Leigh Michaels - The Tycoon's Baby

Webb Copeland said nothing at all, just looked thoughtful.

The nurse counted out some painkillers into an envelope and handed it to Janey, and told her to stop by the infirmary again in a day or two to have the wound checked for infection.

Janey thanked her and gathered up her gloves and her electronic earmuffs. She had to force herself to stand up, and the thought of going back to work, of struggling once more with that machine, was hardly inviting. But she had a small burn, not a major disability—and the boss was watching.

Webb Copeland fell into step beside her in the hallway. Janey didn’t look at him. “It was nice of you to stay,” she said finally. “You didn’t have to.”

“I should thank you,” he said. “I’d exhausted all my excuses for working late, and you provided me with a new one.”

Janey frowned. Why should he need excuses for working late? In fact, why didn’t he want to go home?

He followed her onto the factory floor. For a moment Janey wondered why, until she remembered that he’d been on his way out of the building when she’d been injured.

The supervisor was inspecting her machine. “That certainly took long enough,” he said tartly as she approached. “What did they do? Skin grafts?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with the machinery. So unless you can give me a reason why I shouldn’t put you on report for carelessness, Griffin—”

Janey thought about it, and shook her head. The lecher at the next machine had been the catalyst, but she had been careless, opening the guard like that and then allowing her mind to wander.

“Then get back to work,” the supervisor ordered.

Behind her, Webb Copeland cleared his throat. “There will be no report of carelessness, because that machine is to be tagged as dangerous and taken out of production till we can get a repairman in to look at it. And since she has no equipment to work with, Ms. Griffin is not going back to work tonight, she is going home. Right now.”

The supervisor’s jaw dropped. The lecher at the next work station gasped.

Janey winced. But she could hardly stand in the middle of the factory and argue about it, so she meekly got her coat and keys from her locker in the break room and followed Webb Copeland out the employees’ entrance. She stopped on the curb as the November wind cut through her coat.

“Did you say you don’t have a car?” he asked.

“The bus will be along soon. Mr. Copeland, I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Which part? And why not?”

“All of it—because there’ll be a lot of talk.”

“About what?”

“It’s obvious you don’t hang out with the guys on the factory floor, or you’d know.” But it was cold, and her neck hurt, and he’d probably think she was conceited even to suggest that the workers were probably talking about the two of them right now. It was too late to do anything about it anyway. “Never mind,” she muttered. “By the way, I hate to sound miserly, but is my paycheck going to be docked because I’m leaving early?”

“Since it’s not your fault, no. Come on, I’ll drive you home. It’s silly to wait in the cold for a bus.” He started off without even a look to see if she was coming along.

For some reason she’d pictured him in a low-slung, two-passenger convertible—but instead his car was midsized and quietly luxurious. “Of course,” she muttered. “Grandma.”

Webb slid behind the wheel. “I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite catch that.”

Janey was too embarrassed at being caught talking to herself even to duck the question. “I was just speculating that your grandmother would find it hard to get in and out of a Corvette.”

He frowned. “You don’t know my grandmother, do you?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I don’t. What would I have in common with her?”

“An excellent question,” he murmured. “Where do you live?”

She gave him the general direction and thought fleetingly about having him drop her off on campus instead of at her door. But why should it matter if Webb Copeland thought she lived in a slum?

It didn’t, she told herself defiantly. Because he didn’t matter. Not at all.

* * *

THE ENGINE PURRED as the car drew up next to one of the most bedraggled houses Webb had ever seen. He gave the place a glance and said, “I’ll wait till you’re inside.”

Janey paused, half in and half out of the car. “Don’t bother. I walk two blocks home from the bus stop every night, later than this, all by myself.”

He waited nevertheless, watching intently till he saw a light come on in the basement apartment. Then he sat back and tapped his fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, and indulged himself in a long, slow smile.

She’s perfect, he told himself. Utterly and absolutely perfect.

* * *

THE MOMENT SHE walked into the employee break room the next day, Janey knew it was going to be worse than she’d thought possible. The looks were bad enough—sly sideways glances that slithered away like snakes when she tried to face them down. But as soon as she turned her back to get her safety equipment from her locker, the whispers started.

“Bet the big boss wouldn’t have walked me to the infirmary.”

“Or held your hand while the nasty nurse hurt you.”

“Or taken you home afterward.”

There was a snort of laughter. “I wonder if it was worth his while.”

Janey had had enough. She turned to face them and said clearly, “If you mean, did Webb Copeland spend the night—no, he didn’t.”

One of the men leered. “Well, it probably wouldn’t take all night,” he said pointedly.

Janey flung her locker door shut and strode toward the factory entrance. Just outside the break room stood an elderly woman with half-glasses perched on her nose, holding a clipboard. She looked from it to Janey and asked, “Are you Ms. Griffin?”

“Unfortunately for me,” Janey snapped, “yes.”

The woman was unfazed. “Then if you’ll come with me? I’m Mr. Copeland’s private secretary, and he wishes to speak with you.”

Janey stopped in midstep. “Is that so? Well, I’ve got a few things I wouldn’t mind saying to him, too. Lead the way.”

They wended down a different hall from the one which led to the infirmary. The farther they walked, Janey noticed, the grander the surroundings became. The carpets were deeper, the walls were papered or paneled instead of merely painted, and each office they passed was larger than the last.

And each person they met seemed increasingly startled at the sight of the two of them. Janey found some grim humor in that; the contrast between her—steel-toed shoes, safety goggles, electronic earmuffs and all—and the elegantly-turned-out white-haired secretary must be a stunner.

At the end of the building, as far as it was possible to get from the factory floor, the secretary opened a heavy teak door and said, “Mr. Copeland? Ms. Griffin is here.”

Janey took two steps forward into an enormous office and watched as Webb Copeland rose slowly from behind an enormous desk.

Irrationally she found herself thinking that it hadn’t been the trench coat that had made him look so tall last night. He really was as imposing as he’d seemed.

“Have a seat,” he said, and gestured toward a pair of armchairs, which stood before a marble fireplace in one corner of the office. “I’d like to have a little chat.”

“Well, that goes double for me.” Janey eyed the pale blue watered silk, which covered the armchairs. She knew perfectly well that her jeans were as clean as they ever again could be, but here and there stains still marked the fabric. If any of them transferred to that delicate silk...