Surprise Baby For The Billionaire. Charlotte Hawkes

      Sol frowned before parroting out information in a way that only confirmed that he was sidestepping the real answer.

      ‘The scan revealed no evidence of any bleed on the brain, and Izzy didn’t damage her neck or break her jaw in the fall, which we suspected—hence why she’s been transferred to Paediatric Intensive Care. Maxillofacial are on their way, to deal with the teeth in Izzy’s mouth that are still loose. We have the two that came out in a plastic lunchbox someone gave to Izzy, but I think they’re baby teeth, so that shouldn’t be too much of an issue. We won’t know for sure until some of the swelling goes down.’

      ‘I know all that. I was there when the paediatric doctor told Michelle.’

       The paediatric doctor.

      As though simply saying Saskia’s name would allow his brother to read the truth all over his face.

      As though he didn’t know how every inch of how her body felt and tasted.

      As though she wasn’t carrying his baby.

      Possibly.

       Probably?

      Shaking it off, he tried for levity.

      ‘I was asking what the story was with you, numbnuts.’

      Not exactly his most convincing attempt at humour, but it was all he had in him. Fortunately Sol seemed too caught up in his own issues to pick up on it.

      ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he mumbled, a sure-fire giveaway that he was lying.

      Malachi snorted. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You forget I’ve practically raised you since we were kids. You can’t fool me.’

      Sol opened his mouth and Malachi waited for the usual witty comeback. But for once it didn’t come. Instead his younger brother glowered into his coffee. Strangely, he was avoiding Malachi’s stare. And when Sol spoke his voice was unusually quiet, his words coming out of the blue.

      ‘I haven’t forgotten anything. I remember everything you went through to raise us, Mal. I know you sold your soul to the devil just to get enough money to buy food for our bellies.’

      The words—the previously unspoken gratitude—slid unexpectedly into Malachi’s chest. Like a dagger heading straight to the heart and mercifully stopping just a hair’s breadth short.

      How was it that the very moment he was ready to doubt himself his brother seemed to say the words that made him think again? As if Sol had known just what to say when he couldn’t possibly have guessed about Saskia being pregnant, let alone that it might be Malachi’s.

      Or was it just that he was reading into it what he wanted to read? Trying to convince himself that perhaps Saskia and her baby—their baby—wouldn’t be better off without him?

      Which made no sense—because he didn’t want a family.

       Did he?

      Savagely, he tore his mind back to the present once more.

      ‘Bit melodramatic, aren’t you, bratik?’ he gritted out. ‘Is this about Izzy?’

      ‘I guess.’

      Sol was lying again, and Malachi couldn’t say why he wasn’t calling his kid brother out over it.

      ‘Yeah. Well...no need to get soppy about it.’

      ‘Right.’

      Downing the last of the cold coffee and grimacing, Sol crushed the plastic cup and lobbed it into the bin across the hallway. The perfect drop shot.

      Then, without warning, Sol spoke again.

      ‘You ever wonder what might have happened if we’d had a different life? Not had a drug addict for a mother? Not had to take care of her and keep her away from her dealer every spare minute?’

      It was as though the tiniest, lightest butterfly had landed on that invisible dagger in his chest, beaten its wings, and plunged the blade in that final hair’s breadth deeper. Driving to the heart of the questions which had started circling around his brain ever since he’d heard Saskia utter those words to that nurse, creeping so slowly at first that he hadn’t seen them over the chaos of the fear.

      If he’d had a different childhood, would he be greeting this news differently now?

      He didn’t know. He never could know.

      It wasn’t worth his time or his headspace.

      ‘No,’ Malachi ground out, not sure if he was trying to convince Sol or himself. ‘I don’t. I don’t ever think about it. It’s in the past. Done. Gone.’

      ‘What the hell kind of childhood was that for us?’ Sol continued regardless. ‘Our biggest concern should have been whether we wanted an Action Man or Starship LEGO for Christmas—not keeping her junkie dealer away from her.’

      ‘Well, it wasn’t. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known you were going to get maudlin on me.’

      ‘You were eight, Mal. I was five.’

      ‘I know how old we were,’ Malachi growled, not sure whether he welcomed the reminder or not. ‘What’s got into you, Sol?’

      Their shameful past—their horrendous childhoods—they were the reason why he’d always sworn to himself that he would never have a child. Whenever he looked back—which he never usually did—all he could feel was age-old bitterness and anger tainting his soul.

      How could he ever be a good father?

      Yet if Saskia’s baby really was his—and he still needed to hear her say the words to him, not to some stranger—how could he turn his back on them?

      He couldn’t. It was that simple. And Sol raking up wretched memories wasn’t helping.

      ‘It’s history.’ Censure splintered from Malachi’s mouth. ‘Just leave it alone.’

      ‘Right.’

      His brother pressed his lips into a grim line and they each lapsed back into their respective silences.

      He didn’t want Sol’s gratitude. He didn’t deserve it. He hadn’t taken care of their little family out of love, or a desire to be a unit. He’d done it because he’d been terrified of where they would all go if they were split up.

      But he’d begrudged every moment of it. Resented the fact that at eight years old he’d had to effectively become a father to a five-year-old—had had no choice but to become the man of the house and earn money to put food on the table. At eight he had felt like a failure every time the electricity cut out and he had no money left to put anything on the card.

      He’d sworn to himself that his adult life would be about himself, the way his childhood had never been. He’d been adamant that when he grew up he would never marry or have kids. His life would be his own. Finally. He had been determined that his business—which had made him a billionaire against all the odds—would be his only drive. As selfish as that might have sounded to anyone else—anyone who didn’t know what his life had been like.

      And it had been. Nothing had stood in his way. Not his lack of experience, nor the competition, nor any relationship.

      He’d been ruthless.

      All too often he wondered if the only reason he had founded Care to Play—the centre he’d set up with Sol, where young carers from the age of five to sixteen could just unwind and be kids instead of feeling responsible for a parent or a sibling—had been to make himself feel good about his ability to shake other people off so easily.

      He’d believed that he wanted to make a positive difference to other kids’ lives—if something like Care to Play had existed when he and Sol had been kids, then maybe it could have made a difference. He’d even convinced himself it was true.