Billionaire's Jet-Set Babies. Catherine Mann

the Evian water and pretend these kids weren’t here. She needed to contact airport security, which was going to land Jansen’s ex-wife in hot water, possibly him as well. That would piss off Jansen. And the jet still wouldn’t be serviced. And then he would never consider her for the contract.

      Frustration and a hefty dose of anger stung stronger than a bucket full of ammonia. Scratch cleaning detail for now, scratch cinching this deal that would finally take her company out of the red. She had to locate the twins’ father ASAP.

      Alexa unclipped the cell phone from her waist and thumbed her directory to find the number for Jansen Jets, which she happened to have since she’d been trying to get through to the guy for a month. She’d never made it further than his secretary, who’d agreed to pass along Alexa’s business prospectus.

      She eyed the sleeping babies. Maybe some good could come from this mess after all.

      Today, she would finally have the chance to talk to the boss, just not how she’d planned and not in a way that would put him in a receptive mood …

      The phone stopped ringing as someone picked up.

      “Jansen Jets, please hold.” As quickly as the thick female Southern drawl answered, the line clicked and Muzak filled the air waves with soulless contemporary tunes.

      A squawk from one of the car seats drew her attention. She looked up fast to see Olivia wriggling in her seat, kicking free a Winnie the Pooh blanket. The little girl spit out her Piglet pacifier and whimpered, getting louder until her brother scrunched up his face, blinking awake and none too happy. His Eeyore pacifier dangled from a clip attached to his blue sailor outfit.

      Two pairs of periwinkle-blue eyes stared at her, button noses crinkled. Owen’s eyes filled with tears. Olivia’s bottom lip thrust outward again.

      Tucking the Muzak-humming phone under her chin, Alexa hefted the iconic Burberry plaid diaper bag off the floor.

      “Hey there, little ones,” she said in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone. She’d spent so little time around babies she could only hope she pegged it right. “I know, I know, sweetie, I’m a stranger, but I’m all you’ve got right now.”

      And how crummy was that? She stifled another spurt of anger at the faceless Pippa who’d dropped her children off like luggage. When had the spa-hopping mama expected their father to locate them?

      “I’m assuming you’re Olivia.” Alexa tickled the bare foot of the girl wearing a pink smocked dress.

      Olivia giggled, and Alexa pulled the pink lace bootie from the baby’s mouth. Olivia thrust out her bottom lip—until Alexa unhooked a teething ring from the diaper bag and passed it over to the chubby-cheeked girl.

      “And you must be Owen.” She tweaked his blue tennis shoe—still on his foot as opposed to his sister who was ditching her other booty across the aisle with the arm of a major league pitcher. “Any idea where your daddy is? Or how much longer he’ll be?”

      She’d been told by security she had about a half hour to service the inside of the jet in order to be out before Mr. Jansen arrived. As much as she would have liked to meet him, it was considered poor form for the cleaning staff to still be on hand. She’d expected her work and a business card left on the silver drink tray to speak for itself.

      So much for her well laid plans.

      She scooped up a baby blanket from the floor, folded it neatly and placed it on the couch. She smoothed back Owen’s sweaty curls. Going quiet, he stared back at her just as the on hold Muzak cued up “Sweet Caroline”—the fourth song so far. Apparently she’d been relegated to call waiting purgatory.

      How long until the kids got hungry? She peeked into the diaper bag for supplies. Maybe she would luck out and find more contact info along the way. Sippy cups of juice, powdered formula, jars of food and diapers, diapers, diapers …

      The clank of feet on the stairway outside yanked her upright. She dropped the diaper bag and spun around fast, just as a man filled the open hatch. A tall and broad-shouldered man.

      He stood with the sun backlighting him, casting his face in mysterious shadows.

      Alexa stepped in front of the babies instinctively, protectively. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”

      Silently he stepped deeper into the craft until overhead lights splashed over his face and she recognized him from her internet searches. Seth Jansen, founder and CEO of Jansen Jets.

      Relief made her knees wobbly. She’d been saved from a tough decision by Jansen’s early arrival. And, wow, did the guy ever know how to make an entrance.

      From press shots she’d seen he was good-looking, with a kind of matured Abercrombie & Fitch beach hunk appeal. But no amount of Google Images could capture the impact of this tremendously attractive self-made billionaire in person.

      Six foot three or four, he filled the charter jet with raw muscled man. He wasn’t some pale pencil pusher. He was more the size of a keen-eyed lumberjack, in a suit. An expensive, tailored suit.

      The previously spacious cabin now felt tight. Intimate.

      His sandy-colored hair—thick without being shaggy—sported sun-kissed streaks of lighter blond, the kind that came naturally from being outside rather than sitting in a salon chair. His tan and toned body gave further testimony to that. No raccoon rings around the eyes from tanning bed glasses. The scent of crisp air clung to him, so different from the boardroom aftershaves of her father and her ex. She scrunched her nose at even the memory of cloying cologne and cigars.

      Even his eyes spoke of the outdoors. They were the same vibrant green she’d once seen in the waters off the Caribbean coast of St. Maarten, the sort of sparkling green that made you want to dive right into their cool depths. She turned shivery all over just thinking about taking a swim in those pristine waters.

      She seriously needed to lighten up on the cleaning supply fumes. How unprofessional to stand here and gawk like a sex-starved divorcée—which she was.

      “Good afternoon, Mr. Jansen. I’m Alexa Randall with A-1 Aircraft Cleaning Services.”

      He shrugged out of his suit jacket, gray pinstripe and almost certainly an Ermenegildo Zegna, a brand known for its no-nonsense look. Expensive. Not surprising.

      His open shirt collar, with his burgundy tie loosened did surprise her, however. Overall, she got the impression of an Olympic swimmer confined in an Italian suit.

      “Right.” He checked his watch—the only non-GQ item on him. He wore what appeared to be a top-of-the-line diver’s timepiece. “I’m early, I know, but I need to leave right away so if you could speed this up, I would appreciate it.”

      Jansen charged by, not even hesitating as he passed the two tykes. His tykes.

      She cleared her throat. “You have a welcoming crew waiting for you.”

      “I’m sure you’re mistaken.” He stowed his briefcase, his words clipped. “I’m flying solo today.”

      She held up Pippa’s letter. “It appears, Mr. Jansen, your flight plans have changed.”

      Seth Jansen stopped dead in his tracks. He looked back over his shoulder at Alexa Randall, the owner of a new, small company that had been trying to get his attention for at least a month. Yeah, he knew who the drop-dead gorgeous blonde was. But he didn’t have time to listen to her make a pitch he already knew would be rejected.

      While he appreciated persistence as a business professional himself, he did not like gimmicks. “Let’s move along to the point, please.”

      He had less than twenty minutes to get his Gulfstream III into the air and on its way from Charleston, South Carolina, to St. Augustine, Florida. He had a business meeting he’d been working his ass off to land for six months—dinner with the head of security for the Medinas, a deposed royal family that lived in exile in the United States.

      Big-time