The Tycoon's Instant Daughter

by Christine Rimmer

  And right then, Becky started to fuss.

  Rafe looked crushed. “What did I do?”

  Hannah waved a hand. “Nothing. She’s just hungry. If her crying bothers you, give her to Cord. I’ll get her some breakfast.” She left them, heading for the playroom and the small kitchen area there.

  When she returned with the warmed bottle of formula, Rafe had vanished and Cord was pacing the floor, his daughter wailing on his shoulder. Hannah noted with approval that he’d remembered the diaper this time. He sent her a lowering glance. “Hurry up. I think she’s damaged my eardrums.”

  “The price of fatherhood.”

  “Just give me that bottle.” He sat in the rocker. Hannah handed the bottle over. He plugged Becky’s yowling mouth with it.

  The resulting silence was absolutely lovely. The two adults enjoyed several blissful seconds without either of them uttering a word.

  “That’s the thing about babies,” Hannah observed at last. “They teach you to appreciate the simple things—like a little peace and quiet. Where did your brother go?”

  Cord pointed at the door. “That way. Fast.”

  “He’ll be back.”

  “I don’t know. He looked pretty nervous about all this.”

  “So were you. At first.”

  They shared a long glance. A way too friendly one, Hannah realized after it went on for a while.

  She shook herself. “I’ll just go ring for my breakfast.”

  Cord said nothing. But she felt his eyes on her as she went out the door.

  He came for them at nine-thirty, just as he’d said he would.

  They went down the stairs and out the west entrance, pausing as they had the day before, in the shade of an oak, to settle Becky into the stroller.

  There was a nice breeze—not the usual rough, hot Texas wind—and it was still reasonably cool. They strolled down the path, under the dappling shadows of the trees, past the tennis courts and the stables. Sprinklers were going, over some sections of the lawn. The breeze carried the wetness. It felt cool and welcome misting against Hannah’s cheeks.

  In the garden, there were wildflowers—Indian blanket and spider lilies, strawberry cactus and tiny wild violets—as well as roses, beds of zinnias and, in the shady spots, Hosta lilies and blankets of red, white and pink impatiens, too.

  They wandered the garden path for fifteen or twenty minutes, emerging at last through a rose-covered arch onto an open stretch of lawn. The path took them down a gentle slope to the edge of Stockwell Pond.

  Cord had said it was big, for a pond. He hadn’t exaggerated. The trees—willows and oaks, mostly—grew close to the bank around much of the perimeter, no doubt obscuring any number of inlets and secluded spots. The water was a very deep blue, especially out toward the center. The path from the garden led down to a wooden dock with a small green-roofed boathouse perched near the end. A few yards from the dock, the path split to the left and right. The shoreline trail meandered along the water’s edge, eventually vanishing into the greenery in both directions.

  Cord was pushing the stroller. He headed for a stone bench, which waited invitingly under a big, old willow tree. Hannah glanced at the baby. The walk had put her to sleep.

  “She’s out,” Cord said softly. “She won’t mind if we sit for a few minutes.”

  Hannah hesitated. They should probably get back.

  Cord didn’t say anything more. He only waited for her to make up her mind.

  She took a seat on the bench.

  He sat beside her. They’d fallen into an easy silence with each other as they strolled through the garden. Now it just seemed natural to sit quietly, enjoying the rare mild breeze and the sparkle of sun rays that danced on the water as the breeze skimmed the surface. It seemed impossible that anyone could ever have drowned here, in such a peaceful, beautiful place.

  “What was your mother like?” The question seemed to ask itself, though it was Hannah’s mouth that had formed it.

  She half expected him not to answer, to remain silent beside her, staring off, as she was, over the water. It would have been easy for both of them to pretend that she hadn’t spoken at all.

  But then he said, “Blue eyes, like the rest of us. Dark hair…”

  “Did she resemble Kate?”

  “Yes. But she had…a different style. She wore soft, flowing dresses. And big straw hats in the sun. She was gentle. And good to us. And she liked to paint. I have memories…images, really. Of her. Out here, by the pond. Sitting at what I didn’t know at the time was an easel. I see her arm outstretched to the canvas, the loose sleeve of her dress falling away from her elbow, a brush in her hand…” His voice trailed off.

  She glanced at him, then followed the direction of his gaze, back out over the pond where a mallard circled—and then descended in a beating of wings, webbed feet outstretched. It broke the surface of the water, took a moment to preen and then settled in, smoothly tucking its wings.

  Cord added, “I think she was pretty good, as an artist, though how would I know that? It’s just a feeling I have…”

  Out on the pond, a second mallard joined the first. Hannah waited until both birds drifted smoothly on the water before she said, “You miss her.”

  “Doubtful.” His voice, warm as the morning breeze a moment before, had a chill in it now. “I told you, Rafe and I were very young when she left.”

  “Left?”

  “Excuse me. Drowned.”

  “So you do have some doubt that there was a drowning?”

  “Lately I have doubts about a lot of things.”

  “Because of your father, because of the things he keeps telling you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You could…check into what really happened. You could look up old newspaper accounts, ask someone else who was there at the time.”

  He looked mildly amused. “In my copious free time?”

  “Hire someone—a professional—to do it for you.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he muttered, “Maybe you’re right. I’ll think about it.”

  “Have you talked with Kate and Rafe about these things your father says?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “Hannah, it’s just…babbling. I can’t make much sense out of it. And neither can they. Plus, they’re getting it secondhand. He only talks to me.”

  “Because you’re his favorite.”

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  She stared at him. It was no hardship. He had that Roman-coin profile and his hair was so thick and shiny and silky-looking. Her poor fingers just itched to run themselves through it.

  She tucked those fingers under her thighs to make sure they behaved and asked, “What about your uncle Brandon?”

  “What about him?”

  “What was he like?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Come on. You do. At least a little.”

  He still did not look at her. He kept staring off, over the pond. “Vague impressions. That’s all.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Why?” He turned then, met her glance. She saw that there were black flecks in his eyes. Tiny pinpoints of greater darkness embedded in the deep, deep blue.

  They did it again, stared at each other way too long, too intimately. And it happened once more, as it had in the nursery. Little prickles of awareness did a naughty dance along the surface of her skin.

  She knew she ought to look away, get her gaze safely focused on those ducks out there, floating so serenely on the gleaming waters of the pond.

  But she didn’t seem to be doing what she ought to at the moment.

  Cord said, “I think my uncle Brandon was…different than my father. Not as tough. Kinder. Whatever the word is. My father always scared me, when I was little. But not Uncle Brandon. I have one image. Of him kneeling beside me, talking to me, looking right at me. I don’t have a clue what he was saying to me. I don’t think I understood the words
at the time. I remember his eyes…Stockwell blue, but not hard, not like my father’s eyes.”

  He looked away, the movement abrupt. “It was a long time ago.”

  Hannah almost reached out and laid her hand over his. She caught herself just in time.

  He turned to her again. “Last night you started to tell me about your mother. And your father. But the phone rang.”

  Most of her memories of her parents were good ones, memories she would gladly share.

  She asked, “What do you want to know?”

  “How did they meet?”

  She looked out at the pond again, imagining what she had never seen. A river of bright lights, neon in the desert…

  “They met in Las Vegas. At a Wayne Newton show. My mama was raised in Northern California. She was in Vegas just for a weekend, with another girl, a pal from the office where she worked. My dad was on vacation. An Oklahoma boy with four days all to himself. He’d picked Las Vegas because he’d always wanted to see the place. And also to see Wayne Newton live.”

  “Big Wayne Newton fans, those two. That’s what you’re telling me.”

  “I sure am. It was a sold-out dinner show, and my mother had tickets. But my dad didn’t. He was wandering around out front, hoping to find someone with an extra ticket to sell.”

  “And your mom—?”

  “You guessed it. She had one. Her girlfriend had come down with the stomach flu.”

  “So your mom sold your dad her extra ticket.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the rest is history.”

  “It was love. From the moment she spoke to him, from the moment he answered back. They spent the evening together and they got married the next day, right there in Las Vegas. And when my dad went home to Oologah, my mama went with him. I was born nine months to the day from their wedding night.”

  “What were their names—your mother and father?”

  “Hannah and Luke.”

  “You were named after your mother, then?”

  “That’s right. After my mother and the man who brought them together. Hannah Waynette, that’s me.”

  “Hannah Waynette.” He repeated the name slowly, as if he were turning it over, examining it in his mind. Then he nodded. “It suits you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Out on the pond, two more ducks had joined the first pair. Somewhere not far away, a jay squawked. And Hannah could hear other birds, twittering away in the trees nearby. The breeze ruffled the drooping willow branches, making the leaves quiver sweetly.

  She thought, I could sit here forever.

  And right after that, We have been sitting here way too long.

  She said, “We should get back.”

  He gave her another too-intimate look. Her pulse accelerated. Her skin grew warm.

  And then he shrugged. “You’re probably right.” He rose.

  So did she. He took the stroller. They left the shade of the willow and walked, side by side, up the slope of lawn to the path. At the mansion, he helped her to get the stroller upstairs, then left to return to his offices below.

  Once he was gone, Hannah put Becky, still sleeping, into her crib. Then she went to her room, kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed. She stared up at the ceiling, half dreaming even though she was fully awake, seeing blue eyes with tiny, shining spots of blackness in them, gleaming down at her.

  Chapter Eight

  Hannah saw five nanny candidates that day.

  And six the next day, which was Thursday. By then, three days had passed since she’d agreed to a brief stay at Stockwell Mansion.

  Three days, really, wasn’t all that long.

  On Friday, she saw five more prospective nannies.

  As on the days before, not one of them was quite what she sought. Either their references weren’t good enough, or something they said or did turned Hannah off.

  Becky deserved the very best. Hannah fully intended to see that she got it.

  She decided that it didn’t matter if it took a little longer than she had anticipated. She’d used up her vacation time, as of Friday, but so what? Cord had insisted on paying her, so it wasn’t going to cost her anything to stay a little longer.

  She called the office and said she’d need a week of unpaid leave. Her supervisor didn’t argue. Hannah’s was a difficult, stress-filled, time-consuming job, the kind of job a person almost had to have a calling for. Hannah had a calling. And her boss at CPS knew it and didn’t want to lose her. Her boss told her to enjoy her week of leave and to please report in on the morning of Monday, the twenty-fifth. She promised that she would. She felt certain that by then she would accomplish her goal.

  Cord came to the nursery regularly, three or four times a day, every day. So far, he was proving himself a much more interested and involved parent than Hannah had ever imagined he might be. Hannah actually found herself growing accustomed to the little thrill that pulsed through her at the sound of his voice—not to mention at the sight of him, so big and handsome and immaculately dressed, standing in the doorway to the hall.

  Sometimes, when he looked at her, she knew she was in trouble. She was far too attracted to him for her own good—and she, of all people, should know better than to succumb to the dangerously seductive charms of a man like Cord Stockwell.

  But then she’d remind herself that she hadn’t succumbed. That she never would succumb. That he wasn’t even trying to get her to succumb.

  They had an agreement on that issue. He had said it himself. Nothing’s going to happen between us, Hannah.

  Well, nothing had happened.

  And nothing would.

  Yes, sometimes he looked at her too long. And maybe she went ahead and looked right back.

  But he never touched her in any way that could be considered the least inappropriate. He stayed true to his word.

  Their days just naturally seemed to fall into a pleasing pattern.

  He came to see his daughter first thing in the morning. Then later, around nine-thirty, they shared a stroll on the grounds. Wednesday, he dropped in again at noon and Thursday, he came a little later. Each night, he appeared around eleven, to feed Becky her final meal of the day.

  Whenever he stopped in the nursery, he and Hannah inevitably seemed to end up sharing at least a few minutes of conversation. It just seemed natural that the two of them would get to talking. Strangely, after so much animosity between them at first, they talked easily now, almost like longtime companions. He told her more about his family, about what it was like growing up a Stockwell. And she chatted about her job and how much she loved it. Sometimes they argued politics—or football. The Oklahoma/Texas rivalry was an old one. They each remained loyal to their native states.

  Friday afternoon, he stopped in to see Becky at a little after five. She was still sleeping.

  He hung around, waiting for her to wake.

  They wandered into the playroom. Hannah plunked herself down on one of the fluffy throw rugs, the one that was shaped like a big yellow sun, and gathered her legs to the side. Cord remained standing. He leaned against the blue-tiled counter in the galley area.

  He asked about her childhood in Oologah. Hannah told him about the happy years, before her dad died, about the little house they lived in, a classic prairie cottage: three bedrooms, and no hallways—living room, dining room and kitchen in a row, with a bedroom branching off of each.

  She remembered it so clearly, that wonderful little house. “The bathroom was papered in yellow roses, with beaded pine wainscoting and a claw-foot tub. You had to go through one of the back bedrooms to get to it. There were lace curtains at every window in that house, and the sun shining through them made the most beautiful patterns on the old hardwood floors.

  “We had a dog,” she told him. “A sweet little sheltie mix. She kind of looked like a miniature collie, long nose, fox-colored fur—with white around the neck and down her belly. We called her Annie. When my mama died, a neighbor took her. I cried when I said
goodbye. I can still remember the smell of her fur that last time I hugged her—you know that doggy smell, like dirt and sunshine? I remember wiping my tears on the ruff of white fur at her neck. And her swiping her long wet tongue all over my face.” The memory felt almost real, as Hannah told it. She sighed and shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “I was telling you my happy memories. Somewhere in the middle, that one turned sad.”

  “Memories have a tendency to do that sometimes.”

  She made a low noise of agreement and asked, “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Is there a dog in your past?”

  He admitted there was. “A spotted pedigreed cocker, with long floppy ears and hair that was always in need of a good brushing.”

  “They say purebred dogs are usually high-strung.”

  “Not this one. He was good-natured, but I think most of the brains had been bred right out of him. His real name was Champion, but we all called him Slider. He’d run on the marble floor in the front hall and then he’d stop—and he’d slide right into the wall.”

  There was more—she could tell by the look on his face. “What? Tell me?”

  “We did it, too.”

  “What?”

  “Sliding. In the front hall—when my father wasn’t around to beat the tar out of us for it, I mean. We’d get towels, from the downstairs bathrooms. Big, thick Turkish ones. And we’d lay them out in the middle of the floor. Then we’d get back and take off at a run. If you hit the towel just right, got your butt on it good and solid, you could slide a good twenty feet.”

  “Until you ran into the wall.”

  “That was the objective.”

  There was silence. They enjoyed it, together, each halfway listening for the sound of a baby waking in the other room.

  Eventually she asked, “What happened to Slider?”

  He shrugged. “Slider got old. I think Rafe and I were seventeen or eighteen when we had to put him down.”

  “‘Rafe and I,”’ she echoed. “You do that a lot. You don’t just say how old you were. It’s always the two of you. Is that a twin thing?”

  He chuckled. “A twin thang?”