Marion Lennox: The Billionaire's Christmas Baby

‘You’re planning to abandon your baby?’ Max’s voice was filled with shock, but also the beginnings of anger. ‘Yours and my father’s baby?’

‘Of course I’m abandoning it. It was a business contract and he broke it.’

‘So he planned a son—why? To keep me from inheriting?’

‘If he’d told me that I might have even done something,’ Isabelle snapped. ‘For the amount of money he promised me, I could have fixed it. Sex selection’s illegal in this country but he had enough money to pay for me to go abroad. But the stupid old fool didn’t even have the sense to be upfront.’

‘You know he had a brain tumour. He died of a heart attack but he had cancer. You know he wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘I don’t know anything and I care less,’ Isabelle snapped. ‘All I know is that I’m leaving. My lawyers will be in touch.’ She whirled back to the door, blocked now by the goggling Nigel and the pram. ‘Get out of my way.’

Nigel, shocked beyond belief, edged the pram aside so Isabelle could shove her way past. She stalked the four steps to the elevator and hit the button.

The elevator slid open as if it had been waiting.

‘Isabelle!’ Max strode forward, but the terrified Nigel had swung the pram back into the doorway and bolted, straight through the fire door.

The pram held Max back for precious moments.

The elevator doors slid closed and the fire door slammed.

Isabelle and Nigel were gone.

CHAPTER TWO

THE FIRE DOOR looked very, very appealing.

Cleaning staff were supposed to be invisible.

‘Enter discreetly. If guests are present, act as if you’re a shadow. Listen to nothing and if there’s the slightest sense of unease disappear and go back later. If there’s a problem call Housekeeping and have a guest relations manager handle it.’

That had been the mantra drilled into her two years ago when she’d taken this job and Sunny liked it that way. There was too much drama and worry in her personal life to want any more at work.

So, like Nigel, she should bolt for the fire door. Except that would mean pushing past Max, pushing past the pram, possibly even dripping her mop on both.

He’d have to move. He’d have to tug the pram inside, so she could edge out.

Meanwhile, she tried melting against the wall, acting like part of the plaster, hoping he wouldn’t notice her.

Though there was a sneaky little voice that was thinking, Whoa, did I really see what I just saw? Where was a camera when she needed it? The media would go nuts over what had just happened.

Right. And she’d lose her job and she wouldn’t get one again in the service industry and what else was she trained for? She’d left school at fifteen and there’d only been sporadic attendance before then. She was fit for nothing except blending into the wall, which she’d done before and she had every intention of doing now.

Max didn’t seem to notice her. Why would he? He’d just been handed a bombshell.

He walked cautiously forward and peered into the pram. The wails increased to the point of desperation and the look on Max’s face matched exactly.

She expected him to back away in alarm. Instead he leaned over and scooped a white bundle into his arms. The wails didn’t cease. He stood, looking down into the crumpled face of a newborn, and something in his own face twisted.

The pram was still blocking her path but with the baby out of it she could pull it to one side. She could leave.

She edged forward and Max turned as if he suddenly realised he had company.

‘You...’

She was still standing with her mop and bucket. Her cleaner’s uniform was damp down the front. Her curls were escaping from her regulation knot. She looked nothing like the image of immaculate efficiency the hotel insisted she maintain. Brent would have kittens if he could see her now, she thought, but there was nothing she could do about it.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you know anything about babies?’

There was a loaded question. The answer was more than she wanted to think about, but she wasn’t going there.

‘If you need help, you might ring Housekeeping,’ she suggested, clutching her mop and bucket like a shield and lance. ‘Or I can ask them to send someone up.’ She listened to the wails and softened just a little. ‘She sounds like she needs feeding,’ she suggested. ‘You might check the pram for formula, or Housekeeping could provide some. Goodnight, sir...’ And she edged forward.

She didn’t make it two steps. He was in front of her, blocking her way.

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he growled. ‘Take her.’

‘I’m the cleaner.’ She wasn’t putting her mop and bucket down for the world.

‘Until I find someone else, you’re here to help. You stay until I get Housekeeping up here. Put that gear down and take her.’

‘Sir, she’s your baby...’

‘She is not my baby.’

It was a deep, guttural snap that shocked them both. It appeared to shock even the baby. There was a moment’s stunned silence while all of them, baby included, took a breath and reloaded.

Max recovered first. Maybe he had the most to lose. He strode to the door, slammed it shut, pushed the pram in front of it and then walked straight to her. He held the bundle out, pressing it against her.

She could hold her mop and bucket with all the dignity she could muster, or she could take this bundle of misery, a crumpled newborn.

Did she have a choice? What’s new? she thought bitterly. When there’s a mess, hand it to Sunny.

She set the cleaning aids aside and took the bundle. As if on cue, it—she—started wailing again.

‘I’ll ring Housekeeping,’ Max snapped. ‘Stop her crying.’

Stop her crying. Right. In what universe did this man live? A universe where babies had off switches?

But as he stalked to the phone she relented and peered into the pram.

There was a bag tucked in the side. She investigated with hope.

A folder with documents. A tin of formula. A couple of bottles. Two diapers.

Okay, this baby’s mother wasn’t completely heartless. Or...she was pretty heartless, but Sunny had coped with worse.

She sighed and headed for the penthouse’s kitchenette. She’d seen Max make himself a hot drink a few minutes ago. Blessedly, he’d overfilled the kettle, so she had boiled water. She balanced baby in one hand, scoop and bottle in the other, made it up, then ran cold water in the sink to immerse the base of the bottle to cool it.

The wailing continued but she could hear Max in the background on the phone. ‘What do you mean, no one? I want a babysitter. Now. Find someone. An outside agency. I don’t care. Just do it.’

A babysitter at ten o’clock, the night before Christmas Eve? Christmas was on a Sunday this year, which meant today was Friday. The whole world—except the likes of hotel cleaners—would have started Christmas holidays today. Celebrations would be almost universal and every babysitting service would be stretched to the limit.

Good luck, she thought drily, but then she looked down into the baby’s face. Phoebe was tiny, her face creased in distress, her rosebud mouth working frantically. How long since she’d been fed?

This little one’s mother had handed her over without a backward glance. This man didn’t want her.

There were echoes of Sunny’s background all over the place here, and she didn’t like it one bit.

She needed to leave.

She could feel sogginess under her hand. And the baby...smelled?

‘Get someone up here. Get me the manager.’ Max was barking into the phone, but she tuned it out. How long since this little one had been changed?

A tentative examination made her shudder. Ugh. She gave up on the thought of a simple change and headed for the bathroom. She stripped off all the baby’s clothes, then used the washbasin to clean her. The wailing was starting to sound exhausted, but the baby had enough strength to flail her legs in objection to the warm water.