My Bad Boy Boss’s Secret Baby Read Online Jamie Knight

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)

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My Bad Boy Boss's Secret Baby

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Jamie Knight

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I can’t resist the twist of her wrist.
Nina is the only female in my trainee program.
And with those curvy hips and pretty eyes of hers, she could be on a poster on the wall of my shop, instead of working in my garage.
But she’s determined to become a master mechanic. So I give her a chance, and help her learn. And she repays me a little bit too well.
Soon we’re getting down and dirty. Each and every time we can manage to be alone. My name is already mud in this town.
So, if they find out I’m sleeping with my employee, they’d love to shut me down for good.
But they need my mechanics’ skills. And my rough, strong hands need Nina’s soft body. She’s as great under the covers as she is under the hood.
But what she doesn’t tell me could really do me in. Like the fact that she’s pregnant with my child. And who her father is.
He’s rich and powerful around these parts. He sure won’t like what I’m doing with his little princess.
But I’m going to claim what’s mine. And whoever doesn’t like it will have to go through me.
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Jamie Knight

Chapter One - Nina

The lone star state. Jim Goad once said it was called that because even the locals gave it only one star. There was a time I found it hard to disagree. As a Texas girl born and reared, I had had a fiery nuanced view of the situation. Including and especially what was sometimes called “Texas Crazy.” Thing was, most Texans, while vaguely aware they lived in the United States of America, tended to think of themselves as Texans first and Americans second, if at all. The fact that the Republic of Texas, an actual country after the Mexican Revolution, became a state explicitly so it could support the confederacy no doubt had something to do with this. Independence ran in the blood of the land, as well as my family. Provided, of course, you did exactly what the reigning patriarch said.

The current uncrowned king of the Dunn empire was my daddy, Big Earl Dunn. There was a family joke that granddaddy named him that because he wanted him to rule like a monarch. “High-dressin’ euro queers,” to use his exact words. Keep in mind granddaddy was of old stock. The kind of guy who drank whiskey at lunch and thought women’s suffrage was probably a mistake. Don’t even get him started on the emancipation proclamation. Not that he was prejudiced, mind you.

Daddy was an oil baron, a metaphorical title he seemed to take quite literally, right down to family allegiance through marriage. Specifically, my marriage to the son of his business partner, an annoying man named Arthur. Easier to keep the business in the family when they were the same family according to the law.

Daddy wasn’t completely heartless. He wanted us to date first, though only to get used to the idea. There being no real doubt what his end goal was. If I was honest with myself, a trophy wife was all my dad ever wanted me to be. Were I more cynical, I might have suspected it was his revenge on me for not being born a boy and proper heir.

I heard the rumble of the rig as it rolled into the driveway. Arthur had the muffler taken out of his truck to make it sound fiercer. A decision that made him sound like a jackass.

“Sugar pie, your date is here,” Dad nearly sang from the first floor.

“No shit,” I said to myself.

Daddy would have put me over his knee if he’d heard me using such a phrase. He was very much of the opinion that girls shouldn’t be cursing or, indeed, have curse words said around or, heaven forbid, to them. If he ever heard most of the songs on my iPad, he would probably have a coronary.

“Coming,” I said, sweet as pixie sticks.

The torture device dress flounced as I went down the stairs. Daddy had chosen it, as he did with all my clothes. A truly terrible gingham thing that showed off my “assets”, which was okay because Arthur was going to be my husband. No harm in letting him preview the merchandise. I was surprised Dad didn’t make me wear a corset too, just to really sell the ideal. Had I elected to wear anything of the sort of my own free will, I would have been grounded for a week. Never mind that I was about to become a fully legal adult.

Flowers. Fuck. Arthur had flowers. He looked very proud of himself too. The shit-eating grin plastered across his gob, making his face all the more punchable — not that I would ever do any such thing.

“Good evening, Art,” I said, doing my best Scarlet O’Hara.

“You look great,” he said, barely able to keep his tongue in his head.

“Why, thank you, so do you.”

He actually did, from a particular perspective. His Armani meets Roy Rogers look was a bit much for me, though I was sure it would be appealing to someone. If he would only lose the string-tie, it wouldn’t be quite so vomit-inducing.

To his credit, the man didn’t try to cop a feel as I got into the rig. Both a good and bad sign, really. He was being a perfect gentleman. Which could only mean he was as excited about our ensuing nuptials as I was. On that, at least, we could agree.

One of the main things I didn’t like about Art, aside from his car, fashion sense, and general personality, was that he seemed to think the best way to solve a problem was to throw money at it. It was easy to see why, considering the number of charges that had been dropped after his family started to apply the pressure to the San Antonio judge. No one fucked with them. Which basically left them free to do whatever they wanted — one of the many advantages to being rich enough to buy a country. Their donations to the Terrell Hills church were ever so generous. Though still a small price to pay to cleanse one’s immortal soul.