The Millionaire's Baby

by Diana Hamilton

  It looked like being a gorgeous day again, this sum­mer seeming set to break all records. The thought of hanging around the hotel suite, with forays into the park to break the monotony, watching the minutes and hours of the day slide away with still no sign of Finn, was something she'd had more than enough of.

  She was enjoying looking after his daughter and was, she knew, getting very good at it. The problem was, each day she grew to love the little girl more, and when the time came for that final goodbye she was sure part of her heart would break.

  And she wouldn't be at all surprised if Lucy re­turned from her visit with her friends before her son got back from that Paris business trip. And that would involve her in making a whole extra heap of embar­rassing explanations and deprive her of the opportu­nity of being alone with him.

  'A picnic, huh?' She plucked the tiny girl out of her cot and waltzed with her into the bathroom. 'We'll visit the house Daddy's bought for you, and play in the garden. It's a beautiful house, poppet, and you're a very lucky little girl.'

  Her own small runabout was now in Finn's underground parking slot here at the hotel. She had come back to town and collected it from outside her apart­ment block in Highgate as soon as she'd been sure her mother was going to make a full recovery, driving it back to the lodge so that she and Katie didn't have to take David away from his work to do the hospital run. Presumably Finn had left the off-roader in the long-stay airport car park.

  So she could ask the kitchens for a picnic hamper and they could be away within the hour, heading for fresh air and silence and a chance for her to renew her acquaintance with the home that was now his, imprint it more deeply on her mind so that she could picture him there in the years to come.

  Which was a pretty slushy sort of thought, espe­cially coming from the brain of one of the coolest operators in the nanny-agency business! She was not a sentimental or slushy person. Or she hadn't been until recently. Plucking the baby out of the bath, she wrapped the sturdy little body in a huge fluffy towel and squatted back on her heels, her eyes misty, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

  She was going to have to pull herself together. OK, so he was the first man who had ever made her feel that there could be something in the business of fall­ing in love and tying your life, your whole future, up with another person, needing and loving someone else until that someone else became your whole existence. But that didn't mean he would be the last man ca­pable of doing that, did it?

  A huge lump constricted her throat. She swallowed it roughly. OK, so who was she fooling? Hell could freeze over before she found another man who af­fected her the way Finn Helliar did. But that didn't mean he could feel the same way about her, did it?

  No, he'd made it abundantly clear he couldn't. First off, the sound of his dead wife's name on her lips had horrified him, made him feel he was making love with something utterly repulsive. He'd certainly acted as if that were the case. And then he'd bawled her out and then he'd sacked her.

  Then, just to make sure he couldn't like or respect her in a million years, she'd told him exactly why she'd lied her way into his employ. To get revenge. To pay him back for something he hadn't done.

  Of course he'd said that that was something they were going to have to talk about—like when she and Katie could expect to be hauled in front of the courts on a charge of slander. But in the end he hadn't both­ered. He probably thought that neither of them was worth the expenditure of time and trouble.

  Suddenly, it became imperative that she and Sophie get away from here. It was like being in the dentist's waiting room waiting for her name to be called.

  A day in the country would soothe her jangling nerves, give her a breathing space, make her better able to calmly make those overdue apologies when he did turn up, impress him with her sincerity.

  She dressed them both in hot-weather casual gear. Ice-blue cotton shorts and a toning T-shirt for Sophie, and a gauzy black cotton skirt and white lawn sleeve­less blouse for herself, because they were about the coolest things she had with her.

  'Should Mr Helliar return before I do,' she in­structed the receptionist when she collected the picnic hamper she'd ordered and the baby seat she'd bor­rowed, 'please tell him that Nanny Fair has taken the baby to Mytton Wells. We aim to be back well in time for the baby's bedtime.'

  A hotel porter was needed to help transport every­thing to the car. It felt as if they were going on safari, Caro thought wildly, eyeing the borrowed baby seat—essential if Sophie was to be strapped in safely—and the hamper which looked big enough to hold food for five thousand and two bulging bags stuffed with all the bits and pieces Sophie would need during the day, not forgetting Horn.

  An hour later, feeling slightly more relaxed, Caro stopped the car under the shade of a group of beech trees at the side of the long drive that wound its end­less way up to Mytton Wells.

  She had no intention of going on up to the house; it would be locked and empty so there really was no point. But transporting all the paraphernalia, plus Sophie, down to the meadow so that the little girl could run and play in freedom and safety proved more problematical than she'd bargained for.

  The time they'd visited before there had been two adults to fetch and carry from the car, two adults to keep an eye on and amuse the lively toddler. She didn't want to think about that day. Thinking about it now made her want to cry.

  It had been an almost perfect day, a happy day. Looking back, she now knew she'd been falling in love with him and had already known, deep in the silent places of her heart, that he couldn't be as unprincipled and callous as she'd set out believing him to be.

  'Right, Sophie, off we go!' she uttered with a false brightness that was perilously close to tears. Fiercely promising herself she could not get maudlin, she set­tled the cotton sun-hat more securely on the golden curls. 'You can carry Horn while I push this. OK?'

  'This' was a teetering edifice made up of the picnic hamper and the bulging bags of Sophie's necessaries, all balanced precariously on the baby buggy. It took some careful manoeuvring, especially when they'd left the mown expanse of the lower-garden lawns and were negotiating the semi-steep ha-ha that separated meadow and woodland from the more formal areas.

  'There! It was worth it, wasn't it, poppet?' Hot and breathless, Caro sank down at last in the long feathery grass which was ornamented with swaying field pop­pies and ox-eye daisies and rummaged in the picnic basket.

  As she'd suspected, the hotel kitchens had packed enough to feed an army. Sophie snacked on fruit and juice and Caro took the top off a plastic container of tiny smoked salmon sandwiches then put it back on again. She wasn't hungry.

  So she and Sophie made daisy chains, or rather she did the making while Sophie toddled around pulling up handfuls of flowers until Caro insisted they had enough. She didn't want to denude the meadow of wild flowers entirely!

  It was getting hotter, a heavier, more sultry heat, when, an hour or two later, Caro carried the little girl back from their expedition down to the edge of the shallow stream that wound around the bottom of the meadow then disappeared into the wood.

  The exercise and fresh air had tired the baby and after giving her another drink of juice Caro settled her and Horn on the cot blanket and the tiny pillow she'd brought along with all the other necessaries. 'Shall we have a story?' She smiled into the already drooping eyes. 'How about Goldilocks? It's your favourite.'

  Too late, she was afraid she'd said the wrong thing. Sophie needed to nap and any mention of bears was usually enough to have her racketing around on her hands and knees making her famous growly noises.

  But the sudden brightening of those drowsy eyes wasn't the prelude to a game of bears, she realised as the little girl held out her chubby arms and carolled excitedly, 'Daddeeee!'

  'How's my sweetie-pie?' Strong, tanned arms scooped the tiny girl up from her nest in the long, soft grasses. His white business-wear shirt had the sleeves rolled up and narrow-fitting dark grey tailored trousers skim
med long, long legs and those lean, mean hips of his.

  Caro's fingers dug into the soft, warm grass. She felt dizzy, the sudden shock of seeing him here, where she surely hadn't expected him, blocking the supply of oxygen to her brain.

  He joined her, sitting cross-legged on the grass, his baby daughter held firmly between his knees. 'I got your message from Reception.' His deep voice was even, almost without intonation. For some reason his very calmness gave her the shivers and she knew ex­actly why when he told her, 'I'm not raising the roof, but that doesn't mean I'm not furious with you. I don't want to alarm Sophie by yelling at you—'

  Or traumatise her for life by taking you by the throat and shaking, hard, Caro tacked on for him in­side her head, and shuddered at the look in his eyes. His voice might be calm but those eyes said it all. Contemptuous dislike didn't come near describing what was staring at her from those glittering silver depths.

  'How dare you just walk back, take advantage of my absence, lie to my mother, walk out with my child—?'

  'I wouldn't harm her!' she began heatedly, but moderated her tone as his brows drew down in an angry scowl. 'I left a clear message.' One he'd acted on immediately, apparently not even bothering to change out of the suit he'd travelled in. He couldn't really imagine that she was so depraved she'd harm a single hair on his darling daughter's golden head, could he?

  'And I didn't lie to your mother. Because you hadn't told her I'd been thrown out, she assumed—'

  'Then you lied by omission.' Sweetly said, he might have been talking about the weather, remarking on how wonderful it was. But Caro knew better and so did Sophie, judging by the way she went red in the face and began to bellow.

  Finn rose to his feet, rocking his child in his arms, making soothing noises as he tried to pacify the over­heated, over-tired infant, but his strong, angular fea­tures were stamped with contempt as he instructed, 'Pack everything up ready to put in my car. Sophie and I are leaving.' His eyes were slivers of smoul­dering silver, glittering at her between thick black lashes. 'You found your way here, you can find your way back.'

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  'We'll head straight up towards the house,' Finn di­rected as Caro balanced the second plastic bag on top of the hamper she'd put in the buggy. 'You can wait on the terrace with Sophie while I bring the car up. I left it directly behind yours on the drive.'

  She could imagine him leaping out of the vehicle, striding around until he'd located them, and now he couldn't wait to take his daughter and get away from her!

  Heading straight up and across the belt of meadowland towards the paths and lawns of the formal gardens would eventually make for easier going than the route she had taken previously. And waiting out­side the house with the baby while he went on his own down the long, long drive to bring his car up made a lot of sense. But it also made her feel small and lost and lonely.

  Would he unbend sufficiently to offer her a lift down to where she'd left her car, or would he simply leave her where she was? The mood he appeared to be in, she wouldn't put bets on him doing the former!

  Thankfully, Sophie had quietened down, her hot, tear-stained little face turned into her father's shoul­der, the occasional hiccup and sniffle the only rem­nants of her earlier bawling session.

  Finn probably had the gall to blame her for the noisy outburst, Caro grouched to herself as she dragged the laden buggy over the meadow, when in reality it was all down to him, for popping up out of the blue and making the little girl over-excited when she, Caro, had got her nicely ready to nap. She really hated to think that the child had been in any way affected by the veiled antagonism between her father and her nanny.

  Staring at his impressively broad, retreating back, enraged by his high-handed attitude, she rubbed the back of her hand over her perspiring forehead and both the bags fell off the buggy, leaking towels and baby cream, disposable nappies, changes of clothing and baby wipes in every direction.

  Her howl of frustration brought him striding straight back to her and if she hadn't been feeling so hot and bothered she knew the ice of his eyes would have given her frostbite.

  'Give that lot to me.' He held out a commanding hand, his brows knitting with dark impatience. 'There's a storm about to break, or hadn't you no­ticed?'

  Never mind the ominously darkening sky, the thick, still stickiness of the air—the real storm was happen­ing right inside her.

  She tossed him a glowering look of sheer resent­ment and he said brusquely, 'Take Sophie. Head up for the house.' And he carefully placed the now sleep­ing child in her arms and bent to retrieve all the scat­tered bits and pieces.

  The first drops of rain hit as she hurried along the path between the double herbaceous borders. Huge drops, falling slowly at first and then fast and furiously so that she was forced to bend almost double to prevent Sophie from getting soaked as well.

  Thunder was growling and prowling around the heavy skies and Finn brushed past her, seemingly hav­ing abandoned the burdened baby buggy, took her by the waist and hustled her up the steps to the terrace, pushing her and the baby beneath the slight shelter of the eaves while he fished a keyring from his trouser pocket and opened the tall French windows.

  'Get inside,' he instructed tersely. 'We'll wait the storm out here.' He disappeared back into the deluge and Caro stepped through the glass doors and into the dim and empty room.

  Not quite empty, though. A battered three-piece suite, a couple of mismatched bookcases—home­made, by the amateurish look of them, out of flimsy wood—and several cardboard boxes full of things wrapped in newspaper were piled up against one wall of the high-ceilinged, elegantly proportioned room.

  When they'd viewed the property for the first time Finn had looked at the unwanted remnants of some­one else's life and said wryly, 'It's amazing what peo­ple will hoard, isn't it? According to the estate agent these are the things the house-clearance people wouldn't look at when the owner sold up before mov­ing to a retirement home.'

  What a long time ago that seemed. A different life. Yet it wasn't. They were different people. That was what had changed—the people they were and the way they viewed each other.

  Caro shivered, her wet clothes sticking to her body, and Finn walked back through the French windows, wetter by far, soaked to the skin. He dumped the picnic hamper and the two plastic bags on the floor. 'Is there anything amongst that lot we could wrap her in?'

  'A woolly blanket.' Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak. He was making her nervous. He didn't look as if he'd listen to an apology coming from her, let alone accept it. And she had the uneasy suspicion that if he hadn't needed her to hold his sleeping daughter while he rummaged in the bags for that blanket she would have been out of his house, deluge or no deluge, and splashing down the drive to her car.

  Finn located the blanket and strode over to the pile of unwanted furniture, swinging one easy chair around to face the other, pushing them together to create a makeshift bed, then jerked his head in Caro's direction, not speaking to her because he couldn't— not, he feared, without snarling. And not looking at her either because he couldn't—not without wanting her.

  Fortunately, there was no need to issue instructions. She joined him and gently placed Sophie on her back in the confined chair space. This close, he could smell the elusive perfume that he remembered as being the seductive essence of her, could hear the whisper of her shallow breathing.

  He covered his daughter with the blanket then felt every bone in his body lock with tension when the minx at his side reached out a hand and touched his arm.

  'Don't you want to know why I hung around, wait­ing until you came back from France?'

  'Not particularly.' He stepped away and watched her hand fall back to her side. Perversely, his skin burned where her cool fingers had touched him. 'It would probably give me nightmares.'

  The rain had plastered her hair to her beautifully shaped head, moulded the fine cotton of her clothes to that exquisite, graceful body. Finn
gritted his teeth. This close, this woman was in danger of sending him out of his mind.

  This woman had blamed him for something he hadn't done, and lied and schemed to get close to him, using sweet, innocent little Sophie, and this same woman had brought him to the point of believing him­self in love with her!

  How could his character judgement be so out of kilter? How could he have wanted to spend the rest of his life with someone so irrational, so blinkered?

  And, worse yet, there was the sheer absurdity of believing himself in love—and for the first time in his entire adult life—with a woman who had used her sex as a weapon, allowed herself to share sexual intima­cies with a man she had believed to be married in order to punish him for something he hadn't done!

  This was a woman to be avoided at all costs!

  'I needed to apologise to you—'

  'You did? Now, I wonder why? Because you are devious, because you were hell-bent on revenge—a despicable thing, revenge, or don't you think so? Or because you don't bother to ask questions, just ap­point yourself judge, jury and executioner—?'

  'Don't!' Her voice was thick with misery, her golden eyes sparkling with sudden, unshed tears. Her obvious distress unsettled him.

  He moved away from the soundly sleeping baby, gravitated to the French windows and stared out at the drenching rain, at the distant flashes and flickers of

  lightning.

  'I want to say I'm sorry—desperately sorry—for believing the things Katie said about you.'

  Her smooth brow furrowed. It was difficult to apologise to someone who couldn't be bothered to listen. His back was turned to her, the rain-sodden fabric of his shirt clinging to those wide, rangy shoul­ders. She felt excluded, a pariah, and probably justi­fiably, she concluded mournfully.