Baby Be Mine (Spinsters & Casanovas Series Book 1) (5 page)

“Have you any idea how long both degrees
took me? A full eight years, plus my three years out practicing,
that equates to eleven!” By this stage, she was on full rampage,
slamming her little fist onto the bar to intimidate him, so mad at
her current situation that she could feel her cheeks growing red.
As each word was spoken, her voice notched up an octave. “So if you
think I’m under twenty-five, you must be a bloody idiot.”

In return, the bartender just continued to
blink lazily, staring at her oddly, like she was a psychotic
patient just out of a mental hospital, rambling on about her
profession.

“How do you think I got into this freakin’
nightclub in the first place?” She rambled on. “I’m well over
twenty-five, I assure you.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but I really need to
confirm with your ID,” the bartender repeated indifferently.

“Are you a broken record? I told you my
friend is going to find my wallet.” She fumed in frustration. “It
must be in her bag or something.”

“Well, I’m happy to wait.” The bartender
smiled at her.

“Well, I’m
not
happy to wait. I’ve
only got five minutes left until midnight. Now are you going to
serve me that drink or not?” she challenged.

“No!” the bartender said simply, not backing
down.

Her shoulders sagged in defeat.
Dear
Lord, you will have me become a spinster without allowing me to
drink alcohol, is that right? You want me to die a spinster? Well,
I’m happy to oblige with that request, but why must you deprive me
of alcohol too? I want to experience drinking before I turn thirty.
So please, if you would just grant me this wish, then I would be
happy to die a happy spinster.
And just like that, her strength
was back in her shoulders and she lifted herself, sitting much
straighter.

What was she giving up for? There were still
a full five minutes left before midnight. So she put on her best
intimidating stare, the one she normally used when her patients
refused to listen to her oral hygiene advice, the one that meant
business, wishing and praying at the same time that Whitney and
Elise would come back with her wallet in hand so she could get a
swig of that drink.

Just then, she heard someone whisper
something into her ear, and like electricity shot up her spine, she
startled and turned her head to the direction of that voice. And
God did answer her prayer because right there in front of her was
that Casanova she had delivered the flowers to on the day before
Valentine’s.

Her eyes took in his azure irises. There was
that same wicked gleam as that fateful day. She redirected her
gawking stare away from his penetrating gaze, her heart thumping to
the rhythm of the loud music. Big mistake! It landed on his lips
instead, and heaven help her, but he flashed that devilish grin
again, the one that made her legs turn to jelly. If not for her
sitting on the barstool, she would otherwise be on the floor by
now.

But tonight, though, that smile held an
extra special meaning, as if he were happy to see her again after
that embarrassing stunt she had pulled, yanking off his towel.
Tonight it was fully displayed, for her viewing only, his perfectly
straight white teeth, probably a product of orthodontic work, many
years of wearing braces, and bleaching—yes, bleaching to reach that
level of whiteness on his enamel. Suddenly, that image of his
semi-naked body danced right before her eyes, clouding her cheeks
in a beautiful pink blush. So surprised she was seeing him right
there in front of her, her face just mere inches away from his own,
all she could utter at that moment was, “You!”

Why was it every time this Casanova was
around, all she could do was stutter? It wasn’t like she was born
with an impediment or something. In fact, she was quite the
talkative person. Once she learned how to speak English, her
cousins and friends couldn’t shut her up. So why now? Why all of a
sudden couldn’t she string a simple sentence together?

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the
sweetheart who confessed to me last week.” He spoke seductively,
close to her ear. “Did you enjoy the view before you ran off like
the devil was on your tail?”

What could she say? How to respond? She was
tongue-tied. Then a thought struck her. “Buy me a drink.”

“What?” he asked, flabbergasted. She was
sure he wasn’t expecting her to reply like that. But what had she
to lose by demanding this request?

“Buy me a drink,” she repeated.

No way was she giving this up. This man
looked like he was over twenty-five. He could buy a drink for
her.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he said, smiling.

And as simple as cheese melting on toasted
bread, Hunter ordered her a shot of whatever it was in that small
cup, or glass, or something that looked like a portion cup in her
dental practice. Clarice immediately started to question whether
that brown murky liquid was actually alcohol at all.

She picked up the small portion cup in her
hand and turned it about, eyeing it at close quarters.

“Are you sure that’s alcohol? It sure looks
murky,” Clarice asked Hunter.

Hunter simply smiled, then replied, “It’s
spirit, sweetheart. Drink up.”

“Why is it not purple like in the Bunsen
burner?” Clarice queried.

“It’s definitely spirit, sweetheart. Now
drink it up.” He confirmed and then urged again.

Looking at her cellphone, she had but thirty
seconds left before midnight hit. Not thinking any further, but
with one mission to accomplish before Cinderella had to leave her
glass slipper behind, she chunked the whole contents down in one
go… and, my oh my, did she regret it, because at that very moment,
her eyes watered, her breath caught, her face bloomed red, and all
she wanted to do was one thing—spit that disgusting liquid right
back out. But twenty seconds, dear heaven, twenty seconds to go
before midnight struck. She could hold it in. Yes, she could.

Hunter, who was on the other side of the
scene, observed her face blowing up like a puffer fish, her cheeks
bowed out and her eyes bulging, as if she were holding the drink
inside her mouth. Surprised, he suggested, “Drink it up. Don’t hold
it like that.”

All Clarice could do was shake her head
vigorously. Her eyes stung furiously as jets of tears streamed down
her cheeks, the alcohol in her oral cavity burning her alive. The
foul liquid continued to kill her taste buds one by one, her mouth
becoming numb.

Feeling sick to her core, she couldn’t
contain the liquid anymore. Thirty or not, spinster or not, she
didn’t want to die just yet. If she didn’t do something fast to rid
herself off this foul burning liquid in her mouth, she would surely
meet her maker.

So out it went. She spit out the entire
shot, in the process spraying a stream in Hunter’s direction, who
now sat facing her with a mixture of spirit and saliva all over his
face and shirt.

And for the second time that night, Hunter’s
libido deflated once more.

CHAPTER 4

A thousand bulldozers could not compare to
the stomping headache that was drilling inside Hunter’s head as he
was forced to peel open his eyes when the sunlight leaking through
the light curtain became too bright to bear early the next
morning.

“Bloody Virgin Mary, help me!” He groaned
while massaging his temple to dispel the ache.

“Virgin Mary will help you if you ask her
politely,” a female voice whispered seductively in his ear.

“Jesus Christ!” he blared, jerking up from
bed, startled at seeing an unknown woman beside him, clad only in
bed sheets. “You’re Virgin Mary?”

The woman giggled and winked at him. “Not
necessary a virgin, but my name is Mary.” Then she winked at him
again, licked her lips, and asked, “Wanna go for another
round?”

Hunter looked at her like she’d just grown a
pair of horns atop her head.
Someone please kick me in the ass.
Did my taste run that dry?

The woman lying next to him was definitely
not his type. She was too big, too tall, and too bulky. Definitely
not his style. What was he thinking going for her? Then his memory
of the night before came flooding back to him.

The cute petite woman sitting on the
stool!

That’s right. The small woman who had him
hooked from the first moment he saw her, that pixie who’d brought
him the roses just a week back. It was that same woman who spat on
him because she’d asked him to buy a drink for her.

Damn that woman. What was she thinking
spitting all over him like that? And it had to be on his new
baby-blue shirt too. At that moment, his hands wanted so much to
wring her neck, but she was just too much his type to truly hurt
her. If he saw her, next time he would surely strangle her, or
maybe kiss her, depending on his mood.

Hell! No woman had ever treated him that way
before. It hurt his ego. And because he got so mad with her last
night, he had literally grabbed the first woman that made him an
offer. And that was how he’d ended up with this not-so-virgin Mary
in his bed and this raging headache.

“Well, baby, are we gonna go for another
round?” Mary asked, her arms and legs draped over his body like an
octopus’ tentacles, sucking its favourite prey.

Of course not,
Hunter was about to
say, but before he could reply, his cell phone rang. He signaled
for the girl to stop speaking for a bit, then removing those long
tentacles of hers from his body, he sat up again and retrieved his
cell phone on the bedside table, then flicked it open.

“Bloody hell.” Hunter let out another groan.
It was from his goddamn cousin Anton.

AGAIN!

Anton had been relentlessly calling him
nonstop since last night. He had to shut off his phone before he
went mad and checked himself into Cherry Farm, aka the mental
institution. Again, Anton was reminding him about the upcoming
merger meeting between his father’s company, Silverton Enterprises,
and The Bass Ltd. later this morning.

Hunter rubbed his jaw in frustration. What
role did he play anyway? He didn’t actually have a part in the
decisions of the company. All he ever did was entertain people and
party. It was Anton who had to deal with all the merging.

Anton had been nagging him nonstop about
work since the discussion of the merger came up. If he didn’t know
Anton any better, he would have assumed he was a woman. He’d tried
escaping a few times just so he could get some peace and quiet
(although his definition of peace and quiet usually meant
squandering women at night, doing vigorous bedroom exercises with
them), but Anton had always seemed to catch up to him.

Flicking the phone closed again, he got up,
shuffled on his dirty clothes from last night, and made his way out
the door while saying, “Sorry, Maisy, gotta go.”

“It’s Mary!” he heard her shriek as he
pulled the door closed.

Hunter chuckled. God, he loved one-night
stands. Even if those women got pissed with him, he would never
have to face them again anyway. That was the beauty of it. He
didn’t have to deal with the heartbreak, heartache, or midnight
blues.

Hunter had just one rule. Girls were like
bed sheets—best changed every night. With the world at his
fingertips, he got a chance at any girl he chose. It was like a
variety of women presented to him on a silver tray. Chuckling at
the thought, he slid into his red Ferrari, slammed the door shut,
and drove off at a dangerously high speed. He owned the road.

Driving on the open road cleared his head a
bit. When he saw the gate to Silverton Estate, an isolated area
protected by guards all around, he swiveled the car to a brief stop
to say hello to Chase, their security guard, then slowed to park
outside the main entrance of Silverton Mansion after a further
five-minute drive in.

Silverton Mansion was a colossal estate,
covering many thousands of hectares. There were vineyards and
orchards all around and a stream in front, boasting a scenic view
year round.

The Silvertons owned many businesses. Under
the parent umbrella, Silverton Enterprises, founded by his father
Clinton Silverton, they owned department stores, farmlands, and
various real estate, but his father’s specialty was hotels. At the
moment, they owned one in every city of New Zealand and
Australia.

But Hunter couldn’t understand his father’s
mind. With the amount of wealth he owned, why did his father choose
to live in New Zealand, a country that was even smaller than the
state of California? Not to mention the weather could sometimes be
temperamental too.

Breathing a sigh of satisfaction after
having not been to Silverton Estate for a good month, since most of
the time he was cooped up in his private apartment in Central
Auckland, Hunter stepped out of the car. Before he could fully
straighten, a big golden terrier ran and tackled him.

“Hey, Dori.” Hunter scratched the dog’s ear
as he rolled around on the ground. “Long time, no see, little
bro.”

In response, the dog just lay near Hunter’s
feet, wagging his tail, his tongue lopped out on one side in
satisfaction.

“Hunter!” A deep voice sounded from inside
the house.

“Crap!” he uttered. When he looked up, he
saw his father heading his way. “Hey, Dad. How’s life on this side
of the equator?”

“Hunter, I’m going to strangle you,” Clinton
Silverton said by way of greeting his only son. “Why did I send you
to the States? You wasted my fortune!”

Hunter’s father, Clinton, had wanted him to
go to the US to negotiate a deal. But his son had failed him. Not
only that, but he had partied each night away and spent all the
money meant for the expenditure of the deal on his midnight
pleasures. He didn’t report back until Anton told him the news
about the deal being off.