The Billionaire's Christmas Baby

by Marion Lennox

  There was an appalled silence. It stretched on and on and she thought uh-oh, she shouldn’t have said. Kid of a drug addict? It was a wonder he even let her near his baby.

  But it seemed he wasn’t thinking that. ‘You make me feel ashamed,’ he said at last.

  ‘There’s no need to feel ashamed,’ she said with asperity. ‘Unless you intend to let a fourteen-year-old girl beat you at the eulogy stakes. Let me have Phoebe. You can write your eulogy in peace.’ She unhugged her knees and headed over to take the baby from him.

  But he held on, just for a moment.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply.

  ‘You’re paying me.’

  ‘Not enough for what you’re doing tonight.’

  ‘I don’t think you realise how big a deal Gran’s chocolates are,’ she told him. ‘For those alone I’d have written your eulogy for you. Now, off you go and write. The intro’s easy. Lords, Ladies, distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen...there’s the thing half done.’ And she scooped the now sleeping baby into her arms and backed away.

  She needed to back away, she thought. The look on this man’s face...

  This was a night out of frame. The intimacy between them was something that couldn’t be replicated and could never exist in the light of day.

  She needed to back off fast, and she did. And he let her.

  ‘I’ll write in the bedroom,’ he managed and she nodded.

  ‘You came out for something? Or to check on me.’

  ‘I came out for a whisky.’

  ‘It won’t help the jet lag. Or the eulogy.’

  ‘I know that,’ he told her. ‘And I don’t need it any more. You’ve given me all I need.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  She grinned. ‘Hooray. Advice by Auntie Sunny. Off you go then like a good boy and get it done.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said and cast her a look she didn’t understand. A look full of questions she couldn’t hope to answer.

  He rose and left.

  She settled Phoebe again with care, and told herself to sleep.

  Sleep didn’t come. For some reason the memory of that appalling time, her mother’s dreadful funeral, was suddenly all around her.

  She was thinking too of the grand funeral waiting for Max tomorrow, and she was thinking there were similarities.

  She hugged Phoebe because she suddenly needed the comfort and she thought again of the man through the bedroom door. Who did he hug?

  It wasn’t any of her business, but the question stayed with her until finally sleep overcame her.

  Who did Max Grayland hug?

  And the answer came with certainty. It was an answer written in the harshness of his voice, in the strain in his eyes, in the way he held himself.

  The answer was no one.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AT SEVEN THE next morning a brisk knock signalled the arrival of a hotel maid bearing a pristine uniform for Sunny. Behind her was a dour woman in her fifties. ‘I’m from the hotel’s childcare,’ she announced.

  ‘Excellent.’ Sunny had answered the door still in her T-shirt and knickers. Yes, there were bathrobes in the suite but they were in the bedroom, where Max was either asleep or still writing his eulogy. She motioned to the sleeping baby. ‘She’s all yours.’

  ‘She slept on the settee?’ the woman demanded, shocked.

  ‘She slept safely.’ The low growl behind her made Sunny jump. Max. ‘Thanks to Miss Raye. But maybe you can organise a cot.’

  ‘Certainly.’ The woman looked at Sunny in incredulity. ‘I gather this was an emergency arrangement. Most unsatisfactory. However, you can now return to your duties.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sunny said simply and grabbed her new uniform and headed for the bathroom.

  ‘Miss Raye?’ Max said.

  ‘Yes?’ She was desperate to disappear. The maid, the babysitter and Max were all looking at her. She was wearing a T-shirt and knickers and nothing else. Her tangled curls were flying every which way. She needed Superman’s telephone booth, she thought grimly, one that showered her, cleaned her teeth, fixed her hair into a decent knot and dressed her in an instant. But instead she was forced to turn and face Max—who was wearing one of the gorgeous hotel bathrobes.

  She glowered. She couldn’t help herself.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, looking bemused.

  ‘What do you think is wrong? I need your bathrobe.’

  And the toe-rag grinned. Grinned! ‘Now? Shall I take it off?’

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. She could only imagine what he was wearing underneath—or not. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. If you’ll excuse me...’

  ‘Sunny...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Come back before you finish tonight and collect your chocolates.’

  ‘Can you arrange for them to be delivered to the staff quarters?’

  ‘I need to ensure they’re satisfactory. So here?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, goaded, desperate to be away.

  ‘And Sunny?’

  ‘Yes?’ They were all looking at her. She felt like a bug under a microscope. Helpless.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  He smiled. Oh, he shouldn’t do that. That smile...

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ she said, trying not to sound grumpy. And...breathless in the face of that smile.

  ‘And Sunny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean it,’ he said, and then, before she knew what he was about, before she could even guess what he intended, he crossed the room, he placed a finger under her chin, he tilted her chin—and he kissed her.

  It was a feather kiss. A trace of a kiss. It hit her forehead, not her lips. There was no reason at all for it to take her breath away, for her to stand stock-still as if she’d been seared.

  Already he’d stepped back. He put his hands on her arms as if to steady her—why would he think she needed steadying?—and he was back to smiling at her. Quizzically. Almost mockingly.

  ‘Your work was above and beyond the call of duty,’ he said, his tone softening. ‘Where’s the form I need to fill in to give this staff member five stars? Or more.’

  ‘Miss Raye!’ It was the babysitter, appalled. ‘Get your uniform on. You know the rules about fraternising with the guests. This will be reported...’

  ‘It will be reported,’ Max said, his gaze not moving from Sunny’s face. ‘Like the dispatches from Waterloo. Victory with all honour. Service like no other. Thank you, Sunny.’

  ‘I’ll... I’ll see you this afternoon,’ she managed, clutching her clean uniform as if it were armour. ‘I... Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  Excellent. Or was it? She had no idea.

  But her time here was over and she fled.

  * * *

  Give his achievement spiel. Choke up a little, say he’ll be sadly missed and walk off. Job done.

  He followed Sunny’s advice pretty much all the way, though he couldn’t quite manage the choking up part.

  But he got away with it. The post-funeral luncheon, organised by his father’s ex-secretary, was truly sumptuous and as he moved among the assembled dignitaries he received approving nods and handshakes from all sides.

  ‘Well done, boy. We look forward to seeing you move into your father’s footsteps. Business as usual, hey?’

  In your dreams, he thought, but now wasn’t the time to say it. Half these people were about to get a rude shock when their cosy business deals were turned on their heads.

  That should be giving him satisfaction. And the death of his father should be making him emotional too. It had, a little, when he’d stood in front of the congregation and thought of the things most me
n could say of their fathers. That they’d been loved. That they’d be remembered with affection.

  It was hard to feel affection for someone he’d known only through business dealings, who he knew had scorned his ideas—and who’d paid to have someone bear a child to supplant him as heir.

  And that was where his attention was as he mingled with the crowd, as he responded as expected, as he murmured pleasantries.

  He was thinking of a baby called Phoebe.

  And a woman called Sunny?

  Why Sunny? Sunny was surely irrelevant, a hotel cleaner hired for the night. From now on he’d have proper, qualified staff.

  To look after a child he didn’t want?

  A child no one wanted?

  She was already messing with his plans. He’d intended to be on tonight’s plane, back to New York. But walking away from his...walking away was impossible, and there was no way he could get paperwork in place fast enough to take her with him.

  Even if he wanted to.

  Did he have a choice?

  And then he was thinking of Sunny again, of her fierceness, her courage, her care.

  Sunny would expect him to care.

  ‘Well done, lad.’ It was one of his father’s cronies, a financier with a finger seemingly in every crooked pie in the land. He’d had a beer or six and now walked up and clapped Max on the shoulder. It was as much as Max could do not to flinch. ‘We’ll be seeing you in Australia most of the time now, I imagine. This is where you can make the most money. Your father saw it. Any advice I can give you, feel free to ask. You’re staying on for Christmas, I expect?’

  And there was only one answer to that. He didn’t even know where Isabelle was and he was the executor of his father’s estate. One baby was therefore his priority. He was stuck.

  He needed help.

  Once more he thought of Sunny, in her absurd nightwear, her tangle of curls, with her smudged dark eyes and that glimmer of defiance against the world.

  She was a hotel cleaner. She had no qualifications to take care of a baby, even if he wanted her to.

  He’d seen the hotel manager this morning and made it clear that not only did he need to extend his booking, he wanted paid professional childcare, possibly until New Year. By which time he’d have it sorted. Surely?

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m staying for Christmas,’ he managed and the man clapped his shoulder again and gave him a beery grin.

  ‘Well, Merry Christmas,’ he boomed. ‘May Santa be good to you.’

  Just like he always was, Max thought wryly, and moved on to the next polite inanity.

  * * *

  If she didn’t really need the chocolates she wouldn’t be here. But they were Gran’s treat, treasured from time immemorial. Or from that first Christmas when, as a frightened, defensive fourteen-year-old, Gran and Pa had suddenly appeared, miraculously wanting to help. And love. She’d had no money but the guy at the local discount sweets shop had watched her looking at the gaudily wrapped boxes and told her if she was prepared to spend a few hours breaking down cardboard boxes out the back she could have the box of her choice.

  Gran had opened them on Christmas morning and cried. ‘I would have cried even if they weren’t my favourite,’ she’d sobbed. ‘Oh, Sunny...’

  That memory still caused her to blink back tears, and it had her heading up towards the penthouse suite for the last time. She’d ditched her uniform. She was back in her all-weather jeans and T-shirt. Her bike was waiting. Christmas was waiting.

  She knocked on the door and hoped this could be fast. It was after five already. The kids would be arriving at Gran and Pa’s before she got there and she had so much to do.

  There were voices coming from inside, male voices, raised, polite but urgent.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but some things are impossible.’

  ‘You’re telling me there’s no babysitter in this entire country?’

  ‘There may well be babysitters, but we can’t find anyone. The lady who worked for you today has finished her shift and left the hotel. All the agencies are closed. Most have been closed from midday and won’t open again until next Tuesday. None of our staff are prepared to take the extra shifts at this short notice, and who can blame them? They all have their Christmases organised.’

  ‘You’re saying I’m stuck in a hotel for the next two days with this?’

  For this was screaming her head off again, and the word caught Sunny as nothing else could. There was a part of Sunny that wanted to turn and flee. But...this?

  She knocked harder and then almost fell inside as the door was wrenched open.

  ‘You,’ Max snapped and his tone was close to one of loathing.

  Sunny was used to anger in every shape and form. She’d learned the best way to deal with it was to retreat, to make yourself invisible, but if you couldn’t do that then stand up to the toe-rag. She’d even kicked one of her mother’s boyfriends once. She had a scar under her hairline to prove it but she didn’t regret it one bit.

  She faced him head-on. This. The word was still reverberating.

  ‘I’ve come for my chocolates,’ she said and his anger was put on hold as he realised who it was.

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course.’

  And she should butt out—but she couldn’t. ‘Don’t apologise to me,’ she snapped. ‘Apologise to your sister. Calling her this...’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘I imagine half the hotel heard.’

  ‘Miss Raye!’

  Finally she had time to take in the other person in the room. The hotel manager. The head honcho himself. This man had eyes in the back of his head. She was wearing her staff lanyard but even without it he’d have known her name. This man had the reputation of knowing what went on in the hotel before it happened. His voice now held reproof, quiet but chilling. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m collecting something that’s mine,’ she muttered. She needed to calm down. She valued this job.

  ‘I have it.’ Max snagged a box from the sideboard—and what a box! It was enormous, exquisitely wrapped in gold, with crimson bows that must be worth what she usually paid for the whole box. He handed it over and managed a smile. ‘I’m sorry. There was no reason to snap at you. I am indeed grateful.’

  ‘And your sister’s not this.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Don’t say sorry to me. She’s Phoebe. Not this.’

  ‘No,’ he said, chastised. ‘I beg her pardon too.’

  ‘She sounds like she needs a feed.’

  ‘She’s just had one. I have no idea what to do.’

  ‘Miss Raye...’ It was the manager again, smooth as silk. ‘I hear you did an emergency stint as babysitter last night.’ His eyes were calmly assessing. She could almost see the cogs turning. How to keep this most valuable client happy? He turned again to Max. ‘Sir, Miss Raye doesn’t have childcare qualifications but she’s cared for your sister already. If you found her satisfactory... Miss Raye, if we offered double pay rates, and Mr Grayland, if it’s satisfactory to you... Miss Raye, would you be prepared to stay on over Christmas?’

  Oh, for heaven’s sake...

  She stood, clutching her chocolates, staring at the men before her.

  To miss Christmas... Who were they kidding?

  ‘No,’ she said blankly. ‘My family’s waiting.’

  ‘You’re not married, Miss Raye.’ The manager was stating a fact, not asking a question.

  And that took her breath away. How much did the manager know about her? She’d been vetted when she’d taken the job at this prestigious hotel but this was ridiculous.

  ‘I can’t see that makes any difference,’ she said stiffly. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘But Mr Grayland’s stranded in an unknown country, staying in a hotel
for Christmas with a baby he didn’t know existed until yesterday.’ The manager’s voice was urbane, persuasive, doing what he did best. ‘You must see how hard that will be for him.’

  ‘I imagine it will be,’ she muttered and clung to her chocolates. And to her Christmas. ‘But it’s...’

  ‘None of your business,’ Max broke in. ‘But if there’s anything that could persuade you... I’ll double what the hotel will pay you. Multiply it by ten if you like.’

  Multiply by ten... There were dollar signs in neon flashing in her head. If it wasn’t Christmas...

  But it was Christmas. Gran and Pa were waiting. She had no choice.

  But other factors were starting to niggle now. Behind Max, she could see tiny Phoebe lying in her too-big cot. She’d pushed herself out of her swaddle and was waving her tiny hands in desperation. Her face was red with screaming.

  She was so tiny. She needed to be hugged, cradled, told all was right with her world. Despite herself, Sunny’s heart twisted.

  But to forgo Christmas? No way.

  ‘I can’t,’ she told him, still hugging her chocolates. But then she met Max’s gaze. This man was in charge of his world but he looked...desperate. The pressure in her head was suddenly overwhelming.

  And she made a decision. What she was about to say was ridiculous, crazy, but the sight of those tiny waving arms, that red, desperate face was doing something to her she didn’t understand and the words were out practically before she knew she’d utter them.

  ‘Here’s my only suggestion,’ she told them. ‘If you really do want my help... My Gran and Pa live in a big old house in the outer suburbs. It’s nothing fancy; in fact it’s pretty much falling down. They were caretakers for years and the owner left them lifetime occupancy. It might be dilapidated but it’s huge. Daisy and Sam don’t live there any more; they live with their partners. Tom and Chloe live in university colleges—blessedly they both have scholarships—so they’re home over the summer break, but there’s still plenty of room. So no, Mr Grayland, I won’t spend Christmas here with you, but if you’re desperate, if you truly think you can’t manage Phoebe alone, then you’re welcome to join us until you can make other arrangements. I’ll check with Gran and Pa but I’m sure they’ll say yes. They’ve welcomed waifs and strays before and they’ve never said no. So, Mr Grayland, that’s my only offer. You can stay here and take care of Phoebe yourself, you can make other arrangements or you can come home with me. Take it or leave it.’