oh, God, yeah. Do you know how easy it is to get the records on a foster kid? This girl’s mother was seriously messed up.”

  “That’s great,” James said. “Listen, how fast can you get that article to print?”

  “It could be on the newsstands tomorrow morning if you want it to.”

  “Get on it then, and fast,” he told her. “You’re not the only on working with a deadline here.”

  Chapter Ten

  Theresa didn’t drink. It was almost superstition at this point since she knew that she was nothing like her mother. That her own life, which she had so carefully built, was nothing like her mother’s. But she’d been to school, and she’d seen the statistics. Addiction was genetic. Hence, she didn’t drink. That said, if there were ever a day that she was going to start drinking, it would be today.

  The last two weeks hadn't been easy. She had tried, twice, to contact the Connors, once by looking for them in the phone book, and the other time through the agency. She had failed both times. They didn’t seem to exist at all. The third time she tried the agency had politely but firmly suggested she call her lawyer and figure out what her rights were.

  After that, she’d hung up the phone and accepted that it was probably for the best. She hadn’t been looking to explore her rights, but she recognized that it was definitely something that might cross her mind if she hoped to get in touch with the Connors for the updates she was looking for. She did her best to put thoughts of the baby—who wasn’t hers, in spite of what her treacherous heart kept insisting—out of her mind.

  But then she came across a tabloid during her bike ride to work. When she first saw it, she pinched herself. She honestly thought she must have accidentally stayed in bed a little too long after the alarm went off, and fallen into some kind of a weird nightmare. And then she read the article.

  Costanza Love Child

  The Costanza family is well-known for their savvy business sense, luxury hotels, and family tragedies. They’re also well known—in business and outside it—for being cutthroat competitors who aren’t afraid to be unpopular with the public.

  Youngest son James has been in and out of tabloids since his late teens for his drinking and partying, usually in groups with his famous friends. John Costanza’s own life has been riddled with tragedy, including an early marriage to an unstable wife that left him the single father of both of his sons. Of the two sons, the elder, Adam Costanza, has always managed to stay out of the public eye.

  However, he seems to have inherited his mother’s penchant for drama-riddled relationships with women of questionable backgrounds. Theresa Plummer, a nurse working in an impoverished area outside of L.A. is one such woman. When she became pregnant, she sought help from a local clinic, and from there the tragedy of her story unfolded. A child of the foster care system, born to a family with a history of addiction, Theresa had nowhere to go, and nothing to do for money for herself and the child. She was reportedly turned away by the baby’s father, the outwardly generous Adam Costanza.

  According to sources, he spent a lot of time at the clinic where Ms. Plummer worked, promising her that after his father’s death he would be better placed to care for their child. But according to sources, Adam had no intentions of settling down. He just isn’t that kind of guy.

  He felt trapped into doing the right thing and offered to help her find an adoptive family for the baby, but Theresa refused. She’s very paranoid about the foster care system, which is understandable, but it makes it hard to reason with her.

  She arrived at work visibly shaken, imagining all the eyes on her; what everyone must be thinking. When Marie asked her to dip into the stockroom for an extra roll of tensor bandages and the entire shelf collapsed all over the floor, that was the end of it. The older woman walked in on her sitting in the middle of the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

  She gave Theresa a hug. “Girl, you’re a complete mess. You can’t possibly work like this. Now listen here, you need more rest, and I’m not taking no for an answer. I want you to go home, and I’d better not see you in here again for at least the next three days.”

  Theresa almost argued with her, almost said that she couldn’t take that much
time off because of all her bills, but it would have been a lie. The Connors had given her enough money to comfortably take off a whole month if she needed to. A fact that only made her feel even worse.

  “Fine,” she agreed, pulling herself up off of the floor and heading for the lockers without further comment. She changed out of her uniform, collected her bike, and returned to her home again. The home that had seemed so important that she’d even given up her own child for it held little solace for her now.

  Theresa found herself with nothing to do for the next three days but stew in her own juices, and a never-ending stream of her cups of tea. If nothing else, at least she would complete a full-body cleanse.

  ***

  “Adam!” His father’s voice was louder and more powerful than Adam had heard it in weeks. Adam rushed in, expecting to find John in serious distress. Instead, the old man was struggling to sit up, clutching at a tabloid the way Victorian ladies clutched their fans when they were about to faint.

  “Dad! For God’s sake!” Adam rushed forward, helping his father adjust the bed so he could sit up properly. “Are you okay?”

  “What did you do?” he roared, and began to wheeze and gasp for air.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Adam demanded.

  His father waved the tabloid in front of his face. On the cover was the blurry face of a beautiful black woman. Vaguely, he recognized her as the nurse, Theresa, at the clinic he’d taken Aaron and some of the other kids to. The one he’d asked out. He opened his mouth to ask what on earth she was doing in a tabloid when he caught sight of the headline in glaring white letters across the top of the dark image.

  “What the hell is this?” Disregarding his father's distraught state, Adam grabbed for the paper and read what little he could stomach. He felt a short, bitter laugh tear itself from his throat. “My God,” he said. “Do these people have nothing better to do?”

  He stared at the image on the cover. He could not believe that a woman who had seemed so kind and patient would do something like this. Then again, if she were really as desperate as the tabloid made it out to be, she probably had been well paid to invent this story.

  “Dad, these people make this stuff up all the time, for fun. They just like to mess with people. This woman works at a clinic near the school, that's all.”

  But John Costanza was a long way from satisfied. “Who is she? Did you sleep with her? Were you plotting against me? Waiting for me to die? Is that why you've been coming here so much more?”

  He began hacking again, and Adam carefully sat him up to drink a glass of water. With his hand on his father’s back, Adam could feel how frail he had become and felt a stab of regret. Misguided as his feelings may be, the man was his father and Adam hated to be the cause of his pain, even if he had nothing to do with the story the man now seemed to believe.

  “I swear, none of this is real. She’s not pregnant, and if she is, it’s not mine. And I don’t know what any of this is about, I promise.”

  “She wants money,” John said darkly, gazing up at his son with a ferocity Adam hadn’t seen in the long months he’d been helping to care for him. “That’s what they all want, Adam. I know you think I’m harsh, but don’t you see that I have to be? Don’t you see what they’re like, when you just let them walk all over you? Thieves, all of them. It’s in their blood. You want to tell me it isn’t now? If we don’t keep an eye on women like this, they’ll end up bleeding us dry.”

  Adam shook his head, carefully lowering his father's bed again. John was red with exertion, and the rings around his eyes looked darker and uglier the longer he sat upright.

  “Okay, Dad, let’s just calm down—”

  “I can’t just sit by. Can’t sit by and let this happen to my family, to my legacy!”

  “Dad, it’s fine. I hardly know the woman. I met her… twice, maybe.” He paused to count it, then nodded.

  “You need to go to her, son. Find her, and tell her you’re on to her. That she can’t have anything. Not a single dime. You need to lay down the law with these people or they’ll never stop, you just wait and see. She won’t… she…”

  “Dad?” Adam heard the pleading tone in his voice, and hated himself for it. “You’ve got to calm down.”

  His father gripped his shirt sleeve and peered up at him. “Promise me you will, Adam. That you’ll go and handle this. Promise me.”

  Adam winced, looking down at the paper. He had to admit he was curious about the mysterious ‘sources’ the reporter seemed to have, and if Theresa had actually been desperate enough for some cash that she’d participated in something like this.

  “Okay, Dad,” he nodded. “I promise. You get some rest, and I’ll send in one of the nurses to sit with you while I go and sort out this whole mess right now.”

  Adam stepped out of the room and signaled to the closest nurse he could find. “Dad’s had a bit of a shock. Could you go and sit with him for a while, please? I’m not sure he’ll calm down on his own, so you may want to bring along a sedative.”

  “Of course, Mr. Costanza,” she said. “Right away.”

  Adam looked at the clock. It was four in the afternoon. He could swing by the clinic and demand Theresa's home address if she wasn't there. With the tabloid in hand, it could become a legal issue, and he had a right to ask. He didn't like the idea of getting lawyers involved, but it was something he'd do if he really had to.

  Chapter Eleven

  Theresa poured herself a third cup of tea and sat nearly catatonic staring at the cup, feeling like she was finally numb enough that she had no tears left. A sudden knock at the door snapped her out of her daze.

  Grateful for the distraction, she leapt up to answer it. She quickly checked her reflection in the hallway mirror. The redness in her eyes had dimmed, but there was little to do about the haphazard way her hair was stacked on top of her head. She was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, along with an extra-long grey cardigan that resembled nothing so much as a long, grey robe. Basically, she looked slightly less like hell than she expected, yet significantly more than she wanted to. She silently prayed it wasn't a stranger she was about to scare away as she cautiously opened the door.

  Adam Costanza himself stood in front of her. The tabloid had a picture of him, too, looking particularly handsome in tennis whites at his father's country club. Realizing the man had actually asked her out, she felt especially stupid for not knowing who he was. She didn't pay a whole lot of attention to who’s who in LA or anything, but the Costanzas were notably wealthy, and from what she could gather, the younger brother especially had a penchant for leggy supermodels that didn’t fit with Adam’s shy smiles as he’d stumbled through his invitation.

  His grey-blue eyes were stormy with anger as he glared at her now, brandishing the tabloid like a weapon. “I’m only going to ask once,” he said, his voice dripping with a cold fury. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Theresa’s mouth fell open. She wanted to be indignant and furious right back. She wanted to point out that it was his family name that was splashed all over the tabloids, while she was the one who had been branded as some unstable charity case. However, she found that she couldn’t.

  She took one look at the horrible, blurred image of her own face, then looked back at Adam’s ordinarily cheerful face that was now twisted in anger. She thought longingly of her lost daughter and all the good she’d hoped she was doing, and promptly burst into fresh tears.

  It was the only answer he got from her for some time.

  ***

  Adam felt decidedly uncomfortable as he stood on Theresa’s porch and watched her cry, but it wasn’t like he could interrupt her to ask her to let him in, either. He had a feeling she might not even let him in when she did stop. Awkwardly, he stuck the tabloid behind his back and waited. She sniffed loudly as he looked around, purposely avoiding her sad eyes. An elderly woman from next door peered around her wraparound porch to see what was going on.

  “Great
,” he groaned. “Um, there’s an old lady giving me a pretty impressive side-eye,” he tried as she reached a break in her crying. “I think I may have started off on the wrong foot here. Can we go inside? Talk for a minute?”

  Theresa hiccoughed and moved back, allowing Adam to step inside. The house was tiny, and it looked like she had done some recent repairs. He raised an eyebrow at some haphazardly painted trim, and a bannister that looked like it had barely been slapped on. Recent repairs by some very sketchy contractors, he amended. He turned to her sympathetically, wincing when he realized that, although the tears had gone silent, she was still sobbing.

  He reached forward to offer her some comfort, but she flinched in recoil. Stepping back again, Adam held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Sorry. I may have overreacted.” Understatement of the century, he thought dryly, but it was a start. “I take it you’re just as shocked by this article as I am?”

  “You’ve got that right,” she said, and he was relieved to see the tears stop for the moment. “I have no idea what this is about. And you don't either?”

  “God, no, of course not. What do you take me for?" To his surprise, the tears stopped entirely then as she pointedly raised an eyebrow.

  “Probably something like what you took me for when you first got here," she replied, and there was an edge of ice in her voice now. It barely even wobbled. He was kind of impressed.

  Despite the severity of the situation, Adam found himself looking her up and down but tried not to appear like he was checking her out. She truly was beautiful, tear-stained cheeks and all. He was well aware that this wasn’t the best time to be admiring her, yet he couldn’t stop himself.

  “So you didn’t talk to the press about me coming to the clinic to ask you out?” he asked, shaking himself out of his mild infatuation.