The Billionaire’s Baby

by Nicola Marsh

  ‘Why don’t you go check on the latest Java bean shipment then head on home? I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  Anna smirked, sending a pointed look at the card in her hand. ‘I’m sure Blane is very handy with a tool or two.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Enough with the tool jokes, already. Now, go.’

  She wanted to be alone when she made the call, not trusting herself to feign nonchalance under Anna’s astute gaze when she heard his voice again.

  ‘Okay, boss. Catch you tomorrow.’

  She waited till Anna had headed through to the storeroom before glancing at the card and punching in the number for Blane’s mobile, hoping he’d answer for the sake of her cheesecakes, hoping he wouldn’t for her peace of mind.

  Her heart stalled as the dial tone was replaced by the crackle of static before ‘Blane Andrews speaking’ filtered down the line in that deep, mellifluous tone she knew all too well.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. How are you?’

  She stiffened at the slight pause before willing herself to relax, thankful it gave her a moment to take a deep breath and slow down her thudding heart.

  ‘Hey, Cam. I’m fine. And glad you called.’

  Cringing as she steadied herself to burst his bubble of hope, as she’d called for another reason than what he wished for, she rushed on. ‘Actually, I need your help. I’ve got a refrigerator hinge that needs fixing, and it’s pretty urgent. I gave it a shot myself but couldn’t manage it, so I was wondering if you could pop around tonight and take a look for me?’

  The sound of a circular saw whined in the background, closely followed by a loud hammering that had her holding the phone an inch away from her ear.

  ‘Sure. Let me finish up here and I’ll be around in about two hours.’

  To give him credit, he didn’t sound disappointed or annoyed. She should have been relieved. Instead, a small part of her was insulted he didn’t push her for an explanation as to why she hadn’t called or when she finally did it was to ask him for his building expertise.

  Injecting false cheer into her voice, she said, ‘Great. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘No worries, see you later.’

  He hung up first, leaving her staring at the phone in confusion.

  By his own admission he wanted them to get reacquainted. He’d said it, blunt as you like, the other night. So why wasn’t he bothered she hadn’t called?

  Shaking her head, she replaced the cordless phone in its charger and crumpled the card in her hand. Considering almost a week had lapsed since their infamous chat, he’d clearly got the message she wasn’t interested in resurrecting the past.

  Great.

  Or was it?

  Blane slid his mobile back into his top pocket, rubbed his palms down the side of his jeans, and perched on the tailgate of his ute.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he muttered, his words whipped away by the blustery gale blowing straight off the ocean, the wind effectively drowning out Mike’s staple gun as it hammered nails into the fence.

  She’d called.

  After six days, during which time he’d mentally kicked himself for being a jackass and leaving the ball in her court, she’d finally picked up the phone.

  Okay, so it wasn’t quite the ‘let’s catch up and have a drink, dinner, whatever’ call he’d been hoping for, but she’d called nonetheless.

  A busted fridge hinge could be fixed by anybody, but she’d rung him, which could mean one of two things: she wanted to see him again and was using the fix-it as a flimsy excuse, or she couldn’t be bothered paying some guy out of the phone book a small fortune for such a quick job and was using their shared past to get what she wanted: a fixed fridge.

  Shaking his head, he inhaled deeply, hoping a good lungful of bracing sea air might give him the clarity he’d so desperately sought since he’d first laid eyes on Cam again.

  Refreshing as it was, the tang of salty sea air didn’t help as memories of the way she’d looked and smiled and sounded assailed him.

  Memories of those incredibly tight black jeans moulding her long legs to perfection, those sexy knee-high boots, her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders when she’d let it out, the same rich colour as the chocolate fountain on the bar of her café.

  She’d changed so much, the young, shy girl maturing into a confident, stunning woman. If she’d captivated him six years ago, it had nothing on the need coursing through him now, the need to reconcile with his wife.

  His wife…the word rolled around and around in his brain, sweet and tempting and oh-so-right, exactly like Cam herself.

  She’d been his driving force all these years, the thought of coming back to her with so much more to offer making him work longer, harder and faster than his competitors.

  Reuniting with the only woman in the world for him had been a powerful motivator, and now that he’d finally seen her…well, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Cam could stall and bluster and pretend she was immune to him all she liked, but he knew better.

  He’d seen the old spark in her eyes, the tenderness when she’d swayed towards him, the flare of desire when he’d touched her.

  He hadn’t sugar-coated why he’d left, and while she probably hadn’t accepted it yet, she’d come around.

  In the meantime he had every intention of giving her all the encouragement in the world to see exactly how perfect they could be together. All over again.

  And if she needed concrete proof…Glancing at the house, he hopped off the ute, refastened his tool belt and sauntered back to work, whistling ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, their song, under his breath with a smile on his face and hope in his heart.

  Camryn paced the length of the bar, her high-heeled boots rapping against the polished boards, echoing in the silence.

  She’d flicked on the music, her favourite swing singer, only to switch it off again in a mild panic when their song had come on, as Blane might see it as a sign she wanted to create a cosy atmosphere or, worse, take it as an indication she’d changed her mind.

  She’d retied her hair into its signature French braid, blown out all the tea-light candles, switched on the bright fluorescent strip hanging over the bar, and removed all traces of the essential oil she’d been burning since closing, all in an attempt to ‘de-cosy’ the place.

  The last thing she needed was him getting the wrong idea.

  Which was?

  An image instantly sprang to mind of the two of them sitting in the plush lounge area of the café situated towards the back, curled up on one of the comfy sofas, sharing a steaming moccaccino, or maybe one of the fine Merlots she kept out the back, with the lamps muted and the luscious aromas of cinnamon and vanilla in the air from the essential oils she used to complement the baking.

  Oh, yeah, she could see it all too clearly, and unfortunately her vision of the wrong idea appeared way too right.

  Casting one last critical look around—and satisfied she’d obliterated any semblance of romantic ambience—she fiddled with the espresso machine, going through the soothing motions of pouring milk into a stainless-steel jug, sliding it under the frother, filling the scoop with coffee, using the tamper, checking the water level.

  The familiar actions calmed her, giving her something to do with her hands rather than tug on her plait till it unravelled.

  She had nothing to be nervous about. Absolutely nothing. This was business. Nothing to do with pleasure at all.

  With a groan, her head fell forward and thunked against the espresso machine. It was the thought combination of Blane and pleasure that did it.

  Of course, he had to find her like this, with her head slumped against the machine, his rapid knock snapping her head to attention in time to see his face creased with concern as he peered through the glass door with hands cupped against it.

  Giving her head a rueful rub, she crossed to the door and unlocked it, beckoning him in.

  ‘You okay?’

  Sh
e ushered him in before relocking the door. ‘Yeah, fine. I was just inventing a new way to check the coffee-ground levels.’

  He smiled, his dubious expression saying he didn’t believe her for a second. But what could she tell him? The mere thought of seeing him had her in a spin, wishing she could clunk her head against a hard surface repeatedly to knock some sense into herself?

  ‘How have you been?’

  He propped against the bar, giving her a tempting view of a broad expanse of muscular chest beneath faded sky-blue cotton, not to mention a healthy set of biceps. Just what she needed, a great set of biceps…to fix the fridge, of course.

  Clearing her throat, she said, ‘It’s been flat out here. I haven’t had a moment’s peace.’

  His right eyebrow rose a fraction, as if questioning her rather pathetic excuse for not calling him. ‘Yeah, work gets like that sometimes.’

  Didn’t anything ever rattle him? She’d expected him to call her on her excuse, not agree with her!

  ‘Sounded like you were busy earlier when I rang? All that noise in the background?’

  Though eager to get the hinge fixed so she could usher him out of here, the polite thing would be to make a bit of small talk before offering him a coffee then the door.

  ‘Yeah, the current project is coming along nicely.’

  ‘Bet you still get a buzz constructing something from the ground up, getting your hands dirty.’

  Her gaze drifted to his hands casually clutching the bar, and languid heat stole through her body at the thought of those strong, elongated fingers and broad palms getting downright dirty with her.

  Fighting a blush, and losing, she tore her gaze away and forced it upwards, not surprised to see the glint of amusement in his eyes, and his lips curved into a knowing smile.

  ‘I like it.’

  He pushed off the bar and crossed the short space between them in a second, sending her pulse rate soaring.

  She swallowed, trapped between the espresso machine and a cake display, unable to stop thinking about those hands reaching out to her, resting gently on her waist, pulling her closer and…

  ‘Would you like me to get started?’

  Her gaze flew to his as her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, her body in total meltdown.

  He was talking about the fridge hinge.

  Of course he was, but it didn’t stop her imagination taking flight in all sorts of wicked ways as to how he could get started—with her.

  ‘It’s down here,’ she managed to say, thankful her voice wasn’t half as shaky as her resolve to hold him at arm’s-length.

  ‘Okay, let’s take a look.’

  He squatted down, dispelling the intimate fog that had surrounded them a second earlier. However, Blaine focusing his concentration on the hinge didn’t help cool her down, not one bit, considering his crouching down on his haunches only served to pull the work-worn denim taut across his butt, and she stifled a groan.

  Had he grown oblivious to the attraction zinging between them? Had her disinterest in returning his call served its purpose? If so, she should be springing over the bar and adding a high side-kick for good measure. Instead, she squatted down next to him, disgruntled and confused and totally out of sorts.

  It had been so long since she’d felt this way, preferring to play it safe where guys were concerned and not date, knowing she could rely on her business—the male of the species another matter.

  Right now, staring at Blane’s butt with heat licking along her veins and sending her intentions to hold him at bay up in smoke, safe was the furthest thing from her mind.

  ‘I assumed you have tools when you said you’d given it a go yourself at trying to fix this?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Reaching under the nearby bench, she pulled out her tool kit and slid it over to him.

  ‘It’s pink.’

  ‘Your powers of observation are truly amazing,’ she said, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from joining in his laughter.

  ‘I’ve never seen a pink toolbox before.’

  She rolled her eyes and flipped it open, handing him the screwdriver he’d need.

  ‘That’s because you work with boys. I’m sure if you had the foresight to hire a woman to be on your work crew, you’d see pink tool kits every day of the week.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He grinned as he took the proffered screwdriver, his fingers brushing hers, sending shards of electricity shooting up her arm as she struggled not to yank her hand back. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘With the pink tool kit?’

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his mouth twitching. ‘With the fact you knew which screwdriver to use.’

  Puffing up like a true feminist, she said, ‘I’m not a helpless female. I know a Phillips head from a flathead.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  She knew he was baiting her, teasing her as he had too many times to recall when they’d first met, and it felt good. It felt downright fantastic to be firing right back at him, to be swapping banter without guarding her words for fear of saying the wrong thing.

  ‘Think you can extend those tool-discriminating skills to hand me a wrench?’

  ‘Here you go, wise guy.’

  She handed him the wrench, being careful to keep her fingers out of contact this time, and releasing a tiny sigh of disappointment when it worked.

  For someone who knew her mind, went out and grabbed life with both hands, giving it a good shake-up along the way, she couldn’t believe how contrary he made her feel. She was wavering and vacillating all over the place, wishing for one thing, hoping for another.

  If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself agreeing to spend a little time with him…and they both knew exactly where that would lead.

  Directly to matrimonial trouble.

  With a soft grunt, he muttered, ‘Almost there,’ and she rued the fact considering she’d been enjoying the display of bulging biceps as he held the wrench steady, his back muscles shifting under his T-shirt as he turned the screwdriver with his other hand.

  ‘Got it.’

  With a final twist of the screwdriver, he straightened, and she dragged her eyes upward with regret.

  She’d got it all right—got it bad for her husband, who’d breezed into her life when she’d least expected or wanted it.

  ‘Thanks. I wouldn’t have had a hope of fixing it myself, would I?’

  He smiled and handed her back the tools. ‘You did great—it had bent out of shape a tad and needed a bit of muscle power to get it back into alignment.’ He winked as he flexed his arm to display the said muscle. ‘Glad I could oblige.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she mumbled, unable to drag her gaze away from the muscle play in his upper arm, the yearning she’d managed to dampen flaring in a second.

  ‘Want a coffee?’ she blurted, springing up from her haunches like a jack-in-the-box, needing the safety of doing a routine, everyday activity to steady her shredded resolve.

  She’d made a decision not to contact him, closely followed by a need to search out those old divorce papers and put an end to this once and for all. But now she’d seen him again in the flesh—so to speak—her intentions were shot.

  The sparks resurrected between them the other night were still there, had intensified if anything, and with a little fanning could burst into a raging inferno of mutual passion, the type of passion she’d only ever had with this one special guy.

  ‘I’d love one, thanks.’

  Grateful she had her back turned so he couldn’t see her scorching cheeks, she tried to concentrate on operating the machine, letting out an almighty yell when he sneaked up behind her and placed his hands on her waist.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Apart from the fact you just scared me half to death?’

  She whirled to face him, her unjustified indignation melting away as she looked into his eyes, the desire she glimpsed taking her breath away.

  ‘You seem jumpy.’
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  With his hands burning a hole through her flimsy silk top, the smell of cedar enveloping her in a heady cloud and making her wish she could work outdoors right alongside him, she tilted her chin up, willing her arms to stay by her sides and not reach up and slide around his waist.

  ‘Just tired.’

  It sounded like the pathetic excuse it was.

  ‘You sure that’s all it is?’

  What could she say? That he had her so physically aware of him she was tied up in knots?

  That she’d barely slept all week for dreaming of him? Remembering how good it had been between them? Wishing it could be again? Yet knowing it could never be, not with her infertility an ever-present shadow looming over her, no matter how much she’d come to terms with it herself.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  She took a step back, leaving him no option but to drop his hands.

  ‘Espresso? Or would you like me to whip you up one of our signature coffees? I make a mean café latte fredo.’

  Thankfully, he bought her distraction. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘One part espresso, five parts cold milk, shaken with ice.’

  ‘Done.’

  He stepped back, giving her room to move, and she grabbed the cocktail shaker, scooped in the ice, and set about making the coffee in record time so she could re-establish some kind of equilibrium.

  ‘What’s that you’re having?’

  ‘A doppio. Double shot of espresso.’ As if she needed to stay awake all night again. ‘So what do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Her hand stilled on the espresso machine, and she sent him her best ‘don’t mess with me’ glare.

  ‘I have to pay you. It’s only fair.’

  ‘Payment, huh?’

  She didn’t like the gleam in his eyes or the cunning smile spreading across his face. Both could give a girl ideas—very naughty ideas.

  ‘Fine. My payment is dinner.’

  Oh, no. No, no, no.

  Dinner would involve sitting across from him, staring into those intriguing grey eyes, seeing them crinkle every time he smiled—which was way too often—and trying not to fall under his spell.