The Billionaire's Seed_A Secret Baby Romance

by Natasha Spencer

  This overture from Marilou Gilbert had come as a surprise, and a pleasant one. She found herself relaxing enough to enjoy the evening, and share little tidbits just like a normal girl. The admin confided thoughts about her one main love, Jimmy Beaudreaux, a city boy who had decided to learn ranching from the ground up, and was using (with Ben’s approval) the Ten Buck as a stepping stone.

  Did Marilou see marriage in her immediate future?

  Romantic stars almost overflowed her luscious green eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she admitted. And giggled.

  Even two icy-cold salt-rimmed Margaritas before dinner, and a potent Irish coffee after, were not enough to break down any barriers about Ben, however, or to divulge any details about her own unusual arrangement. Some private things must just remain private.

  The hours of each day began with a burst of sunshine that gradually melted down into dusk. Had Caroline been required to keep a diary of her comings and goings, she would have been hard-pressed to see where those hours had gone. But somehow each was filled, and each slipped away to be never retrieved.

  And it was wonderful.

  If for nothing else, she was grateful to Ben for granting her the freedom to live unencumbered by financial worry or fear. Her single regret in leaving Juniper behind was losing her father. He would have so loved seeing her settled and well-off, and a mother—even if vicariously. And she would have so loved having him here with her.

  Some days the physical ache of a migraine or a healing limb was nothing compared to the emotional ache of her bruised and battered heart.

  Meanwhile, she, and often Sophie, visited with Tom, while he made the rounds of the ranch, checking on stock or equipment or water holes. Being in his quiet, unassuming, unquestioning company gave her the solace, sometimes the advice, she could no longer get from Clayton Finch.

  And so the time passed. This was a golden time, a halcyon time, with any problems arising only very minor ones. The Ten Buck seemed to be in a state of stasis: waiting patiently and silently for its master to return.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ben breezed back into town and the ranch house (but without expectations of getting into Caroline’s bed) two days later. His arrival actually came ahead of schedule, when no one was expecting him, so everyone was occupied elsewhere when he walked through the front door.

  “Hey!” he called, setting down his luggage onto the foyer’s polished floor. “Anybody home?”

  He heard the sound of giggles and the click of puppy claws approaching and turned for the usual exuberant greeting. “Oh, hi, Daddy!” said Sophie, with a wave, and kept on running.

  Huh. Bit of a disappointment there.

  Next to appear, as he took a few steps farther, was Mrs. Wyeth.

  “Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Taggart,” she said, unsurprised. And continued on her way, like a magnificent ocean liner pushing into port, toward the downstairs linen closet.

  Ben frowned. The cook was still ruling her kingdom? Hadn’t Caroline planned to fire her, because their relationship was past repair, and nothing could be done to save it? Or had he dreamed that middle-of-the-night conversation?

  He had just loosened the knot of his tie and pulled off his suit coat when Tom casually strolled on through. “Oh, hiya, Ben. Back, I see.” And disappeared into the kitchen.

  At this the master of the house was beginning to feel a few twinges of annoyance. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they realize he might appreciate a little welcome? “Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.” Thank you, Robert Louis Stevenson. Now, could some member of the family kindly acknowledge his presence?

  Caroline, he was surprised to see, had taken up residence at the marble counter and was staring intently at the screen of her laptop. In between clicks at the keyboard, she was nibbling on some sort of pastry and offering compliments all around.

  “Emma, this is above and beyond your usual standard. I don’t know what you’ve put in the sweet roll dough, but it’s absolutely delicious.”

  The cook turned from her clean-up at the sink with a smile. A smile! Ben about dropped his teeth. “Just a pinch of cardamom, Mrs. T. Really adds flavor, doesn’t it?”

  “Tom, you simply must try this. Yes, Sophie, dear, you may have some, too. But not Jasper. He needs to stick with his dog food so he doesn’t get an upset tummy.”

  Ben, standing in the doorway and feeling like a stranger in his own house, loudly cleared his throat.

  Caroline glanced up, coolly, distantly. He did believe there might have been a hint of lip-curling involved. “Oh. Hello.”

  “Hey, everybody.” Attempting good humor, he flung his jacket over the back of a chair and set down his briefcase. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Oh, Daddy, we’re all just real busy,” Sophie, galloping around as if she riding a horse, laughed at him but couldn’t be bothered to stop for a hug. She was more intent, apparently, upon destroying the kitchen, judging by the racket and clatter and a crash of overturned chair.

  “Honey, why don’t you and your puppy friend go outside for a while?” Caroline suggested over the noise. “Throw the ball for Jasper so he can run off some energy, and I’ll come out with you soon.”

  “Hokay, Mom!” Away she went, the dog at her heels, and the back door slammed behind her.

  Tom, munching away on the Bismarck he’d been presented, looked from husband to wife and back again, and beat a strategic retreat. “Think I’ll go on with Sophie, myself.”

  That left only Emma Wyeth in the kitchen, and she, too, decided discretion was the better part of valor. Murmuring something about checking on Maria’s progress upstairs, she slipped away.

  “Well.” Ben managed a tight grin. “Guess I have a way of clearing a room, don’t I?”

  Easing off her stool, Caroline took down two glasses from the shelf and retrieved a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge, only to state the obvious. “You’re back early.”

  “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? Thought you might appreciate havin’ a little family time for the Fourth. We can take in the parade, do the carnival, and so on.”

  “Certainly, if that’s what you want.” Calmly she went on pouring, then offered one of the filled glasses to him.

  Now he was just plain exasperated. “It’s not just what I want, Carrie. I figured Sophie would want it, too.”

  “Oh, we’ve already made plans. But you’re welcome to come along with us, if you want. Tom tells me there’s a lovely wooded spot outside Marigold that is just perfect for watching the fireworks. We’ll take some lawn chairs and a couple of blankets and make a picnic night of it.”

  A faint blush colored his cheeks. He knew the spot, all right. It was the same place where he’d taken Caroline, so roughly and rapidly, and she had not only acceded but joyously responded to his every demand.

  “Huh. Well, okay, then. Uh—you’ll let me know what time all your plans will be goin’ on, right? And where?”

  “Certainly. Just as we agreed to, in the documents we signed.”

  Good God. Could she act any more frigid or unfeeling? Clearly she was still carrying a mad around for whatever had gotten her upset a week ago, and he’d be paying the penalty for it. Too bad. Because he was horny as hell, and she looked good enough to eat, in a sherbet colored yellow top and a fetching little denim skort that showed every ripple of muscle across her backside.

  “Huh,” he said again, awkwardly and helplessly, and picked up his things. “Is Marilou around?”

  Caroline had already returned to her laptop, to whatever she was doing or researching or reading. Damn it. Couldn’t she act just the least bit happy to see him? Couldn’t she even ask how business matters had gone during his travel, and whether he had accomplished anything worthwhile?

  He wanted first to jump her bones, and then he wanted lay his head on her breast and confess that some of the excitement of zipping around the country had gone. He no longer looked forward to visiting so ma
ny cities in so many days, or keeping track of the pelts he had collected from fellow corporate moguls brought down by hisown machinations.

  “No,” said his wife. “I think she isn’t in today. She and Jimmy had some holiday plans to be away for a few days.”

  “Away for a few days? She didn’t check with me. Who in the hell gave her permission—”

  “Oh, I told her she could leave.” His wife’s aquamarine eyes widened innocently. “Since you weren’t here to do it yourself…”

  One shrug of her rounded shoulder, one glimpse of her breasts beneath that thin summer top, and every moving part of his neglected body sat up and took notice. Foul mood or no, he wanted her fast and loose; he wanted to strip away every inch of her clothing, throw her onto the table, and assert his marital rights then and there.

  Finally, for once, the working cells of his brain took precedence. Nope. No Hootchie Mama tonight. He had his pride, and he could live on it.

  But not for long.

  “Okay,” he responded lamely. “Guess that’s okay. I’ll—uh—just be in the office…if you need me…”

  “By all means.”

  Hell. Ben felt like tearing a leg off his favorite chair to gnaw it into pieces.

  When had life gotten to be so complicated?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Still sleepin’ alone in a king-sized bed, eh, son?” Tom’s words sounded semi-serious but the tone, and the twitch of his lips, gave away his teasing mood.

  Ben sent him a sour look. “You can damn well shut up.”

  “Ah, well, it ain’t all beer and skittles.” Grinning, he used his Bowie knife to peel a few more strips of bark off the piece of wood he had begun to whittle. “I often think it takes a man with real heart and balls to be a great husband. Not all of us weak males can do it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m beginnin’ to figure I’m one of those weak males.”

  “Hell, Benny, boy, you never had a chance with Diane. So you can’t count that first one as much of a marriage. And you’ve barely got a start on the second one.”

  They were perched, these two lanky Texas cowboys, on stumps set in the shade of the barn. Earlier, Ben had discarded the day’s wrinkled suit for his favorite uniform of Levi’s, chambray shirt, and worn boots, and then wandered out onto the grounds to track down his consigliere and mentor. The man to whom he had always, even as a young boy, taken his problems and concerns. Tom had never failed him. Never once.

  “However you managed t’ pair up with Carrie, Ben, I think you’re luckier than you realize,” said Tom quietly. Another splinter of wood curled up on itself, paper-thin, and fell to the ground from his knowing hands. “Caroline is one of the good ones. She’s makin’ a fine mother to that little girl of yours, and she’ll make you a fine wife. If you’ll but give her the chance.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yep. But that’ll mean tellin’ her the truth.”

  “No. You know I can’t do it. You know why.”

  “Son, Caroline is married t’ you,” Tom explained patiently. As if the fact needed repeating. “It’s only right. It’s only fair. You gotta trust her sometime, and she deserves t’ know about the past.”

  Rising suddenly, Ben hitched at his jeans and took a step away. “I said no, Tom. Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Things kept secret too long have a way of gettin’ out, Ben. Better tell her b’fore she finds out on her own. If that happens, she may never take you for your word again.”

  Ben whipped around in confrontation. “You’re the only one who knows. The only one. So does that mean you’re gonna be blabbin’?”

  “Well, I can’t rightly comprehend. I tend t’ talk in my sleep.” He offered the sweet smile of a benevolent angel and went back to whittling.

  A snort of disgust was all that greeted this admission. Damn these moldering old cowpunchers that had outlived their usefulness, anyway!

  Hands stuffed into front pockets, sombrero’d head lowered in thought, Ben scuffed through the gravel around the side of the house much like a disgruntled boy being punished for some mischief. He had no particular destination in mind; he was just walking aimlessly while his brain chewed through a series of problems to be dealt with.

  Fine thing, returning to his home after going out to fight the corporate wars, only to find the routine all out of kilter and his best friend taking up support for the wife who was causing such dissension! And what was this whole arrangement with Mrs. Wyeth? Last Ben had heard, the woman was going to be put out on her—well, her ear.

  Besides, his back hurt, from too many hours spent in an uncomfortable position aboard the jet; and his head ached, probably from too much tension. He wanted some kind person to give him a little TLC, but he sensed that was a vain hope.

  His wandering footsteps took him to the nearest corral, a tree-shaded green-sodded area where a few quarter horses browsed or dozed. The sight of the livestock on this ranch never failed to lift his heart; and he laid both folded arms onto the top rail and leaned forward, to let the pleasure wash over him and soothe the ruffled spirit caused by his talk with Tom.

  He was staring gloomily out over his holdings: the buildings, the sheds, the pastures. It was a hot day, as befits the beginning of July, but a clear, sunny one in God’s country. Only a few puffy white clouds were easing slowly across the azure sky, like sheep strolling through a meadow, and the air smelled of gathering dust and, perhaps, a hint of rain off in the distance.

  It was almost lunch time, and his empty belly was beginning to complain. Hell. Might as well go back inside and face the music. With a sigh, Ben turned away from the old-fashioned rail fence.

  Just then, Caroline emerged from the front door. At her sight of him, schlumping around like a lost soul, she came out of the shadows. “Ben!”

  “Yeah.”

  He seemed so downcast, even seen from a distance, that she might almost have felt the tiniest twinge of sympathy for his situation. Except that she constantly carried the hurt of his behavior, festering deep inside like a splinter unremoved. Not a grudge. No. At least, she didn’t view it that way.

  It was an injury that could not heal. Nor would she allow it, and that probably wasn’t right, either.

  “Are you ready to come inside and eat?” she called, hardening her resolve. “We have soup and sandwiches. And please let Tom know.”

  Ben’s middle rumbled, but his attention had shifted from hunger to curiosity.

  A dirty, twenty-year-old blue truck, whose paint job was peppered with rust holes, had turned into the end of Ten Buck’s lane, circled around, and parked there, with the engine running.

  Ben squinted into the distance and frowned. Odd behavior. Had someone chosen the wrong road, and was now trying to figure out directions before pulling back out into traffic? He considered heading forward to offer help. But that was a long way to walk in high-heeled boots. Even comfortable, broken-in boots, like his. Better to wait and see if anyone approached.

  Sure enough, a minute or two later the driver climbed out and down from the cab. A man. A large, beefy man whose stance and carriage seemed vaguely familiar. Reaching over the side, into the pickup’s bed, to retrieve whatever was needed, he turned to face the Ten Buck homestead.

  Suddenly the hair stood up on the back of Ben’s neck, and all of his catlike instincts went into overdrive.

  Even as he shifted position, to get out of the way of possible danger, the unidentified driver put a Winchester rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and fired.

  His aim was excellent.

  The first bullet took Ben directly in the chest and spun him partly sideways as a second bullet cut across his upper arm.

  He let out only an agonized groan as the force and the pain hit home, and slowly began to crumple.

  Caroline screamed. Helpless witness, pinned in place by shock and disbelief, she finally uprooted her feet as Ben hit the ground. And ran, still screaming to wake the dead. Which might already be true.

  Even as she sa
nk down beside him, desperately hauling his limp, gory body across her lap and into her embrace, the gunman fled. Only a trail of dust in his wake gave evidence that someone had just tried to murder the young master of the estate.

  And possibly succeeded.

  Tom found her, keening, slumped over her husband’s form and smeared with his blood.

  “Carrie!” he shouted. Having heard the report of a rifle where there should be none, and the fearsome cries, he had come racing from the barn to see what had befallen. “Are you hurt?”

  She raised a tear-streamed, grieving face, whose every muscle trembled, and barely managed to shake her head.

  “All right, then.” He stabbed an emergency number into his cell phone to request assistance, then attempted reassurance. “They’re comin’, honey,” he told her huskily. “We got help comin’. Let’s see if we can plug up them holes till the EMT’s get here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Things were beeping; things were flashing; things were dripping; things were making muffled whoosh-whooshes. Other than that, the contents of the room and the occupant of the bed lay sightless, soundless, motionless. On some different plane, it seemed, one far removed from this earth and all its travail.

  People came in. They checked this monitor and that IV hookup. They went out.

  At least no more white uniforms from yesteryear. They were dressed in colorful outfits, some plain, some patterned, that added a hint of cheerful to an intolerable situation.

  It was a place built for efficiency, rather than comfort. Although two club chairs upholstered in a soft navy print had been set up before a large sunny window, for anyone needing to wait. To watch. Not necessarily to pray; those requiring more drastic measures might prefer to visit a small multi-cultural chapel on the ground floor.

  Benjamin Taggart reclined on his multi-functioning bed, wrapped in bandages and sheets, unmoving, barely breathing, eyelids closed, oblivious to all. At this point, his was just a body, being cared for by machinery.