The Millionaire's Baby

by Diana Hamilton

  His words penetrated the dark fog of her rage, pushed her into getting a grip on herself.

  'I'll do my best.' Her voice was empty, her movements brisk and businesslike as she walked to the ta­ble, seated herself and glanced at what was on offer.

  Cold poached salmon, slices of chicken breast in a lemon sauce, a multiplicity of salads. She barely lis­tened to his idle comments about the heat wave, the noise and air pollution of the never-sleeping capital, the undesirability of bringing up a child in a city. She kept her eyes on her plate or on the tree-lined street beyond the window, the dusty leaves at eye-level.

  Only when he put in, 'How's the agency doing? From what I was told, Grandes Families was an over­night success,' did she allow herself to look at him.

  There was a subtle challenge there somewhere. He didn't strike her as the type of man who would be interested in idle gossip and she knew that his father had helped her gran set up those convoluted trust funds after her grandpa had died.

  Would he be aware that capital from one of the funds had been used by the agency? Hardly likely. Such small beer would be beneath the notice of the powerful chief executive; the release would have been dealt with at a much lower level.

  And he wouldn't connect her surname with the name of the barely ex-schoolgirl he had seduced and abandoned two years ago. Farr was a fairly common name. He probably couldn't remember Katie's name in any case.

  In any case, had he leaped to the conclusion that because her surname was Farr she had to be connected to Katie, then surely he would have mentioned it by now? She was, she assured herself staunchly, getting away with it!

  So it was just idle conversation and her cover wasn't blown. She picked up her as yet untouched glass of wine and twirled it slowly round by the stem.

  'How should I know? It gets a good press. I only signed on with them recently.' It was a blessing she wasn't Pinocchio or by now her nose would have reached right over the table, probably poking holes in the crisp white shirt that covered those mightily im­pressive shoulders.

  'I see. How long have you been working as a nanny?' Finn leant back in his chair, watching the film of colour rise beneath her skin. He didn't need that, or the way she suddenly buried her nose in her wine glass, to tell him she was hiding something. Telling lies to cover the truth.

  Which was? His narrowed eyes lingered on the at­tenuated line of her throat as she tipped her glass, drinking deeply. That she had no idea he knew who she was and had already guessed she'd turned her hand to nannying to bring in desperately needed extra funds.

  She and her partner, the pleasant, capable-seeming middle-aged woman who'd interviewed him initially, wouldn't want it known that their high-flying agency had taken a nose-dive.

  'Not long.' She answered his question when her glass was empty and she could no longer find an ex­cuse to keep silent. But at least it was the truth. Less than twenty-four hours, in fact. A sudden urge to gig­gle had her wondering if swallowing that wine had been one of the best ideas she'd ever had.

  So she wasn't going to come clean. He could wait. Finn refilled her glass from the bottle of Moselle he'd ordered. She barely knew him, after all. She would hardly take him into her confidence so soon, and he was reluctant to force it out of her by telling her he knew she was the other half—the driving half—of the partnership.

  He wanted her to trust him enough to share her problems with him, and so allow him to help her get to grips with them. He wanted those problems, and the subterfuge, out of the way. And he knew the per­fect way to hasten that happy event. He had already made up his mind. To gain her trust he needed a more intimate atmosphere than an impersonal hotel suite could provide.

  'I'd like you to pack for you and Sophie first thing in the morning.' Her attention was back on him again, her eyes wide and golden, completely without artifice, mildly questioning. Beautiful. He held them, his voice soft as he told her, 'We're moving to the country. A cottage just big enough for the three of us. Secluded, peaceful, a good place to draw breath.' His eyes were drawn without his say-so to her mouth. A soft mouth, the colour of crushed strawberries and probably just as sweet.

  Or sweeter. And open now. The parted, berry-sweet lips held him fascinated as he said in a voice he barely recognised as his own, 'You'd like that?'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  'Not a lot!' The words were snapped out before Caro could stop them.

  A secluded country cottage, just the three of them—and a fifteen-month-old toddler hardly counted as a chaperon—sounded definitely something to avoid, given his despicable womanising inclinations. It wasn't what he had actually said but the way he had said it that had set alarm bells ringing. But to keep the nanny pretence up and running she should have acceded to whatever her employer had suggested with a calm 'Of course, whatever you say, sir'.

  Too late now, though. She presented him with a face as blank as she could possibly make it while she waited to discover what he'd make of this further in­subordination and noted that, impossibly, he appeared to be smothering laughter.

  'So you're a city girl.' He noticed her taut features. In all probability that was a natural reaction to a child­hood spent in rural Hertfordshire, physically isolated by the vastness of the family estate, mentally domi­nated by that scratchy old matriarch, Elinor Farr. It made sense, and at least she'd been up front about that. It was a start.

  'Come with me.' He left the table and her eyes raked suspiciously over the lean length of him. He looked great. Nature had given him the perfect male physique, added a few barrowloads of laid-back charm and topped off the recipe with more simmering sex appeal than was good for him or womankind.

  Swallowing some sort of obstruction that was annoyingly clogging her throat, Caro reluctantly fol­lowed him to the sofa and sank down on the empty space beside him which he was patting invitingly.

  Evening sunlight was streaming through the win­dows, touching his skin with gold, glancing off the coppery highlights in his thick dark hair. Caro swal­lowed another lump and forced her eyes away, fas­tening them on the sheaf of estate agents particulars he was extracting from a glossy folder.

  She didn't want to find anything about him ap­pealing; it would be a type of betrayal, both to herself and her darling little sister. She would remind herself of that every time she found herself watching him, inadvertently admiring the way he looked.

  'I'm house-hunting, as you know, and I've got the details of three properties in Bedfordshire here, any one of which could fit the bill, but obviously I need to view.' Long, blunt-ended fingers flicked through the glossy pages. 'A friend of mine has a weekend cottage in the area as it happens. He offered me the use of it while he and his family are holidaying abroad, and I think we could find ways to make good use of it, don't you?'

  He leaned back, angling wide, hard shoulders into the corner of the sofa, his eyes holding hers with an intimacy that was shocking, his smile pure wicked­ness as he drawled softly, 'The idea must appeal, surely?'

  Not in the least. In fact it gave her the shivers be­cause Finn Helliar was surely flirting with her; what he had said about finding ways of making good use of a secluded country cottage had been loaded with suggestions she didn't want to even contemplate.

  Wisely, though, she held her tongue, and was glad she had when he elaborated, apparently quite harm­lessly, 'It will make a handy base for viewing all three properties and it will do us all good to get some fresh clean air into our lungs. And I can't wait to see what Sophie makes of fields with cows in them and trees with apples growing on them instead of coming in paper bags from the greengrocer's.'

  Waxing lyrical now, was he? Caro gave him a with­ering look, excused herself, and went to bed.

  Caro woke to a room filled with summer morning sunshine, baby-babble, and the insistent rattling of the bars of the cot.

  'Hi there, poppet!' Caro rolled off the mattress, tugged down the hem of the worn old T-shirt she wore to bed and lifted the small bundle of vivacious energy out from the
cot. And spent the next hour playing with her charge.

  Sophie, she discovered, could say lots of compre­hensible words, most of them loudly. The loudest of which was 'Horn!' which became positively stento­rian until they'd up-ended the toy box and found, right at the bottom, a squashy, lop-eared blue velvet rabbit.

  'Horn!' Sophie bellowed happily, clutching the floppy rabbit to her tiny chest, her huge brown eyes bright with mischief.

  Caro sat back on her heels, making herself nearer to child-height. 'Time to get dressed. And I guess you should have a bath. Am I right?'

  'No, no, no, naughty!' The bright head shook vig­orously, setting blonde curls bouncing. 'Bears. Do bears!'

  Caro gave up as the toddler squirmed out of her gentle grasp and set off through the suite on all fours, dragging Horn behind her.

  The nanny bit would have to wait and Sophie's giggles and squeals were infectious. Caro gave pursuit on her hands and knees, making growly noises, mak­ing the squeals and giggles coming from her charge ever louder; she couldn't remember when she'd had this much fun!

  'Do you have to make quite so much noise?' The dark voice, coming from right behind her, was like a bucketful of ice-cold water.

  Caro scrambled to her feet, tugging the soft fabric of the T-shirt as far down her thighs as it would go, conscious of his deep irritation and the wild sight she had to present, face red from doing growly noises, her body barely decently covered...

  'Sophie should be dressed by now,' he grated, his dark brows lowered as he watched his daughter crawl under the cot at the speed of light, chortling merrily. 'Breakfast will arrive in five minutes. Have you packed? I said we'd be making an early start, remem­ber?'

  Caroline Farr felt inexpressibly silly. It swamped her, making her skin burn with embarrassed humilia­tion. Where was the cool businesswoman now, the one who had been coldly intent on revenge?

  And where was the laid-back charmer? Not a sign of him in this mean and moody-looking male, clad in an ensemble of long-sleeved black cotton shirt and hip-hugging dark jeans that made him look definitely dangerous.

  She took a tentative step towards the cot but Finn's harsh voice cut in, 'I'll see to her. We'll be lucky if she doesn't have a tantrum. You appear to have got her wildly over-excited.'

  He reached down and extracted the wriggling little body from beneath the cot, taking charge, leaving Caro in no doubt at all that he believed that total may­hem would ensue if the apology for a nanny had any­thing more to do with his daughter.

  'Get dressed and packed,' he instructed tersely as, the squirming baby tucked safely under one arm, he moved around the room selecting everything he'd need. Then he exited, presumably to use his own en suite again, and left Caro standing there feeling strangely breathless and utterly, utterly useless.

  But, true to form, she soon had her brain back into gear, packed methodically, making sure Horn went in with Sophie's things, and then showered briefly. She put on a straight-cut navy cotton skirt and a short-sleeved white shirt, brushed her hair until it was ex­actly as neat as it should be and dabbed on moisturiser and the minimum of pale pink lipstick.

  She looked capable and sensible, even if Finn Helliar thought she wasn't. Last night she had had the definite impression that he was flirting with her, test­ing the water so to speak. But if she'd got it wrong—and she could have done—and the sultry tone in his voice, the intimate gleam in his eyes had been all in her imagination, then he would surely sack her for gross incompetence and ask the agency to supply another temporary nanny.

  She had proved herself to be spectacularly useless and by now any other employer would have been giv­ing her her marching orders. For the next few days he would have no need of a nanny in any case.

  He was good with the baby, knew what he was doing, and stuck in a country cottage he wouldn't be around for heavy dates with the sultry Sandra, so hav­ing someone on hand to child-mind wouldn't be a factor.

  If he was a caring, responsible husband and father he would tell her to get lost.

  If he was Finn Helliar, user of women, betrayer and deceiver, and fancied a bit of a fling with the new nanny, he would do no such thing.

  The next half an hour or so would tell.

  It did. An hour later the gleaming new off-roader had left the city behind, heading up the motorway, the baby safely strapped in her seat.

  She'd had everything she meant to say to him about his immoral treatment of Katie ready to trip off her tongue the moment he told her to take her packed bags and get out. But she'd had to swallow them. Because the moment she'd stepped out of her room the easy charm of his smile had told her his black mood had gone.

  'Ready?' His silver eyes had been sultrily hooded, thick dark lashes hiding his true expression as he'd submitted her suddenly quivering body to a long, lazy scrutiny. And when his eyes had at last made contact with hers there had been a gleam in them she defi­nitely hadn't liked.

  'There was no need to go to such stark lengths to make amends for your earlier hoydenish behav­iour... and appearance...'

  His voice had lingered over the last two words, as if he was recalling every detail, savouring with hind­sight the way she must have looked, crawling over the floor clad only in a faded old T-shirt that had probably exposed more essentials than it had covered.

  He'd been referring to the way she was dressed now, of course, and she couldn't think how to answer him, much less quell him. It had been difficult to think at all when the inside of her head was in such a mess, brains scrambled, trying to decide what was best to do.

  He didn't seem about to sack her for gross incom­petence, which proved her earlier theories right, which, in turn, meant that spending a few days alone with him in some cosy little rustic retreat would be like walking into the lion's den!

  So maybe, she' d thought, it would be best to come right out with it all now, tell him exactly what she thought of him, make him see the damage he'd done, make him understand that if David Parker, her grand­mother's head gardener, hadn't been young and fit, and coincidentally on hand, Katie would have been successful in her broken-hearted attempt to drown herself in the deep black waters of that isolated lake on the family estate.

  And then she could walk out, get on with her real life, and never have to have anything to do with the pernicious Casanova again, the anger and outrage at what he'd done finally vented from her system.

  Best for her, maybe. Yet if she was brave enough there was another way, one that had flashed tantalisingly into her mind. An insane idea and she wouldn't give it headroom so why had she heard herself telling him, 'Yes, I'm ready.'?

  'I'm afraid the second bedroom's rather cramped,' Finn found himself apologising. 'My friends, Ben and his wife Joanna, have two boys—a four-year-old and a baby of nine months—hence the cot and narrow single. But if you feel cramped and uncomfortable we'll swap rooms.' He picked Sophie up off the floor and settled her against his hip, his eyes intent on his companion.

  Caroline Fair was quite a lady. Clearly out of her depth in the situation she'd plunged into, yet just as clearly determined to hang onto it. Quite unlike her sister Katie, this one was a fighter.

  When he'd first met Katie at her grandmother's eightieth birthday party she'd seemed like a bunch of fresh spring flowers in a cupboardful of dusty old as­pidistras and it had soon become painfully obvious that she had the habit of trying to become invisible when in her grandmother's company.

  Elinor was an overpowering old lady and only re­spected those who stood up to her. He had felt des­perately sorry for the appealingly pretty young girl and one thing had led to another and he'd ended up in a situation that had been problematical, to say the least.

  There would be no such difficulties with Caro. She was a different breed entirely. No clinging vine...

  'The room's fine,' she answered primly, staring at the pretty flower-sprigged cotton curtains at the dormer window, wondering what she thought she was doing here.

  Then she remembered precisely w
hat she thought she was doing here and went cold all over, frantically debating whether she had what it took to get the game moving.

  'Right, if you're sure about that I'll leave you to unpack. But remember the offer's there if you change your mind. And perhaps you could make up the beds while I take Sophie down to explore the garden? We'll go to the village for provisions when you're ready.' He turned in the doorway. 'And get out of that prison-warder outfit while you're about it.' He grinned at her, hoping to put her at her ease.

  She'd been subdued since he'd bawled her out for racketing around with the baby early this morning, his anger a direct reaction to the sudden, almost over­whelming need to scoop her up into his arms and kiss her silly.

  But she had no way of knowing that, of course, and now he had to put her at ease, or as much at ease as the poor sweet would ever be until she came clean and told him exactly why she was pretending to be a nanny.

  She was an independent young woman and if only half of what her grandmother had said about her was true she was intelligent, highly motivated and in­tensely loyal. He knew she wouldn't tell him a thing until he'd gained her trust.

  He was going to get working on it, in earnest.

  Alone, Caro sank down on the edge of the bed. She was suffering the unnerving experience of despising herself. All through her life she'd made her own decisions and, once made, she'd stuck to them, gone flat out to attain her goals.

  Yet she was dithering over this one. It wasn't like her to be so feeble. Part of her brain was telling her to carry out her plan to hit that ratfink where it hurt before telling him exactly who she was and why she had suffered his odious company for so long, telling him exactly what he had done to Katie.

  The other part was telling her to cut and run. Pick up her suitcase and walk down those stairs, phone for a taxi, give the brute a piece of her mind and get back to safety.

  That was what was bugging her—the safety bit. She instinctively knew that if she stuck to her game plan she would be putting herself in danger.

  Already that abundance of charm of his was getting to her, and there were some things about the wretch that she actually liked—his moments of consideration for her, the care and devotion he showed to his daugh­ter, the way he had of taking charge with a natural warmth and ease, not with the cold arrogance she'd hated in the few other wealthy and highly successful males she'd encountered.