Caroselli's Baby Chase

“Sorry I’m late.”

Something about that deep voice made the hair on the back of her neck shiver. She’d definitely heard it before. But where…

The breath she had just inhaled backed up in her lungs. Oh no, it couldn’t be.

She glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye as he approached the table…and swiftly looked away, heart pounding. He had the same smoldering black eyes, the solid, square jaw, the full lips that had kissed her senseless. But it couldn’t be him. Could it? Her mind must be playing tricks on her.

She had a strict rule of never sleeping with a coworker. Especially one she would be working with directly. And definitely not one whose work she would be putting under the microscope.

“Rob,” Demitrio said. “This is Caroline Taylor. Caroline, this is my son, Rob, our director of marketing.”

She had no choice but to look up, to meet his eyes…

MICHELLE CELMER is a bestselling author of more than thirty books. When she’s not writing, she likes to spend time with her husband, kids, grandchildren and a menagerie of animals.

Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.michellecelmer.com, like her on Facebook or write her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017, USA.

Caroselli’s

Baby Chase

Michelle Celmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In memory of my nephew Devon,

who in seventeen years touched more lives than most people manage in a lifetime

Prologue

Once a year since her death, on the day of her birth, December thirtieth, Giuseppe Caroselli honored Angelica, his wife of sixty-eight years and mother of his three sons, by making her favorite cake, raspberry walnut torte with dark chocolate frosting.

Caroselli chocolate, of course.

In less than an hour his family would be there to celebrate with him. To pass photos and share memories. On his request, his grandsons Rob and Tony had arrived early. They each sat on a barstool at the kitchen island, watching him carefully measure the ingredients and mix them together, the way they had when they were boys.

From birth, his three grandsons—Robert, Anthony Jr. and Nicholas—had been groomed to someday take over Caroselli Chocolate, the business Giuseppe had built from the ground up, after emigrating from Italy.

What he hadn’t counted on was their being so resistant to carrying on the Caroselli name. And if they didn’t settle down and have sons of their own, the Carosellis would be no more. At least Nicholas now had the marriage part taken care of.

“As I’m sure you already know, Nicholas has forfeited his portion of the thirty-million dollars.”

“He told us,” Tony said, a perpetual frown on his face. So serious, that one. He needed to learn to take life in stride. Have fun.

“That means fifteen million each to you boys if you marry and produce a male heir,” he told them.

“That’s a lot of money,” Rob said. He was the most driven of the three, the one who would no doubt take his father Demitrio’s place as CEO one day. If Demitrio would only put aside his doubts and trust his son.

“It is a lot of money,” Giuseppe agreed. Money that he had no intention of actually giving them. What sort of man would he be if he singled out only two of his seven grandchildren? And as he had suspected, Nick was so happy to be married, so content with his life, he had turned down his share.

One down, two to go.

And Giuseppe didn’t doubt that like their cousin, in the end, Tony and Rob would make the right decision and do him proud.

In fact, he was counting on it.

One

As he watched his date leave the hotel bar wrapped around another man, Robert Caroselli wanted to feel angry or put out, or even mildly annoyed, but he couldn’t work up the steam. He hadn’t wanted to come to this party, but he’d let Olivia, a woman he’d been seeing casually, talk him into it last minute.

“I don’t really feel like celebrating,” he’d told her when she called him around nine. He had already turned off the television and was planning to crawl into bed and with any luck sleep away the next three months or so. It was that or face daily the fact that his family, the owners of Caroselli Chocolate, had lost complete faith in him as a marketing director.

Yes, sales for the last quarter were down, but they were in a recession for Christ’s sake. Hiring Caroline Taylor, a so-called marketing genius from Los Angeles, was not only an insult, but also total overkill as far as he was concerned. But against the entire family, his objections carried little weight.

On top of that he had the added pressure of finding a wife. A woman to give him a male heir. By thirty-one most of his cousins, and the majority of his college buddies, were already married. It wasn’t as if he’d made a conscious decision to stay single. His dedication to the family business had kept him too busy to settle down. He couldn’t deny that ten-million dollars had been a tempting incentive, but fifteen million? That was difficult to pass up. Especially when it meant that if he didn’t get his cut, his cousin Tony would walk away with the entire thirty million. He would never hear the end of it.

But if he was going to find a woman to be his wife and bear his children, it wouldn’t be in a bar. And it definitely wouldn’t be Olivia. Which was why he’d planned to stay home.

“You can’t stay home alone on New Year’s Eve!” Olivia had said. “Who will you kiss? You can’t start the New Year without a kiss at midnight. It’s…un-American!”

She hadn’t seemed too concerned with whom he would kiss when she walked out the door with someone else. Not that he blamed her for bailing on him. He hadn’t exactly been the life of the party. When they arrived around ten, he scoped out a counter-height table with two vacant barstools near the back corner, claimed it and hadn’t moved since. Now he was on his—he counted the empty glasses in front of him—third Scotch and feeling a hell of a lot more relaxed than when he got there.

Alcohol flowed freely at every Caroselli family function—hell, his family would use any excuse to get together, drink and gossip—but Rob rarely indulged. He never much cared for the out-of-control feeling that came with intoxication. Tonight was a rare exception.

From his table he had a decent view of the entire bar, which was crammed above capacity with people, who, from his vantage point, undulated like the waves off the shore of Lake Michigan. Or maybe that was the liquor playing tricks with his vision.

“Excuse me!”

At the sudden shout, Rob jerked to attention. He blinked, then blinked again, positive he was imagining the angel who stood beside his table. A halo of pale blond hair hung in loose curls that nearly brushed her narrow waist, and framed a heart-shaped face that glowed with youth and good health. His gaze slipped lower and he realized that this particular angel had a body made for sin. She couldn’t have been more than a few inches over five-feet tall, but she packed one hell of a figure into her skinny jeans and clingy blue sweater. A complete contrast to the wholesome beauty of her face.

“Is this seat taken?” she shouted over the music. “And just to be clear, I am not hitting on you. I’ve been on my feet all day and there isn’t a single other free seat in this entire place.”

He gestured to the chair across from his. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” She slid onto the stool, sighing with pleasure as her feet left the floor. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“No problem.”

She offered him one fine-boned hand with short, neatly filed nails. “Carrie—”

Her last name was drowned out by the blare of a noisemaker. She shook his hand, her grip surprisingly firm for someone so petite and delicate-looking.

“Hi, Carrie, I’m Rob.”

“Nice to meet you, Ron,” she said.

He opened his mouth to correct her, but she flashed him a smile so easy and sweet, so disarming, she could call him anything she wanted and it wouldn’t have mattered to him. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She cocked her head to one side and smiled. “Are you hitting on me?”

He had never been the type to flirt, but he heard himself saying, “Would it be a problem if I was?”

She leaned forward to study him and his gaze was naturally drawn to the deep cleft at the front of her low-cut sweater. “I guess that just depends.”

“On what?”

“Why a man like you would be sitting here alone at eleven-fifteen on New Year’s Eve.”

“A man like me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t even try to pretend that you don’t know how hot you are. You should have women crawling all over you.”

“I’m alone because my date left with someone else.”

She blinked. “Was she blind or just stupid?”

He laughed. “Bored, I think. I’m not in a mood to celebrate.”

Although the night was definitely looking up.

“You must have a girlfriend,” she said.

He shook his head.

“Wife?”

He held up his ringless left hand.

She paused, then asked, “Gay?”

He laughed again. “Straight as an arrow.”

“Hmm,” she said, looking puzzled. “Are you a jerk?”

She sure didn’t pull any punches. He liked a woman who was direct and to the point. “I’d like to believe I’m not, but I suppose everyone has their moments.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Honesty…I like that. My answer is yes. You can buy me a drink.”

“What would you like?”

She nodded to his glass. “Whatever you’re having.”

He looked around, but the waitresses in the vicinity were overwhelmed with customers, so he figured it would be quicker to go right to the source. “Be right back,” he said, heading for the bar.

It took several minutes to navigate through the crowd, and another five or ten before the bartender served him. As he walked back to the table, he half expected Carrie to be gone. He was pleasantly surprised to find her sitting there waiting for him, and suddenly grateful that he wouldn’t have to watch the ball drop alone. He might even get a New Year’s kiss out of it. Or maybe that would be pushing his luck. Maybe just a quick one, or if she wasn’t into kissing a total stranger, a peck on the cheek even.

“Here you go.” He set her drink in front of her and reclaimed his chair.

“That took so long, I started to think you left,” she said.

“And I wasn’t sure if you would still be here when I got back.”

“I’m not blind or stupid,” she said with a grin, and he felt a tug of attraction so intense, he nearly reached across the table for her hand.

“Do you live in the area?” she asked, sipping her drink.

“Lincoln Park.”

“Is that far from here?”

“Not too far. I take it you’re not from Chicago.”

“West Coast born and bred. I’m here for work. I’m staying in the hotel. That’s how I wound up in this particular bar.”

“You must have someone back home.”

“Not for a while.”

“Are the men there blind or just stupid?”

She smiled, and he felt that tug again, only this time it was lower, and it wasn’t her hand he wanted to touch. That New Year’s kiss was sounding even more appealing. He would have to call Olivia tomorrow and thank her for dragging him out.

“A lot of men feel threatened by a strong, successful woman,” she said.

Rob had quite a few strong, successful women in his family, and compared to them, Carrie looked anything but threatening. His first instinct, when she had approached his table, was to pick her up and hug her.

“I also have the tendency to gravitate toward men who are bad for me,” she said.

“Bad for you how?”

“I like jerks. It’s my way of sabotaging the relationship before it even begins.” She sipped her drink. “I have intimacy issues.”

“If you know that, then why don’t you date someone different?”

“Knowing what the problem is doesn’t necessarily make it any easier to fix.”

Well, she had the honesty thing down to a science. The women he met typically played up their good qualities, not their faults. Which he couldn’t deny was, in an odd way, a refreshing change of pace. A sort of “this is me, take it or leave it” philosophy.

“When was your last serious relationship?” he asked.

“I’ve never really had one.”

“Really? What are you? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

Carrie laughed. “Aren’t you good for my ego. I’m twenty-eight.”

“I’ve never met a woman past the age of eighteen who hasn’t been in at least one serious relationship.”

“Which you clearly find fascinating,” she said, looking amused.

“I do.” In more ways than just that. She was like the perfect woman. Sexy, desirable, with a decent sense of humor and completely uninterested in a relationship. Had he hit the jackpot or what?

“How about you?” Carrie asked. “Ever been in a serious relationship?”

“Engaged, but that was a long time ago. Back in college.”

“What happened?”

“You could say that we wanted different things.”

“What did you want?”

He shrugged. “Marriage, kids, the usual stuff.”

“What did she want?”

“My roommate, Evan.”

She winced. “Ouch.”

“Better I found out what she was like before we were married than after. At that point I decided to focus on my career.”

“So you’re married to your job?”

“More or less.”

“It’s not unusual for me to work fourteen-hour days, so I totally get that.”

She would be the first woman who ever did. And he found himself wishing she were staying in Chicago longer than a few days. She was someone he wouldn’t mind getting to know better.

After talking for a few minutes more, and some serious flirting, they had both drained their glasses, so he hailed a waitress for two more drinks. There was more talking, more flirting—but mostly flirting—then Carrie had a third drink, and by then it was nearly midnight. At one minute till, the music stopped, and everyone focused on the big-screen television over the bar to watch the ball drop.

“So,” Carrie said, “because neither of us has anyone to kiss…”

“I was told that it’s un-American to start the New Year off without a kiss,” he said.

“I guess that doesn’t leave us much choice, then.”

With a grin, he held out his hand and she took it. She slid down off the stool, and didn’t show a bit of resistance as he tugged her closer. He should have been watching the ball drop, but he couldn’t seem to peel his eyes away from her face. Standing this close he would have expected to see at least an imperfection or two, but her skin was flawless, her eyes such a clear gray they appeared bottomless. His eyes dropped to her mouth, to lips that looked full and soft and kissable.

Only an hour ago he had been dreading the arrival of the New Year, now he could hardly wait for those last thirty seconds to pass. Then it was twenty seconds, and when it reached ten, everyone in the bar started to count. Except for him and Carrie. Their eyes locked, and they stood so close now that her warm breath feathered against his lips. They waited in anticipation. Five…four…three…two…

Unable to wait another second, he slanted his mouth over hers and the cheers and hoots, the shrill of noisemakers and the chorus of “Auld Lang Syne” being sung—it all faded into the background. Her lips parted under his. He heard her sigh as he sank his fingers through the silky ribbons of her hair, felt her melt against him when he pulled her closer. The softness of her lips, the sweet taste of her mouth, were more intoxicating than any drink. And he wanted her, knew he had to have her, even if it was for only one night.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there kissing, their arms wrapped around one another, but when he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless and Carrie’s cheeks were rosy and hot.

“At the risk of sounding too forward,” she said, “would you like to come up to my room?”

Of course he wanted to. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

That must have been the right answer, because she smiled and took his hand. “I am now. I figure, why not start the year with a bang?”

He grinned, squeezed her hand and said, “Let’s go.”

Two

Start the year off with a bang indeed, Carrie thought as the cab inched along in bumper-to-bumper traffic through the slushy streets of Chicago. Two days later and her neck still ached, there was a bruise on her shin where she had banged it on the headboard, and she had angry-looking rug burns on her knees, but it had been so worth it. She hadn’t been banged so well, or so many times in a row, in years. The man was insatiable, and gave as good as he got. Better even. And as she had imagined, he looked just as good out of his clothes as he did in them. She would even go so far as to say that it was the single most satisfying, fun and adventurous sexual experience of her life. Then he had to go and ruin it by skulking off in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye.

He hadn’t left his phone number, which she could have looked up if she had caught his last name. But all evidence pointed to his not wanting to be found. For all she knew, Ron wasn’t even his real name, and he had been sitting there alone looking for someone just like her, someone to bang in the New Year with. Maybe all he’d really wanted was cheap sex.

Oh, well. At least it had been really good cheap sex. And in her own defense, she’d hit the minibar in her room before she had even ventured downstairs and had been more than a little drunk. It was possible that he wasn’t even as good-looking as she thought. Or that great of a lover.

She wasn’t sure if that should make her feel better or worse.

She had been in Chicago barely forty-eight hours, and already she’d invited a strange man up to her room, had sex and had gotten dumped. That had to be some kind of world record.

But Ron—if that was really his name—wasn’t totally to blame. She did have the tendency to come on a little strong, and sometimes men took it the wrong way. Under normal circumstances she was outspoken. Get her a little tipsy and she had the tendency to say things she probably shouldn’t. According to her stepfather, her sassy mouth had been her biggest problem. And his cure for that had always been a solid crack across said mouth with the back of his hand.

She didn’t recall everything she and Ron had discussed that night, but she seemed to remember some of it being very personal in nature.

“This is it,” the cab driver said as the car rolled to a stop outside Caroselli Chocolate headquarters. As soon as the contracts were signed, and a timetable set, she would look for an apartment or condo to lease. There was nothing she hated more than living out of suitcases for extended periods of time.

She paid him, grabbed her briefcase, climbed out of the cab and walked to the revolving front door, the damp cold seeping through her coat, the heels of her pumps clicking against the slushy pavement. She pushed her way inside, into a lobby of glass, stainless steel and marble, and walked to the guard station, the alluring scent of chocolate drawing her gaze to the gift shop at the other end of the lobby.

“Caroline Taylor. I’m here for a meeting,” she told the guard.

“Good morning, Ms. Taylor. They’re expecting you.” He handed her a name badge that said “Guest,” which she clipped to the lapel of her suit jacket. “Take the elevator behind me up to the third floor and see the receptionist.”

“Thank you.” She walked to the elevator, back straight, head high. There was no lack of security cameras, and it was critical to make a good impression the second she walked in the door. Despite her reputation, and her impeccable record for getting the job done, some people, men of a certain era in particular, sometimes doubted her abilities. and this being a family business, she had no doubt that she would be working with several generations of Carosellis.

As she rode up to the third floor she shrugged out of her overcoat and draped it over her arm. When the doors slid open she stepped out of the elevator into another reception area. A young woman whose nameplate announced her as Sheila Price was seated behind a large desk, and beside her stood an attractive, older gentleman in a very expensive, exquisitely tailored suit. Considering his age, and the air of authority he exuded, she was guessing he was one of the three Caroselli brothers, the sons of Giuseppe who now ran the company.

She walked to the desk, nervous energy propelling her steps. She hadn’t planned to expand her business outside the West Coast area for another year or two, but Caroselli Chocolate was the largest and most prestigious company to approach her thus far, and when they called, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Of course, if she botched it up, it would decimate her reputation and probably destroy her career.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

“Welcome, Ms. Taylor,” the man said, stepping forward to greet her. “I’m Demitrio Caroselli.”

“It’s a pleasure,” she said, shaking his hand, a little surprised that the CEO himself was there to greet her.

“Can I take your coat?” Sheila asked.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, handing it over.

“Everyone is waiting for us in the conference room,” Demitrio said, gesturing down a long hallway lined with offices. “It’s this way.”

Being a private contractor, Carrie answered to no one, and being in such high demand, she walked into every meeting knowing she had the upper hand. That didn’t mean she wasn’t slightly nervous. But she seriously doubted they would have shelled out the expense of a first-class plane ticket and a five-star hotel if they weren’t seriously planning to sign the contract.

“Do you prefer Caroline or Ms. Taylor?” he asked.

“Caroline or Carrie,” she told him.

“We appreciate your coming to see us on such short notice,” he said. “And so close to the holidays.”

“I’m happy to be here.” The assignment back in L.A. that she was supposed to have started this week had been cancelled when the company went under last month; otherwise she wouldn’t have been available until much later this year.

“Is this your first visit to Chicago?”

“It is. From what I’ve seen it’s a beautiful city. The snow will take some getting used to, though.” The hall was silent and most of the offices they passed were dark. “Is it always this quiet?”

“We’re not technically back from the holiday break until next Monday,” he said. “The holiday season is a very busy time for us so we give everyone the first week of the year off.”

At the end of the hall he opened a door marked “Conference Room” and Carrie held her breath as they stepped inside. In front of a bank of windows that spanned the entire length of the room stood a strikingly beautiful young woman who looked more suited to a fashion runway than a company boardroom. On one side of a marble-topped table long enough to seat a dozen-plus people sat two dashing older men and opposite them, two younger men, who frankly buried the needle on the totally hot-and-sexy scale.

Well, damn, the Caroselli family sure did grow them tall dark and sexy.

She assumed one of them was Robert Caroselli, the man whose department she was there to analyze and pick apart. In her experience, that didn’t typically go over very well, and resulted in a certain degree of opposition. Especially when the person in charge was a man.