The Alpha's Baby

The Alpha's Baby

By M.E. James

Copyright © 2015 M.E. James

Cover Design by: Mina Carter

ISBN: 978-0-9864137-1-1

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious or used fictitiously. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Sugar and Spice Press

North Carolina, USA

www.sugarnspicepress.com

A BMW barreled right toward Emmy Ellison. Bright headlights blinded her and the scream of the car’s horn echoed in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, throwing her hands in front of her face to protect herself. In that moment, she was certain that she was going to die.

Right before the car mowed her over, a hailstorm of memories washed over her. She remembered her mom and dad constantly arguing when she was a child. She remembered becoming a chef and opening her own bakery called Sweet Delights. Unfortunately, she also remembered the heartbreak she felt when she learned her employees thought she was a hard ass.

As she screamed, unsure of whether her cries were because of the approaching doom or her painful memories, she felt the impact, though not from the direction that she was expecting. She was lifted off of her feet and thrown to the left. Though she prepared herself for a collision, two warm arms wrapped around her, keeping her from being injured as she toppled to the ground. Finally, she finally opened her eyes again.

She saw only gray.

It took her a confused moment to realize that she was peering straight into a pair of eyes. Gorgeous gray eyes, in fact. She sucked in air and realized that she'd just been rescued by a dazzling man. She studied his face and saw auburn waves falling over a wide forehead. Dark day-old growth dusted a strong jaw. Lips were thin but utterly kissable. The man looked so divine she wondered whether she'd died after all.

"Are you an angel?" she groaned.

"No." The gray-eyed man chuckled.

The chuckle was what woke her up. After all, Emmy wasn't the sort of woman who people normally chuckled at. She blinked away her surprise and slowly sat up, shocked that the only thing that hurt was her knee.

Now that she'd recovered enough from the shocking encounter to think clearly, she looked at the BMW that had almost mowed her over. She could see a man sitting in the driver's seat. Anger surged through her. That driver could have killed her, and he was going to get a piece of her mind because of it. After all, Emmy was many things, but timid was not one of them.

She lurched to her feet, ready to use the word asshole and all of its creative synonyms, when the BMW's driver looked at her—and then stepped on the gas.

The coward.

No, coward was too weak of a word to describe the driver. He was a son of a bitch.

One second she was standing there watching the BMW sail away, the next, she was seizing her shoe and pulling it from her foot. With a wail of rage, she threw her shoe at the car. Naturally, it missed the BMW by a mile and bounced in the middle of the intersection. Damn. Now she'd lost a perfectly good stiletto on top of everything else. What a day.

As she stared after the BMW, wishing she had telekinesis so she could hurl his car into cyberspace, her hero placed his hand on her shoulder. She stiffened. Oh God, she must look like a total lunatic. It was just that she was having the most awful day and…and…Oh, who was she kidding? She would have thrown the shoe if she was having the best day ever. Her temper was so bad that she was lucky she hadn't been arrested for shoving somebody down a flight of stairs.

Still, she wanted to apologize for her less-than-attractive display.

"I'm sorry you had to see that." She winced, scratching the back of her head.

"Don't apologize," he said. "I think it's a damn shame your shoe didn't dent his car."

Okay, she liked this guy. Funny how his violent streak was even more appealing to her than the fact that he'd just kept her from meeting Saint Peter at the young age of twenty-eight.

"I wish it would have dented more than his car." She wished it would have dented his skull.

The man looked like he wanted to smile but didn't. His gaze—oh boy, his eyes were gorgeous—dropped down to her knee.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, besides the burning rage." She cracked her knuckles.

"Are you sure?" He still stared down at her knee.

Frowning, she followed his gaze. Sure enough, blood was oozing from her right kneecap. Oh goody. Now she wasn't just an angry psycho. Now she was a bleeding, angry psycho. She'd been too mad at Mr. BMW to pay much attention to the state of her leg, but now that she saw the injury, it hurt like a bitch. No, scratch that, it hurt like ten bitches. She winced.

"I could be better," she admitted. "At least I only hurt my knee. If it wasn't for you, my brain would be oozing out of my skull."

He winced at her imagery. "I'm just glad I was able to help you."

"Well, thanks." She paused and looked around. "Where did you come from, anyway? I was on the crosswalk alone when the BMW headed toward me."

The guy's smile lessened by several molars. She had the feeling she'd said the wrong thing, but for the life of her, she wasn't sure what she'd said that was so bad.

"Let's just fix up your knee, shall we?" he asked.

"Okay." She shrugged.

"Where do you live?" he asked. "After I help you get home, we can clean your injury."

She lived some distance away. The truth was, she'd wanted to escape Seattle for a little while and had ended up in Edmonds. Sure, Edmonds was only eleven miles from Seattle, but with big-city traffic, she wouldn't be at her apartment for at least a half an hour.

"I live in Seattle," she admitted.

"That's not good." He whistled and shook his head.

"Indeed." Her car upholstery was going to be ruined by blood if she drove now. She wondered what her mom would think if she called to ask how to get blood off her seats.

"My place is just a block away," he said. "I can help you get cleaned up there."

"Are you sure?" She examined the man. "You've helped me so much already."

"What, do you really think I'm going to let you stand out in the middle of a crosswalk bleeding to death?" He raised an eyebrow. Damn, she wanted to learn how he did that so perfectly.

"The guy in the BMW had no problem leaving me bleeding," she said.

"The guy in the BMW is an ass," he said.

"And you're not?" she asked.

"I can be an ass sometimes." He grinned. It could have been her imagination, but she swore that his grin was wolfish. A chill ran down her spine.

"I guess it would be okay to go to your place." She hesitated. "I just feel bad putting you out so much, Mr.…"

"Just call me Sebastian." The man nodded at her.

Sebastian. A sexy name for a sexy man. The only name that would have been more befitting was Mr. Gorgeous, and she wasn't sure that would have gone over too well in high school. 

"I'm Emmy," she said.

"Short for Emelia, by chance?" he asked.

"Nope." She kicked a rock that was underfoot. "Emmy. Just Emmy."

"Hmm." He looked at her. "It suits you."

She hoped that was a good thing.

"Thanks."
I think.

Instead of answering, Sebastian just grinned at her in a roguish, I-eat-women-for-breakfast kind of way. As he started to walk and she followed, she had to remind herself that he'd just watched her hurl a stiletto at a car while screaming like a lunatic. An eighty-year-old homeless woman would have had more of a chance with him than she did at this point.

Muttering under breath, she hobbled forward a step and winced as pain shot up her leg. Apparently anger was an amazing sedative because, now that she wasn't pissed off enough to spit out sour words, she was half-certain that her leg was about to fall off. She sucked in air and tried to remain strong, but her pain must have shown on her face anyway because he gazed at her with concern.

Sebastian wrapped an arm around her shoulders to steady her and said, "Let me help you."

Her face flushed. God, she couldn't remember the last time she'd let a man help her with anything. She was Miss Self-Sufficient. Yet her leg was hurting pretty bad, and she had to admit that she rather enjoyed the way Sebastian's hard biceps felt pressing against her soft shoulder.

She walked two steps pressed against him, then three, four, five, six…Just as her knee hurt so much she was considering amputation, Sebastian distracted her by opening his mouth to talk.

"So what do you like to do besides throw shoes at cars?" he asked.

It took her a moment to realize that he was teasing her.

"I like to bake cupcakes." She licked her lips at the thought of frosted cake goodness.

"Cupcakes, huh?" He grinned and licked his lips as if she was presenting him with one.

"They're fun to decorate." She cringed as she took a step.

"And what do you do for a living?" He steadied her as she limped.

"I own a bakery."

"You own one?" He gave her a once-over. "You look pretty young to own a business."

"Owning a bakery was my dream." She smiled as she thought about all she had accomplished. "I went to Seattle Culinary Academy and then started the bakery once I graduated. To be honest, I was terrified. College was expensive, and I was burdened by a lot of student loans. But my bakery turned out to be a major success."

His eyes widened. "Well, I'm impressed."

She shrugged. Despite the fact she owned her own business, her social life was a major joke. Her best friend was a morbidly obese cat named Pickles, and the last guy she dated had said that she was too intimidating to be his girlfriend. Because of that, she was at the bakery twenty-four hours a day. The only people she was close to were her eighty-five-year-old neighbor, Mary Lou Parkinson, and her parents. Still, she wasn't about to share that with a perfect stranger.

"And you?" she asked. "Besides saving women from being flattened by cars, what do you do?"

The words made him pause and stiffen. His nonanswer was answer enough.

"Ah, so you're unemployed," she concluded.
Stupid damn mouth!
she thought, realizing that she'd said the wrong thing. Again.

"I'm not unemployed." Sebastian looked amused instead of offended. "It's just hard to explain my job."

"What, do you do something strange?" She scrutinized him.

"It's not really strange." He paused. "I would call myself a group leader, I guess."

"Like a manager?" he said.

"Yeah."

"I could see you doing that job." She nodded. "You have a managing sort of personality."

"Is that your way of saying that I'm bossy?" He chuckled.

"I don't know you well enough to say that you're bossy, but you have been managing this situation with me pretty well, haven't you?" she asked.

"Well, saving women from being hit by BMWs is a hobby of mine." The guy gave a mock sigh as if rescuing women was the hardest job in the world. "I'm used to this."

"No wonder you're so good at it." Blood trickled down her leg as she spoke.

"It's a gift." He grinned and tugged at her arm.

"Lucky." She wrinkled her nose, then cringed as her knee throbbed. "My only gift is
pushing
people in front of BMWs."

To her surprise, Sebastian threw back his head and laughed. His laughter was as gorgeous as his face. The deep, throaty sound filled her soul with a strange sort of warmth that she'd never known before. She examined him, thinking it was unfair that God had made him so perfect while she could hardly get out of bed in the morning without falling on her face.

"I've never met anyone like you, you know," he said once he'd stopped laughing.

"I'm not sure the world could handle more than one of me." And she had a feeling her employees would agree.

He shook his head but tugged at her arm again.

"By the way, we're here." He pointed at the brick building beside her. "Distracting you from your pain by talking seems to have worked."

In surprise, she glanced up at the building to her right.

"That was fast," she said, trying to ignore the way her leg ached.

"Told you my place was close."

Sebastian took a step toward his apartment door, but she froze. Growing up in Seattle had taught her to never go into a man's place alone unless you were well acquainted. And even though Sebastian had rescued her from being slaughtered by a fancy car, the truth of the matter was, she didn't know him that well. She studied the man, her lips puckered, and searched his face for any sign of ill intent. What if she was raped?

She gave a derisive snort. Oh, who was she kidding? This man wasn't going to rape her. In fact, chances were higher that she'd rape him. Hell, with how she felt, she might start humping his leg like a hormone-driven Chihuahua. The thought made her wince. Unfortunately, Sebastian noticed. 

"What's wrong?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing."