Page 2 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Act natural. Blend in. Become one with the overpriced lounger.

The moment of billionaire-gawking passes. Another round of drinks appears. The sun warms my skin, the music pulses, the blue liquid works its magic. I start to actually unwind.

And then, disasterstrikes.

Jess, returning from the bar armed with reinforcements, trips over one of her flip flops and executes a perfect face-plant into a passing server. Drinks fly. The server pinwheels.

Tatiana’s lounger becomes the unfortunate landing zone...

She goes down with a yelp, hitting the deck in a tangle of limbs. Her blue drink explodes outward across the deck like a small paint bomb. She scrambles, slipping, and her hands latch onto the nearest solid object, which happens to be the very solid, very tanned legs of Dominic Rossi, who has materialized poolside like some kind of deity of disastrous timing.

“Dominic!” she stutters, trying to push herself up.

Her hand, wet with spilled liquid, slips. She lurches and she throws out an arm to steady herself against his thigh. And in a moment of pure, unadulterated slapstick horror, the back strap of her borrowed bikini top gives way with an audiblesnap.

Oh. My. God.

Tatiana slaps a hand across her chest, trying desperately to salvage some dignity while simultaneously pitching forward directly into Rossi’s ridiculously sculpted torso.

He catches her, hands gripping her upper arms. The man doesn’t even flinch.

“I’ve had people throw themselves at me before,” Rossi says dryly, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes, “but this is certainly the most colorful approach I’ve seen.”

Tatiana is frozen, mortified. “I—swimsuit—broken—sorry—” she stammers, sounding like a malfunctioning robot.

Rossi, to his credit, handles it like a gentleman. He signals one of his lurking security guys, who looksless like security and more like a retired linebacker, who grabs a crisp white linen shirt from a backpack. Rossi slides the over-sized shirt down over her torso, providing more coverage than the bikini ever did.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, her face bright red.

“So how are you, Tatiana Cole?” he asks. The casual use of her full name seems to snap her back to reality. “The gatekeeper no one gets past.”

“Except you,” she replies softly, her cheeks reddening.

He grins, a flash of white teeth against tanned skin. “Does Christopher know his perfect assistant is in Vegas corrupting the youth of our country?”

Tatiana bristles. “I’m hardly corrupting anyone. And I’m allowed to have a personal life.”

Go Tatiana!

Rossi holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I was joking. I’m well aware that even the most dedicated employees occasionally escape their desks.”

That’s when Blondie saunters over, that trouble-making grin firmly in place. Up close, he’sdevastating. Every taut ridge of his abdomen is a merciless provocation, carved as if by some vengeful god determined to test my self-control. Sunlight glides over the defined V leading south of his hips, each muscle flexing with the predatory ease of a man who knows exactly what that body can do.

His skin glows like burnished bronze, begging my fingertips to trace the sweat-slick valleys between those abs... hard enough to grind against, soft enough to bite. He doesn’t just have a muscular body; he’s a living, breathing dare to surrender.

My thighs unconsciously press together.

Focus, Sabrina.

“Dom, aren’t you going to introduceus to your... damp new friend?” Blondie asks, his gaze sweeping over Tatiana before landing on the rest of us.

His eyes linger on me for a fraction of a second longer.

Or maybe I imagined that.

Rossi gestures to Blondie. “Leo Maxwell, Tatiana Cole. Tatiana, this is Leo, a walking HR complaint who happens to be one of my oldest friends.”

Leo clutches his gorgeous chest dramatically. “You wound me. I prefer ‘enthusiastic socializer.’”

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