Page 1 of The Mountain Man's Secret Baby

1

Christian

Istare out the window of my cabin, a steaming mug of joe in hand. The outdoors is frosty and grey, with a blanket of heavy snow on the ground. Icicles hang from bare tree branches, glittering in the early afternoon light, and it’s totally silent, save for the small crack of a branch as an unseen animal makes its way in the forest.

Perfect.

I never want to see another human face again.

Fuck that. I never want to see myexagain because that woman broke my heart and stomped on it. Pamela was a gorgeous girl when we met. She was a blonde showgirl with the requisite big bust, long legs, and tiny waist, not to mention a sparkly smile and constantly soaked pussy. We got along like a fire fed by high octane fuel and spent more hours in bed than out of it.

But Pammie was dedicated to her career, and ultimately, that dedication killed us as a couple. Don’t get me wrong because I respect women who work, but I never thought that an aging showgirl would be so committed to the stage. I hate to say it, but thirty-five is over the hill in that particular line of business, and most girls in her place would be only too happy to marry a billionaire and hang up their heels for good.

Unfortunately, Pamela’s not most girls. She continued to spackle her face with make-up each evening while squeezing into ridiculously tight costumes. She also put herself through rigorous diets and insane exercise regimes to whittle down her already slim figure. But worst of all, she was gone most nights at the casino, prancing and dancing for an adoring crowd. By the end, we were just two people living in the same space. We hardly saw one another, and I don’t think my ex cared. What mattered to her was the applause, the attention, and the limelight. Clearly, we both saw the divorce coming from a mile away.

The divorce.

I put my coffee down, suddenly depressed again. I’m the product of divorced parents, and growing up fucking sucked. My mom and dad never should have gotten married, and never should have reproduced either. But in an ironic twist, they spawned four fucking kids, and as their eldest child, the burden was heavy. I was more of a father figure than a brother to my three siblings, and it was hard because our parents were always fighting. The shouting and screaming was non-stop, not to mention the plates flung on the floor, furniture broken, as well as holes punched into the walls. There were more than a few nights when my siblings cried themselves to sleep, and I’ll never forgive my parents for that because it broke my heart to see my siblings in tears. I was so helpless, trying to comfort them as ascreaming match took place outside. The memory still makes me angry, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive my parents for it.

Unfortunately, family patterns seem to repeat, and now I’m the one who’s divorced. Or at least,almostdivorced. Pamela and I were pronounced legally single by the judge more than a year ago, but not all aspects of the separation have been resolved. Pamela’s still fighting to get more of my money, and it’s a fucking joke. She’s a showgirl. I’m a goddamn billionaire. She has no resources, and no money to fight me with, and yet the property division continues to drag on. Yeah, like I said, a fucking joke.

I slam my mug down on the table with anger. The last batch of papers my attorney received was a demand for a share of my casino, the Degas Hotel in Vegas. What the fuck? Pamela and I might not have had any children together, but that fucking hotel is mybaby. I built that thing from the ground up, brick by brick, and no fucking way am I giving that woman a share of the Degas. The hotel bears my name, my fingerprints, and my legacy. No fucking way.

But Pamela’s tenacious, I have to give her that. She’s dug her claws in, and we’ve been wrangling in court for more than two years now. The money she’s spending on attorneys must be savage, and even worse, some of it ismymoney. Can you believe it? What the fuck? I literally pay a portion of her legal bills because we’re spouses who aren’t “similarly situated.” This shitshow is a farce, and I can’t believe I’m paying for attorneys in order to litigate against myself. It’s fucking absurd, and those assholes better understand who’s footing the bill because the gravy train isn’t going to last forever.

I stare straight ahead, a grim expression on my features. At least the forest is beautiful. Fairview is a little town where I bought asmall cabin twenty years ago. It’s relatively remote, and situated on the South Shore of Lake Tahoe in the thick of the El Dorado National Forest. The trees are old growth, the air clean, and the wildlife pristine. The best part? I can get away from the shitshow that’s humanity. I need to be alone now and then, in order to let the solitude and quiet calm my fucking nerves.

But as I sit on the porch, savoring my peace, a familiar hatchback zooms up the curves and screeches to a halt right in front of the cabin. To my horror, the door flies open and out steps my ex-wife, clad in leggings and a fur coat. A hat is smashed down on her head, but I see long golden tresses trailing down her back, and what do you know, but she circles around and heads to the trunk of the car before pulling out a suitcase.

What the fuck?This is my territory. That bitch can’t be here.

Even worse, Pamela’s unloading a mountain of luggage. There are at least five vanity cases piled high on the snowy ground, emblazoned with Louis Vuitton logos, not to mention some Gucci and Prada thrown in. Yes, that bitch bought her traveling cases withmymoney, and now it looks like she’s showed up for an unexpected vacation undermyroof.

I slam my mug down for the second time, hot coffee spilling over my fingers, but I don’t notice because I’m out the door in a flash. No fucking way is this happening.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I bellow, my deep voice echoing in the forest. Hell, some snow even drops off the branches of nearby trees, my voice is so fucking loud.

Pamela looks up from getting something from the trunk.

“Oh, funny seeing you here, Christian,” she says in an innocent tone, her red lips turned up in a sneer. “I thought you’d be at the hotel working. The way you always are.”

“No, I’mnotat the hotel,” I snarl, my hand gripping into fists at my sides. “Put that shit back into the trunk,” I bark. “This is my property. Leave, before I call the cops.”

“This isn’tyourproperty,” Pamela sing-songs, ignoring me as she unloads some other miscellaneous items. “This is property that’s subject to an ongoing case in family court, and therefore, I’m going to stake my claim.”

I stare at her, anger filling my veins.

“Stake your claim? What the hell does that mean? This isn’t the Wild West. Get your shit and get off my property.”

Pamela reaches for her purse before slamming the trunk closed with an emphatic thunk and turning to me. I can see a whisper of fine lines bracketing her eyes and mouth, as well as a subtle growth of silver at her temples. Yes, my dear ex is no longer fully blonde. She’s fading into crone-hood, and the age is beginning to show. Still, Pamela’s a gorgeous woman and sneers at me again.

“It means possession is nine-tenths of the law, and I’m going to live here to stake my claim.”

I stare at her with utter horror.

“Live here? Are you fucking kidding me? No fucking way! This is a one-bedroom cabin and there’s no room for you and your shit. Fucking hell this is happening! This is my property so fucking leave!”

Pamela ignores me, grabbing the handle of a roller bag and wheeling it up the path.

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