by Jackie Braun
She hadn’t come to Chicago expecting Bryan—er , Dillon—to help out financially, though their child certainly was entitled legally and morally to monetary support. But she had hoped he would offer to pitch in on some expenses, such as the hospital bill. After that, she’d planned to leave up to him how much or how little he wanted to be involved in his son’s life both physically and financially. Morgan wasn’t a charity case. She had a small settlement from her parents’ estate. Unfortunately, the higher cost of living in Chicago was chewing through it more quickly than she’d anticipated.
And now she’d discovered that Dillon not only had lied to her about his identity, but he had been killed in an accident every bit as unforeseeable as the one that had claimed her parents. Gazing at the son they had created together in Aruba, she wasn’t quite sure how to feel. Being angry over his betrayal served no purpose. He was gone. She wanted to mourn the man she had known as Bryan, and she did, in the abstract way one mourns any life that is snatched away too soon. And, of course, she mourned him as her baby’s father. Morgan had been lucky enough to enjoy a close relationship with both of her parents, but she’d been especially tight with her dad. She’d wanted the same for Brice. God knew her son had precious few relatives as it was, with her parents gone.
As for mourning Dillon as someone significant to her, she didn’t. She couldn’t. It simply wasn’t possible since she hadn’t known him well. Indeed, beyond physically, she hadn’t known him at all, she realized again, and experienced another wave of shame. She wasn’t the sort of woman who engaged in a vacation fling, which perhaps explained why she’d gotten pregnant the one and only time she’d been foolish enough to throw caution to the wind. Or maybe subconsciously she had wanted a child, someone to love and nurture and to help fill up the yawning emptiness she’d felt since her parents’ deaths.
Whatever the reason, looking at her newborn son now she had no regrets.
“I love you,” she whispered, leaning over to stroke his cheek.
Indeed, Morgan had loved him from the time she’d learned he was growing inside her. But love, even a love this grand and expansive, wasn’t capable of obliterating her concerns. And she had plenty of those.
From the other side of the curtain, she could hear the couple discussing who they wanted to act as their newborn’s godparents. Judging from the number of names they tossed around, they had a lot of people to choose from. Morgan wasn’t completely without relatives, though none lived in the midwest. She did have a small circle of friends back in Wisconsin. A couple of them had urged her to stay in town even after she’d lost her job.
Jen Woolworth, another teacher, one with more seniority who had weathered the latest round of cuts, had been particularly vocal against Morgan leaving the state.
“Hon, you’re due soon. You shouldn’t be traveling, let alone moving. Stay here with us,” she’d urged.
The offer had been tempting. Jen was a dear friend and the two of them often grabbed a cup of coffee after school or hooked up on the weekends for a little shopping and girl talk. But Jen shared a small bungalow-style home with her husband, two rambunctious prepubescent boys and an incontinent miniature poodle they had named Puddles for obvious reasons.
They had enough chaos and no room for another adult, let alone an adult and an infant, even if Jen claimed it would be no big deal to make her boys bunk together in one of the small bedrooms, freeing up the other ten-by-eleven-foot space to serve as Morgan’s living quarters and nursery.
The baby fussed. Morgan pulled down her gown, recalling the instructions she’d received in her prenatal classes. Nursing should have been easy. It was the most natural thing in the world, right? But Brice seemed as baffled by it as she was, and he grew fussier by the minute. Finally, he all-out wailed. It was a pitiful sound, heartbreaking. As tears brimmed in Morgan’s eyes, she felt demoralized.
We’re going to be fine.
The words mocked her now. Had she really said them to Bryan less than half an hour ago? Had she, even for a moment, really believed it herself?
She wanted to join Brice in crying, but she didn’t. She’d never been a quitter and she wasn’t about to become one now. Her son needed her. He was depending on her. She couldn’t let him down. The luxury of tears would have to wait.
“Let’s try this again,” she murmured resolutely.
He finally latched on after a couple more false starts.
The flowers—a huge vase full of festive daisies, lilies and delicate irises—arrived as Morgan was putting Brice back in the bassinet. She couldn’t imagine who would have sent her such an expensive bouquet. No one back in Wisconsin knew Morgan had given birth and she didn’t know anyone in Chicago. Well, no one except for…No way.
She plucked the little white envelope from its holder among the blooms and tore it open. Sure enough, written in slashing bold cursive under the card’s pre-printed congratulatory message was the name Bryan Caliborn.
The real Bryan Caliborn.
She blinked. Who would have guessed that hard, brooding man could be so thoughtful? An hour later, when a couple of orderlies came to move her and the baby to a private room down the hall, Morgan added the word accommodating to his attributes. This room was far more spacious and included amenities such as a plush rocking chair, cable television, a padded window seat and framed reproductions of museum-quality art on the walls.
Just about the time Morgan was beginning to think she’d completely misjudged him, Bryan ruined it with his edict.
That’s what the typewritten missive amounted to. It was delivered the morning she was to be released from the hospital by the same snooty receptionist who’d brought Morgan’s suitcase by the day before: Britney. The young woman arrived just as Morgan finished dressing in a shapeless, oversize dress. Of course, Britney looked slender and runway chic in a fitted jacket, flirty skirt and peep-toe high heels.
“This is for you.” Britney set a large shopping bag on the bed and handed Morgan a note. It was from his highness.
Though Morgan was curious about the contents of the bag, she was even more so about the note.
Morgan,
I have sent a car to deliver you and the baby to new accommodations that you may use for the rest of your stay in Chicago. Your bill at the hotel has been settled in full and I’ve taken the liberty of having your belongings collected and moved.
I have asked Britney to accompany you. I will be in contact later this evening to ensure you have everything you need.
Bryan
Relief came first. This was the answer to her prayers. Just the thought of taking Brice to that dingy hotel room that reeked of stale cigarette smoke made her nauseated. And housekeeping and laundry services were included. What new mother wouldn’t appreciate help with those time-consuming chores? But Bryan’s motive puzzled her. Was he doing this because he believed her or was he merely interested in keeping a closer eye on her? She read the note again, but still was unable to decipher any clues. This time, however, relief wasn’t all she felt. It chafed her pride that he’d made the arrangements and moved her things without at least running his plan by her first. She didn’t like being told what to do.
Nor what to wear, she added, when Britney scooted the bag closer and said, “Mr. Caliborn told me to pick up an outfit suitable for your trip home from the hospital.”
“I have clothes,” Morgan objected.
Britney eyed her dubiously before going on. “Yes, well, I brought a couple of selections for you to choose from. I had to guess your size, but I went with loose-fitting styles,” she added, her gaze straying to Morgan’s midsection.
Morgan knew she still looked pregnant. Not the ready-to-pop balloon she’d appeared to be at her first encounter with the svelte Britney, but a good four or five months gone.
“I have clothes,” she said a second time. The words came out forcefully, causing the baby to rouse from his slumber.
“Mr. Caliborn felt you would be more comfortable in fresh things,” Br
itney clarified.
“You can tell Mr. Caliborn—” Morgan began, fully intending to decline the offer, but that was as far as she got before Britney pulled a subtly printed dress from the bag. Then Morgan’s only concern was, “God, I hope that fits.”
Britney’s brows arched. “I can tell Mr. Caliborn what?”
“That I said thank you. And that I will reimburse him.”
It did fit. Morgan had to hand it to Britney. The woman not only had a good eye for fashion, she had a good eye for what would look best on Morgan’s post-pregnancy body. While nothing could completely camouflage her tummy, the dress Britney had picked certainly minimized it, while accentuating a couple of assets that also had been enhanced by pregnancy. She just hoped Brice wouldn’t need to nurse between now and the time they reached wherever it was they were going, because the dress, which zipped in the back, wasn’t made for that function.
“Much better,” Britney said when she saw Morgan.
Her tone bordered on astonished, but it was hard for Morgan to be offended when she agreed.
“Thank you.”
With a curt nod, Britney glanced at her watch. “I’ve called for an orderly to bring a wheelchair. You’ve signed your discharge papers, right?”
“I did that before you arrived.”
She nodded again and pulled out her cell phone. “Noah, it’s Britney. Have the car waiting at the main entrance in fifteen minutes.”
Morgan might have felt a bit like Cinderella then, except Britney was hardly fairy-godmother material and, of course, she had no Prince Charming.
Then Britney said into the phone, “If you see any photographers, call me back immediately and we’ll go to plan B.”
“Photographers?” Morgan asked as soon as the other woman hung up.
“Paparazzi. Every effort has been made to keep news of you and your son under wraps, but it pays to be cautious.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”
Britney huffed out a breath. “The Caliborns are a big deal in this city. They’re in the headlines regularly for business and philanthropic reasons, but scandals always sell more papers than straight news.”
Great. Morgan was a scandal, her son’s birth fodder for the tabloids. No wonder Bryan had been eager to find her “alternative accommodations.”
CHAPTER THREE
MORGAN stepped into the apartment foyer behind Britney and gasped. She certainly hadn’t expected her new place to be a penthouse that offered views of Lake Michigan and the famous Navy Pier from windows that ran the length of the exterior wall.
In the large living room the color scheme was heavy on beige and other neutrals with nary a punch of color. The furniture was tasteful and obviously top quality, and included a baby grand piano that had Morgan’s fingertips tingling to play just looking at it, but the place didn’t look lived-in. Indeed, every last inch of it seemed as cold as the foyer’s Italian marble floor.
“Who owns this place?” Morgan asked. She swore the question echoed.
“Mr. Caliborn. It’s his home,” Britney replied with a roll of her eyes.
“He lives here?” That came as a surprise. He had such an imposing personality she’d expected to see it stamped on his belongings.
“Since his divorce three years ago.” The secretary arched a brow then and asked sarcastically, “What? It’s not up to your standards?”
“It’s not that. It just seems a little…impersonal.” Yes, that was the word. It looked more like a showroom in a high-end furniture store than a home. “There aren’t even any photographs.”
“Mr. Caliborn isn’t the sentimental sort.”
Morgan wasn’t sure she agreed. He kept a picture of Dillon in his office. And she also recalled seeing one of an older couple, most likely his parents. And then there were the flowers he’d sent to her hospital room. She said as much to Britney.
“Don’t be so naive, Miss Stevens. Appearances are important to someone in his position. Precautions have been taken just in case the press ever gets wind of you and your…situation. Hence the flowers.” Her gaze lowered. “And the new frock he had me select in case some industrious photographer managed to snap a shot of you leaving the hospital. Think of it as damage control.”
Damage control? Morgan felt as if she’d been doused in ice water, yet for all that she was steaming mad. Before she could muster a response, though, Britney was moving past her, high heels clicking purposefully on the marble floor before she disappeared through an arched doorway off the living room. Morgan was left with little choice but to trail behind her. After passing through the formal dining room, Morgan caught up with Britney in the kitchen.
“The pantry is fully stocked and so is the refrigerator.” The young woman opened the stainless-steel behemoth’s double doors, revealing shelves lined with staples including milk, juice, cheese, eggs and butter. The crispers were bursting with a mouth-watering assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. “Mr. Caliborn said to help yourself and to make a list of anything else you need. He has a housekeeper who comes in twice a week to do the cleaning and laundry. Hilda also takes care of buying his groceries.”
So he’d mentioned in his note. But that brought up a most pertinent question. “Where will Mr. Caliborn be staying?”
“His parents are abroad for the summer. He’s moved to their residence in Lake Forest for the time being.” Britney cast Morgan a quelling look. “It means he’ll have a longer commute to work, but apparently he felt you would be more comfortable here than in a hotel.”
Some of Morgan’s anger dissipated. She would be more comfortable here. That went without saying, but Morgan didn’t want to displace Bryan from his home and disrupt his routine. She would call him after Britney left. Maybe they could come up with a different solution.
“Besides, the doorman here is vigilant in guarding Mr. Caliborn’s privacy, and as such he’ll be sure to keep any reporters from slipping up to see you.”
Ah, yes. Damage control.
Brice stirred in her arms then. She lifted him to her shoulder and pulled off the little cap he was wearing. Dropping a kiss on his crown, she murmured, “Hey, sleepyhead, are you finally waking up?”
Britney’s gaze shifted to the baby. She was a career woman, emphasis on career, but surely she wasn’t immune to the allure of a newborn. Rather than softening, however, her expression hardened. Apparently, she was.
Still, Morgan asked, “Would you like to have children someday?”
Britney wrinkled her nose. “God, no! Though I suppose accidentally getting pregnant can wind up being the ticket to the good life.”
Morgan felt sucker punched. “What do you mean by that?”
The other woman snorted. “Take a look around and you’ll figure it out.”
“You think I’m after money?”
“Yes,” Britney said baldly. “And I doubt I’m the only one to reach that conclusion. I suggest you don’t get too comfortable with the Caliborn lifestyle. Bryan’s noble sense of obligation aside, ultimately, you’re not his type.”
Two things occurred to Morgan then. First, Britney didn’t know that the baby was Dillon’s, and second, the young woman had a serious crush on her boss.
Well, Morgan wasn’t going to clarify the situation if Bryan hadn’t. Though she longed to assure Britney the brooding businessman wasn’t her type either, she kept her mouth closed.
“The bedrooms are this way.” Britney click-clacked out of the kitchen, once again leaving Morgan to follow in her wake. “The one at the end of the hall is Mr. Caliborn’s. You’ll be using the guest suite.”
Britney swung open the first door they came to, revealing a large and neatly furnished room. The queen-size bed was outfitted in a taupe duvet. The walls were a couple of shades darker in the same color. A crib, changing table and glider-rocker were set up against the far wall. The pastel-blue bumper pads and comforter provided the only color.
Before Morgan could ask about the nursery furniture, Britne
y said, “Mr. Caliborn ordered furnishings for the baby. They’re top-of-the-line, of course.”
“But I have a crib and changing table.” They’d belonged to her friend Jen, who had given them to Morgan as a shower gift. For the time being they were in storage with the rest of her belongings.
Britney shrugged. “Now you have two. You’ll find diapers, wipes and all that sort of thing in the drawers of the changing table.”
“He’s thought of everything,” Morgan murmured, finding it impossible not to be touched by his efforts, no matter what their motivation.
“Yes. He always does.” Britney glanced at her watch, clearly eager to be gone. “My cell phone number is programmed into the telephone. You may call me at any time.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
“Mr. Caliborn thinks it is.” With that, Britney left.
Mr. Caliborn thinks…
Mr. Caliborn feels…
Mr. Caliborn has decided…
Under other circumstances, Morgan would have screamed. But as irritatingly high-handed as he could be and as independent as she’d always been, the fact was, she needed someone and he was the only someone available. As she laid Brice down in the brand-new crib in a room that smelled of fresh linens she couldn’t help but be grateful they were not back in the claustrophobic hotel room breathing tainted air.
As soon as she could manage it, she would find a job and another place to live. In the meantime, she would suck up her pride and do what was best for her son.
The knock on the door surprised her. It was after eight o’clock that night and Morgan was curled up on the living room couch. The television was on, though she wasn’t really watching it. She had too much on her mind to follow the sitcom’s quick-paced dialogue.
Britney’s confidence in the doorman’s abilities aside, Morgan checked the peephole before flipping open the dead bolt. A grim-looking Bryan stood in the hallway, arms folded across his broad chest.
“Hello,” she said after opening the door.
