Christine Rimmer - The Tycoon's Instant Daughter

If the walls of Stockwell Mansion could talk…

The stories we could tell! To describe the Stockwell family dynasty as merely “interesting” is like calling this forty-room showplace “a house.” Just wouldn’t do the truth justice, now, would it? So let’s talk about truth, shall we? Something that has been in short supply at times around here. Caine Stockwell, the dynasty’s mean-spirited patriarch, has told some Texas-sized whoppers. But why should we spill his dirty little secrets when he’s about to do it himself? Good thing the Stockwells have plenty of mansion insurance, because his confession could shake the shingles off this place!

Now brace yourself for this one! Caine’s son, playboy tycoon Cord Stockwell, has just received some soul-shocking news. He’s a father—and baby has come to Stockwell Mansion to roost. And by the fiery look in Cord’s eyes, the sweet-’n-irresistible nanny he’s temporarily hired might be staying for a very long time…say, until little Becky finishes college. Actually, forever sounds like a better idea, don’t you think?

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Gail Chasan, my favorite editor in the whole world, because she always senses when something’s missing—and she never fixes what ain’t broke.

Since the publication of her first romance in 1987, New York Times bestselling author Christine Rimmer has written over thirty-five novels for Silhouette Books. A reader favorite, Christine has seen her stories consistently appear on the Waldenbooks and USA Today bestseller lists. She has won the Romantic Times Magazine Reviewer’s Choice Award, and has been nominated twice for the Romance Writers of America’s coveted RITA Award and four times for Romantic Times Magazine’s Series Storyteller of the Year. Christine lives in Oklahoma with her husband, younger son and two very contented cats, Tom and Ed.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

The social worker clutched the baby in her arms just a fraction tighter. “Mr. Stockwell, I’m sorry,” she said. “But I can’t leave Becky here under these conditions.”

Cord Stockwell held on to his temper. “These conditions?” he repeated in his softest, most reasonable tone. Those who knew him best always had sense enough to proceed with care when he spoke so quietly. They knew that such a tone meant he wouldn’t be speaking quietly for long. “Tell me. Exactly what is wrong with these conditions?” He lifted an eyebrow and waited, letting the big room around them speak for itself.

In the past five days, he’d had the room and the bedroom adjoining it completely redone. Now, rainbow murals arched across the sunny yellow walls. Brightly colored rugs dotted the hardwood floor. A rocking horse waited in the corner and big bins filled to the brim with toys were everywhere, along with an impressive array of stuffed animals. From teddy bears to baby dolls, the room had everything a little girl could ask for.

Cord added, still excruciatingly reasonable, “I went to considerable effort and expense to put all this together.”

The social worker parsed out a pained little smile. “I can see that. And it’s very nice. But—”

“But? I don’t want any ‘buts’ out of you. I did every last thing you said I had to do—including hiring a nanny. Are you telling me it’s my fault that the woman called this morning and said she wouldn’t be able to take the job, after all?”

The pained smile got more so. “Of course it’s not your fault. I never said it was. But the fact remains, you have no nanny. And in your particular situation, without appropriate child care, you aren’t prepared to provide the kind of round-the-clock attention that Becky needs.” The woman’s tone, so preachy and know-it-all, would have done a Yankee proud. It thoroughly contradicted her down-home Reba McEntire twang. She’d grown up in some tiny town in Oklahoma; Cord would be willing to bet his considerable fortune on that.

He swore under his breath. An Okie social worker with a Yankee attitude. Did it get any worse?

Right then, the baby girl let out one of those little, gurgly cooing sounds that babies are always making. The social worker glanced down and met the baby’s wide eyes—eyes the exact same shade of blue as the ones Cord saw when he looked in the mirror. The woman’s tight expression loosened up. For a split second, as she smiled at the baby, she looked sweet and soft and pretty enough to make Cord forget how completely fed up he was with her.

Too bad a split second never lasts all that long.

She faced off against him once more, her mouth instantly pinching up tight as a noose around the neck of a hanged man. “A three-month-old baby is a full-time job. And you can’t expect to be able to take care of Becky all on your own. As you explained to me yourself, you’ve got your hands full runnin’ the Stockwell businesses, now that your father is ill. You’re going to need help, and plenty of it.”

Ill. Now there was a namby-pamby word for it if he ever heard one. Caine Stockwell was way beyond “ill.” He was flat out dying. Of cancer. It was an ugly way to go. And Caine, mean as a stepped-on sidewinder in the best of times, was going down kicking and screaming all the way.

Cord tried again. “I told you. The Stockwell International offices are here, in Stockwell Mansion, right below us, on the first floor. I’ll be available to Becky whenever she needs me. I’ll find another nanny soon. And until I do, we’ve got help running out our ears around here anyway.” Stockwell Mansion was a Dallas area landmark, the biggest house in the county of Grandview, forty Texas-size rooms in imposing Georgian style. It took a Texas-size staff to run the place. “One of the housekeepers can—”

“No, Mr. Stockwell,” she interrupted him without so much as a by-your-leave. “One of the housekeepers can’t. Becky deserves lovin’, attentive care, not just someone willin’ to look in on her now and then. And I intend—”

That did it. Cord’s temper got away from him. “I don’t give a good damn what you intend! That baby is—”

“—gonna start cryin’ if you don’t keep your voice down.” Now the damn woman had her chin poked out. She was giving him her best Yankee-style glare. “And would you kindly stop your swearing, as well.”

Fine. He would keep his voice down. He wouldn’t swear. Much. He suggested with measured care, “Listen. I want you to carry Becky into her bedroom, lay her down in her crib and then step across the hall with me.”

She glared all the harder. “And why on earth would I want to go and do that?”

“So we can discuss this more…freely.”

She made a snorting sound. “I don’t think so, Mr. Stockwell. There is nothin’ to discuss here.” She had one of those big, flowered diaper bags hooked over her shoulder. She hoisted it higher. “I’ll take Becky home now and when you’ve solved the nanny problem you can—”

“Just where the hell is this home you’re taking my daughter to?”

She flinched, just barely, a reaction so small a less observant man would have missed it. But Cord Stockwell saw it, and took note of it. For the first time in their irritating association, he had gotten under Ms. Hannah Miller’s skin. He wondered exactly what nerve he’d hit.