‘Or inside either,’ Max snapped and amazingly Brent came to her defence.
‘Miss Raye is required to report anything that happens in this hotel to me. But of course the confidentiality agreement extends to me as well. I’d like Miss Raye to leave. She has work to be getting on with, and as a cleaner she can hardly be of any use to you.’
‘But you don’t have a babysitter for me.’
‘No, sir.’
‘And Miss Raye knows how to care for babies.’
Brent sent her an uncertain glance. He wasn’t sure where to go with this. ‘Is this true, Miss Raye?’
‘Please...’ She needed to get out of here. She spoke directly to her boss. ‘I’m at the end of a double shift. If you’ll excuse me...’
‘But you do know about babies?’
Did she know about babies? It was practically the only thing she did know. But now wasn’t the time for hollow laughter. Be invisible. Disappear.
‘She does,’ Max said, suddenly softening. ‘She washed her and fed her.’
‘Miss Raye?’ Brent reacted with shock. ‘That’s not in your list of duties. Our insurance doesn’t cover...’
‘Damn your insurance.’ Max’s anger flared again, but once again he turned to Sunny. Who was still desperately looking at the floor. ‘Miss Raye, you obviously know how to care for a baby. She’s sleeping now. You’re at the end of a double shift? You must be tired.’ He gazed around the suite and she could almost see cogs whirring. ‘This living room has a massive settee. Your manager... Mr...’ He looked in query at Brent.
‘Cottee,’ Brent told him smoothly. ‘Brent Cottee.’
‘Thank you. Mr Cottee can no doubt send up nightwear, toothbrush, anything you need to stay the night. My bedroom has an en suite bathroom so you can be separate. Mr Cottee, I’m prepared to pay full babysitting services for the night, doubled, plus the same amount to Miss Raye personally.’ He looked uncertainly back at the pram but forged on, plan in place. ‘This could suit.’
‘Suit who?’ Sunny muttered.
‘Suit me,’ Max said smoothly. This obviously wasn’t a man who let objections trouble his path. ‘I can’t believe money wouldn’t be useful at this time of the year.’
Was he kidding? Of course it would. It’d be glorious.
And the alternative? By the time she got home it’d be midnight and she was due to start work again at eight. Gran and Pa wouldn’t even realise she hadn’t come home.
‘The insurance...’ Brent bleated but it was a weak bleat. He looked almost hopeful.
‘I’ll sign a waiver,’ Max told him. ‘Miss Raye might not have childcare credentials but I’ve seen enough to know I want her.’
‘You’re on duty again tomorrow?’ Brent demanded.
‘Yes, sir, at eight.’
He nodded. ‘Then it seems satisfactory.’ The fact that she’d just done a double shift, that she could well be up all night with a newborn and she had to work tomorrow seemed to worry neither of them. But then she thought...double money. A double shift today, payment for a double shift tonight and then tomorrow’s shift... She could almost pay for Tom’s tooth to be capped with that. Tom was working all summer to pay his uni fees but the money wouldn’t stretch to dentistry.
And baby Phoebe was asleep. With luck, it’d be just a couple of quick feeds during the night.
So... She had her back to the wall but she also had Max Grayland at her mercy.
She could try.
So she tilted her chin and met his gaze square-on.
‘I agree,’ she told him. ‘On one more condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘I need the biggest, fanciest box of cherry liqueur chocolates that money can buy, gift-wrapped and delivered here before I leave work tomorrow. If you can find me those, we have a deal.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Max said, astounded.
‘Miss Raye...’ A hissed warning from Brent.
But she ignored him. Tomorrow night would be crazy. Christmas Eve would be in full swing before she got home. She’d have cooking, gift-wrapping, hugging, greeting, chaos... And Gran was expecting her chocolates.
‘That or nothing,’ she told him and Max met her look. A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. For a moment she even saw a twinkle. Laughter?
‘They’re that important?’
‘That or nothing,’ she repeated and the twitch turned into a smile.
It transformed his face. She’d thought he seemed harsh, autocratic, bleak, but suddenly he was laughing at her...no, with her, she thought, because his smile seemed almost kind. His gaze was still on hers, holding her, blocking out the rest of the world.
Oh, my... It was enough to take a girl’s breath away.
Actually, it had taken her breath away. She needed to find herself a nice, quiet place and remember how to get it back.
But Max had moved on. He turned to Brent. ‘Mr Cottee? Cherry liqueur chocolates?’
‘I’m sure Miss Raye doesn’t mean it,’ Brent said.
Sunny opened her mouth to retort but she didn’t need to. Max got in before her.
‘Miss Raye doesn’t have to explain,’ Max said smoothly. ‘It’s me who requires it. The biggest, fanciest box of cherry liqueur chocolates money can buy, delivered to this suite before Miss Raye finishes work tomorrow.’
At least this was easy. This hotel seemingly had links to every service industry in town. The cost would be high but Brent knew enough not to quibble. ‘Yes, sir. We can do that.’
‘And a qualified child carer to take over from Miss Raye in the morning.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brent said and maybe Max heard the uncertainty in Brent’s voice or maybe he didn’t. Sunny did, but she wasn’t saying anything. Tomorrow’s worries were for Max, not for her.
‘Then that’s settled,’ Max said smoothly. He glanced at his watch. ‘I have a conference call coming in from New York in five minutes. I’ll work from my bedroom. Miss Raye, you can use the separate bathroom out here, the kitchenette and anything you need from room service. Mr Cottee will no doubt organise it. I’ll see you in the morning.’
So that was it. A child, dumped...
No.
‘Say goodnight to her,’ she managed.
‘What?’
‘You heard. Say goodnight to your sister.’
‘She’s asleep.’
‘Yes, and you’re family. Who knows what she can hear or not hear, but it seems to me you’re all the family she’s got. Say goodnight to her.’
‘Miss Raye...’ Brent sounded outraged but she was past caring. Once again she met Max’s gaze full-on, defiant, and memories were all around.
Her childish voice from the past. ‘She’s your baby. You should feed her...’ And her mother slapping her hard and slamming the door as she left.
This man wasn’t in a position to slap her. She could still walk away. This was her only chance—maybe baby Phoebe’s only chance—to find herself someone who cared.
And once again something twisted on Max Grayland’s face. He gave her a look she didn’t understand, then wheeled and walked back to the pram.
‘Goodnight,’ he muttered.
‘Properly,’ she hissed. ‘Touch her. Say it properly.’
‘Miss Raye!’ Brent was practically exploding but she wasn’t backing down.
‘Do it.’
And Max sent her a look that was almost afraid. There was a long silence. He knew what she was demanding, she thought, and he was afraid of it.
But finally he turned back to the pram. He gazed down for a long moment at the sleeping baby—a newborn, who was his half-sister.
And his expression changed yet again. He put a finger down and stroked the tiny face, a feather touch, a blessing.
‘Goodnight,’ he said again and then looked back at Sunny. ‘Satisfied?’
‘That’ll do for now,’ she said smugly and smiled.
The look he sent her was pure bafflement. But then his phone rang. He snagged it from his pocket, glanced at the screen and swore. ‘My conference call...’
‘We’ll take care of everything, sir,’ Brent said smoothly. ‘Take your call. Goodnight.’
‘Thank you,’ he said formally and, with a last uncertain glance at Sunny, he turned, walked into his grand bedroom and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER THREE
WHAT HAD WOKEN HIM? Probably nothing, he conceded. His body was still on New York time, even if in reality his body was lying in a king-sized bed in a suite overlooking Sydney Harbour.
Four a.m.
Today was the day he’d bury his father.
Nothing less important than this would have dragged him half a world from New York for Christmas. His usual method of coping with the festive season was to have his housekeeper fill his apartment with food, set himself up with the company’s financial statements and use the break to conduct an overall assessment. It was a satisfying process, even if it meant a nasty shock for the occasional employee returning to work in the New Year.
But now... His mobile laptop didn’t allow him to access the innermost secrets of the Grayland Corporation. Too risky. He’d brought some work but it wouldn’t take all his concentration—and he needed his concentration to be taken.
His father’s funeral...
And a baby sister?
What had the old man been thinking?
He knew his father’s illness had made him confused over the last year. There’d never been any love lost between them at the best of times, but Colin Grayland had been proud of his company and fiercely patriarchal. There’d never been any hint that he’d disinherit Max, but that had been mainly through lack of choice, and for the last twelve months the old man had been obsessively secretive.
Max had learned of Isabelle’s existence two days ago. As sole heir, the lawyers had transferred his father’s personal banking details to him before he’d left New York. A quick perusal had shown a massive payment to Isabelle almost a year ago. Then another seven months back—was that when Isabelle had her pregnancy confirmed?—and then regular deposits until the last few days of the old man’s life.
He’d assumed Isabelle had been his father’s mistress but the amounts had been staggering, and now he knew why.
Colin Grayland had paid for a baby. A son, if Isabelle was to be believed, though he must have been too confused to think of the ramifications, or the possibility, of a daughter.
And now he was landed with a baby. His sister?
The thought was doing his head in. He had no idea how to face it.
Lawyers? Surely it was illegal to dump a baby. Isabelle would have to take the baby back.
But she didn’t want her.
So adoption? For a baby who was...his sister?
He couldn’t think straight. He needed a drink, badly.
Was he kidding? It was four in the morning.
Yeah, but it was midday in New York. He travelled often and his rule for coping with jet lag was not to convert to local time unless he was staying for more than a few days. So his body was telling him he’d stayed up late and now he’d overslept. It was thus time for lunch and a man could have a whisky with lunch.
He wouldn’t mind a sandwich either. Room service was his go-to option in such circumstances but he couldn’t wake the pair in the next room.
He didn’t want to think about the pair in the next room.
But the next room also held the minibar. A packet of crisps and a whisky would set him up to sit and write the final version of what he had to say at his father’s funeral.
He definitely needed a whisky to write what had to be said.
If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. That had been a mantra drummed into him by some long ago nanny, and it normally held true, but a huge section of Australia’s business community would turn out. They’d be expecting praise for a man who’d made his money sucking the resources of a country dry.
He did need a whisky, but that’d involved the minibar. Which involved walking into the next room.
They were in the next room. Sleeping.
Or...had something woken him? Maybe they were awake and he was wasting time, hanging out for a snack. Besides, he was paying her.
Do it.
The minibar was by the door through to the elevators. Moonlight from the open drapes showed the way.
He moved soundlessly across the room.
And stopped.
A sliver of moonlight was casting a beam of light across the settee.
The woman—Sunny Raye, her name tag had said—was sleeping. The settee had been made up as a bed, loaded with the hotel’s luxury sheets and duvet and pillows.
They weren’t being appreciated.
The pillows were on the floor. The duvet had been discarded as well, so her bedding consisted of an under-sheet and an open weave cotton blanket pulled to her waist.
Having discarded the pillows, she was using her arm to support her head. That’d give her a crick neck or a stiff shoulder in the morning, he thought, but he was distracted.
She was wearing an oversized golfing T-shirt with the hotel’s logo emblazoned on the chest. Her curls, caught up in a knot when he’d last seen her, were now splayed over the white sheet. Brown with a hint of copper. Shoulder-length. Tangled.
Nice.
Earlier he’d thought she was in her thirties. Her face had worn the look he often saw on hotel staff at the lower end of the pay scale—pale from not enough sunlight, weary, worn from hard physical work.
Now, though, he revised his age guess downward. She looked younger, peaceful in sleep, even vulnerable?
And then a faint stir in the crook of her arm had him focusing to her far side.
The baby was asleep beside her.
In what universe...? Even he knew this!
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The exclamation was out before he could stop himself. She jerked awake, staring up, as if unsure where she was, what she was doing, what he was.
She looked terrified.
He took a couple of fast steps back to give her space. He didn’t apologise, though. He might have scared her but he was paying for childcare. He wanted childcare—not a baby suffocated in sleep.
‘She shouldn’t be sleeping with you,’ he said, louder than he should because there were suddenly emotions everywhere. He shouldn’t care. Or should he care? Of course he should because this baby was his sister, but that was something he didn’t have head space to think about. The idea, though, made him angrier. ‘I know little about babies but even I know it’s dangerous to sleep in the same bed,’ he snapped. ‘Surely you know it too.’
He saw the confusion of sleep disappear, incredulity take its place. She pushed herself up on her elbow, making a futile effort to push her tumbling curls from her eyes. The baby slept on beside her, neatly swaddled, lying on her back, eyes blissfully closed.
‘You want an apology?’ she demanded and an anger that matched his was in her voice. ‘It’s not going to happen. I’m a cleaner, not a nanny.’
‘I’m paying you to care for her.’
‘Which I’m doing to the best of my ability. Sack me if you don’t like it. Look after your baby yourself.’
‘I might have to if you won’t.’
And the anger in her face turned to full scale fury. All traces of sleep were gone. ‘Might?’ she demanded. ‘Might? How much danger would she have to be in before you showed you care enough to do that?’ She rose to face him. She was wearing T-shirt and knickers but nothing else. Her legs were long an
d thin and her bare feet on the plush carpet made her seem strangely vulnerable. His impression of her age did another descent. ‘You want me to leave?’
‘I want you to do what you’re being paid for.’
‘Believe it or not, I am.’ She glared her fury. ‘Your sister’s sleeping on a firm settee that has no cracks in the cushioning and a sloping back that’s too firm to smother her. See the lovely soft settee cushions? They’re over there. See my pillows and my nice fluffy duvet? They’re over there too. So I’m sleeping on a rock-hard settee with no cushions and no duvet.’
‘Because...’
‘Because the moron who set up Phoebe’s pram filled it with a feather mattress, which is far more dangerous to a newborn than how I’ve arranged things. The mattress is stuck in the pram. Did you notice? Of course not. But I did when I checked her before I went to sleep. Some idiot’s screwed in an elephant mobile—for a newborn!—and they’ve caught the fabric of the mattress. I’d need to rip the mattress to get it out and feathers would go everywhere and you’d probably make me pay for it. Housekeeping’s up to their ears in work and it would’ve taken them an hour to get me a cot, even if there was one available, which I doubt. I didn’t fancy putting her to sleep on the floor and by the time I’d figured all that out I was tired and over it so she slept with me. She’s been as safe as I could make her. But take over, by all means. I’ve a crick in my arm like you wouldn’t believe. It’s been over four hours since she fed so she’s likely to wake up any minute but she has formula and the instructions are on the tin. Forget the money. I couldn’t give a toss. I’m leaving.’
There was a stunned silence. He stared at the settee, bereft of anything soft. He looked at the still miraculously sleeping Phoebe.
He looked at the furious, tired, overworked woman in front of him and he felt a sweep of shame.
He was way out of his comfort zone and he knew enough to realise he had to back off.
‘I apologise.’
‘Of course you do. You’ve given me a lecture. Now you’re expecting to go back to your nice comfy bed and leave me holding the baby. I don’t think so.’ She was a ball of fury, standing in her bare feet in the near-dark, venting her fury. Righteous fury.
The Billionaire's Christmas Baby Page 3
