Page 11 of How to Win the Wild Billionaire

And, second, there was no way she’d allow her rigid, demanding, emotionally crippled parents to raise Layla and Ali’s wonderful child.

Unbidden, the memories rolled in, tipped with acid. For the first thirteen years of her life, she’d been her father’s model child, happily echoing his macho beliefs about patriarchy and protection. Charismatic and charming, his were the viewpoints she embraced, whether it was on religion, on feminism or on politics.

Then she went away to boarding school and met Busi, her sister of the soul. She’d asked her parents whether Busi could spend the weekend at her house and her parents refused, not giving her a reason for saying no. After badgering them, her father finally snapped, telling her that Busi wasn’t like them and that they didn’t want her kind in their house.

Herkind? Someone sweet and thoughtful and seriously smart? It finally dawned on her that her father’s sole objection was to the color of Busi’s skin.

Furious, she’d started questioning their racist and misogynistic beliefs and challenging the status quo. She and her father argued about race and religion, feminism and misogyny, and when she refused to back down from a point—or change her mind—he started to withdraw his approval and his demeanor grew cooler.

Then he started to blatantly ignore her and then, to punish her further, turned all his attention, affection and love onto her older sister, Jane, and younger sister, Layla, leaving her to waft in the wind, feeling unsure and abandoned. She lived in their house but her presence was simply tolerated. The only thing that she and her parents agreed on was that they all couldn’t wait for her to leave home.

Bay had fought for her freedom, for the right to live her life on her own terms, and she’d never allow Liv to be raised in what she now realized was a toxic environment.

And she’d never allow herself to love someone because it was better to not taste, touch and feel love than to have it and then lose it.

Bay shook her head, conscious of her tight throat and the concrete block resting on her chest.

Her father had tried to bully her into giving him custody of Liv yesterday but when she refused, he’d approached a lawyer and instructed him to sue. He didn’t want Liv...he just didn’t like hearing the word no.

But, because he and her mother were wealthy, established, charming and personable, and had raised three girls of their own, there was a good chance of them winning.

It didn’t help that Bay had no child-rearing experience, was currently unemployed and was, mostly, living off her savings.

Bay found a tube of lipstick in her bag. She removed the lid and carefully...oh, so carefully, since her hand was shaking...slicked on the pale, taupe color.

She needed work, something to show the courts that she could look after Olivia, that she was the best person for the job. She would not allow her niece to grow up in an environment that stifled creativity, individual thought, that promoted intolerance and didn’t celebrate individualism. She wanted Olivia to grow up in a home where she was free to be herself, to explore ideas and faiths and to make up her own mind about what she did and didn’t believe in.

She wanted Olivia to know that she was strong, that she was capable and that she would always, always be loved.

Bay would make very sure Olivia knew that her love wasn’t conditional.

Digby far preferred Cape Town in summer; he wasn’t a fan of short days, wind and rain. In summer, the long, hot days stretched on endlessly. Not that he’d seen a lot of sun lately since he spent most of his time in either of his two offices, the one at The Vane or at the headquarters of Tempest-Vane Holdings.

Digby loosely held the wheel of his Maserati Levante Trofeo, the luxury SUV he bought himself a few months back to celebrate his thirty-fifth birthday, enjoying its growly engine, its great handling and luxury finishes. He glanced down at the fluffy toy on his passenger seat and reached across to rub the nubby fabric between his finger and thumb.

He was on the way to the Bo Kaap neighborhood of Cape Town to deliver Fluffy, the sloth and ultimate escape artist, back to Bay Adair.

After Bay left, he’d walked into another meeting and when that was done, he told Monica he wasn’t to be disturbed and immersed himself in work, ignoring his cell and emails as he attempted to whittle down his insane to-do list. When he finally surfaced, it was after seven and he heard a frantic message from Bay Adair on his company voice mail. Bay asked him to please retrace their steps because she’d lost the damn sloth again. Hearing the exhaustion in her voice, and a trace of panic, he did as she asked and found the stuffed toy lying on the balcony where they exchanged their hot-as-fire kiss.

Digby twisted his lips, feeling like a total ass for not sending one of his many drivers, interns or underlings to deliver the toy. He didn’t need to play the role of the courier but he did want to see Bay Adair again.

Why her? Why now? Why did she affect him in a way no other woman had managed to? She made him feel like he did when he jumped out of a plane or skimmed down the face of a massive wave. He loved adrenaline, adored the thrill, the kick of his heartbeat, the dry taste of fear in his mouth, feeling alive, powerful, like the world made sense.

He had experienced all that when he kissed Bay Adair earlier today.

Madness. But it was a madness he couldn’t resist.

Digby pushed his hand through his hair. He never pretended to be a monk; he was a virile, healthy single guy in the prime of his life and he enjoyed women, liked sex and refused to apologize for that. He never gave anyone false hope or empty promises, treated his partners with respect and hopefully, kindness, and managed to remain friends with most of his previous lovers. Because of his parents’ hedonistic lifestyle played out in the world’s tabloid press, he only dated women who were single, childless and unencumbered. He never dated women who had any type of baggage.

And Bay had baggage. And lots of it.

But, when he kissed Bay earlier, he felt like he was rushing down a black-diamond ski run or increasing the lean on his superbike to negotiate a tight hairpin curve. Up until this point, women and chasing adrenaline were two of his favorite pastimes, but when he held Bay in his arms, both gelled, morphed and became one.

And that, folks, was why he was traveling to Bo Kaap at half past eight at night, to return a stuffed toy. It was also why he had to keep a firm rein on his emotions, to control what he was thinking and how he was reacting. It was easy to confuse attraction and lust with affection, desire with connection. He was looking for a lover, not the love of his life.

Love, after all, was easily imitated and just as easily destroyed. Through neglect, death or disappearance. Love, if it existed at all, was intensely fragile and something to be avoided at all costs.

Digby knew he’d entered the Bo Kaap neighborhood when he started to notice the brightly colored houses dotting this exceptionally pretty area. Digby remembered his history, that back in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the houses in this neighborhood were leased to the slaves the British brought in from Southeast Asia and beyond. The leased houses had to be painted white back then but when the Malays were granted their freedom and were allowed to buy their houses, some of the new owners embraced color. After apartheid ended, bright, bold and stunning color swept through the neighborhood as a way for the owners to express their joy at true freedom.

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