The Tycoon's Instant Daughter

by Christine Rimmer

  Kate sighed. “Yes, I guess so.”

  Cord said, “I just don’t know if I’d feel right about bringing Becky into that room.”

  “Has he asked to see her?”

  “No.”

  “Then forget I made the suggestion. Let’s not even consider it, unless he specifically asks for her.” Kate edged around her brother. “Gotta run.” She sent a wave over her shoulder. “I’ll be back, Hannah.”

  Hannah waved in return. “Anytime.” And then Kate was gone.

  Cord, however, was going nowhere. He shrugged out of his beautiful jacket, making Hannah more than a little uncomfortable because he watched her like a hawk while he did it. “My father,” he muttered, as if that explained everything.

  And it did, to a degree. “Yesterday afternoon,” she said. “When you had to leave so suddenly…”

  “Right. I’ve told him about Becky. But he’s…very confused. He’s on a number of medications for his illness, including heavy-duty painkillers. I’d like to take her to him, to let him see he has a granddaughter. But his behavior can be scary. Erratic. He can be violent. Both physically and verbally. He was never a particularly kind man. But recently…” He let the grim sentence finish itself.

  Hannah found herself aching for both him and Kate, to have to watch their father die such an ugly, painful death. “I’m so sorry.”

  He acknowledged her expression of sympathy with a nod, and then forced a lighter tone. “You and my little sister seem to get along just fine.”

  Hannah caught Becky’s tiny hand and kissed it. “I do like Kate. She’s fun and smart and down-to-earth.”

  “Not a hopeless, overbearing snob like some of us Stockwells.” He tossed his jacket over a straight chair by the door and strode toward her.

  She was aware of a certain strange fluttering feeling in her stomach, which she told herself to ignore. “I never said you were a hopeless, overbearing snob.”

  “But you thought it.” He reached for Becky.

  Hannah passed the little darling over. “I did not.” Well, all right. It was a lie, but for a good cause. She added, “And you need a diaper on your shoulder, pronto.”

  “So give me yours.”

  She did, smoothing it in place, trying to ignore the fresh-showered scent of him, which was equal parts man and a wonderful, subtle no doubt expensive aftershave. He looked past Becky and right into her eyes. The butterflies in her stomach went wild.

  Hannah stepped back, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to break the hold of his gaze. They stared at each other. And then Becky made one of those darling, gurgling sounds.

  Cord blinked. And so did she.

  And everything was normal again.

  More or less.

  He asked, “So what’s on the agenda for today?”

  She told him what she’d told Kate—that she’d contact the newspapers and the agencies, maybe even conduct an interview or two in the afternoon. “And this morning, while it’s still reasonably cool, I thought I’d get out that fancy new stroller I found in the closet and take Becky for a walk. It looks like miles and miles of grass out there, and plenty of shade trees. I’ll bring her in before it gets too hot. Would that be all right with you?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  Hannah frowned at him. Did it matter exactly what time she went?

  He answered the question she hadn’t asked aloud. “I’ll go with you…if that’s all right?”

  She stared at him, thinking, is it all right? There was no reason why it shouldn’t be.

  Except…well, she hadn’t really anticipated seeing very much of him in the few days it would take her to find him proper child care. She’d thought he might drop into the nursery now and then. But it hadn’t occurred to her that he might want to go with her and Becky for things like walks outside.

  Then again, if that paternity test turned out the way everyone seemed to think it would, Becky would most certainly spend her childhood here, in this big suite of rooms at Stockwell Mansion. And Hannah would have been remiss in her duty if she didn’t encourage Becky’s father to spend every moment he could with her.

  “Well?” He was giving her one of those raised-eyebrow looks of his.

  She forced a bright smile. “Yes. Of course, you’re welcome to walk with us. I just thought…that is, I understand you work very hard.”

  “I do. And I make my own schedule. If I want to take off an hour now and then, I do. That’s one of the good things about being the boss.”

  “Well, okay then. Say, eleven o’clock?”

  “Eleven is good.” He carried Becky to the changing table, laid her down and picked up a rattle from the shelf above. He shook it. Becky blinked her blue eyes and let out a giggle.

  “She’s a happy girl,” he said, and shook the rattle some more. He looked up and snared Hannah’s gaze. “I could feed her…”

  Those butterflies in her stomach grew agitated again.

  Not good, Hannah thought. Inside her head, her own voice cautioned, Whoa, girl. Watch yourself….

  A frown pleated his forehead. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Fine. Why?”

  “You seem distracted this morning.”

  “No, I’m not distracted. If Becky were hungry, we would know it.”

  He spoke to his daughter. “Hear that? Ms. Miller says you’re not hungry. That so?”

  He shook the rattle, and Becky loosed another peal of baby laughter.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He bent closer. And then he put his lips against the little bit of plump belly that showed between the lacy baby shirt and the matching pink bottoms that went with it. He blew a long, loud raspberry.

  Becky crowed in delight.

  And something inside Hannah went to mush.

  Luckily Cord Stockwell didn’t look up. He went on shaking the rattle and talking to Becky, calling her beautiful, asking her if she’d had a good night’s sleep and pretending she was answering him when she chortled and waved her arms and legs and made those silly, drooly, goo-gooing sounds.

  It was a perfect opportunity to leave them alone for a few minutes of high quality father-daughter bonding—not to mention a chance to escape and pull herself back together, get those mushy feelings under control.

  “Um. If you’re going to be here for a few minutes, I’ll—”

  He glanced up. “You’re leaving us alone?”

  The anxious expression on his face had her hiding a grin. “You know I’m only two rooms away. Just call if you need me.”

  “Wait a minute. She’s not about to require a serious diaper change, is she?”

  “Serious?”

  “Yeah. Serious. Beyond just wet. I think I’m okay with wet now. But for anything more, I’m going to need some assistance.”

  “I see.”

  “What is that look you’re giving me, Ms. Miller?”

  “Mr. Stockwell, I am not giving you a look.”

  “You’d better not be. I’m a man who needs help with a loaded diaper and I’m not one damn bit ashamed to admit it. Are we clear on that?”

  “Well, yes. I’d say we are.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about right now. She had a serious diaper change about a half an hour ago.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Go ahead, then. Take a break. Did you get breakfast?”

  “Not yet. Mrs. Hightower said I should buzz the kitchen when I was ready for it. I’ll do that now.”

  He made a sound in the affirmative, but he was already bent over Becky again.

  In her own room, Hannah kicked off her soft-soled shoes and called the kitchen. She asked for a poached egg, whole-wheat toast, tomato juice and coffee with cream. The woman who took her order said Hannah would have the food within twenty minutes. Hannah thanked her, marveling at the whole idea of a house so big you could order your breakfast by telephone, like takeout from a coffee shop.

  Then she used an outside line to ca
ll the papers to place the ads she had written up the night before. That went quite smoothly. It took ten minutes to get things set up with the Morning News. And even less than that for the Grandview Gazette.

  Courtesy of the baby monitor perched on her windowsill, Hannah kept hearing the sounds from the other room: Cord’s deep, teasing voice, talking to his daughter. And Becky’s baby noises that seemed almost like replies.

  Cord’s voice grew softer. It actually sounded as if he were telling Becky a story. Hannah caught an occasional phrase: “The first Caine Stockwell…a rancher, and not very good at it. And Noah, my grandfather. He built this house…”

  A family history. Hannah couldn’t help smiling. Evidently, three-month-old Becky was getting an early start at understanding what it meant to be a Stockwell.

  “Excuse me,” said the ad sales rep from the Morning News. “That was ‘dependable…”’

  “Yes. And ‘loving…”’ Hannah ordered herself to tune out the deep voice in the other room and concentrate on getting the ad right.

  The knock at the hall door came not thirty seconds after she’d completed the second call. She got up and let the maid in.

  “Just set it down there. Thanks.”

  The maid put the tray on the little desk by the window and quickly took her leave. Hannah poured coffee from the insulated pot into the pretty china cup, added cream and sipped, wondering if she ought to go ahead and eat—or if Cord would be calling for her soon, ready to be on his way.

  The monitor on the windowsill was quiet now. Maybe—

  Right then, there was a soft tap on the door to the playroom.

  Hannah carried her cup with her to answer.

  He was waiting on the other side of it, his jacket across his arm—and no Becky in sight.

  Cord put a finger to his lips. “I was telling her all about the oil embargo of the seventies. She seemed fascinated. But then, all at once, I realized she was only quiet because she was asleep. I almost woke her up to tell her that a little girl should never go to sleep when her daddy is talking to her.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  He shrugged. “Her listening skills will improve with age, don’t you think?”

  “I’m certain of it. Or at least, they will until she’s twelve or thirteen. And then, for at least ten years, she won’t listen to a single thing you say.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “It’s called being a teenager. Luckily most of them grow out of it. So you put her down?”

  “That’s right. I put her in her crib.” He looked enormously pleased with himself. A swatch of shiny dark hair had fallen over his forehead. Hannah kept both hands on her coffee cup. That way she couldn’t reach out and smooth it back into place.

  He leaned against the door frame. She realized he was looking down—at her feet. “Ms. Miller, do you have something against wearing shoes?”

  She shouldn’t encourage him, and she knew it, but somehow, “They cramp my style” just popped out of her mouth. She qualified, quickly, “However, I am aware that a grown-up person can’t just go around barefoot all the time.”

  He looked at her sideways. “You are?”

  “I am. So I don’t. But in my own room—” She caught herself. This was his house. Maybe he had some objection to her going barefoot in it. If he wanted his baby’s nanny to wear shoes, well fine. She’d wear shoes.

  “Ms. Miller, what are you thinking?”

  “Well, I have reconsidered. It’s your house. And for now, I’m your baby’s nanny. If you don’t want to see me barefoot, I’ll make a concentrated effort to keep my shoes on, even in my room.”

  “Ms. Miller, I wouldn’t dream of cramping your personal style. I’ll trust your judgment and discretion on the subject of when or when not to wear your shoes.”

  She rather liked the sound of that, so she granted him a big, happy smile and sipped some more coffee.

  He said, “I was just curious, that’s all.”

  “Well, okay. So now you know.”

  “I’ll be back at eleven. You and Becky will be ready?”

  “You bet. See you then.”

  Cord appeared right on time. He’d changed into soft, khaki-colored trousers and a forest-green polo shirt, with a pair of crepe-soled suede bucks on his feet. Hannah thought he looked incredibly handsome in his casual clothes—but not very much like a Texan.

  She probably shouldn’t have, but she teased him about that.

  “All you need is a cashmere sweater tossed across your shoulders—with the arms tied around your neck…”

  “All I need is a cashmere sweater and…?”

  “—And you’ll look like somebody from Massachusetts. Somebody who spends his summers on Martha’s Vineyard. Somebody who—”

  “I get your point, Ms. Miller. For your information, I have been known to wear Tony Lamas, a Stetson and a string tie now and then.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  He gave her a long-suffering look, then suggested,

  “Shall we go?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They went down the stairs at the end of the hall and out through the door at the west end of the mansion. Once outside, they stopped under an oak, to open up the stroller and get Becky situated comfortably inside, with the little shade in its proper place, open and shielding her from the bright morning sun.

  “Do I get to push?” he asked, looking so unassuming and hopeful that Hannah’s foolish heart melted just a little.

  “Of course you do. Where shall we go?”

  “How about down to Stockwell Pond? It’s past the tennis courts and the stables in back.”

  She shot him a doubtful glance. “How many miles?”

  “It’s not that far. We can take this path.” He pointed toward a walkway with trees on either side of it. “It curves around the formal gardens—or we can go through them, if you want. When we get to the pond, we’ll see how Becky’s doing. We can walk a little farther—there’s a path along the water’s edge—or come on back to the house.”

  “Let’s go through the gardens.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  Oh, she liked the sound of that…way too much.

  She hung back for a moment as he started pushing Becky along the path, thinking that she was getting much too friendly with him, that she enjoyed his company a lot more than she’d ever expected to—or ought to be allowing herself to.

  Could there be trouble in the making here?

  Oh, don’t be a darn fool, Hannah scoffed at herself.

  She’d seen those pictures of him in the society pages. Seen the kind of woman he always had on his arm. Not a barefoot pump jockey’s daughter in the bunch.

  He was just a natural flirt, that was all. He did it without thinking about it. It came to him like breathing came to other men. It didn’t mean a thing to him.

  And as long as she kept that in mind, she could just relax and enjoy herself with him. Why shouldn’t she? Having a little fun with him would only make the time they spent in each other’s company more agreeable for both of them.

  As she reasoned all this out with herself, the man in question and his daughter had moved several yards down the path. He glanced back. “Coming?”

  She hurried to keep up.

  They strolled under the pleasant shade of the trees for a while, orioles and jays warbling at them from the branches overhead. Once, Hannah looked up and spotted a gorgeous red cardinal. It flew off just as she spied it, a crimson streak against the blue Texas sky.

  In the distance, she could hear the low drone of an engine. Through the trees, she picked out the source: a man in a broad-brimmed hat, cutting the grass on a riding mower. No doubt it took more than one of those machines to groom all the lawns at Stockwell Mansion.

  They passed the tennis courts first. There were two of them, surrounded by a high cyclone fence. Cord pointed out the stables when they strolled by them: a long clapboard building with a green roof. Beyond the
stables, behind a white fence, a pair of bay horses nibbled grass and swatted flies with their thick reddish tails.

  “Do you ride, Ms. Miller?”

  “Not if I can help it, Mr. Stockwell.”

  “An Oklahoma girl who can’t ride a horse?”

  “Not every Oklahoma girl’s a cowgirl.”

  “How about tennis? Do you play?”

  “Never have found the time, to tell you the truth.”

  “What sports do you enjoy?”

  “Well, I like double-deck Air Force pinochle—is that a sport? And I bowl.”

  “You bowl.”

  “You bet. I bowl in the 170s. That’s darn good, in case you didn’t know.”

  “I know how to bowl, Ms. Miller.”

  “Well. A man of many talents. But what about pinochle?”

  “I’m damn good at it, as a matter of fact.”

  She shot him a suspicious glance. He just did not look like the pinochle type.

  She gave him a few specifics. “I’m talking about the game for four players, partners. You don’t use the nines. You have a round of bidding and a then a round of play and you—”

  “Ms. Miller. I know the game. My older brother, Jack, taught me. Years ago. He taught all three of us, as a matter of fact.”

  “All three…?”

  “Me. Kate. And Rafe—Rafe is my twin?”

  “I remember.” In their early interviews, he had told her about Rafe, and mentioned that his twin worked as a Deputy U.S. Marshall. He hadn’t said much about Jack at all, though—except that Jack was away from the mansion quite a bit.

  Now, he said, “Jack was laid up at the time.”

  “He was sick?”

  “Not exactly. He’d been injured—his left foot. In some small South American country—the name of the place escapes me at the moment. By the time he got medical attention his foot was the size of a football. And he needed surgery. So they shipped him home. He had the surgery. And then it was another several weeks before he could walk. It was summer, the summer Rafe and I graduated high school. We were all at home. And Jack decided to teach us to play pinochle, as a way to ease his own boredom, I suppose, while he waited for his foot to heal.”

  Cord paused on the path. His smile was a musing one. “Jack has a soft spot for Kate, but he’s never been particularly close to me or Rafe. He’s the loner of the family, I guess you could say.”