Most Eligible Single Dad - A Billionaire's Secret Baby Romance (Love Is Priceless Book 2)

  Most Eligible Single Dad

  Holly Rayner

  Copyright 2019 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Most Eligible Single Dad

  1. Tanya

  2. Tanya

  3. Tanya

  4. Raul

  5. Tanya

  6. Tanya

  7. Raul

  8. Tanya

  9. Tanya

  10. Raul

  11. Tanya

  12. Raul

  13. Tanya

  14. Tanya

  15. Tanya

  16. Raul

  17. Tanya

  18. Raul

  19. Tanya

  20. Raul

  21. Tanya

  22. Tanya

  23. Raul

  24. Tanya

  25. Tanya

  26. Tanya

  27. Tanya

  28. Raul

  29. Tanya

  30. Raul

  31. Tanya

  32. Raul

  33. Tanya

  34. Raul

  35. Tanya

  36. Raul

  37. Tanya

  38. Raul

  39. Tanya

  40. Raul

  41. Tanya

  42. Raul

  43. Tanya

  44. Tanya

  45. Raul

  46. Tanya

  47. Raul

  48. Tanya

  49. Tanya

  50. Tanya

  51. Tanya

  52. Tanya

  53. Tanya

  The Baby Miracle

  1. Kendall

  Want More?

  More Series by Holly Rayner

  Most Eligible Single Dad

  Chapter 1

  Tanya

  April

  I sorted through the mail, cringing as I came across yet another bill with “final notice” stamped on it. I opened my business checkbook and winced. Three dollars and twelve cents wasn’t going to pay any of these bills. I’d do better to spend it on a coffee. At least then it would go toward stimulating the economy, rather than sitting in my account doing no one any good.

  The phone rang and I snatched it up, holding the receiver to my ear and bracing for another blow.

  “Owens Investigations, Tanya Owens speaking.”

  “Good morning, honey, how are you today?” my mother asked. I could see her sitting in the tiny phone nook built into the entrance hall of her post-war-era Bronx walk-up. Her hair was likely styled in the old-fashioned, wind-proof set she had done every Monday at the same salon she’d been going to since I was a toddler.

  “Morning, Ma. How are you today?”

  “Just a little sore, but otherwise good. I’m meeting Mary for lunch at two. I called to see if you wanted to join us.”

  I glanced at the checkbook again and sighed.

  “I’d love to join you ladies for lunch, but I’ve got a meeting with a client this afternoon.”

  “Oh! Honey, that’s wonderful. Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you have to prepare for your meeting. Will you come see me later this week? I’ll make us something yummy here at the house.”

  “How about I come to see you on Wednesday unless I have another client meeting?”

  “Wednesday at lunchtime. I’ll make egg salad sandwiches and a Tandy cake. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds like a lot of work, Ma. The doctor said you’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

  “Egg salad and your favorite cake are not work—they’re love. And I love you!”

  “I love you, too, Ma. I’ll see you Wednesday unless I have a meeting. I’ll let you know for sure later today.”

  After my mother disconnected the call, my anxiety cranked up about twelve notches. My mother had lived in the third-floor walk-up for fifty years. My father had inherited the rent-controlled apartment from his grandmother and had moved my mother into it when they got married.

  The rent was only two hundred dollars a month for a three-bedroom apartment, unheard of in any of the boroughs unless it was rent-controlled. Fiscally, she could afford the apartment, but physically, it was becoming more and more iffy that she could stay.

  Asthma made it difficult for her to breathe, let alone breathe and walk up three flights of stairs with a bad knee, too. Though she denied it, I knew there were days she stayed home rather than run errands or meet with her friends because she was afraid of those stairs and unsure if she could make it back up them to get home.

  It broke my heart. All I wanted to do was take care of the woman who had ensured my future, who had cried with me when I’d lost friends on the force, who had dreaded the middle-of-the-night call from my captain which had thankfully never come for her. And here I sat, three dollars to my name and no way to give my mother the kind of life she deserved.

  There was a beautiful retirement community not far from the apartment in the Bronx where the assisted living structure meant she could still have her own living space, but there would be people around if she needed help. But the monthly fee for the apartment and the supplemental care was more than fifteen hundred dollars.

  My mother’s pension from Dad’s service in the NYPD was only seven hundred dollars. I needed a minimum of five thousand dollars up front—for first, last, and security deposit—to move her into the community. Her spot on the waiting list had come up, and I only had two more weeks to get the money and move her in before they gave the apartment to the next person on the list—and moved my mother to the bottom of the list again.

  Maybe it was time to go back to the force. At least then, I’d have a little gravitas to use to keep Ma at the top of the list until I could afford the rent and deposit.

  I sighed, resting my head in my hands and massaging my temples. Why was it always that money was the issue? Not need, or desire, but plain old money? And why did the hardest working people always seem to have the least money?

  In a fit of aggravation, I threw the checkbook across the room, causing the binding to burst and sending sheets of checks fluttering to the ground.

  “Damn it,” I muttered.

  I got up and started sweeping the sheets together and stuffing them back into the checkbook. My rear end was sticking out from under the small table that graced the wall near the door to my office when my phone rang. I stood up too quickly and cracked my head on the underside of the table.

  “Ouch, damn it!”

  I rubbed the back of my head as I reached for the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Owens Investigations?” a male voice asked right about the same moment I realized I’d answered the phone like I was in my home, not my office.

  I cursed under my breath.

  “It is. My apologies, you caught me right in the middle of something. What can I do for you, Mister…”

  “Cooper. Arlen Cooper. I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me with a business transaction I’m in the process of working. I’d like to meet with you to discuss the details as soon as
possible.”

  I circled my desk to waste time checking a calendar I knew was empty and had been for three months. I tapped the utterly empty block for six p.m. that evening and nodded like the man on the phone could see me.

  “It looks like I had an opening come up at six tonight. How does that work for you?”

  “Six will be fine. How about Harry’s bar on Fifth? The tab is on me.”

  “I’ll be there at six. How will I know you?”

  “I’ll know you,” Arlen said. “Six at Harry’s.”

  “Six at Harry’s. I’ll see you then, Mr. Cooper.”

  He hung up, and I put the phone back in the cradle. I dug through my desk drawer, looking for ibuprofen for the thudding lump on the back of my head. I downed two with stale coffee and then sat in front of my computer.

  I pulled up a search engine and entered the prospective client’s name—Arlen Cooper. The number of pages referencing Mr. Cooper was mind-boggling. I was on the fourth page of results when I finally gave up and went back to the beginning and reviewed the notes I’d made.

  Cooper was a property developer currently in a dispute with several other developers who were vying for the same contract to develop a new high-rise luxury apartment complex in Manhattan. He didn’t seem to be squeaky clean, but there were also no major red flags in the publicly available information.

  And it wasn’t like Harry’s was a dive bar in Brooklyn. It was, in fact, the “it” bar for the Manhattan socialites looking to tie one on before returning to their mansions on a weeknight.

  I penciled Arlen into my appointment book and set an alarm on my phone so I wouldn’t be late.

  The bar was lit with dim, wide bulbs in glass shades. The music was low and cultured. Harry’s was definitely not the kind of bar I’d have frequented as a cop. Way too calm and quiet.

  I paused at the door and scanned the room. I’d seen photos of Arlen when I’d researched him, and I recognized him immediately. The five-thousand-dollar suit he was wearing stood out even in a place like Harry’s.

  I crossed the room to Arlen, my hand extended as I came within shaking distance.

  “Mr. Cooper, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  Arlen grasped my hand, pulling the usual male dominance bull by squeezing my hand far too hard for a handshake. I ratcheted up my smile to compensate and keep from wincing. Men like Arlen Cooper wanted to see you bend and break. He’d do everything he could to ensure I felt inferior to him throughout our association.

  I was used to men like Arlen Cooper. I didn’t like them, but I knew how to use them to my advantage. Ten years on the NYPD had taught me how to handle overbearing, over-testosteroned men in my sleep.

  “Pleasure is all mine, Ms. Owens. Please sit.”

  He held a chair out from a tall table for me. I sat, and Arlen joined me. He lifted his glass, gesturing toward the bar with it.

  “Drink?”

  “No, thank you. I think it’s better if we get on with our work. What can I do for you?”

  Arlen leaned back and sipped his drink. He looked me over.

  “Since you knew what I looked like when you arrived, I can only assume you researched me before coming to meet me.”

  “I did.”

  “Then you know what I do.”

  “You’re a real estate developer.”

  “I am. But I want to be the biggest developer in Manhattan. My problem is Raul Jimenez is standing in my way.”

  “You know I’m an investigator and not an assassin, right?”

  “I do. I don’t want him dead. I want him ruined. He and I both want the bid for the Angel Tower project. I want you to get me photos of his plans and models so I can match them and bring them in lower than he can.”

  “That sounds less than legal to me, Mr. Cooper. Something about industrial espionage?”

  “I’ll make it worth your time and effort. I have researched you, too, Ms. Owens. I know you’re strapped financially and that your mother needs a place in an assisted living facility. I can make both those problems go away. I’ll pay you five thousand a day plus expenses, and I’ll hold a space for your mother on the waiting list for Sunshine Pines in the Bronx. As soon as I have what I want, I’ll open the apartment to your mother and she can move in. You can pay the deposit when I’ve paid you.”

  Something twisted in my gut. He was offering me everything I needed, but I didn’t want to work with this man. He was asking me to do something that was more than borderline illegal, and I didn’t like the way he made me feel. But how could I turn down an offer like this one? I needed time to think it over.

  “I appreciate you thinking of me and what you’re offering, but I need to consider things carefully before I make any decisions.”

  “Of course, I understand. I am, however, on a schedule and will need your answer no later than Saturday morning. Will that give you enough time?”

  I nodded. “That will be plenty of time, thank you. I’ll call you by first thing Saturday.”

  Arlen stood up and extended his hand to me. I took it, and we shook. He’d eased up on the pressure this time. Maybe he felt magnanimous, or maybe he’d decided he liked me. Either way, my joints thanked him.

  “I’ll look forward to your call.”

  I nodded and turned to leave. I’d made it nearly to the door when he called out to me.

  “Ms. Owens, I hope we can keep our conversation confidential while you deliberate.”

  “Of course, Mr. Cooper. My clients’ privacy is important to me.”

  “Then I hope to hear from you soon.”

  Chapter 2

  Tanya

  Wednesday

  “Tanya, are you all right?”

  I held up my hand, bent forward, and struggled to catch my breath. I’d forgotten how hard it was to climb three flights of stairs. How was my mother doing it?

  “I’m fine, Ma. How are you handling those damn stairs?”

  “I don’t have a choice. I take my time. Your father and I never thought about those stairs when we decided to stay here after his grandmother died. It’s only recently that I’ve wondered how Granny handled these stairs.”

  I nodded and straightened so I could cross to my mother and hug her.

  “We’ll figure out a way to get you to a place that’s easier for you, I promise.”

  Ma patted my shoulder.

  “Don’t you worry, honey. I’m fine here for now. Did you want to come in or shall we go to lunch?”

  “Let’s head to lunch. I still have to call a client later.”

  “Are you too busy today? We could do this another day if you need to.”

  “No, Ma. I’m here to take you to lunch. Where are we going?”

  “How about Katzenmeyer’s deli? I could go for a Rueben.”

  “Katzenmeyer’s it is.”

  I held Ma’s arm as we made our way down the stairs. A fist clenched around my heart to feel how frail her bones felt under my fingers. She needed to move to somewhere safer. Somewhere she could get help when she needed it, not just when I had time to come over.

  Whether I wanted to or not, I was going to have to take Arlen Cooper’s job. My mother needed me to do it. Now I just had to convince her to let me do this for her.

  Katzenmeyer’s was packed, as was nearly every restaurant at noon in New York. I settled Ma at a table and went to stand in line at the counter. I smiled at the teenager behind the counter and ordered our sandwiches with a cream soda for me and a seltzer for Ma. I took the tray to the table and went back for napkins before sitting down across from my mother.

  “You look thin, Tanya. Are you eating?”

  “No time to eat,” I said, taking a big bite out of my pastrami sandwich. Spicy brown mustard dripped onto my face and I licked it off, sighing with pleasure at the butter-like texture of the meat.

  Ma picked at her Rueben and sipped her seltzer.

  “Aren’t you hungry, Ma?”

  “I’m just taking my time. You enjoy your sandwich
.”

  I ate and watched my mother eat hers slowly, with a fork and knife. Something was wrong, but she wasn’t ready to tell me. Rather than continue in silence, I decided it was time to bring up Sunshine Pines.

  “Ma, what would you think of moving to Sunshine Pines?”

  “That big high-rise assisted living community downtown? There’s no way I can afford that place. Besides, they have a five-year waiting list.”

  “Forget about the money. Would you like to live somewhere like that?”

  “Of course I would. No more stairs. Maid service. Chefs on site for all meals. Who wouldn’t want to live there?”

  “Okay. Don’t get too excited yet, but the client I mentioned earlier, he owns that community. Part of his payment to me would be putting you at the top of the waiting list and getting you into an apartment there.”

  “Wow,” Ma said softly. “You’d do that for me? Take a job just to get me into a place like that?”

  “Not just, Ma, but yes. Of course I’d take a job to help you live a better life.”

  She reached across the table and took my hand. “Honey, that would be amazing. I haven’t wanted to tell you because I didn’t think there was anything you could do, but those stairs are killing me. I have to sit on the second-floor landing for ten or fifteen minutes every time I go up them. I just can’t keep that up.”