The Millionaire's Baby

by Diana Hamilton

  'Everything?' The firm vibrancy of the flesh be­neath her fingertips made her pulses flutter; the in­stinctive tightening of those honed muscles and ten­dons in preparation for action made her throat close up with fright. At least she didn't have to work at sounding husky! She hated touching him. She wanted to snatch her hand away.

  Forcing herself to keep control, she made herself add, 'Sounds—interesting,' and eased her fingers gently away from that tanned male flesh, knowing the game was on as speculation changed to triumphant male certainty in the deep silver pools of his eyes.

  But he didn't push it; at least he wasn't crass enough to do that. She had to be grateful for small mercies. The flicker of awareness, of male certainty, had been compelling, unarguable.

  She barely knew one end of a baby from another but she knew her way around a kitchen. If all else failed she could try to grab his interest via her culinary skills.

  'Catering, viewing properties—whatever, I'd rather we did everything together.'

  Lightly spoken but an order nevertheless. It kept her silent while he negotiated the narrow high street. The tone of his voice had been an unveiled caress. It sent shivers down her spine.

  Fear, distaste, whatever. One thing she did now know: if she returned the right signals the game would be on.

  She waited until he'd parked in the shade of one of the oak trees that bordered the village green, then gathered up all of her courage and lightly touched his bare forearm with the tips of her fingers.

  'Everything?' The firm vibrancy of the flesh be­neath her fingertips made her pulses flutter; the in­stinctive tightening of those honed muscles and ten­dons in preparation for action made her throat close up with fright. At least she didn't have to work at sounding husky! She hated touching him. She wanted to snatch her hand away.

  Forcing herself to keep control, she made herself add, 'Sounds—interesting,' and eased her fingers gently away from that tanned male flesh, knowing the game was on as speculation changed to triumphant male certainty in the deep silver pools of his eyes.

  But he didn't push it; at least he wasn't crass enough to do that. She had to be grateful for small mercies. The flicker of awareness, of male certainty, had been compelling, unarguable.

  She'd given him the signals he'd been looking for, the green light that told him she was willing. The game was on.

  Nothing happened.

  Caro wished with all her heart that it would. She pushed a hand through her hair, mussing it wildly. The tension of waiting for something to happen was far worse than coping with it when it did.

  Sophie, tucked up in her cot, was sleeping the sleep of the totally innocent and Caro, feeling far from in­nocent, glared at her reflection in the mirror and knew she had to try harder.

  Either she and Finn were working to a different set of rules and she'd been mistaken about those signals, or he'd completely lost all interest.

  They'd shopped, they'd eaten, they'd made the cross-country journey to the first property he had ar­ranged to view and Finn Helliar had behaved like a perfect gentleman throughout.

  Which under normal circumstances would have been fine, exactly right and as it should be between employer and employee.

  But these weren't normal circumstances. She needed him to make an advance of some kind so that she could respond and lead him on, let him believe she was eager for the sort of hole-and-corner affair he thrived on. And then, when he was all fired up, slap him down and walk away, only pausing long enough to ask him if he liked the feeling of being dumped.

  'I'll put a salad together and barbecue a couple of steaks,' he'd told her after they'd bathed the baby and put her down to sleep. And now the smell of chargrilled meat was drowning out the evening scents of roses and honeysuckle, making her feel sick.

  Or did that feeling of nausea spring from nervous tension? A fastidious distaste for the way she had cho­sen? Whatever. She only had to remind herself of what he'd done to Katie to get herself back on track. The gauzy bedroom drapes were billowing gently in the soft evening breeze. She lifted them slightly to one side. She could see him moving about on the paved terrace below, putting a bowl, plates, wine and glasses down on the teak picnic-style table.

  Her stomach lurched. She was going to have to try harder, tempt him to make a move. She didn't have time to waste because in another thirty-six hours or so they'd be back in London and as soon as they were she wouldn't hang around. She'd be back to the agency faster than he could blink, mission accom­plished.

  After bathing she'd wrapped herself in a silky, thigh-length robe. She could stay that way, barefoot and naked apart from wispy blue silk secured by a loosely tied sash, if only she were brave enough. But she wasn't.

  Impatient with herself, she pulled on a pair of very short shorts and topped them with a toning pale amber top. Cropped and sleeveless, it looked much less workmanlike with most of the covered buttons left carelessly undone.

  By twisting and peering she could see most of her­self in the small tilting mirror on top of the narrow chest of drawers. With the limited choice of clothes she had with her she'd achieved the desired effect.

  Sexy and sensual without looking cheap or up for grabs. It was the best she could do.

  She decided to stay bare-footed, left her normally sleek bob mussed, ignored the contents of her make­up bag, checked on the blissfully sleeping baby one last time and, scarcely daring to breathe, trailed the back of her fingers gently over the rosy cheeks.

  A wave of tenderness turned her heart to mush. She could hardly believe the speed with which this de­lightful child had become so important to her. She wished she could wave a magic wand and turn the baby's father into a faithful husband, bring her miss­ing mummy back from wherever she was and give the child the precious gift of a happy family life. Then she silently berated herself for being such a sentimen­tal fool.

  She had no magic wand. The only thing she could do to help change Sophie's daddy's attitude to women was give him a taste of his own medicine. Then, if he experienced the misery and humiliation of being used and dumped, he might stop doing it to other people.

  Caro braced herself then padded silently down the twisty stairs to try her reluctant hand at the flirt­ing game.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Caro walked quickly out onto the terrace. Her cour­age would desert her entirely if she stopped to actually think about what she was doing.

  Although she was sure her bare-footed approach had been completely silent Finn was obviously aware of her presence. He didn't turn from the barbecue he was working with but he knew she was there because he remarked evenly, 'Why don't you help yourself to wine? There's a bottle on the table. The steaks won't take much longer.'

  Caro pulled in a deep shuddering breath. She didn't know why she looked on his instruction as a reprieve, the excuse she needed to make herself invisible, but she did. That reaction made her hands shake as she lifted the wine bottle from the cooler, made the neck of the bottle clatter against the rim of the glass as she poured.

  The obvious thing to do, given the dubious role she had taken on, was to pour him some of the chilled white wine too, carry it over, talk to the man while he was cooking their supper, smile, pout, gaze into his eyes and bat her eyelashes—whatever—whatever it took to signal her willingness to play games.

  But she couldn't bring herself to do any of those things. She wanted to run and hide because the height of him, the breadth of his back, the daunting width of his shoulders all suddenly intimidated her. At least, she was as certain as she could be that that was what was giving her the shakes.

  Her eyes wide and wary, fixedly staring at the back of his dark and handsome head, she sidled silently over the paved terrace and down to the curving lawn until, out of sight, she sank cross-legged on the cool green grass and drained the contents of her glass in one long, recklessly thirsty swallow.

  'You looked as if you needed that!' The husky, slightly gravelly voice was threaded through with strands of amusement
and Caro flinched at his unex­pected and unwanted appearance, squeezing her eyes tightly shut as he lowered himself to the ground be­side her. Close beside her.

  Alcohol fizzed through her veins. Or was it the nee­dle-sharp awareness of how close his body was to hers? Of how scantily clad she was?

  'Here, have mine.' Finn exchanged the full glass he'd carried down with him for her empty one. Their fingers brushed. Caro took a sharp breath and her eyes batted open, fastening with unwilling fascination on his sensual mouth, on that barely discernible slow, wicked shadow of a smile.

  She didn't really want more wine, but took the glass because holding it gave her something to do, taking unthinking sips of the crisp, cool liquid until she realised she'd slurped her way through half the contents in less than a couple of minutes. She put the glass down quickly on the grass. Was he trying to get her drunk, incapable of knowing what she was doing? Was that the way he operated?

  Having satisfied himself that she was willing to play along, he had done nothing more about it until his daughter was safely asleep for the night. That made sense, she supposed. But what happened now? Get her drunk and incapable, cutting out the tiresome need to sweet-talk her or the chore of having to make some pretence of caring about her, then jump on her?

  Wham, bam and thank you, ma'am, and I won't say anything if you won't; it can be our little secret and don't tell the wife?

  Oh, how debauched and utterly, utterly despicable! Oh, how she hated him! And was ready to punch him if he so much as touched her!

  He didn't. He said, 'Let's go and eat,' and got ef­fortlessly to his feet, casually holding a hand out to her.

  Caro took it because the only other option she had was to crawl back up to the terrace on her hands and knees. Suddenly her head was spinning wildly. Every nerve in her body tingled as those hard, warm fingers closed reassuringly around her own and the sensual shock of the sensation was responsible for the way her fingers clung so desperately to his; of course it was. And she clung even more tightly as he bent to retrieve their glasses.

  And when he straightened up her body inadver­tently swayed giddily towards his, brushed against the taut, lean length of him, the tips of her suddenly un­bearably sensitised breasts grazing the soft dark cotton that covered his deep chest.

  'Oh!' Caro gasped then trembled violently, every cell in her body leaping in hectic response to the tough, masculine feel of him, the warmth of him, the closeness of him. Unnamed emotions—dozens of them—surged frantically around inside her; she was so confused she didn't know what to do with herself. Cling to him and wrap her arms tightly around him, or take to her heels and run a mile?

  Wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his head down to hers, pressing her tingling body even closer to his could be one of her better ideas—in the cause of her ultimate revenge, of course.

  However, running the proverbial mile would put her out of danger. But surely there was no danger at all? There shouldn't be, not as long as she played the seduction game by her own private set of rules!

  But would she remember the rules? Her body, wrig­gling closer into his right now, at this very moment, seemed to have forgotten there had ever been any!

  Confusion reigned.

  'Steady!' With a wry, lop-sided grin as he capitu­lated to a surge of unexpected chivalry, Finn managed to hold onto the wine glasses, prise his daughter's nanny's delectably curvy, inviting little body from all over his and steer them both in the direction of the terrace and the waiting steaks which would undoubt­edly be as hard as leather and stone-cold by now.

  The way she'd fallen against him, her fantastic body wriggling and clinging, had been out-of-this-world provocation. Finn wondered if it could have been deliberate—like the way she'd disappeared to the far end of the garden, practically inviting him to follow. Or whether her unsteadiness had been a result of swallowing her wine far too quickly.

  He gave her the benefit of the doubt and put the sexually provocative moment down to the wine. His hand was on the small of her back because he suspected she was ever so slightly tipsy and he didn't want her to fall over her feet.

  He would prefer not to have to touch her, not under these circumstances. Touching her put far too much strain on his self-control. Stone-cold sober and fully aware of what she was doing—now that would be another story altogether.

  Finn pulled his mind sharply away from that entic­ing scenario, guided her to the picnic table and went to collect the meat.

  He wanted to touch her, to hold her, wanted it with a sharp, compelling urgency he hadn't experienced in a very long time, probably not since adolescence and rioting hormones had driven him into the whole­hearted exploration of the mysteries of the female sex.

  And when he finally took her in his arms he wanted her fully aware of what was happening, crystal-clear about the consequences of the step they would be tak­ing. He wouldn't want her mental and physical fac­ulties blurred by an injudicious intake of alcohol.

  Besides, there was another, more altruistic side to his interest in this endlessly fascinating woman. He wanted to get to know why she was having to pretend to be a nanny in order to earn a few extra bucks, and she wouldn't confide in him until she could trust him, and she sure as hell wouldn't trust him if he gave way to his suddenly rampaging male hormones, dragged her into his arms and covered every inch of her face and body with hungry, burning kisses.

  It was too soon. Much too soon. True, she was older, more sophisticated and far less naive than her younger sister had been, and the gasp of excited re­sponse she'd given when she'd stumbled against him, their bodies brushing, touching and burning from breast to thigh, had told him she was just as sexually aware of him as he was of her.

  Even so, he wasn't going to rush a thing. Instinct told him that their future relationship could be inter­esting. More than merely interesting. He wouldn't risk putting it in jeopardy through lack of patience.

  Fortunately the meat hadn't been ruined by the de­lay and the salad was absolutely fine, and as he helped himself to wine after she'd shaken her head and cov­ered her glass with her hand in refusal she remarked, 'You cook a mean steak.' Reluctant humour lit her eyes. 'Why is it that men see tending a barbecue as a perfectly acceptable masculine activity but wouldn't be seen dead anywhere near a kitchen stove and a potato-peeler?'

  'Don't generalise.' His eyes glinted at her over the rim of his glass. 'They don't come much better than me around the kitchen stove—or sink, for that matter. I have been known to rise from Sophie's strained veg­etables to a four-course dinner for six, believe it or not.'

  She might believe it; at a pinch she just might. Not because she thought he was incapable of lying—he had done nothing but lie to poor Katie—or because his lazy grin was totally disarming and unbelievably sexy, but because, for all he was by all accounts as rich as Croesus, he didn't flaunt his great wealth.

  The property she, at his insistence, had viewed with him this afternoon had positively reeked of wealth and perfect taste. Ultra-modern, enclosed in acres of beau­tifully manicured grounds, the house had boasted every luxury and convenience known to man—discreetly boasted, of course. She had privately thought that the place would suit him very well, that he'd lose no time in getting his solicitor to exchange contracts.

  But Finn, guiding Sophie through the great sliding glass doors that led from the airy book room into a huge domed space-age conservatory, had observed, 'Very avant-garde, but not exactly homely. Can't see us romping here, can you, Sophie, girl?'

  So yes, unfortunately she could bring herself to be­lieve he was as handy around a kitchen as he was with his baby daughter. She wished she couldn't be­lieve anything good or halfway human about him. She wanted to hate him through and through, not grudg­ingly have to respect bits of his character.

  But there was no point in letting her emotions get in the way here. So, he had his good points, but that did nothing to alter what he'd done to Katie.

  He was leaning forward now, his tan
ned forearms on the rough, grainy surface of the wooden picnic table, idly twisting the stem of his glass between those long, strong fingers. She couldn't read his expression, not clearly, because the daylight was fading rapidly now, but his voice was warm, intimate, as he invited, 'Tell me about yourself, Caro.'

  As an opener it sounded promising. However, she had no intention of telling him anything about herself, not yet anyway, not until she was ready to tell him whose sister she was; so she manufactured what she hoped would pass as a seductive smile and disclaimed huskily, 'I'm sure we could find something far less boring to talk about. You, for instance—'

  'Not at all.' Finn stretched out his long legs beneath the table and told her, 'As a topic of conversation I'm sure I'd find you endlessly fascinating.'

  And wasn't that the truth? The way she'd smiled at him just now had been a definite come-on, com­pletely at odds with the wary, almost frightened look in her eyes. Almost as if she was flirting with him, inviting him to come close, to touch, but would head for the hills if he so much as moved a muscle!

  He smiled at her, trying to put her at her ease, want­ing her to open up. If she and her agency were having problems then there was a strong possibility he could help. He wanted to help her, and not entirely because of the family business connection, either; he could be completely honest with himself on that score. 'How about telling me why you chose looking after other people's children as a profession?' he suggested. 'Have you always been a nanny?'

  In the waning light her skin gleamed like ivory, the cropped top she was wearing displaying her neat mid­riff and the slender length of her neck and arms, the dusky valley between her breasts tantalisingly on view because of the number of artfully unfastened buttons.

  Desire stirred roughly—an instant, predictable and ungovernable reaction to one very sexy lady!

  Caro's eyes widened in consternation as she watched the way he suddenly shifted uncomfortably on his seat, the way the lines at the corners of his mouth hardened, and cast desperately around for something to say.