Christine Rimmer - The Tycoon's Instant Daughter

He wanted to say, “Maybe not. Maybe you’d better stay…” But where the hell would that get them? She was a smart-mouthed, well-meaning social services worker from Anywhere, Oklahoma. The kind who married, settled down with one guy forever and raised a passel of kids. And he was a man with no interest in anything that had settling down in it—let alone forever.

All right. He’d admit it. She held a certain…attraction for him. He didn’t understand it, because he never dated the homey, settling-down type. Not ever. And he never went after the help. It was a cardinal rule with him.

He didn’t understand it.

But did he even need to understand it?

He realized he didn’t, since he knew it would pass. His interest in any one woman always did. It would be the same with Ms. Miller—except that, in her case, he would never lay a hand on her. She’d teach him the things he needed to know about taking care of his little girl. And she’d find her own replacement, someone steady and dependable, someone minus the leaf-green eyes and the chestnut hair, the shapely feet and the virginal but see-through white nightgown.

“Mr. Stockwell, can you handle it?”

He looked up at her then. “Where were you born, Ms. Miller?”

She hesitated, but then she did tell him. “Oologah. That’s in—”

“I know where Oologah is. Birthplace of Will Rogers. Have I got it right?” She nodded. He asked, “What did your daddy do?”

Another hesitation. Then a sigh. “He ran a gas station. I was pretty little, but I still remember those gasoline trucks pulling into our station to fill up the tanks. They had your name on the side of them. Stockwell Oil.”

“Your folks still live there, in Oologah?”

Something happened in her face, a barrier descending behind those green eyes. “No, Mr. Stockwell. They do not. And you haven’t answered my question. Do you think you can put Becky to bed by yourself?”

“Yes, Ms. Miller. I believe that I can.”

“The monitor’s on the windowsill. I’ve got the receiver in my room. Just speak up if you need me.”

He held her gaze for much longer than necessary before he answered, “Thanks. But I’m sure I can manage just fine on my own.”

She turned for the door. He glanced down at Becky. Looking at his daughter kept him from watching the bit of white gown that fell below the hem of her robe, and the outline of Ms. Miller’s calves beneath it, not to mention the unconscious invitation in her gently swaying hips as she walked away from him.

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