The Billionaire's Seed_A Secret Baby Romance

by Natasha Spencer

  Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Caroline surged upright in a vain attempt to halt him in his path toward the door. “But—wait a minute. Didn’t you say Sophie would be home soon? Didn’t you say she’d be here for supper? You can’t mean to just—to throw us together, without any sort of introduction, or chance to get used to one another, or—or—”

  “Sure I can. Told you, Carrie, that’s where you come in.” He did stop, then, only a few inches away, with his height and breadth providing once more the sense of intimidation that shook her to the marrow. “You’re here. You’ve agreed to this arrangement, and so have I.”

  “To a point,” she reminded him icily. “I haven’t quite—”

  “From here on, you live at the Ten Buck on my sufferance, for two purposes only: one is to look after my daughter, and give her the care I can’t.”

  “And the other?” Her chin was up, her back stiff and straight, her eyes shooting sea-green fire.

  “The other?”

  Grinning, he took hold of her chin with one hand, leaned down, and, before she could protest or pull away, planted a hard, rough kiss squarely upon her astonished mouth.

  “The other,” he finished up, long legs and booted heels having already taken him to the threshold, “is that I want sex convenient and available. So I expect you to welcome me into your bed, whenever I feel the need, just as soon as I plunk that wedding ring onto your finger.”

  Chapter Five

  “And your field trip today took you to a children’s theatre production?” Caroline asked with interest, as she dipped into the bowl of vichyssoise (in Hill Country parlance, cold creamy potato-leek soup) she had been served. A more sophisticated dish—especially for only two people, and one of those a child—than might have been expected. “That sounds like fun.”

  “Uh-huh.” Halfway down the length of this oak table that would, at a guess, hold at least twenty well-fed diners, young Miss Sophie Taggart was toying with her spoon and crumbling her cornbread. “We got to see Willy Wonka, and it was such fun. The oompa loompas had green hair!”

  She was indeed a charmer, this little girl with flaxen curls and big brown eyes that melted the heart. And quite self-possessed for her age, despite an initial shyness. There, at least at the beginning, the school mom—Sophie’s volunteer transportation—had helped.

  Mrs. Lila Sampson had driven Sophie, her own daughter Becca, and several other precocious little girls to the outing in Marigold. Now, having returned Sophie safely to the nest and walked her conscientiously inside, she seemed neither surprised nor upset by Ben Taggart’s absence.

  “Oh, he does that all the time,” she glowered, out of Sophie’s hearing. “Keeps sayin’ how busy he is, but, I tell you, honey, he does neglect this child shamefully. Why, if not for the other mothers of kids in Sophie’s class, she wouldn’t have hardly any maternal care a’tall. We’ve all told him so, and nagged him like mad, but—” a disdainful shrug, “—you know men.”

  No, Caroline didn’t really know men. But clearly Mrs. Sampson did. And she was willing to expound upon that knowledge, to the detriment of Ben Taggart’s reputation. Tall and tanned and fair, she was dressed, not in exotic diamonds and some low-cut ensemble, but a comfortable paisley blouse and short denim skirt. She had introduced herself, asked a few casual questions as to Caroline’s appearance at the ranch (without ascertaining any real facts), and left possible gossip alone. Before she left, with a friendly wave, Lila invited her new acquaintance to stop by anytime for some girls’ chit-chat; she just lived a few miles down the road.

  “A few miles down the road,” Caroline would discover, meant thirty miles away, in the neighboring county.

  Sophie was starving, and supper was ready, so here they were in the dining room. Just the two of them, parked at this monster table. Surely Ben wouldn’t usually leave this child all alone, unsupervised but for the occasional overseeing of servants! Or would he?

  Caroline was doing her best to make conversation with a six-year-old. Since her expertise lay with the more rambunctious middle school students, she was finding it hard going.

  “I somehow feel you don’t really like the soup,” she commented now.

  “It doesn’t taste very good,” Sophie admitted.

  Unsure of what other courses had been planned for this grown-up meal, Caroline drew in a deep breath to ask, “What kind of foods do you like to eat?”

  “Um—p’tato chips. And cheese sticks, sometimes. And Hershey bars.” Her smile was wide enough to reveal the gap of one lower front tooth. A charming, gamine’s smile.

  “I like those, too. How about PBJ’s?”

  “Uh-huh. ML lets me go make my own. If I ask her real nice.”

  “Well, then.” Caroline lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “How about if you and I go into the kitchen and make our own right now?”

  The little girl giggled. “Can we, really?”

  “We can, really.”

  Having been dropped into this vast ocean of unknown territory, with neither help nor support from its master, Caroline had yet to meet any of the household staff, and she had been given no handbook of rules to follow. Very well. Then she would make up her own.

  Since she would be flailing away, like a swimmer provided no vest against drowning, she would begin immediately to run things as she saw fit. And to hell with His Majesty, whatever he might prefer!

  It was at the kitchen table, a homely spot in a homely corner of the room, while the two of them were devouring messy sandwiches, a bag of chips, and three bananas, that Sophie asked, quite clearly, “Are you gonna be my new mom?”

  Caroline nearly choked on a swallow of milk. “Why—why would you ask that, Sophie?”

  She was too intent on peeling away part of the crust to notice any show of surprise. “Well, I don’t have one. And the other kids at school do. And Daddy promised he would get me a mom, some day.”

  Ben Taggart had just conveniently forgotten—or, his usual excuse, been too busy—to explain what was being arranged to his very perceptive daughter. He had given the child no more information than he had given the woman who had just arrived. Both of them were floundering.

  The miserable bastard.

  As an extremely wealthy, powerful man, he simply made whatever arrangements he liked concerning the lives of others, and expected them to accept and obey, without question.

  Clearly, females held little standing in his world. Probably just slightly higher up the ladder of his imperatives than the precious quarter horses that roamed around Ten Buck pastures. And quite a lot lower than the oil wells that were pumping money into his pockets and waste into the air.

  Caroline was seeing red as the fires of injustice began to burn in her veins. Since Ben Taggart’s education was sadly lacking in too many fundamentals, it was about time he put aside his business concerns long enough to learn the ways of a more personal, familial world. As the saying back home went, he had another think coming.

  “Do you want a mother?” Caroline asked carefully.

  “Well, sure.” She paused to lick grape jelly from one finger. “It’d be fun to do things with a mother. Y’ know, help me buy clothes, and paint my nails, and play games with.”

  “I’m sorry, Sophie. Have you missed out on doing those things?”

  “Sometimes Marilou does stuff with me. Or, when she’s too busy, I get handed over to Tom. But it’s not the same,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’d be nicer with a mom.”

  This little girl was so adorable, so trusting, so sweetly earnest, in her rainbow-colored top and brief lime-green skirt and miniscule silver ballet flats, that Caroline, never demonstrative by nature, wanted to wrap her into an embrace that would shelter and protect Miss Sophie from all the hurt that might be inflicted.

  And that included the neglect of her own father.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, Sophie, but I’ve been hankering to find someone I can play My Little Pony with. What do you think? Do you like ponies?”

/>   Sophie’s eyes lit up. “Uh-huh. And Barbie. Could we play Barbie?”

  “Absolutely. How about you take a quick bath and get into your pj’s, and then we can explore your toy box. Will that be okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” She wiped off a milk mustache with the back of one hand and then scrambled down from her chair. “C’mon, I’ll show you. Uh.” She paused. “Caroline? Do I call you Caroline?”

  Caroline stood, smiling down at this interesting little human discarded so casually to her charge. “That’s quite a mouthful. How about Carrie, instead?”

  “Carrie,” repeated the child comfortably. “Okay. I’ve got special colored bath stuff, you wanna see?”

  “I sure do. Lead the way, Sophie Tucker.”

  Giggling, she looked back over her shoulder. “That isn’t my name.”

  “I know. But it’s a pet name, just between you and me, because I like you so much. Is that all right?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her favorite non-word. “And I’ll call you—uh—Carrie Cutie Pie!” she brought that out with a flourish. Then, laughing outright, she tugged at Caroline’s free hand. “C’mon, Carrie, let’s go!”

  Several hours later, an exhausted and frazzled Caroline emerged from the delightful bedroom upstairs to make her way back to the first level. She’d forgotten how much energy was required to keep up with an excitable first-grader.

  After the bath, which Sophie had insisted she was a big enough girl to do all on her own, she had proudly dragged out all her treasures to show off, with an explanation about every one. Caroline, sitting in awe upon an upholstered rocker that looked as if it had never been used, exclaimed over this or that, providing the audience that the child’s lonely heart craved.

  A fantastic Christmas music box, all in white, decorated with mirrors and glitter and tiny lights. What looked to be a few thousand miniature plastic things called Shopkins. A three story Barbie house, complete with fireplace and bathroom and working elevator. Numerous dolls—baby, Cabbage Patch, American Girl—each with its own set of clothing and accessories. Cupcake games and Princess games, Candyland and Hello Kitty. Crafts galore, from beading kits to candle-making to painted flower pots. A bookshelf, crammed full on every level.

  When they were finally finished, and Sophie, whose eyelids were beginning to droop, had brushed her teeth and crawled under the pretty pastel comforter of her canopy bed, Caroline was feeling overwhelmed by the sight of so many possessions. It required very few brain cells to realize that Ben was trying to make reparations for his prolonged avoidance of this precious little girl by simply filling her life with meaningless things. Much easier to spend cash than time.

  “Carrie, will you read me a story?”

  “Of course, Sophie. Any one in particular?”

  “Uh-uh. Whatever you decide.”

  Drawing a footstool closer to the bed, Caroline worked her way through a couple of Dr. Seuss books, and The Giving Tree. Before the last sentence was read, about eight o’clock, Sophie was yawning. “Don’t forget to—turn on—the night light,” she mumbled.

  Of course Caroline, who could sympathize with wanting something other than complete darkness around her, complied, after which she pulled the ruffled and rippled spread up over the little girl’s shoulders. Then, giving in to temptation, she bent forward to press a light kiss to Sophie’s smooth warm cheek. “Good night, sleep tight,” she whispered.

  There was no pulling away from the caress. No grimace of distaste. Just a vague half-smile that relieved Caroline’s mind of too much presumption.

  “G’night…”

  Leaving behind that endearing scene, she made it to the kitchen to face an entirely different one. Far less congenial, and far more confrontational.

  “You dumped one awful mess on me.”

  A voice from the far reaches of the room startled Caroline, who had assumed by this late hour that she was all alone in the house, into a gasp, and she jerked around at the table.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. Hello. I’m Caroline Finch.”

  “I know who you are.” That came as an accusation, made by a heavy-set woman near the sink, where she was rinsing dishes. “Been told all about you comin’ down here from up Nawth, with prob’ly some high-and-mighty ways.”

  A blink of surprise. “And you are?”

  “I’m Emma Wyeth, cook and housekeeper.” Obvious dislike shone from the flat black eyes; contempt radiated from every line of the weathered face; contention and strife fairly pulsated from the position of folded arms and legs planted wide apart.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Wyeth?” Innate good manners must always take control of an uncomfortable situation, and Caroline was trying hard to use hers. “I know, that was quite a mess, and I apologize. I planned to clean up afterward, but it seemed more important to spend time with Sophie on our first evening together. I’ll take care of those dishes now.”

  “Don’t bother, I already done it. Crumbs everywhere, that’ll just draw in varmints.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. Do you always work so late, Mrs. Wyeth?”

  “I work as I’m asked to. Mr. Taggart, he gave me free rein to do whatever needs doin’ around here, and I don’t follow no clock.” Don’t follow no orders, neither, hung in the air, unsaid yet almost audible. Still belligerent, she stood her ground against the counter, as if to prevent anyone getting behind her. As if anyone could.

  “No doubt Mr. Taggart very much appreciates all your hard work,” soothed Caroline, in an attempt to mend fences she wasn’t aware had been breached. “Actually, now that Sophie is in bed, I find that I’d really like a cup of hot tea. Won’t you join me?”

  Implacable. Unmoving. “In this house, the help don’t eat with the—” A sudden break, searching for just the right description “—visitors.”

  “I see. Well, perhaps another time, then. Thank you again for clearing up after me, Mrs. Wyeth. Good night.”

  It was a firm dismissal. The cook/housekeeper, still as uncertain, did she but realize it, on the same shaky ground that Caroline was treading, shrugged, wrung out a sponge in her meaty fist, and stalked away to whatever lair in which she took residence.

  Shaken by such visible, active antagonism, Caroline managed to rummage together the hot tea she had been seeking, along with two slices of bread popped into the toaster. If this house and its environs were truly to become her domain, then it was only suitable that she should be given freedom to explore and change and use whatever she wanted.

  Finished, she carefully put her things into the dishwasher and wiped off the table top.

  Then, feeling as if this whole first day had passed by in an incomprehensible blur, worn out to every fiber of her being, she stumbled upstairs to her room. There, following Sophie’s example, she fell face first into bed and heavy slumber.

  Chapter Six

  Caroline woke with a gasp and a start next morning, in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar country thousands of miles from what she had called home.

  Was it the vast silence all around, as compared to street traffic and city noises, that had jerked her to consciousness? Was it the welter of emotions pertaining to yesterday’s very full, very exhausting tide of events? Was it, with so many worrisome details nibbling at the edge of sanity, something left unsaid or undone?

  “Sophie!”

  Today was Friday. It was reasonable to assume that this was another school day. Who saw to her breakfast—that acid-tongued gargoyle in the kitchen? Who helped her dress, who got her to school? In fact, which school did she attend, and how did she get there?

  All these unanswered questions.

  As she flung herself out of bed, quickly washed, and then threw on a robe to race downstairs, she wondered if Sophie’s father had decided to grace the mansion with his presence.

  “Sophie?” She skidded to a halt in the kitchen.

  “Carrie!” said Sophie, with a big beaming grin. She was seated at the table, working on a bowl of grits and bit
ing into a slice of raisin toast. “I was afraid you left.”

  “Oh, no, not at all. As you can see, I’m still here.”

  That merited a dyspeptic look from Mrs. Wyeth, who was cutting up vegetables to dump into a huge soup pot already simmering on the modern range. Soup, at least, to all appearances. Perhaps the ingredients were poisonous mushrooms, gathered from the forest, and she was preparing a witch’s cauldron of something or other.

  Caroline perched on one of the stools at the counter to smile at her new charge. “I was afraid I’d miss seeing you off to school this morning.”

  “Oh. Uh-huh. Well, Mrs. Sampson will pick me up pretty soon—when, Mrs. Wyeth?”

  “Half an hour,” the mountain mumbled.

  “And then she’ll bring me home afterward.” Sophie finished her last spoonful of gelatinous glue and shoved the bowl aside with obvious relief. “It’s my last day, Carrie. Uh—will you still be here when I get back?”

  Something struck Caroline in the region of her heart, hit hard with an almost audible twang, and zipped away again. “Yes, Sophie,” she said quietly. “I’ll be here. Are you ready to get dressed?”

  “Uh-huh.” Sliding down from her chair, the child slipped a trusting hand into that of Caroline’s. “Wanna help me choose what to wear today?”

  By eight o’clock, with Caroline freshly showered and dressed, she could straighten Sophie’s little pink top, brush a kiss across the top of her head, and wave a cheerful goodbye as the child clambered into the back seat of Lila Sampson’s sleek black SUV.

  “Buckle up!” she called in warning. And got a thumbs’-up in return, as the vehicle pulled away from the circular drive.

  “Well, now, that’s nice to see.”

  Another voice from nowhere that startled the liver out of her.

  “Oh. Mr. Sinclair. Good morning.”

  He was standing behind her, on the top of three steps, his tall cowpuncher frame leaned like a vining wisteria against one of the round pillars. In his hand he carried a coffee cup, whose enticing aroma, for one who had put nothing but the dregs of toothpaste in her stomach, wrinkled her nostrils and clenched her gut with almost animal desire. Glimpsing the expression on her face, he grinned that slow, pleasant grin that could only be responded to in kind.