Cinderella's Tycoon

by Caroline Cross

  But there’d also been a section for physical attributes. She shifted uncomfortably on the hot pavement as she acknowledged that when she’d requested someone tall, lean and imposing, with dark hair, light eyes, chiseled features and a graceful way of moving, she might have been describing Sterling.

  Yet there was no way he could know about that. Could he? No, of course not. Nobody but the people at the clinic even knew she was expecting. And though she’d told Callie what she’d done, she trusted her friend to have kept her secret.

  So what could he possibly want?

  Before she had time to venture a guess he turned and caught sight of her. His gaze flicked over her, and something in his expression made her self-conscious. She glanced down at her mauve jumper, acknowledging that perhaps the calf-length hem and voluminous skirt weren’t the most fashionable, and that the color might not have been the wisest choice for someone with her pale skin and auburn hair. And it probably didn’t help that the hair in question was escaping its careful coil. Raising a hand, she wasn’t surprised to find that the slippery mass was listing sharply to one side, while wisps snaked down her neck and tickled her temples and ears.

  Still, that was hardly a reason for her visitor’s jaw to suddenly bunch the way it did. Nor did it explain the decidedly cool note coloring his Texas drawl—so much more melodic than her own Northern diction—as he said gruffly, “Ms. Wilkins?”

  As so often happened, shyness stole her tongue. Embarrassed, she ducked her head, and tried desperately to relax. After all, in roughly seven months she was going to be somebody’s mother. How could she hope to take care of a child, if she couldn’t handle a simple conversation?

  Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “Hello, Mr. Churchill. May I help you?” Oh, brilliant, Susan. You sound like the order taker at a fast-food restaurant.

  “We need to talk.”

  “We do?”

  He gave her a don’t-waste-my-time look. “We do.”

  Biting her lip, she crossed the sun-burned lawn and stopped before the single step to look up at him. Casually dressed in boots, jeans, a navy polo shirt and the Stetson that Susan sometimes thought was required dress for every man in Texas, he had an innate elegance that made her more aware than ever of her own woeful state. Clearing her throat, she said, “Is this about Callie and Hank? Are they okay?”

  He stared at her blankly, then gave an impatient shrug. “As far as I know. Last I heard, they were still on their honeymoon.”

  “Thank goodness.” She gave a sigh of relief and tried to explain the reason for her question. “I just thought, since we both know them, that you must be here because something had happened.”

  “It has. But not to them.” He motioned toward the door with an abrupt jerk of his head. “Why don’t we go inside?”

  It was more an order than a request. Yet staring up into his cool gray eyes, she couldn’t find the nerve to refuse. “All right.” Glad for an excuse to look away, she fumbled in her purse for her house key.

  She stepped up onto the stoop, sidled past him and unlocked her door. He was so close she could smell him, and the unfamiliar combination of aftershave, freshly laundered clothes and something else that was uniquely male made her hand tremble on the doorknob.

  She walked gratefully into her dim little living room. It felt reassuringly familiar, not to mention refreshingly cool after the outside heat. Setting her purse on the small table next to the couch, she turned to face her guest, taking a surprised step back as she found he was standing right behind her, hat in hand. She sent him a tremulous smile. “Can I—can I get you something to drink?”

  He didn’t smile back. “No.”

  Suddenly desperate for a glass of water—her throat was so dry it was hard to swallow, and she really could use a moment to herself—she backed toward the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind if I get something for myself—”

  “I understand you’re not married,” he said abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Do you have a boyfriend? Someone you care about?”

  She. stopped in her tracks and gawked at him. “I hardly think that’s your concern,” she said faintly.

  “It is if you’re having a baby. Are you?” He spoke as if he had every right to ask such a question.

  “Mr. Churchill. Really!”

  He took a step toward her. “Are you?”

  Although she cautiously took a step back, his very intensity compelled her to answer. “Yes. Yes, I am. But how did you...that is where did you...” How could he possibly know? After all, Mrs. Richey had assured her of the clinic’s strict rules of confidentiality, unless—oh! The phone call! That must be it. There must have been some sort of security breach and—

  “It’s mine.”

  She stared at him, certain she hadn’t heard right. “What?”

  “The baby. It’s mine,” he said flatly.

  For half a second the room seemed to constrict, and then her common sense kicked in. She shook her head. “No. It most certainly is not. You—you—you’re—” Crazy.

  Of course! She felt overwhelming relief, followed by a rush of compassion and a smidgen of regret as the harmless romantic fantasy she’d woven about him completely unraveled. Nevertheless, his being “confused” was the only rational explanation. Drawing a deep breath to steady herself, she said gently but firmly, “You’re mistaken, Mr. Churchill. I don’t know where you got this idea, but I assure you you’re wrong.”

  “You’re not pregnant?”

  “Well, yes, I am, but—”

  “Then it’s mine.”

  “No,” she said more sharply than she intended. “I mean—how could it be? I’ve never... And you and I most certainly have never...” Out of the blue, her imagination served up a brief but steamy vision of the two of them creating a baby the old-fashioned way. Mortified, she felt a betraying flush of heat rise in her cheeks. “That is, we’ve never even spoken before today,” she said hastily.

  “There was a mix-up at the clinic. My semen was used in your procedure.”

  She shook her head. “No—”

  “Yes,” he contradicted, his voice suddenly harsh. “How the hell do you think I know about this? About you?”

  His vehemence silenced her. The truth was there, not only in what he said but in his grim face. “Oh, dear. Oh, my. It can’t be. There must be a mistake. This is my baby. Mine...”

  “Not anymore. Now it’s ours.”

  Whether it was the shock, the heat or his alarming words, she suddenly felt faint. Black spots danced before her eyes and the room began to whirl around her. She must have swayed, because the next thing she knew he was at her side. Ignoring her cry of protest, he slid one big muscular arm around her back, slipped the other under her knees and lifted her into his arms.

  If Susan hadn’t already felt faint, his sudden proximity would have done it. Cradled against his broad chest, she was bombarded by foreign sensations. There was his warmth, the steely strength of his body, the solid beat of his heart against her breast. She squeezed her eyes shut, awash in contradictory feelings. Part of her wanted him to put her down this instant. But another part, shameless and unfamiliar, had an awful desire to snuggle closer. Confused, she gave a grateful sigh as he leaned over and she felt the nubby surface of her couch against the backs of her legs.

  Without a word, he sat beside her and forced her head toward her knees. “Breathe,” he ordered.

  She nodded, doing as he said until the world quit spinning. “I’m sorry,” she murmured finally, shrugging off his hand and sitting upright. “I’m not usually a fainter. It’s just... I can’t seem to take it in...” Swallowing, she turned to look at him. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “Positive. I just spent an hour with Margaret Richey. There’s no question. The child you’re carrying is mine.”

  A dozen questions immediately popped into her mind. Like, why had the clinic told him before they’d told her? Wasn’t there some sort of rule that she had to be notified f
irst? As far as that went, shouldn’t Mrs. Richey have come in person to tell her, instead of allowing Sterling to deliver the news?

  Yet those things could all be answered later. Right now, the only question that mattered was the one she was most terrified to have answered. “Why—” she had to stop and clear her throat “—why are you here? What do you want?”

  “I told you. We need to talk.”

  As an answer, that was hardly illuminating. She considered him, trying to read his emotions and drawing a blank. Whatever he felt, he didn’t let it show on his face. He simply looked...remote. And very formidable. “I—I won’t make any claim on you,” she said slowly, wondering if that was at the heart of his reserve. “I mean, I know you have money, but this doesn’t really have anything to do with you. It was entirely my decision and I’m more than prepared to take full responsibility—”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, no. Biologically this child is half mine. Not only do I expect to take my share of the responsibility, but—” for the first time he hesitated, if only for a second “—I’m willing to take all the responsibility.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if you’ll give me the child, I’ll see to it that it has everything it could possibly need.”

  She could feel her eyes widen as his meaning sank in. She jumped to her feet. “No!” Agitation stripped away the last trace of her normal reserve. “I could never do that. This is my baby! I’ve waited and planned and dreamed about having it, and I’m not giving it up. Not to you or anybody!”

  He stared stonily at her, then leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms. “All right. We’ll get married.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll get married,” he repeated. “It’s probably better, anyway. Kids ought to have two parents.”

  She’d been right earlier. He was crazy. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know you!”

  He climbed to his feet, once again towering over her. “Then it’s time you start. And what you’d better understand is, that’s my kid you’re carrying, most likely my son, and I’m not going to stand on the sidelines, with no say in his upbringing, while he spends most of his life either alone or with a baby-sitter while you struggle to support him. So you can either marry me—or I’ll sue you for custody. Your choice. Although—” he took a pointed look around, his gray eyes unreadable as he examined her minuscule living room with its worn furnishings “—I think it’s only fair to point out that you’d have a mighty slim chance of winning.”

  Susan stared at him. It was clear from his implacable expression that he meant every word he said. Still, the whole idea was crazy. Marriage was meant to be the kind of loving, trusting relationship her parents had enjoyed, not an alternative to being sued, for heaven’s sake.

  Still, he was right about one thing. In the best of all possible worlds, a child should have two parents to love it. Not that she agreed with his crazy proposal. She couldn’t possibly marry him. The whole idea was preposterous.

  Yet his expression made it clear that he expected her to acquiesce. “I—I’ll need some time to think about it,” she hedged instead, trying to buy herself some time until she could come up with a better solution.

  His eyes narrowed. “No. Nothing is going to change, and I don’t want people counting on their fingers when our child is born. It’s going to be touch and go as it is.”

  “But what if something happens? It’s still early in the pregnancy yet. Something could go wrong...”

  “We’ll deal with that if it happens.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Look, I’m not exactly wild about this myself.” For half a second, a bleak look came over his face. Then his expression hardened. “But it is the best solution. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I’m not some sort of wife beater or anything. I promise I’ll take good care of you and the baby. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, but still...”

  “Yes or no?” he said intractably.

  “I...”

  “Choose.”

  Oh! What should she do? Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to envision marriage to Sterling—and failed. She had no trouble, however, picturing the two of them in court. In her mind, she could see him surrounded by high-priced lawyers as some faceless judge banged a gavel down and awarded him custody of her baby. “I...I—yes,” she whispered.

  “Good.” He was suddenly brusque. “How does tomorrow sound to you?”

  Her eyes popped open. “For what?”

  “The ceremony. Judge Lester’s a friend of mine. I’m sure he’ll be glad to do it.”

  “But I have to work!”

  “Call in and tell them you quit,” he commanded. “I’ve got more than enough money for the both of us, and in your condition you shouldn’t be on your feet anyway.”

  She gazed at him in shock, stunned by how casually he was rearranging her entire life. “But—but—I can’t!”

  “You have family you need to call? Just tell me who it is, and I’ll have them flown in.”

  “No,” she said faintly. “There’s nobody.”

  He crossed his arms. “Then what’s the holdup?”

  “It’s...” She tried desperately to think of an answer other than it’s too soon, pretty certain it would get her nowhere. “I don’t have anything to wear,” she said lamely.

  “Huh.” Without another word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a money clip, peeled off some bills and thrust them at her. “Here.”

  “Oh; no. I can’t—”

  “Take it.” His gaze touched briefly on her dress, then came back to her face. “Go out and buy yourself something pretty.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Unless something changes, I’ll come by tomorrow at twelve forty-five to pick you up.”

  She thought of all the things she had to do. She’d have to call her landlord, her boss and the clinic. Luckily the house had come furnished, but the refrigerator and the cupboards would still have to be cleaned out. She’d have to call to turn off her utilities. And find time to shop for a new dress. And, of course she’d have to pack...

  She fought off a fresh wave of exhaustion. Taken all together, it was close to overwhelming. She was going to need every minute she had. “No. Please. I’ll—I’ll meet you there.”

  “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “One o’clock, the county courthouse. The judge’s chambers are on the second floor.” He searched her face. He must have seen her uncertainty, because he said abruptly, “Give me your word you’ll be there, Susan.”

  She stared back at him, stung as she saw the distrust in his eyes. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

  “All right.” With a stiff nod, he settled his hat on his head and strode toward the door, where he smacked the screen open with his palm and was gone.

  Susan stared dazedly after him. Oh, dear. It appeared she was getting married.

  Whether she wanted to or not.

  Two

  She wasn’t coming.

  Sterling paced restlessly along the courthouse hallway. Although the air was cool thanks to the air-conditioning, he’d managed to work up a sweat. As a result, he’d loosened his tie and tossed his navy suit coat over a corridor chair a while ago. Now, stripped down to his shirtsleeves and vest, he glanced at his wristwatch for what felt like the umpteenth time, then stalked over to glare out the bank of windows that overlooked the building’s main entrance.

  It was 1:10 and there wasn’t a redhead in sight.

  “Mr. Churchill?”

  He swiveled around, recognizing the voice of Judge Lester’s clerk. “Yes?”

  The young man hesitated. “I don’t mean to worry you, but I thought I’d better mention that His Honor is due back in court at two. If your fiancée is delayed much longer, I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule.”

  “No problem. She should be here any minute.”

  Appare
ntly he sounded more confident than he felt, because the clerk readily nodded. “Good. But as soon as she arrives, if you could come straight inside, we’ll get started.”

  “Fine.” The instant the younger man disappeared back through the door into the judge’s chambers, Sterling whipped around to once more scan the sidewalk down below.

  Nothing. He swore under his breath. Susan Wilkins wasn’t coming and it was his own damn fault. He never should have agreed to let her get to the courthouse on her own. For that matter, he never should have let her out of his sight. His instinct—the one that had lifted him out of a childhood of near-poverty and made him a millionaire before he turned thirty—had urged him to close this deal while he could. He should have listened to it, should have heeded the inner voice of experience that had warned him that speed was of the essence.

  Because, while there was no way for Ms. Wilkins to know that he would never take a child away from its mother, by now she might have figured out that a court was far more likely to order him to pay support than grant him custody.

  Then again, why would she settle for half the pie when she could have it all? She’d made it clear yesterday that she knew he had money. And, though he knew his attorney was going to have a coronary when he found out, Sterling had deliberately chosen not to ask for a prenup so that by marrying him, she’d have a direct claim on his wealth—a fact he’d counted on to work in his favor.

  He grimaced. It appeared he’d thought wrong. It appeared that if he had the brains God gave a Hereford, he would have called the judge from her dingy little living room yesterday and taken care of everything then and there.

  Of course, he had been practically out on his feet. And there was no guarantee that the judge would’ve been available. Or that he could have arranged things on such short notice. Hell, he’d had to pull strings to make this happen today.