The Billionaire’s Baby Plan

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  It was official.

  They’d been married for four weeks now.

  “Happy anniversary.” She deliberately flipped the calendar closed. She turned on her computer. Read through a few dozen e-mails, two of which were from her mother about the never-ending details concerning Gerald’s upcoming eightieth birthday party.

  The light on her message machine was blinking, and she reluctantly hit the button, already braced for “motherly” messages there, as well.

  She wasn’t disappointed. She buzzed past her mother’s voice reminding her that she’d assigned Lisa the duty of hand-addressing the birthday party invitations and tracking the RSVPs and that she’d better start looking for a gown for Paul and Ramona’s Christmas Eve wedding, and she skipped past two more messages the second she heard Derek’s gruff greetings. She knew that Paul had finally caved to Ramona’s insistence that he at least talk to him. All Paul had said about the conversation, though, was that Derek still hadn’t apologized for his actions. And until he could do that, Paul wasn’t going to waste more time on him. He and Ramona had enough on their plate with their upcoming wedding.

  “Hello, Mrs. Devlin.” She started at the sound of Rourke’s voice coming from the machine. “I’m running late and you’re not answering your cell. See you when I get there.”

  “You called,” she said to the machine, and just like that, her irritation dissolved, leaving her feeling teary all over again. Acting more like a teenager with her first boyfriend than a grown woman with a career-driven husband, she rewound the message and listened to it a second time.

  Then she pulled out her briefcase and unearthed her cell phone that plainly showed her he had called.

  Twice.

  She dropped the phone on the desk and propped her head in her hands. “You are such a witch, Lisa Armstrong.”

  “Thought that was Devlin now.”

  She jerked and swiveled in her chair to see Rourke standing there. His jeans were washed nearly white and molded his hips and the thick ivory fisherman’s sweater he wore made his shoulders look even broader and his hair even blacker. “How’d you get in?”

  “You gave me the security code, remember? I came in through the kitchen.” He dropped a very well-used duffel on the floor and stepped into the office, his gaze taking in the tall, mullioned window that overlooked her minuscule backyard, and the old library desk that consumed a good portion of the floor space. “Nice desk.”

  It was. She’d found it in a consignment shop years ago. “I didn’t know you’d called,” she said stupidly.

  His slashing eyebrows quirked together. “My mother would like to think she raised me better than that. I’m nearly five hours late.” He leaned over the chair, propping his hands on the sturdy, wooden arms and brought his head close to hers.

  Close enough that she could smell the faint, heady scent of his aftershave.

  “Don’t you want to know why I was late?”

  She was dissolving into a puddle way too easily with this man who’d manipulated her into marriage. “Business, I’m sure.” She peeled his hand away from the chair so that she could sidle her way out of the chair past him.

  He didn’t let go of her that easily, though, and swung her around until she landed flat against his chest. “Yeah. The business of clearing the way to stay here for a few weeks at a stretch, rather than just the weekend.”

  Her lips parted. “What?”

  “I’ll make the trip back to New York if I have to, but for now at least, you’re going to have to share a drawer or two.” His hands slid slowly up and down her back. “So…what do you think?”

  Even through her shock she was aware that he sounded diffident.

  Which for Rourke was completely out of character.

  And that was as alarming as the emotions coiling around inside her. “It doesn’t matter what I think. You’ve already made up your mind, obviously.” Made up his mind to change the rules of the game, since they’d already agreed to spend the workweek in their respective cities.

  The question was why?

  To hasten the chances of her getting pregnant?

  His hands slipped down her waist. “I saw the garbage when I came in.”

  Her cheeks heated. “Dinner was ruined.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the food.”

  Of course he would have to comment on the hank of sheer fabric and ribbon that she’d shoved in alongside the eggplant. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lied blithely.

  He snorted softly, a definite smile hovering around the corners of his way-too-sexy mouth. “Did you get that thing for me? A little…four-week anniversary gift?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” For some reason, it threw her even more that he was aware of that small milestone, too. “I was…was…cleaning out my closet.”

  “Mmm. And that was the only thing to go.”

  He clearly didn’t believe her. And why would he? She was a pathetic liar.

  “Maybe you haven’t figured it out, Lisa Armstrong Devlin.” His hands slid around her waist, bunching up the fleecy sweatshirt. “But I find you insanely sexy. When you’re buttoned up in your no-nonsense suits or when you’re draped in expensive couture. If wearing a little piece of black nothing makes you feel good about yourself—and what we do together—then have at it. But make no mistake. Even when you look about sixteen, like you do now, you are attractive to me. Hell, all you have to do is simply exist—” she felt the stretched-out hem of the sweatshirt reach her thighs as he continued drawing it upward “—and I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

  “Even children?” She wanted to suck the words back in the second they slid out of her lips. “Don’t answer that,” she said quickly. There was no need for him to confirm what she already knew.

  She was a means to an end for him. Without giving him the child he wanted, he wouldn’t have any use for her. And once he did turn her into a mother—which was a state that was preoccupying her thoughts more and more with every passing day—her purpose for him will have been served.

  “Fortunately—” he kept slowly bunching the sweatshirt upward and she felt cool air sneak over her bottom “—there’s no need to choose.” His warm fingers replaced the air, seeming to sear into her bare skin as he lifted her right off her feet. “Did you miss me?”

  “I’ve been swamped at the office,” she assured him coolly even while her hands were greedily snaking around his shoulders. “Thanks to your insistence that I be gone for a three-week honeymoon.”

  His lips twitched. He carried her around the duffel bag on the floor. “Bedroom?”

  “End of the hall.”

  Her town house wasn’t huge by any stretch. But it was in a neighborhood that she liked, and it was conveniently located to the institute. So she overlooked the drafty windows and the creaks in the floor, but as he carried her down the short hallway, she was enormously conscious of its shortcomings.

  “My place is a lot different than your penthouse,” she stated the obvious when he elbowed through the narrow doorway into her dimly lit, chilly bedroom. “Three mornings of waiting for the water heater to kick in will have you running back to New York.”

  “Don’t count on it.” He carried her to the shadowy foot of her antique four-poster and slowly lowered her until her bare feet met the braided carpet covering the hardwood floor. “This place smells like you.”

  There was probably a rulebook somewhere that said she shouldn’t be so easily disarmed. But she was, anyway. “And burned garlic bread,” she added faintly.

  His hands swept beneath the sweatshirt. “Just you,” he assured her.

  She sucked in a hissing breath when he tugged the garment over her head and his mouth dipped to the naked curve of her shoulder.

  “You’re shivering,” he murmured. “It’s cold outside.”

  The weather had changed. Autumn fully engulfing the city. But the rapidly cooling weather outside that managed somehow to sneak in beyond the brick walls of her town
house wasn’t what had her shivering now. “That’s why I like the fireplace in here.” She tugged at his sweater, much more interested in getting her hands beneath to the inferno of his flesh than she was in the temperature outside. “Lift your arms,” she finally ordered.

  His laugh was muffled in the folds of the sweater as he tugged it over his head and tossed it aside. But before she could press herself up close and personal to that hard, broad chest that she couldn’t seem to get enough of, he’d tipped her off her feet again and easily nudged her into the center of her already disheveled bed. “Get under the covers. I’ll make you a fire.”

  She scooted back on the mattress, happy enough to do that if he’d just hurry up and join her. “That’s what I was kind of expecting,” she said pointedly, lifting the blankets in invitation.

  His gaze lingered on her bare body for a gratifying moment. Then he seemed to shake himself as he turned toward the fireplace that was in the corner of her bedroom, opposite the bed. “Have you had the chimney cleaned lately?” He crouched down and began pulling wood out of the fire basket next to the hearth, stacking it inside the firebox.

  “Every year.” Her eyes felt glued to the naked play of muscles as he worked. “It might look old, but we’re not going to go up in flames.”

  He looked at her over his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure we will,” he drawled. He shoved some kindling under the stack of wood and pulled out one of the long matches she kept next to the wood.

  In seconds, the flame was snapping hungrily at the kindling and he settled the iron screen back in place. Then he rose and turned to face her.

  Even though they’d made love dozens of times now, her mouth ran dry as he finished undressing and there was no doubt in her mind as he climbed into the bed and drew her against his fully aroused body that he was interested in anything, just then, other than her. His hands were barely roving over her and she could feel the flames licking at her feet. By the time he pulled her, wet and aching, beneath him and sank so deeply into her that she couldn’t help but cry out, she was heading straight for conflagration.

  And even as she felt herself spinning wildly out of control, she clung to the fact that in this, at least, he was right there with her.

  By the time Lisa woke, the logs in the fireplace were burned down to ash and sunlight was streaming through the twin windows on either side of the bed, shining right across the blanketed bumps of their tangled feet.

  She looked at those bumps, feeling the warmth of his feet against hers beneath the blankets, the arm he had planted over her waist, keeping her backside tucked against him, and felt such a wealth of contentment that it was nearly overwhelming.

  If she could have blamed it on the unheard-of presence of a man sleeping in her bed, she would have.

  But it wasn’t just any man.

  It was Rourke.

  She let out a long breath.

  That week at work, she’d worried that having him in her home would feel awkward. It wasn’t as if they were a world away in a Mediterranean villa where it had become easy to forget their real world. Their real lives.

  This was Boston. Her home. It didn’t get much more real than that.

  And instead of feeling as if her space was invaded, as if he was taking over another area of her life—particularly knowing that he intended to stay for more than just a few days—she felt…content.

  It ought to have confused the life out of her.

  But lying there, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against her spine, Lisa couldn’t summon up even the slightest confusion.

  Only contentment.

  It was nature itself that finally propelled her out of the warm nest of blankets and Rourke’s arms.

  The bedroom was at least ten degrees colder than it had been the night before, and she snatched up the first thing her hands encountered to drag over her head as she visited the only bathroom her upstairs possessed. Rourke’s sweater.

  The soft ivory knit hung over her shoulders and down to her knees and she couldn’t help tilting her nose down to smell the scent of him in the weave as she cleaned her face and teeth and worked the remains of her braid out of her hair. A peek through the bedroom door showed her that Rourke hadn’t budged since she’d left the bed, except to throw one arm over his head.

  His hair—longer now than it had ever been since she’d met him and showing a distinctly unruly wave—was tousled over his forehead. During their honeymoon, she’d gotten used to the sight—as well as the tantalizing feel—of the dark blur of beard that always shadowed his square jaw by morning and for a long moment, she hovered there watching him sleep, a strange sort of tenderness invading her chest.

  “If you’re gonna stand there staring,” his husky voice eventually said, making her start, “come back to bed.”

  “Men your age shouldn’t have so much stamina,” she retorted. “And it may be Saturday, but I have important things to do.”

  He pushed up on his elbow and the bedding fell away from his chest. “Honey, to a healthy guy who isn’t quite as old as you seem to think, in the morning, there ain’t nothing more important than that.”

  She forcibly dragged her gaze away from all that male perfection on display and toyed with the too-long sleeves of his sweater that hung below her fingers. “I have to meet my mother and get some stuff for my dad’s eightieth birthday party. Evidently, I’m in charge of hand-addressing the invitations and tracking the RSVPs. Making certain that everyone Mother wants there is there.” Emily would undoubtedly hunt down anyone who didn’t respond the way she wanted. All done in the most steely-gracious way, of course.

  “Have your secretary do it,” Rourke suggested carelessly.

  “It’s bad enough having my mother push it off on me without even asking if I had the time. I wouldn’t dream of pushing this off on Ella. And she’d quickly remind you that she’s my administrative assistant.”

  “Then have Cynthia do it.”

  “Your assistant? You’re crazy. She scares me to pieces.”

  “She’s a pussycat.”

  She hooted. “Maybe to you she is. Besides, she’s in New York.”

  He bunched the pillow beneath his head again. “Then have fun meeting your mom.”

  Sudden inspiration hit. “You should come with me. Mother actually likes you.” Emily would be thrilled at the notion that Rourke would be in town for days on end.

  He slanted her a glance that gave new meaning to the phrase bedroom eyes. “Are you going to make it worth my while?”

  “Bribery?” She leaned against the doorjamb. “I’d think a supposedly smitten—” she air-quoted the word “—bridegroom would want to spend every possible moment with his new bride.”

  “Not when it’s under the nose of Emily Armstrong,” he returned wryly.

  “Ah.” She nodded, feeling a smile tug at her own lips, and crossed her arms. “You do really know my mother. Okay. Think of it as a philanthropic gesture. Doing a generous and kind deed for your wife.”

  He pulled the pillow over his head, lifting his hand in a stopping motion.

  “You can’t hide from it.” She raised her voice. “I’ve already read about the awards ceremony being held next month and all about the noble deeds of this year’s award winner.” And been dauntingly impressed, wondering how he found the time to invest his time as much as his money. He’d not only funded several new shelters in the city, but he’d helped build them. Literally. With hammer and nails. He’d done the same with a new school for girls in Sudan.

  But that was what Rourke did. Led by example.

  He moved aside the pillow, giving her a baleful look that had her biting the inside of her cheek to hide her delight. It was so refreshing to see the ever-confident man even the slightest bit discomfited. Was it any wonder that she had to take advantage of it?

  “If I go with you, will you not say another word about the award business until we actually have to show up at that damn dinner?”

  “We?”

&nb
sp; “You think I’m going to show up there alone?”

  “Won’t your family be there? Receiving the award is a big deal.”

  “Yes, they’ll be there,” he said, looking aggrieved. “And obviously, so will Nora and Grif.”

  She hid a smile and drew a cross over her heart. “All right. I promise not to mention it again. Although now I’ve got to add shopping to the list of things to get done. I assume the thing I’m not supposed to mention will be a formal occasion, and finding a suitable outfit is rarely accomplished in just one day.”

  “Fine. I’ll go with you.” His heavy-lidded gaze roved over her. “But first, you have to come here to me.”

  “I was going to fix you some coffee.” It was one thing she could prepare faithfully without ruining. She bit the tip of her tongue for a moment. “Strong and hot, just the way you liked it in France.”

  “Strong and hot, yeah. But the coffee part is not on my mind at the moment.”

  She knew that. “It is on mine.” She smiled slyly and turned to go down the hall.

  “Come back here.” She heard his footfall on the creaking floorboards followed rapidly by a nasty curse. “Holy— It’s freezing in here,” he yelled.

  Not at all his swell Park Avenue penthouse, which undoubtedly even had heated floors.

  She glanced over her shoulder and giggled when she saw him coming after her, her grandmother’s very faded wedding-circle quilt yanked around his torso. “Don’t trip,” she warned, dashing to the stairs.

  She wasn’t fast enough, though. Even hampered by a sixty-year-old quilt, he caught up to her before she reached the landing, scooped her right off her feet, and tossed her over his shoulder.

  She found her nose abruptly up close and personal to his quilt-draped backside. “Hey.” She wriggled her legs and his arm clamped down over her thighs as he strode back toward the bedroom.

  “Caveman.” She batted at his butt, but there wasn’t much power behind it since she was giggling too hard. Then he flipped her off his shoulder and dumped her, bouncing, onto the bed and she couldn’t help but laugh even harder. “What would the business world think if they saw you now?”