BABY DADDY (2 page)

THE BILLIONAIRE AND THE POP DIVA

SERIES

an erotic rom-com

Pop superstar Valenna Jones wants to get rid of her famous cherry. To make it a worthwhile event, she auctions it for charity. In a rare moment of impulse, billionaire car-racer Gianfranco Zoldatti buys it for a staggering 50 million dollars.

Two different worlds collide.

He means to have her only for a week.

But an expensive diversion rapidly turns into a sweet addiction.

DRIVE HER CRAZY

DRIVE HER WILD

DRIVE HER MAD

-ON GOING-

The fairy is whispering in your ear.

Believe.

ONE

____________________________________________________________

25 CONTROVERSIAL QUOTES FROM THE STYLE EMPRESS

On her enduring style:

"The moment I realized I was different was the day I found myself.

Different is a lonely place and few people like to dwell in it

but it’s where the space is vast

and your freedom is unlimited.”

Stella Rhodes

___________________________________________________

THAT’S THE BEST PLACE TO MAKE A BABY.

My precious baby. My heir.

I can see the flame-shaped island from the window as the plane drops altitude.

Louÿs Island. That’s where I’m going.

Hot, humid, raw and strange. A long way from home. Perfect for me who has been cold, barren, aging and famous for some time now.

I need to be my simplest self, forget my life in New York for a few weeks and just be a woman. A woman who wants and needs a man.

I cringe at the need part. Who needs a man? I haven’t had a need for one in like centuries. There aren’t many things that men can do that I haven’t accomplished on my own— not command people, not save the world, not lord over a billion-dollar business. They’re only good for one thing and that thing has been provided satisfactorily by my advanced model, purple BOB (Battery Operated Boyfriend) from China. They make the best gadgets over there, more advanced in tricks than a freaking smartphone.

But BOB can’t make me pregnant.

I need a live one to do the deed. Fuck nature but I can’t do anything about that. I need a Baby Dada.

There you have it. Admitting that feels like a freaking abscessed tooth, like an acidic stomach, like sandpaper on my skin.

I need a man as healthy as they come.

Yup, come is the operative word here. I want him to have the stamina of a porn star shooting his masterpiece, pardon the pun, so he can inseminate me several times a day for a whole week.

I have one week of fertility. Beyond that is useless. So, time is precious.

I must find him here. I know I’ll find him here. And he’ll give me what I want. I feel it in my gut, in my bones, in the rush of blood in my veins.

I’m so primed for it. So ready.

That’s what I’ve been telling myself the past weeks, at least. But readiness is really a moot point when you have no choice.

This is a now or never point in my life.

There’s no turning back.

My heart flutters in nervous
excitement as I disembark from the plane.

The cool wind greets my face like a caress. I breathe in the air deeply into my lungs. The humidity loosens my pores. Tropical weather is simply heavenly! I should buy a property in this part of the world so I can vacay here during winter.

A pretty Asian woman clad in a colorful
sarong
greets me with a slight bow of her head with her palms joined together at her chest. The
namaste
gesture is common around here which I find utterly charming. Respect is a highly valued virtue by these people and I do feel respected right away.

“Welcome to Louÿs Island, ma’am,” the woman says and hands me a colorful umbrella to shield me from the sun.

I respond with a smile and politely decline the umbrella. “I love the heat. I want a tan just like yours.”

She nods with a wider smile. “I’m Mina and I’ll be your personal assistant. I came to bring you to your hotel.”

That puzzles me. “Personal assistant? I’m sorry but I don’t think I need one and I didn’t ask for one.”

“Oh, only for today, ma’am. This is part of our services in the hotel. I’ll be the one to help you get settled in your suite, orient you about the island and assist you in other things you might need or want to know. You’ll be staying here for three weeks, right?”

I nod. “Alright, Mina, I’d appreciate that. Just call me Ste…Elle.”

She does the
namaste
again. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Elle.”

Minutes later, we board a chauffeured roofless Land Cruiser and I get a firsthand look at what I’ve only seen in a video sent to me by my travel agent. When I called her to ask for a unique place to visit, somewhere exclusive where I can be assured of security and privacy, she sent me the video, but it gave no justice to the real thing.

We pass under the most beautiful rainforest I’ve ever seen.

Everywhere I look is green.

Lush.

The raw beauty of nature.

Life.

I came here for that very purpose.

To create a life.

I’m already in love with the island.

The hotel I’m billeted
in is perched on a small cliff. The view of the Andaman Sea is breathtaking. I cannot tell where the sky and the water meet, so fine is the weather.

Sun, sun, and all sun.

This island is the vacation hideaway for people who don’t care about price tags, celebrities and high-rollers who want to escape their workplaces and go incognito for a few weeks, away from the general public’s scrutinizing and judgmental eyes.

No regular-earning folks can afford to enter this island. The hotel rates are for kings and queens. Nothing but five stars.

Transportation is via luxurious yachts and private or chartered flights only. The island’s airport has a parking lot full of Bombardiers, Gulfstreams and AugustaWestlands.

Just a short distance from Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia and Thailand, Louÿs Island is the Ibiza and Monte Franco of Asia combined, where anything goes for the right price. Casinos, luxury hotels, restaurants and bars dot the shoreline. The best entertainments are imported from all over the world so guests can get a blend of fun from practically seven continents—from sports to fine-dining, casual dining, concerts of all kinds, art exhibits and cultural festivals.

The rich and famous and even royalty from Europe love to hang out here, far away from home. In this foreign land, they rub elbows and other body parts without inhibition. They may know each other outside but here, they pretend to be strangers meeting for the first time. It’s like a huge masquerade ball where no one wears a mask. Back in their respective worlds, they’ll conveniently forget they’ve shared some decadent island-in-the-far-east fun.

Part of the island’s appeal is that guests can come using aliases here. Only the island’s security, which in itself is an expensive network of the highest paid protection experts in the world know about each guest’s identity.

The guests pay an astronomical price for the privilege to enter the island alone, excluding the actual accommodation expenses. But many are willing to shell out cold, hard cash for a week or two of pure freedom, of mingling with the public without fear of being exposed to the media.

The island has no internet or TV for the guests to use. Cameras are surrendered at the airport and can be recovered only upon departure, except if you’re a journalist under official contract to cover special events in the island, in which you’ll have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. However, there are phone booths scattered all over, so guests can still keep track of their personal and business affairs while on vacation.

That Vegas saying stands here, too, with a little variation: Arrive with no baggage, leave all the memories of your wicked deeds here when you depart and come back for more.

Those are exactly the very reasons why I chose this place to make my baby. The privacy, security and relative anonymity.

I have a week to find the perfect man for the job.

Then I have my whole fertile week to fuck his brains out.

TWO

________________________________

25 CONTROVERSIAL QUOTES FROM THE STYLE EMPRESS

On her dating preferences:

"A man who smells bad has no future in my book.

Smelling good is an indicator that you’re in control of your life.

If you cannot smell yourself and take care of your shit,

don’t expect others to do so.”

Stella Rhodes

____________________________________________________

I WAS READY TO GIVE UP
when he walked in like an answered prayer.

Wow.

I don’t believe in destiny but I’m a little bit convinced now.

Just a little.

How is it possible that he looks almost exactly as the one I’ve been envisioning for weeks now? He has all my physical specifications down to his sexy feet.

Incredible coincidence.

But he’s right there.

In the flesh.

Tall, above six feet so that my baby will be an improved version of his generation. I’m only five-foot-three. Check.

The face that will give my little princess a shot at becoming a supermodel if she falls short in the IQ department— not that supermodels are intellectually challenged, mind you— but that’s unlikely to happen as mine is Mensa level. However, I don’t want to piss off Someone up there so please God, make my little princess as healthy, beautiful and smart as one of her parents, at least.

Jawline and cheekbones that make an artist want to pick up a brush and paint away like a master. That simpering bubblehead he’s currently flirting with at the bar is just about to condense on the floor like sludge.

Check, check and check!

Oh, that body! He has broad shoulders and strong-looking arms corded with hard, defined muscles. No, he’s not bulky like those gym rats lifting weights every day. He’s toned and lean and can definitely command a giant billboard in Times Square or a spread in GQ wearing my men’s underwear label. He could be an athlete, or maybe a construction worker around here. Whatever, that fine-looking form can sure make beautiful, healthy babies easy.

My ovaries flutter in hyper excitement. I can hear ‘em yapping in frenzy, too.

That’s your Baby Dada come to life! Yup, we’re putting him in capital letters because he just became flesh and blood and no longer just a figment of your imagination. Baby Dada is now a proper noun. Go get him NOW before that maneater at the bar steals your supply of sperm for the whole week!

I cringe at my shameful thoughts, but they’re the unvarnished truth.

I came to this place to carry out an important decision in my life. I’ve thought of it for years but I’ve procrastinated for far too long until my clock started ticking ominously like a time bomb.

Now, I’m on a countdown.

I’m desperate to do the most I can, given the limited time left in my system. Pardon the analogy but this must be how people dying of terminal illnesses feel like. Time becomes their lifeline, the very foundation of their waning existence. Every second counts like the snapping of every single strand in the rope anchoring them to life. Every snap represents the things they’re losing as they get nearer to the last strand. The last number.

This painful cliché is happening to me right now. My biological clock is ticking. And it’s an irreversible progression.

The bomb was set off by my gynecologist last month during my quarterly medical check-up. No, it’s nothing life-threatening like the Big C, but it’s somehow related to that, too.

According to my good doctor, I must get pregnant NOW if I still want to have at least one child and also to reduce the risk of getting breast cancer. To put it more bluntly, my eggs are shrinking every month and pretty soon, like SOON, my ovaries will just wilt away like plants during the worst drought and cease functioning altogether.