Page 1 of The Billionaire's One-Night Baby

PROLOGUE

Five years ago...

JAGOFOUNDHERin her grandmother’s bedroom upstairs, seated on the end of her bed, slim arms wrapped around a framed photograph of Lily, her red head bowed. She’d refused to wear funeral black and Jago thought that she looked even smaller in her simple ecru dress and low heels—if that were at all possible. Smaller, defenceless, broken.

He watched a tear drop from her nose onto the old wooden floorboards and swallowed, fighting the urge to turn around and rejoin the wake downstairs. What was he doing here? Sure, he’d known her for years and, through Thadie, interacted with her at Le Roux family functions, but they weren’tfriends. The best he could call them was friendly acquaintances. But he’d had his eyes on her all afternoon and when she ran up the stairs, obviously needing a break from her grandmother’s mourners, he found himself following her.

Jago pushed his hand through his hair and rubbed his jaw, unable to take his eyes off her bright, bowed head, her pale profile. Love—that messy, uncontrollable, bewildering emotion—and its sidekick, grief, annihilated people. Like a lightning strike, it was powerful and destructive, diving towards its destination, fast and unforgiving, incinerating anything and everyone in its path. It was merciless, thoughtless, devastating.

Was it any wonder he avoided it?

Jago laid a broad hand on Dodi’s head, and she looked up at him, her nose red from weeping and those marvellous grey-blue eyes drenched with tears. Despite the gravity of the occasion, her eyes held all the impact of a pole slamming into his stomach. He wished he could describe the colour accurately, but he wasn’t a writer or a poet and the best he could come up with was that the smoky blue reminded him of sun-and-rain-splattered mist.

The first time he’d noticed her, six or so years ago, he’d been walking into a restaurant, his new bride, Anju, on his arm. He immediately noticed the redhead laughing with his sister, dressed in a short, boldly patterned sundress. Pretty, he’d decided. Young, and if she was a friend of his sister’s, probably a little rebellious. Then someone had congratulated him, and Dodi was forgotten.

Too many deaths had occurred between that low-key celebration of his marriage to Anju and today: too many tears had been shed, too many floors paced and too many nights spent awake and grieving.

Jago gently pulled the photograph from her grip and placed it on the dressing table behind him. Having buried his wife and father months apart, Jago knew what Dodi was going through and what her immediate future held. After their funerals, he’d spent so much time dissecting his intellectual marriage, based on friendship and mutual interests, and examining his relationship with his volatile father. He knew that Dodi, in the weeks and months to come, would also do some intense soul searching.

But, unlike him, Dodi would grieve solo, without the support of family or siblings. Thadie, lovely and loyal, was trying to fill in the gaps but she couldn’t be there twenty-four-seven for Dodi.

His heart, withered as it was, ached for her.

Jago sat down on the bed next to her, sliding his hand up and down her back, his hand connecting with every bump in her spine. She was so slight, so petite. Still, at only twenty-four, so damn young. ‘How are you doing, Elodie Kate?’

He felt, rather than heard, her emotional hiccup to his using her full name. He had decided, years ago, that her old-fashioned name suited her ethereal face and slim build. And, as far as he knew, he was the only person who called her by her birth name. Jago knew it frustrated her but that wasn’t a good enough reason for him not to use it. He liked her full name, so he’d use it.

Obviously exhausted, Dodi simply rested her head on his shoulder. Death, he realised, tended to put inconsequential arguments into perspective.

‘I feel like a part of my soul has been amputated. It’s just such a damned waste, Jago. Lily wasn’t that old.’

Jago silently agreed. He didn’t know Dodi’s grandmother well but, from what he’d heard from his sister Thadie, he understood Lily to have been a vibrant and charismatic woman, energetic and charming. She’d taken Dodi in when she was a teenager and Dodi adored her, as did his sister. Lily’s death would leave a huge hole in Thadie’s life and a crater in Dodi’s.

Dodi curled into his arm and lifted her hand to his chest. Despite the sombre moment, he couldn’t help his immediate reaction to her touch, the electric current to his groin. What on earth...?

This was his sister’s best friend, someone he’d come up here to comfort, not seduce. She was grieving, sadness rolled off her in waves, but all he could think about was whether her mouth was spicy or sweet and whether her skin was as silky soft as it looked.

Jago shook his head, annoyed with himself. What was he thinking? Not only was Dodi grieving but she was also nine years younger than him and his sister’s best friend, and his wife had only been dead a year. His reaction to Dodi annoyed and upset him—he loathed feeling out of control. He was not his father, easily able to move on from grief and loss.

But holding Dodi like this was torture.

Jago ran a tired hand over his eyes and shifted away from Dodi, who promptly followed and cuddled closer as if seeking his warmth.

Dodi wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. Jago managed a tiny smile. It was the same gesture his nephews used when they were upset or tired.

‘She left me her business, but I don’t think I can take it on, Jago,’ she murmured.

Jago sighed, wrapped his arm around her shoulder and tipped his head sideways so that his head touched hers. ‘Why not?’

‘Because it makes me feel trapped,’ Dodi whispered. Before he could ask her to explain her strange comment, she spoke again. ‘We did everything together. She was my anchor.’

What was he supposed to say to that? He was self-sufficient and unemotional, deliberately so, and he had no words of comfort.

Dodi hiccupped a sob. ‘God, Jago, what am I going to do?’ she wailed as tears rolled down her face and storms rumbled in her eyes.

He felt out of his depth, uncomfortable, but what did that matter when he’d do anything to alleviate the emotional storm sweeping through her? ‘What can I do, Dodi? Tell me, sweetheart, how can I help you?’

Dodi lifted her incredible eyes, and they collided with his, sparked and held. Half turning to face him, she rested her forehead against his. ‘Help me forget, Jago, if only for a little while. Please, just give me that.’

---