Katherine Garbera - Billion-Dollar Baby Bargain / The Moretti Arrangement

By the time he ended the kiss she was ready to do whatever he asked.

Connor North set her away from him with shaking hands. “Now, tell me that wasn’t what you wanted.”

She lifted a hand to her mouth, the fullness of her lips tingling. Damn Connor North. He must surely be aware of his effect on her. Sucking in a shuddering breath, she said, “Don’t try it again or I’ll slap you so hard it’ll leave marks on your face.”

He laughed. “Here—” he thrust a pristine, folded white handkerchief at her “—use this for that other dramatic gesture B-grade girls love. Wipe it across your mouth and make the necessary sounds of disgust.” His eyes glittered wildly in the half light.

Ignoring the shaky feeling inside, Victoria quirked one expressive, dark eyebrow. “Girls do that to you often?”

“No…but then the women I know don’t threaten to slap me, either.” His not-so-subtle emphasis of the word women caused color to flame in her face.

She balled the handkerchief in a fist, and he flinched as she raised it to his mouth.

“Stand still.” Her voice was tight. “Better I wipe my lipstick off your mouth.”

The curves of his mouth felt full and sensual under the fabric.

“There, I’m done.”

Connor stared down at the red stain on the white cloth and his lips twisted. “You should have left your mark on my mouth.”

He raised his head and Victoria felt the force of his reckless attraction hit her like a surge of current. “Why would I want to do that?” She injected scorn into her voice.

He shrugged carelessly. “It would have given all the gossips something to talk about other than my scurrilous split from Dana.”

“I don’t want to be linked to you.” Victoria was appalled at the idea. “So we’re going to go back to the table and smile like crazy—for Suzy and Michael’s sake. But after today I intend to take great pains to keep as far away from you as possible.”

“That won’t be necessary. You’re hardly my type…” he paused, then added tauntingly “…Elizabeth.”

Victoria spun away and stalked inside and quite spoilt the moment by failing to remind him that her name was Victoria.

August, present day, two years later

Late on Monday afternoon, Connor walked out of the morgue in the small Northland town where the bodies had been taken and gulped in a lungful of crisp, fresh air. Michael. The face he’d known so well in life had been unrecognizable in death. And all the dazzling laughter had left Suzy forever. Connor craved the deep, cleansing peace of tears.

But grown men didn’t cry.

Nor did he have time to grieve. Picking up his pace, he jogged across the car park to where the Maserati waited.

But once inside, he sat motionless, staring blindly through the windshield.

He should call Victoria. The thought came from nowhere. He sighed. What the hell was the purpose? Except to upset her further.

Pulling out of the car park, he headed for the highway.

Not far from the exit to the town he saw again the sickening skid marks, and the white symbols the police had painted on the tarmac.

Driven by a nameless, senseless urge Connor pulled over and got out.

The grass verge was peppered with glass, and he stepped over the deep furrows Michael’s tires had gouged out of the turf. A light country breeze blew across his face and cars whizzed past. There was none of the sense that Michael’s spirit still lingered—as Connor realized he’d hoped for when he’d pulled over.

It’s not fair. They should be here! Victoria’s words rang in his ears.

Balling his fists against his eyes, he faced the fact that he would never again see the slight smile that changed Michael’s expression from intellectual to human. He would never again play squash against that killer competitive drive that few people knew Michael possessed.

A tidal wave of sorrow swept over him, and a moment later the aftershock of loneliness set in, paralyzing him.

Even after the fiasco with his ex-girlfriend and his business partner, he’d been able to act. He hadn’t even missed Dana—he’d kept himself too busy. Working like a fiend to get the Phoenix Corporation up. Going to the gym. Squash and beers with Michael. Dating a string of women who entertained but didn’t enthrall. While all the time Michael watched him with that quiet smile and offered advice that Connor hadn’t taken.

And now he’d never see Michael again.

Even fighting with Victoria had to be better than this miserable emptiness. Then he remembered her face as he’d last seen it yesterday. Devastated by the loss of Suzy. Again the compulsion to call Victoria nagged him.

Michael…

Hell.

He dropped his balled fists to his side, blinked rapidly and swallowed, furious at the hot tightness in his chest. Never was a long time. And right now it stretched before him endlessly.

He wasn’t accustomed to being powerless.

The only things left for him to do for Michael were so final—so futile. Arranging the funeral. Carrying the coffin. Executing his will. Ensuring that Dylan was protected.

A car swept by in a rush of air, the driver hooting, jerking him out of his trance of grief.

Dylan.

Connor raked both his hands through his wind-ruffled hair. Michael had loved Dylan; he loved Dylan, too.

No doubt about it, Dylan was special. Never had a baby been more loved. And that’s the way it had always been meant to be.

When, shortly after his wedding, Michael had confessed to Connor that he was sterile as a result of contracting mumps as a boy, Connor had agreed to donate sperm to allow the Masons a chance at a baby. It hadn’t been a hard decision for him to make. Anyone who knew Suzy and Michael could see that they were made to be parents. Perfect parents. Yet they’d worried about how their baby might one day react if he discovered Conner was his biological father.

Michael and Suzy had wanted the truth about his biological father to stay forever secret—and Connor had acquiesced to their request. The baby had always been intended to be theirs. Not his.

But now Michael and Suzy were dead.

Connor flinched at the finality of the word. But he would not break his vow to the Masons. At least not until Dylan was old enough to understand why he’d been created from his father’s friend’s seed.

The foggy lethargy that had clung to him for most of the day started to lift. Connor strode back to the Maserati.

At last he had something to do. Something worthwhile. He had a duty—one he would not fail in. He would bring Dylan up to remember the fine man that Michael had been. And someday, when Dylan was older, he would explain how much his parents had loved him—and wanted him. That would be the time to tell Dylan—and the world—the truth.

Victoria reached for the shrilling phone and Dylan’s eyes, which had been growing heavier, popped open. He again started to suck greedily on the bottle she’d been feeding him.

Juggling the handset and the bottle, she waited for him to settle again in the crook of her arm before saying, “Hello?”

“I’ll be there in under an hour.”

Her heart started to knock against her ribs. “Who is this speaking, please?”

“Don’t play games, Victoria,” growled Connor. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

Victoria fell silent. Her day had been pretty awful, too. First thing this morning she’d called Bridget Edge, the managing partner at work, to let her know she wouldn’t be in, that she was taking compassionate leave because her best friend had died.

There had been a short silence. Then, after uttering perfunctory condolences, Bridget had asked when she would be back at work.