Page 12 of How to Win the Wild Billionaire

He turned right, passed a tangerine-orange house, then a lime-green house, looking for number twenty.

The house Bay lived in was bright pink; the color reminded him of cartoon flamingos. Searching for a parking space, he spied an empty spot three houses down and whipped the Maserati into it, grateful for power steering. After exiting the car, he locked the door with the keyless lock and shoved the remote into his pants pocket and strolled up the street to Bay’s glossy navy blue door, lifting his hand to acknowledge the kids across the street who were already making their way over to look at his car.

His Maserati tended to attract attention...

But then again attracting attention was something the Tempest-Vane family knew how to do. Digby banged his fist on her front door, waited a minute and finally heard footsteps on the wooden floor. The door cracked open and his heart settled as his eyes connected with hers.

What was it about her that made him relax, that pushed the tension from his body? No one had ever had this effect on him before and he had to get this craziness under control.

“It’s about bloody time,” Bay muttered, flinging the door open. She snatched the toy from his hand. “Do you have any idea of the hell I’ve gone through today?”

He was right about her looking exhausted; her eyes were red rimmed—had she been crying?—and her face looked a shade paler. He smiled at her outfit: a pair of loose cotton pants and a tank top showing off her slim but still sexy body.

Before he could respond to her fiery greeting, Digby felt a small bump against his legs and looked down, astounded to see a mop of ebony curls and two tiny arms encircling his leg. He found his balance and heard deep, snotty sobs coming from the little girl.

Aw, crap. The little girl tipped her head back and his breath caught at huge round wet eyes the color of obsidian. She lifted her arms up and Digby, who tended to avoid children as much and as often as possible, immediately scooped her up and placed her on his hip. She took the sloth Bay held out to her and her sobs immediately stopped. She tucked the toy into her tiny chest and rested her head on his shoulder, her thumb in her mouth.

“I finded Fluffy.”

Bay nodded and held out her hands, obviously expecting the little girl to fall into her arms. Olivia surprised them all by shaking her head and laying it back on his shoulder. “Tired, Mommy Bay, and my head hurts.”

“I’m sure you are, baby girl,” Bay crooned, her hands still outstretched, “so let’s get you into bed.”

“Nuh-uh. Stay here with Fluffy’s friend.”

Now, there was a name he’d never been called before.

Digby patted Olivia on her tiny back. “Sweetheart, I need you to go back to your mama,” he told the sweet-smelling handful in his arms.

Olivia immediately let out a screech and wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing with everything she had. “No! Stay here.”

Bay pulled a face. “Sorry. She’s just feeling sick and has a bad cold,” she explained.

Digby winced, thinking of his designer suit. Yay, snot and tears, just what he needed. Thank God he was as healthy as a horse and never got sick. Not knowing what else to do, he kept patting her back, keeping his touch light. A minute or so later, he heard her sigh, felt a tiny puff of breath against his neck and her tiny body sag. He lifted his eyebrows at Bay, who had a satisfied look on her face.

“She’s asleep,” she mouthed, gesturing for him to follow her.

Digby walked into a tiny second bedroom, white and pink, and laid the little girl into a single bed. She tried to open her eyes but when he tucked the sloth into the crook of her arm, she rolled over, yanked her legs up and fell deeper into sleep.

Bay pulled up a light blanket, kissed her head and then they both left the room. In the passage, Bay closed her eyes and her lips moved in what Digby thought might be a heartfelt prayer.

“I need a drink.” Bay softly muttered, leading him into the small living room.

The room was a pale, creamy pink and the fronds of a huge fern tumbled off a side table. Seascapes adorned the wall, along with a huge photograph of a dark-skinned man holding a gorgeous strawberry blonde in his arms. Digby immediately saw the resemblance between the woman and Bay; she had to be her sister. And Olivia had inherited her father’s black hair and wide, smiling mouth. They’d been a good-looking couple, Digby thought, and looked so vibrant and happy.

Like Jack, they’d died young, before they could even start to tap into their potential. Digby squared his shoulders, trying to push that familiar pain away.

Then Digby looked at Bay and he felt lighter and brighter. The pain was still there but it felt toothless and weak. How did she manage to do that?

“Let’s go onto the veranda—that way we won’t disturb Liv. She normally sleeps like the dead but let’s not take the chance.”

He’d kill for a solid eight hours. He hadn’t slept for more than a few hours a night, four at the most, since Jack died. And lately, when he did sleep, he dreamed of burying Radd.

Not exactly restful.

Hoping that Bay didn’t notice his shudder, Digby walked through the small sitting room and open French doors onto a tiny patio with a garden the size of a postage stamp. Herbs—he recognized lavender and parsley and mint—spilled from pots and tinged the air with their fragrant scents.

Bay gestured to a small wrought iron table, covered with colored pencils and a sketchbook. A half-full glass of white wine glistened with condensation and Digby wondered whether she’d offer him a glass.

---