Page 2 of The Mountain Man's Secret Baby

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” she sings again. “Come on, Emily. Get your stuff and follow me.”

I blink, astonished at the woman’s temerity. Pamela has the guts to show up to a remote cabin in the woods on a snowy day, and announce that she’s taking up residence? Who made her queen? What the fuck is this possession is nine-tenths of the law thing, anyways? This isn’t the Dark Ages where property was presumed to be yours if you inhabited it. This is the fucking twenty-first century, and people don’t “stake” their claims like pioneers.

But then a small voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Hi Christian,” it murmurs to my left. “It’s nice to see you again.”

I whirl around and am faced with a second figure. My eyes blink, astonished, because who the fuck is this? It’s a young woman I’ve never met before, and she’s absolutely gorgeous. She’s dressed like Pamela in leggings and a short coat, but that’s where the similarity ends. Whereas Pamela is thin and lithe, this woman is curvy. Her thighs are thick, her hips wide, and if I had to guess, her breasts are big beneath the puffy jacket. Plus, her face is that of an angel. Big blue eyes top a delicate ski-slope nose, and a plush, pouty mouth smiles tentatively at me. Long blonde hair flows from beneath a woolen beanie, and I blink again.

“Who the fuck are you?” I growl, suddenly aware of an uncomfortable tightness in my pants.

The young woman laughs nervously, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her coat.

“Emily,” she says. “Remember? Pamela’s daughter. We’ve met before.”

I blink again, still trying to process. The fact is that I forgot my ex had a daughter because by the time we married, Emily was already at boarding school. Then, she graduated from high school and started working, although I have no idea what this woman does for a job. Modeling? Acting? Something to capitalize on her breathtaking beauty, definitely.

Besides, how old is she now? Last I saw Emily, she was probably fourteen or so, and a gruesome sight to behold. The girl was acne-ridden with coke-bottle glasses and shapeless clothes. Pamela barked at her daughter to stand up straight, and hell, I think said daughter even had braces at the time, giving her a metallic smile. But now, the awkwardness of those pre-teen years is gone, and a fucking goddess stands in my driveway.

“Sorry,” Emily murmurs apologetically. “My mom dragged me here. I had no idea things were this bad between you two.”

“You didn’t, huh?” I growl, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets. Goddamn, it’s freezing and the tips of my fingers tingle, but it’s not just from the cold. It’s because I want to touch and stroke the secret spaces on this woman’s body. I want to see if I can make her moan ...except that she’s my ex’s daughter.

Like a fucking nightmare, Pamela screeches from the porch then.

“Get your bags, Emily! We’re spending the night here. We’ll be here for the rest of the week, Christian, so maybeyoushould move out of the cabin.”

Red rage descends on my vision. My fingers grip into fists again, white-knuckling inside my pockets, because this is a nightmare come to life. I retreated to the wilderness in search quiet and tranquility, but instead, my bitch of an ex has appeared out ofnowhere, determined to ruin my peace. Even crazier, Pamela has her gorgeous daughter in tow ... and the young girl’s staring at me like she wants a piece of me too.

2

Emily

He’sgorgeous. Christian Degas is at least six four, towering over me in a woolen shirt that strains at his broad shoulders while emphasizing that burly chest. His long legs are sheathed in denim, those powerful thighs bulging against the fabric, and I already can see him in my imagination, hefting an axe in the air, shirtless and sweaty, before bringing it down onto a helpless log with a loud thunk.

Yum.

My mouth waters because wouldn’t I love to see those abs flex as sweat runs down his chest? Wouldn’t I love to see him huffing and grunting, exertion making that bronzed skin gleam? After all, the alpha male is a mountain man gone wild. Sure, Christian is actually a billionaire hotel magnate with too much money for his own good, but at this moment in time, you’d never know. His dark hair is shaggy, dropping over glowering blue eyes and harsh, masculine features. His nose is proudly Roman, and thatchin made of granite. His lips look far too mobile, but also dominant and ruthless, like he’d kiss the life out of any woman mewling beneath him in bed.

Too bad he hates me.

Those blue eyes glare as he stares me down as if I’m a tiny pile of shit that doesn’t belong on his property.

“Who are you?” he demands. “Emily who?”

“Pamela’s my mom,” I clarify in a steady voice. “Remember? Pamela has a daughter from her first marriage, and I’m that daughter. I think the last time we met was three years ago, but I haven’t gone anywhere, Mr. Degas. I just grew up, that’s all.”

Harsh streaks appear on the man’s high cheekbones as he continues to glare at me with disgust. My heart’s fluttering in my chest as my stomach feels funny because the truth is that we didn’t just “meet” three years ago. Or rather we did, but he doesn’t know that I saw more of him than I expected.

After all, I visited his home for the holidays one year, and we were introduced. I was a fright to behold then, with my frizzy hair, bad skin, and revolting overbite. Food literally dropped out of my mouth sometimes when I chewed, and honestly, Pamela was more than a little embarrassed that I was her blood relation. As far as I know, my mom’s always been gorgeous and never suffered the indignity of adolescence.

But she made the introductions, and we had a normal-enough dinner together on Christmas Eve. Pamela and Christian were still in their lovey-dovey phase then, and gazed into each other’s eyes as we ate our food. It was disgusting, to be honest, but I couldn’t help but notice how handsome my new stepfather was. He was every inch the dashing billionaire, with penetrating blueeyes, an arrogant air, and a powerful masculine body made for sin.

Obviously, I was embarrassed at these dirty thoughts because this man and I were nowrelated. How could I even be thinking these things like a naughty girl? Cheeks blushing, I basically bolted my food and then excused myself after dinner to hole up in the guest room because I couldn’t handle the high-wattage gaze of my new stepfather. I was a bad girl, and so embarrassed yet titillated about the attraction.

Of course, Christian Degas was about ten million times hotter than the stupid boys at school, with their gangly limbs and thin torsos, but still, this was my newstepdad. There was no reason why I should feel so over-heated in his presence, and I clenched my thighs with need as my lady parts tingled a bit. Humiliated at the moisture pooling there, I resolutely changed into my nightgown and got into bed, before snapping off the light. These thoughts were wrong, and I had to stop.

But things went from bad to worse. Unable to sleep, I tossed and turned, finally rising in the wee hours of the morning. It was probably four a.m., and not even light outside. But grumpy from sleeplessness, I slipped on a robe and made my way downstairs for a comforting mug of hot cocoa. That’s when I got the shock of my life.

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