The Billionaire's Seed_A Secret Baby Romance

by Natasha Spencer

  “Oh, gracious, I started in his office right fresh outa college. Just as an aide for a while, till his main secretary retired.” With a giggle, she swung expertly around a slower moving vehicle and back into her own lane again. “Then he figured I was experienced enough to take over. So—lemme see…it’s been five years now. Not the easiest of relationships, sometimes, you understand.” That admission came with a sidelong mischievous look.

  “I see.” Amazing. Mid-twenties, then; she might have passed for a teenager. Perhaps the work, and her employer, weren’t quite as demanding as it seemed. “Is he hard to deal with, then, Mr. Taggart?”

  “Weeellll....not so much hard dealin’, as particular. But ain’t that true of most bosses? Ah, here we are, Miss Finch. Welcome to Ten Buck.”

  The house was, surprisingly, neither as large nor as ostentatious as Caroline had expected.

  Built of brick, wood, and stone in a rambling Spanish style that looked as if pieces had been added here and there, as an afterthought, it seemed a very approachable place. One that fit sweetly into its environment and gave the impression of having grown with the land.

  A curving walk led around trees that appeared to have been left in their own native design, rather than imported, and green plantings sheltered by large chunks of rock. Rock which, Caroline would later learn, had been cut from the creek a mile or so away and hauled to the homestead for placement.

  “Why, it’s—it’s actually quite lovely,” was her involuntary reaction.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Marylou wore the rather smug expression of a cat lapping up cream, as if she could take personal satisfaction for the results of this Texas hill layout. “Mr. Taggart started out workin’ from the original two story farmhouse, owned by his mama and daddy, and then just kept makin’ changes as the mood hit him.”

  “Oh. Well, it looks pretty complete. Um—do you think he’s finished with it by now?”

  With a shrug, she pulled to the end of the rounded driveway and parked with an expert eye for the curb. “Hard tellin’. Reckon he’ll let us know if the itch strikes him to start remodelin’ again. C’mon, I’ll take you inside to your room.”

  “My luggage?” Caroline asked for the second time, just to double check, as she reached for the door handle.

  Marylou flapped a breezy hand. “Oh, well, Tom—he’s sorta second in command around here—he’ll bring your stuff in straightaway. C’mon, I wanna see what you think of the arrangements.”

  Chapter Three

  The arrangements were, as might be expected at this not-quite-palatial mansion of a super-wealthy cattleman, impeccable.

  Tom Sinclair, a tall, somewhat stooped man whose age might range anywhere between forty and seventy due to what was probably normal outdoor weathering, made several trips up and down and back up the wide curving staircase with every box, satchel, and bag pulled forth from the Cadillac’s trunk and rear seat. Not all of Caroline’s personal possessions from that remote place a world away, but close to it.

  “Thank you so much,” Caroline told him at the doorway, when he was ready to depart. “I really appreciate your bringing in everything so quickly.”

  “A pleasure, ma’am,” he said with a slow smile and an unfamiliar touch of forefinger to forehead. Almost like a salute. “You just lemme know, you got anything else you need t’ have done.”

  Finally alone, and grateful for the silence and the space, she kicked off those killer stilettos (and what an extravagant waste of resources that purchase had been!), peeled away the sticky panty hose (to be forever relegated, she hoped, to the nearest waste basket), and padded barefoot about the spacious suite to which she had been escorted. Done by a professional decorator, no doubt,

  White walls and furnishings and, on the pecan floor, a huge oddly-shaped rug in eggshell color that she hoped hadn’t been ripped off some living creature. The accents of bedspread, chaise, and bench, all of a match in pale blue-gray, contrasted beautifully with the mass of green landscape seen through French doors and transom windows that opened out onto a sunroom. No draperies for privacy were necessary, but white pleated shades awaited drawing against too much heat.

  The room bespoke quiet elegance in a rather plain, old-fashioned way. And offered comfort and ease, as well. Quite attractive, in its own way; one she might have chosen for herself.

  More than Caroline had enjoyed in far too long a time. Nothing she had ever had experienced could compare to this luxury.

  Porcelain and marble and shining clear glass made up the bathroom. Along with fluffy rugs, laid conveniently on the tile floor, and stacks of thick cotton towels. Here, a gracious garden window, its sill filled with lush Boston fern, encompassed the fields and giant oaks beyond.

  It would be such a delight, Caroline wistfully mused, looking around, to soak in that spa tub with its array of jars holding colorful bath salts, to stand under that rain shower and luxuriate in its soothing flow.

  During the past few months of so much trauma and turmoil, she had not dared to glance at her image in a mirror any more often than necessary.

  She did so now, reluctantly, and took impersonal inventory.

  Stick-straight red hair. Not chestnut, or auburn, or sun-kissed bronze. No. True red. And the pale complexion to go with it, dusted over by a few stubborn freckles leftover from the prior summer. The combination could be less than flattering should a blush stain the high cheekbones. Steady, long-lashed eyes (thank you, whoever had invented mascara!), close in color to aquamarine, that one semi-admirer had actually called “amazing.” A figure currently dispossessed of the curves and suppleness it deserved. Possibly, hopefully, to be rectified with time and care.

  Would her flight to this ranch, so far from everything she had known and loved, ease the situation in which she found herself?

  Or would she find herself falling further down the rabbit hole?

  Chapter Four

  He looked exactly like the photograph that had been sent to her, months ago, at the beginning of their correspondence—a photo which, Caroline would secretly admit, didn’t do the man justice. No one should have the right to be that devastatingly attractive. She knew her own rather ordinary looks must pale by comparison, and wondered, once again, just what she had gotten herself into.

  The basis for their future relationship started out pleasantly enough. For five minutes, anyway. When she entered his vast study, escorted by the energetic Marilou, he rose from behind a massive desk to greet her.

  “Miss Finch.” Reaching out one hand, he took hers in a firm grip and then motioned for her to have a seat in the armchair upholstered in navy and forest green chintz.

  Here the main motif meant wood. Dark wood on the floor and the walls, in the furniture and the many bookshelves, as a fireplace surround and as crown molding. What saved the spacious room from looking like a hermit’s cave was the set of enormous windows, all the way around, sliding open (when cooler weather permitted) to a tree-lined terrace beyond.

  Impeccable. And intimidating. Everything about the master of these acres, his staff, his home, even his office, underscored the words. Was there any chink in his fortification?

  “Mr. Taggart,” she acknowledged, slipping onto the indicated cushion.

  “Anything else, sir?” chirped his admin from the doorway.

  “No, thanks, ML. Go on, now; get out of here and go home to your boyfriend.”

  She giggled. “Oh, nothin’ really goin’ on tonight. But Jimmy, he gets worried if I ain’t pullin’ into the driveway when I’m s’posed t’ be. G’night, Mr. Taggart; g’night, Miss Finch.”

  “Good night, Marilou. Thanks for all your help today.”

  Waving a negligible hand, she slipped away. The house suddenly sounded very quiet and felt very empty.

  “Where is your daughter, Mr. Taggart?” Caroline asked curiously.

  “Oh, she’s been taken on some afternoon field trip from school. One of the mothers will be dropping her off soon.”

  “Is there a
governess here for her? A nanny? A child-care worker?”

  “Marilou pitches in when necessary; she’s my jill-of-all-trades. We’ve got it covered.”

  Uneasiness began to curl a warning inside Caroline’s middle. “But—surely the child can’t be left alone in between times. I don’t believe that, in all our correspondence, you’ve ever mentioned her mother. Where is she?”

  “Her mother,” said Ben, with an unexpected flatness to his tone, “is gone. Now, then.”

  He leaned back in his chair, whose leather seemed to have settled in to fit his shape, to look Caroline over with speculation and calculation. It seemed only fair. After all, he had practically bought and paid for her.

  His most arresting feature must surely be those heavy questioning brows set over intense blue eyes—as brilliant as a gas flame. What did they see, those keen and vivid blue eyes, as his gaze slowly roamed down her figure, then up again? There was that intimidation factor, that he had learned to use with such effectiveness. A shock of light brown hair, carelessly disarrayed, tumbled anyhow over his forehead, part of a square face, a hard strong jaw slightly stubbled at the end of the day, and a wide mobile mouth.

  A face to swoon for, were she so inclined. And wondered vaguely whether his body was made to match. Nice wide cowboy shoulders, anyway, under a rather worn corduroy jacket and muted plaid shirt. Perhaps the dark blue Levi’s, glimpsed upon her entrance, might be considered part of his workday uniform.

  She, at least, after freshening up and unpacking most of her essentials in the beautiful bedroom, had taken time to change for this first, all-important meeting in the flesh. Guessing rightly that casual mode would be more appropriate for now (and stealing a leaf from the secretary’s book), Caroline had put on schoolmarm’s clothing. And wasn’t that a laughable cliché!

  So it was that, armored in a familiar cotton sweater of soft turquoise, a loose flowing skirt in a wash of aqua and coral, and boring beige ballet flats, she had entered what was probably the inner sanctum of Ten Buck’s owner.

  “I think we can dispense with formality now, Caroline, don’t you?” His voice was a smooth drawl returning her to the present, and her responsibilities.

  “Certainly, Mr. Taggart, if that is your wish.”

  He smiled. Oh, God. As if the whole package weren’t enough, now a pair of fabulous dimples flashed into view. “Ben. Just Ben.” Then he frowned slightly, in consideration. “You’ve let your hair grow a lot longer. Not sure I like the length; it doesn’t really become you. I’ll have ML make an appointment for a cut and style tomorrow.”

  Outwardly calm, inwardly quaking like an aspen leaf, she slid forward and rose to her feet. “Thank you so much, Mr. Taggart, for everything you’ve done. But I believe our association has just ended. I’ll go get my things, and call for—”

  “Hold it, right there.” He had shot upright, his expression reading somewhere between irritation and amusement. Did no one ever cross his wishes? “What’s the problem? I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, if that’s what happened, but—”

  “I don’t think our association will work, after all, Mr. Taggart. Please let me know how much you have spent on our—arrangements, so that I can—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” The irritation won out, as evidenced by the muscle moving along his jawline as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. “What exactly has put a burr under your saddle?”

  Caroline was already halfway to the door. “The fact that you don’t know tells me all I need. Good day, Mr. Taggart. Be sure to send me—”

  “Stop.” Just that quickly he was beside her, one hand clamped around her wrist to prevent further movement. “Look, obviously you’re upset. And, I agree, this isn’t a good sign when we’ve only started to talk. But you have to tell me what’s wrong.”

  Tipping her head back to meet his glare straight on, she dug deep for the bravado she needed to face him down. It had to be done, immediately, cleanly, or he would ride rough-shod over every aspect of her personality from here on.

  “You made an assumption that may or may not be correct, Mr. Taggart. And then you usurped my own wishes. Whether you like my hair style, I will be the one deciding when and how much to get it cut. Do we understand each other?”

  For a full minute, while a noisy flock of birds frolicked in the oak branches outside the window, Ben Taggart simply stared at her in astonishment. Then he began to laugh: first a slow gurgle of good humor, then a ripple that emanated upward and outward from his belly.

  “May I be released now?” she asked primly, reminding him of his clasp.

  “Okay. Okay.” Still chuckling, he obeyed. “Will you rejoin me, so we can make a fresh start at this whole thing?”

  “Of course, Ben.” Having won what she considered a major point, Caroline returned to her seat. “Please tell me about your ranch, and about Sophie.”

  “Be glad to, Carrie.” At her uplifted brow, he paused, questioning, with a hesitation that she guessed he rarely employed. The sense of command, of power, hung around him like an actual tangible scent. “What, no nickname, either?”

  “I’m just not used to it, I admit. However, you may feel free to follow your preference.”

  “Good God. You really were a teacher, weren’t you?”

  Ben Taggart took a minute or two, leaning back once again in the luxurious office chair, to gather his thoughts, then went on to relate family history. The Ten Buck had acquired its title, he explained, shortly after the claim for 10,000 acres was staked out by grandfather William Travis Taggart, back in 1925, at the peak of the Roaring Twenties. While exploring his newfound kingdom, he had come across a herd of whitetail deer and various antlered stags, meandering their way across one of the grassy draws.

  Ten Buck the ranch became, forever and ever, amen.

  By 1975, the year of Ben’s birth, his father, Jefferson Davis Taggart, had augmented the holdings to double its original size and added more cattle and quarter horses and a number of buildings. He had also incorporated as a business.

  Ben’s contribution had increased all of the above, plus adding a few dozen or so oil wells. Neither as much nor as fancy as his forbears, he admitted now, modestly, but then he was a late bloomer. Had some years to go yet, to catch up.

  Listening to all this, Caroline involuntarily sighed. She’d known most of these facts already, of course; ancestry had been included in the extensive dossier which he had provided for her. And it was wrong. All so wrong.

  Everything that this man represented, everything that he had accomplished, stood as such total antithesis to her own system of values and beliefs.

  How to reconcile the two?

  We all of us are forced to make choices in life. This career path or that? This partner or that one? This set of standards or that?

  Without putting a pretty face on it, Caroline’s choice had come down to survival or extinction.

  “Your turn,” he said suddenly.

  Once again the sound of his voice had startled her out of what she called “the blue crazies.” She wasn’t used to having another person in the room, especially one so commanding. And probably demanding, as well.

  “My turn? You already know all there is to know.” Because she, too, had been required to provide a dossier. Complete. Intrusive. And, she had felt, somewhat demeaning.

  Leaning back far enough to prop both boots on the immaculate surface of his desk, absolutely at his ease, Ben laced his fingers together across his flat midriff and waited. “Have you completely recovered?”

  “Your secretary asked me the same thing,” Caroline retorted, a tad crossly.

  “Ah. You see how concerned everybody is about you. Well?”

  “Yes. I have.”

  Three months of hospital care and rehab work and physical therapy had returned her broken body almost to its normal condition. A few aches and pains now and then, an occasional stumble, the rare blinding headache—those, her physician had kindly told her, were to be expected. With more time,
the healing would be complete, and the few remaining scars would gradually fade.

  As to the psychological damage caused by killing her own father…that was another thing entirely. And nothing that she intended to discuss with Benjamin Taggart.

  “The Taggarts go for historical names in a big way, don’t they?” she asked, to effect a change in subject.

  “I reckon we do. Gramps was called after a hero from the Alamo—fitting, don’t you think? And Pop, of course, was honored with the President of the Confederate States. Benjamin Milam, now, he was a leader in the Texas Revolution.” Smiling, he re-crossed one ankle over the other, as if prepared to stay chatting for hours. “We like larger-than-life champions in our family. How about you?”

  “I’m sure I would, as well. Can you tell me more about your daughter?”

  “Sophie? Sure.” Again, he paused, considering, and the look in those intense blue eyes became tender. “Seem to remember what Shakespeare wrote in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’—Though she be but little, she is fierce. Well, that about describes my gal right down to the soles of her expensive little size two sandals. She’s cute as the devil and twice as smart, and I love her to pieces. Trouble is, I don’t have time for her.”

  “Oh, I hardly think—”

  “I’m a busy man, Carrie, as I’ve mentioned a few dozen times. Got too much to do and not enough hours in the day to do it in.” Without warning, he slid both feet to the floor and rose in one lithe but elegant movement—a man used to taking command, whether from the saddle of his horse or from the office chair of his desk. “That’s where you come in.”

  “Well, yes, so I understood. But we really must—”

  “Yep. We really must.” Even as he rounded the desk, he was settling the collar of his jacket and gathering up various folders. “But not now. I’ve already taken too much time with this meeting, and I’m running late for another one. Gotta get going now.”