Christine Rimmer - The Tycoon's Instant Daughter

What more could any woman ask for? If she didn’t watch herself, she’d end up pea-green with envy of the woman she was planning to hire.

“Anything else?” he asked. He looked kind of hopeful. And for some reason that made her want to try to think up more questions.

But how wise would that be?

“Um. No. I think that’s everything. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He kept smiling that killer smile.

But after a minute it faded.

He finally said, “All right. Good night.”

“Yes. Good—”

They both heard the cry at the same time—well, it was more of a whine, really. A small, fussy, tender little sound. They stared at each other. Hannah was holding her breath.

And she knew that he was, too.

Another whine. And then a louder one. And then an outright cry.

Hannah told him ruefully, “Someone is calling me.” She moved forward a fraction, and then hesitated. “Excuse me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He stepped back, out of the doorway.

She brushed past him.

Cord just stood there, staring after her as her bare feet whispered across the playroom floor, the bit of snowy-white nightgown that showed beneath her robe seeming to glow in the darkness as she retreated. When she disappeared through the door to the baby’s bedroom, he bestirred himself and followed.

She was lifting Becky from the crib as he reached her side.

“She might be wet. And she’s probably hungry. I usually feed her around eleven. And she’s a good girl.” She cooed something appreciative into Becky’s tiny ear, then added, over the baby’s shoulder, “After this, she’ll most likely sleep through the rest of the night.”

She turned for the white bureau nearby, the one with the changing pad on top. He had a feeling what was coming. And it was.

She laid the squalling baby on her back, then slid a finger down her diaper. “Yep. Time for a change.”

He considered backing up until he was out the door. But unfortunately, she spoke before he could get his legs to move.

“Come on.” She flicked on the little carousel wall lamp next to the bureau. “You need to learn how to do this. And it won’t be so tough. It’s only wet this time.” She had the nerve to grin at him.

“Maybe I should wait,” he suggested, wincing as his little girl squalled, flailing her arms and kicking her fat little legs. “I’ll give it a try sometime when she’s not squirming so much.”

“Mr. Stockwell, babies who need changing most generally are going to squirm.”

“See. There you have it.”

“Have what?”

Becky, who didn’t look nearly as cute right then as she had when she was sound asleep, kept on yowling and waving her arms and legs around. She was wearing some little yellow T-shirt thing with snaps all over the front of it.

Ms. Miller made more cooing sounds as she peeled away tabs.

“You should do it,” he said. “You’re good at it.”

“And you should learn. Come on over here.”

Hell.

He took the few steps to stand by the changing pad with her. She already had the diaper off. She pressed a lever with her foot, and tossed it into the white bin beside the bureau. Next, she reached over and pulled a couple of white squares out of a plastic container.

She held out the squares. “Here. These are baby wipes. Take them.”

He should have known better, but he did what she told him. The damn things were wet, for the love of Mike. His disgust must have shown on his face.

Ms. Miller let out a loud hoot of laughter.

Surprised the hell out of him—and Becky, too. His little girl stopped yowling to stare at the woman standing over her.

Ms. Miller had the grace to shut her mouth. “Oops,” she said. “Sorry.” She looked away—to control herself, presumably. He heard one more snicker and then she turned back to him with a straight face.

He was still holding the wet squares from the plastic container.

Ms. Miller said, “Wipe her bottom. Very gently.”

He said nothing, only shook his head and stepped closer and did what she said that he had to do.

Once that was accomplished, she had him throw away the used wipes. Then she handed him the diaper rash ointment and told him to gently rub it on. And then, she showed him how to fold a diaper into the slots on the pair of plastic pants. Finally she had him take Becky’s little feet and lift up her bottom and slide the diaper and plastic pants underneath her.

After that, it was pretty simple. He folded the sides up and pressed the Velcro tapes together.

“Now,” she said, “we’ll wrap her back up nice and cozy in this light blanket and you can hold her for a few minutes. I’ll stick a bottle in warm water. Be back in a flash.”

She was gone before he could order her to stay. A dim light went on somewhere in the playroom.

How long did it take to warm up a bottle?

Too long, more than likely.

Becky looked like she might just start crying again. So he picked her up very carefully and put her on his shoulder the way Ms. Miller had shown him before. And then he stood there, feeling like ten kinds of oafish idiot, patting her little back and listening to Ms. Miller in the other room, bustling around in there, doing whatever had to be done to get Becky’s nighttime snack ready.

Becky made a little, experimental sort of fussy sound.

He did not want her starting to yowl in his ear. Maybe if he rocked her…

Yes. That would be good. Babies liked rocking. Didn’t they?

He carried her to the rocker and carefully lowered the two of them into it. He rocked very gently, thinking that would be more soothing, though he felt just frantic enough to keep having to remind himself not to pick up speed.

Becky whined. And then she cried. She also burped. He felt that. It was a wet burp and it made a warm, soggy spot on his shirt. That was when he remembered that he should have put a diaper on his shoulder before holding a baby there.

He went on rocking.

Becky went on crying.

And finally, Ms. Miller reappeared with a bottle.

He didn’t know whether to hug her or yell at her.

She went to the rows of shelves over the changing area and got the diaper that he’d forgotten to use. And then, finally, she padded over to him on her pretty white feet. She set the bottle on the little table by the rocker.

“Here,” she said, calm and competence personified. Gently she peeled Becky off his shoulder.

He looked up at her. “What now?”

“Now you can feed her.”

He started to argue, just on principle. But then he thought that feeding her might not be near as bad as rocking her while she wailed. She’d have a bottle in her mouth, right? And that meant she’d be quiet.

So he allowed Ms. Miller to lay his daughter in his arms, then to hand him the bottle. The rest was easy. He touched the nipple to Becky’s mouth and she latched on and started sucking away.

Piece of cake.

He grinned down at her, pleased with himself, pleased with Becky—and also pleased, though he probably shouldn’t have allowed himself to be, with Ms. Miller.

“You’ve got drool on that nice blue shirt,” Ms. Miller said softly.

He smiled down at his gorgeous, hungry daughter. “Breaks of the game.”

“Here.” She bent close. She smelled warm and sweet, of woman and baby lotion and some faint, light perfume. She smoothed the diaper on his shoulder. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped rocking until she pulled away and he lost the scent of her. Slowly, cautiously, he started the chair moving back and forth again.

“When she’s done, burp her—you remember how to do that?”

He didn’t look up. It seemed safer that way.

She continued, “Then put her in the crib again. On her back. Tuck her in nice and cozy. You think you can handle that?”