The Millionaire's Baby

by Diana Hamilton

  Unlike the house they'd been shown over yesterday and the one they had been due to inspect this after­noon, Mytton Wells was unoccupied. The estate agent had met them here this morning. Finn had accepted the keys, promised to return them later and suggested the agent leave them to it. Caro wished he hadn't.

  The sensation of intimacy, the unreal feeling of be­longing, had been growing all morning. Talk, laugh­ter, exclamations over the views from the latticed win­dows, getting lost in the rambly attic rooms, discovering that their tastes in domestic architecture dovetailed perfectly—everything about the day so far had contrived to throw a golden, glowing veil over everything that was unpleasant. Unpleasant as in adul­terer, deceiver, liar...

  'Want down!' Sophie demanded, and Caro set the little girl on her feet and accepted the clasp of the tiny hand so trustingly held up to her. She knew she would miss this adorable child far more than she would ever have dreamed possible. Already she loved her and would deeply miss seeing her sunny smile each day.

  Finn might be doing everything he could to give his daughter the ideal home, idyllic surroundings to grow up in, and he might love her devotedly, but she suspected that his relaxed attitude to his wedding vows had to be responsible for his wife's absence. He was effectively depriving his child of her mother for what he had admitted would be significant periods of time. Apart from those silver-framed photographs she might as well not exist.

  The progress she and Sophie were making was so slow, Finn caught up with them before they'd reached the shade-giving cedar. 'That's fixed.' He strode briefly ahead, tossing a rug down on the shaded grass. 'The estate agent will cancel this afternoon's appoint­ment, and I've told him he'll be hearing from my solicitor regarding the sale of this place in the very near future. And we'll drop the keys off on our way back later this afternoon.'

  He had flopped down on the soft green grass, was opening the cool-box. 'Get a move on, slowcoaches.' His eyes smiled up at them. 'I'm ravenous, so let's eat and enjoy the rest of the afternoon. And I'd like to take another look around inside before we make tracks.'

  'Why?' Caroline settled Sophie down on the rug and sat beside her, her legs curled beneath her. 'You want to measure for curtains already?' She smiled at him, making a joke of it, keeping everything light because she knew she couldn't handle anything at all if things got heavy.

  'No.' He grinned at her. 'I'll leave that sort of stuff to the experts. In the absence of a friendly, knowl­edgeable female I'll probably hire a firm of interior designers—but the job's yours, if you want it!'

  Caro didn't rise to the bait. She took the buttered roll he handed her, broke it in half and handed a piece to Sophie. He had as good as told her that he and his wife lived more or less separate lives, that what he did had nothing to do with the absent Fleur, and she guessed he was going to use the rest of this lazy, lovely afternoon to try to coax his daughter's nanny

  into his bed!

  And she wasn't being vain about that. No one could mistake it. His body language, the way he looked at her, the gleam in the silvery eyes, the way his voice lowered, softened—everything about him spelled out his intentions.

  Apart from the presence of the child who was now contentedly munching her way through a banana they were practically back to where they'd been last night.

  The game was on again.

  This time the build-up would be slower, of course, because Sophie was around, the fizzing sexual tension increasing because of that, and maybe this time he wouldn't give her the option of backing away.

  Catching her breath, she wondered why she hadn't led him on last night, kept to her plan to get him really wound up, allowed the wretch to believe he'd scored yet again, then slapped him down at the very last mo­ment.

  The answer, she knew, was breathtakingly simple. As his eyes focused intensely on hers across the sweetly scented dappled shade, she knew that had things progressed any further, any further at all, she wouldn't have had the will-power to stop him from taking events to their natural conclusion, because when he touched her, or looked at her the way he was doing now, she turned into a mindless idiot.

  A wanton, mindless idiot.

  So it had to end now. The decision was sudden and completely certain. There would be no more games, no more half-crazed schemes to teach him what it felt like to be rejected. Cruelly rejected.

  Before this afternoon was over she would tell him who she was, remind him of what he'd done to Katie, spell out the consequences of his thoughtless, heart­less treatment and leave.

  The danger of taking the other path was far too great.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'Not eating?' Finn, sitting on the grass with his long legs stretched out in front of him, leaned back on one elbow. The movement brought him slightly closer to his daughter's nanny.

  The idle question elicited no response. The golden eyes were dark, troubled, the soft, lusciously pink lips parted, trembling just a little. Sublimely kissable lips...

  'Aren't you hungry?'

  'I...' She looked down at the buttered roll in one hand, the plump red tomato in the other and put them both down on the paper napkin he'd provided. 'No. I don't think I am.' Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. She didn't know what she thought, what she wanted. She only knew that she wanted out of here, away from this man, out of this situation.

  She turned away, agitatedly aware of the brevity of her shorts, the fully exposed length of leg, and wished she were wearing something smothering, preferably fashioned from mattress ticking because the rules of the game she'd been playing no longer applied.

  'Something to drink, then?'

  Without waiting for a reply he poured apple juice from a carton into a paper cup and gave it to her. She took it, taking enormous care to avoid touching his fingers, and sipped, watching with unwilling respect as he helped his tiny daughter drink from her beaker then gently settled the sleepy-eyed moppet down on the blanket, on her side, stroking the back of her star­fish hands until the big brown eyes began to close.

  'She's tired out—it's all the excitement and running around in the clean air. I'm glad Mytton Wells came on the market at the right time because I don't think I could ever have found anything else so perfect for us—she's going to love living here,' he said softly as he lifted his eyes from the now sleeping child. 'And you, Caro? How would you feel about living out of here?'

  It would be a wonderful place to live, but what did her opinion matter? She wouldn't be living here, even if she were given the option. Which she wouldn't be, not unless he was thinking of trying to persuade her to stay on as Sophie's permanent nanny. She had al­ready told him she wouldn't consider doing that. So why should she bother to answer?

  She shrugged his question away, slim shoulders lifting then falling indifferently, her mind already oc­cupied with other things. Very soon now she was go­ing to tell him how foul she thought he was, and tell him precisely why she thought that. The idea wasn't particularly appealing but she owed it to Katie.

  'You prefer the city? Or is there a boyfriend in the background you'd miss?' Finn asked. The distinct possibility that there might be a man in her life hadn't seriously occurred to him before now. He couldn't imagine why it hadn't. He couldn't be the only man on the planet to find her irresistible. Unless, of course, he'd instinctively known she was his, or would be, the past presence of any other man in her life im­material, not worth thinking about, nothing serious. An occasional theatre or dinner date; that's all I can make time for. I'm a career woman, first and foremost. And that doesn't mean I'm frigid,' she said challengingly.

  'No?'

  A dark brow quirked outrageously and she felt her face flame and, against her better judgement, found herself defending, 'Look—much as I love her, I can't help knowing my mother is the type of woman who can't stand on her own. She married young, and until Dad was killed in a riding accident she leaned on him, and after that she leaned on me, and, in a strange sort of way, on Gran. I don't want to be like that. I wa
nt to stand on my own, make a life of my own before I even think of sharing it with a man. So until I'm cer­tain of who I am and where I'm going my career comes first.'

  'Truly?' The glint in his eyes, the curve of his sexy mouth should have set warning bells ringing in her mind. He seemed to have moved closer, close enough for him to lift a hand, let his forefinger laze its slow, tormenting way down the length of her arm. His touch made her breath thicken and burn in her lungs. 'And what is your career? A life full of other people's babies—and none of your own?' His finger trailed its way back up her arm and when she opened her mouth to make an objection that same finger gently closed her lips, making her eyes go wide and dark with panic.

  His own eyes gleamed with sudden satisfaction, his mouth practically curling with it, as if he could ac­tually taste it on his tongue. 'You told me you never stayed with a family for more than a few weeks, otherwise you became too emotionally involved with your young charges.' He felt the soft quivering of her lush and lovely mouth beneath his finger and hated himself for teasing her, trying to drag the truth out of her, yet he continued softly, remorselessly, because one way or another he had to get her to admit the nanny de­ception. 'Doesn't that tell you anything?'

  His finger wandered down to her chin and trailed slowly down the length of her throat, coming to rest in the small hollow at the base where he could feel the vital, wild thud of her pulses.

  'Such as?' The counter-question was instinctive even though the words were physically difficult to form. This close, touching her, he seemed to have paralysed her, robbed her even of the will to move.

  'Such as you need babies of your own.'

  The thoughts that statement conjured up in his brain were definitely X-rated and, dammit, if she persisted in pretending to be a bona fide nanny then there was nothing he could do about it.

  The need to take her in his arms again, to learn the shape of her—every last delightful curve and deli­cious hollow—both with his eyes and his hands, to take the taste of her into his mouth, was irresistible. He didn't think he was going to be able to wait until she decided she could trust him enough to tell him who she was and what she really did for a living.

  And if he had read the signals right she was ready to respond to him. His hand moved to the nape of her neck and he saw her golden eyes haze with desire, her lips part softly under his gaze, and knew that should he ask her to stop him, as he had felt constrained to do last night, she would do nothing of the sort. Not this time.

  But there was no hurry. It would be criminal to rush her, to force his way through to her by means of the purely physical. She had to be ready to respond to him emotionally, too.

  They had all the time in the world, and besides, nothing earth-shattering could happen with his pre­cious little daughter a mere few yards away. The fact that she was sound asleep made no difference at all.

  However—his head dipped fractionally towards her, his hand cupping the back of her glossy head now—a kiss, just one, just a taste of her, the begin­ning of a slow, sweet build-up... A build-up that could last for days or even weeks but which would end, inevitably, in rapture.

  He heard the tiny gasp she gave and sensed the sexual tension in her body, and—dear heaven!—how sweetly her breath fluttered against his mouth! The touch of her small hands as they crept up and splayed out against his ribcage was managing to send him out of his mind! And the way her full, rounded breasts brushed against his chest, the sensual contact scalding him through the thin cotton of his shirt, ignited flames that threatened to rage right out of control.

  It was what had happened to her when he'd said she needed babies of her own that had done the mis­chief! Caro decided wildly. What he had said and the way he had said it in that slow, sexy voice of his that had started that primeval ache deep inside her, the sudden need for a baby of her own-—for his baby...?

  The way her thoughts were taking her made her panic. But not even panic could help her to move. It paralysed her. It made her want to stay. Here. Right here. With him. She didn't know what was happening, only that they were both highly aroused, incapable of stopping what was happening to them.

  One of his hands was behind her head and his lips were a breath away from hers. She took a gulp of air, feeling the tight flowering of her breasts, the way they pushed against him as if drawn, body to body, mouth to mouth... Her hands clutched at him, holding him, the heat and hardness of his body making her head spin, and she saw his eyes glitter hotly, darkly, just a split second before his mouth curved with a heart-jolting sensuality and moved swiftly to cover her own.

  Her own lips met his, responding, slow, erotic strokes and softly moist explorations turning to wild, unthinking demands as together they sank back on the grass, feverish bodies entwined as he lifted his mouth from hers, pushing her tumbled hair back from her face with a slightly unsteady hand, holding her eyes with the intensity of his as if to reinforce and give credence to his hoarsely uttered words. 'Caro, I can't help it if you think I'm crazy—but, hell, I think I'm falling in love with you!'

  His words acted like a bucket of icy water, bringing her cruelly to her senses. He didn't know the meaning of the word; men like him used lies like that to talk gullible women into their beds all the time. And, even if the world was pear-shaped and he was telling the truth, he wasn't free to do any such thing!

  How could she have given in to the wicked thoughts and desires that he alone seemed capable of creating, responded so lustily to such a man?

  Shame made it almost impossible to speak, definitely impossible to bunch up her fists and push him away. And when she could get her words out they were instinctive. The means to hurt him, to take the revenge that had been handed to her on a plate. And the words emerged huskily on the merest thread of sound. 'I wonder what your wife would think if she heard you saying that?'

  Muzzily, she realised that earlier she had given up on the idea of making him bite the bullet of sexual frustration as a way of exacting a measure of revenge for what he had done to Katie. But the situation had somehow presented itself and the words had come out of her mouth as if they'd been programmed to do so, and the effect that the reminder of his wife had had on him was everything she could have hoped for.

  He went very still, every muscle and sinew taut and strained, and she saw the colour drain from his face, his eyes go black with some bleak emotion before he gathered himself and pushed away from her, swung round, his back to her as he pushed his fingers roughly through his thick dark hair.

  Finn got to his feet, his face harsh, mirroring his thoughts.

  He could barely believe he'd heard that. The first woman to make him feel like a lovesick adolescent at the mercy of his hormones for God only knew how many years, the first woman ever to arouse a whole raft of masculine protectiveness he had never known he possessed, the desire to cherish and respect as well as the desire to bed. All these crazy emotions shown up for the folly that they were by those husky, taunt­ing words of hers.

  He had believed himself in love for the first time in his life. In love with a woman who would have had sex with a man she believed to be married.

  Her partner back at the agency had obviously omit­ted to pass on the information that the Mrs Helliar who had accompanied him from Canada, who was presently visiting with friends in the London area, was his mother. She had responded to every advance he had made, initiating a few of her own, all the time believing him to be a married man.

  He was blisteringly angry with them both. With himself for putting her on a pedestal, with her for having feet of clay right up to her pretty neck!

  CHAPTER NINE

  'Fleur—my wife—died before Sophie was a month old.' His words dropped heavily, coldly, and when he turned to face her again his features displayed no ex­pression at all. Except, perhaps, distaste.

  Soft-footed, he moved to where his daughter slept in the dappled shade of the tree, dark lashes fanning her flushed chubby cheeks. Finn picked the little girl up and cradled her caref
ully in his arms, his lips barely moving as he instructed tersely, 'Pack every­thing up, will you? We're leaving. I'll wait for you at the car.'

  Caro watched him walk away. She felt physically sick, her heart jumping about dementedly under her ribs. The warm, still summer afternoon was suddenly oppressive. Yet she shuddered.

  His wife was dead. The knowledge stunned her. All the time she'd been in his employ she'd almost been inventing him to fit into the shoes of the character she'd believed him to be: a philanderer whose lack of loving commitment had driven his wife back to her abandoned career, the type of man who would play around with his personal secretary, not to mention his daughter's nanny, while his wife was out of sight.

  But he didn't have a wife. Fleur Helliar had been dead for over a year.

  Caro knew she'd done him an enormous injustice and she felt truly bad about that. But, in her own defence, no one, least of all Finn, had explained the situation to her. And who the heck had the sultry Sandra been talking about when she'd mentioned Mrs Helliar?

  Gloomily, she re-packed the picnic things and folded the blanket and followed to where he'd parked the car. Her mention of his wife had obviously done something to put him off the idea of going over the house he wanted to buy again this afternoon. She knew he'd been looking forward to doing just that but now he couldn't wait to get away. She felt bad about that, too.

  Had he loved Fleur so very much? Could the mere mention of her name, even after this length of time, still affect him so deeply?

  The bleak look he gave her as he took the baggage from her to stow in the back of the off-roader told her she must have hit on the truth and she whispered im­pulsively, 'Finn, I'm sorry!'

  Despite the hurt he had dished out to Katie, she really meant it; she was sorry. Sorry to have mis­judged him to such an extent, sorry to have given him pain by forcing him to mention the tragic loss of his wife at such an early age.