Page 5 of Billionaire's Secret Baby

He was a multi-millionaire.

And a month later, when the letter showed up at my front door, I realized that I was better off without him.

Alex Lowe was a pathetic, sad man, who clearly thought sleeping with me was the biggest mistake in the world. And couldn’t even wrap his head around the fact that we might have made an even bigger mistake.

And from that day, I counted myself lucky.

I’ve dodged a real lowlife,I thought as I looked at the letter. And luckily, I never had to see him again.

The letter contained a stack of money and a note. It read, “I’m sorry.”

Chapter 2

Alex

Sixyearslater…

“I’m sorry?” I said.

In front of me, on the chair in my living room, the journalist seemed to falter for a moment.

“I said,” she asked again, “Is there anyone in your life at the moment?”

I frowned and uncrossed my leg. “I don’t think your readers would be very interested in that sort of thing, would they?” I said.

The journalist from the Times laughed, as if I was being ridiculous. “Mr. Lowe,” she said. “You’ve amassed a fortune worth over ten billion dollars. You’re in a percentage of the population that can only be expressed in ten decimal places. And more to the point, you’re one of New York’s most well-loved philanthropists, with charitable contributions ranging from art galleries and exhibitions to children’s food programs and international aid. You’re telling me peoplewon’tbe interested in your love life?”

I sighed, and leaned back in my chair. She was right, I guess. But so far all the questions had been about my lifestyle, my tastes. And now my love life? Was this interview for the business section, or the gossip columns?

“Actually,” I replied politely, “I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. My restaurants and bars keep me busy most of the time.”

“Really? No dates or girlfriends…?” said the journalist.

“I’ve been on dates. But I guess you could say I’m a workaholic.”

“You were spotted with Sandra Simons, the supermodel, last August. Did it go anywhere?”

“We’rejustfriends,” I said.

“And what about Katherine Ziegler? The rumors are that you ended your relationship just a few weeks after—”

“Katherine’s great,” I said. “But we’re both extremely dedicated people. There isn’t always time for a relationship when you’re running a billion-dollar enterprise.”

“What about your early childhood?”

“Oh, there’s not much to tell,” I said. “I was born in Philadelphia and moved to New York about ten or twelve years ago. Say, is that the time?”

***

It was a Saturday, so I was planning on heading down to The Blue Orchid—my flagship restaurant, in uptown Manhattan—in order to check on things. But first, I’d have to get out of the gray Henley and dark chinos I’d been wearing. My publicist had ordered me to dress casually for the interview, but I never felt comfortable leaving the house unless I was wearing one of my suits.

My suits were like my armor. They helped me blend into the world of the ultra-wealthy, expensive cars, and high fashion—a world to which I didn’t really belong. I chose an elegant blue tie from Hermès, which I knotted in my trademark Windsor around the collar of a white Dior shirt. I slipped on a dark navy suit, and called a driver.

Through the tinted windows of the anonymous black Mercedes, I watched Manhattan slide by through the streets. I’d never get over how the city looked to me. When I first arrived in Manhattan, I’d been completely entranced by its beauty, the glamor of the tall buildings in midtown, which seemed to gleam in the sunlight, the long straight streets that seemed to be paved with gold. In the distance, I could see the greenery of Central Park as the car slid down Madison Avenue towards the Upper East Side.

When we got to The Blue Orchid, I had my driver drop me at the front of the restaurant and stepped through the front door. It was Saturday lunchtime, one of our busiest times of the week, and around me, the dining room was bustling with activity as happy customers sat dreamily contemplating the lavish dishes that were being set before them. On the other side of the room, I heard a champagne cork pop, and grinned: it was one of my favorite sounds.

“Good afternoon, Mister Lowe,” said Cherise, the maîtresse d’.