Diana Hamilton - The Millionaire's Baby

She looked vulnerable, beaten, her soft mouth drooping, the eyes that had swept momentarily to his as he’d spoken spangled with tears. He found he couldn’t bear that. He hated it. Deeply.

Something was wrong and he wanted to help put it right and he couldn’t do that unless she opened up and talked to him, told him what the problem was. Whatever her grandmother’s opinion, she wasn’t Wonderwoman. His shoulders were broad enough to carry the burden that was so clearly dragging her down. And with a woman as lovely as Caroline Farr that would be no problem. In fact, he decided suddenly, it would be a pleasure.

With Sophie secured in her high chair and munching on bread and butter he moved quickly to the forlorn yet graceful figure in her soup-spattered cotton dress. She was no more a nanny than he was, knew much less about child care—and he was no expert. He just muddled along as best he could, taking his daughter’s happiness as the yardstick and to hell with timetables and theories.

‘Give yourself a break.’ The gruffness of his voice surprised him. So far she hadn’t moved. This close, he could smell the fresh floral fragrance of her—the perfume she used, he supposed. Or was it the essence of the woman herself?

He cleared his throat. ‘Give me that.’ He meant the discarded pieces of toast she held in her hands. His fingers brushed the slender length of hers and something happened. Something wild and sweet and unrestrained.

She felt it, too. He saw the shaft of surprise in the golden gleam between tangled dark lashes and heard the harsh sound of her swiftly sucking in her breath. And then her chin came up, her head turning sharply on the graceful line of her neck and shoulders, small hands decisive as they snatched away from his.

Unrestraint was ruled out of play. Which was probably just as well, he thought, watching the sway of her hips as she went to dispose of the mangled toast in the waste bin. He needed to uncover the truth, find out why she was here, doing a job she was patently untrained for, before—

Before? That implied that something would come after. And that, surely, was nonsense.

Or was it? .

Caro closed the bathroom door behind her and leaned against it, mourning the lack of a lock. She needed a shower. She felt hot and bothered, sticky all over.

The thought of him walking in on her was terrifying. He was potent stuff and if she’d learned anything in the few hours she’d been here it was that she was no more immune to him than the rest of womankind.

She remembered the way she’d felt when he’d touched her hands, standing so close she would have melted into him had she swayed on her feet by the smallest fraction. The brush of his skin against hers had made her want to do just that, as if something deep inside her was answering a call as old as time.

But—and it was a very big but—she knew exactly what an unprincipled womaniser he was. She wasn’t about to walk into the jaws of a smiling tiger. She might be as crazy as Mary had said, but she wasn’t that crazy!

And he wouldn’t walk in on her while she was in the shower, she rationalised. It would be classified as sexual harassment and she could get him blacklisted by all the agencies around.

Heartened by the resurgence of her fighting spirit, she stripped off and turned on the shower head. It wasn’t like her to throw in the towel.

When she recalled how her eyes had filled with stupid tears because of the kindness of his smile, the gentle warmth of the suggestion that she go and freshen up while he saw to Sophie, along with her own unusual and abhorrent feelings of ineptitude, she could scarcely believe she was capable of such weakness. How could she have been such a wimp?

No, the plan was still on, all systems go. She’d muddle through as best she could until she decided what form her retribution would take, or her name wasn’t Caroline Farr!

Twenty minutes later, dressed now in a white T-shirt and black cotton trousers, her hair freshly blow-dried, she walked out of the bathroom, feeling brisk.

He could accuse her of not knowing much but he couldn’t prove she wasn’t a bona fide nanny.

She found Finn in the main sitting room, sprawled out on one of the sofas watching the news on TV, his mother-naked baby sitting right beside him, all big brown eyes, bouncy curls and seraphic smile.

‘We used my bathroom for her ablutions.’ His drawl was laid-back, lazy. ‘It’s bedtime, but we didn’t want to invade your privacy.’

She supposed she should be a good little hireling and thank him nicely for his thoughtfulness. But didn’t. And couldn’t help noting the way he and his daughter were always a definite ‘we’, as if the baby had as much say in what went on as he did.

Before that could soften the way she regarded him, she responded coolly, ‘Very well, Mr Helliar. I’ll get her ready.’ She scooped the baby up and hoped to heaven the child wouldn’t volubly object because she wouldn’t know what to do if she did.

Panic subsided as a chubby pair of arms went around her neck, the baby’s head snuggling comfortably beneath her chin. Caro walked to the set of rooms she shared with Sophie, her back straight and her head held high with the pride of achievement, as if she’d worked a minor miracle, no problem.

Further miracles became manifest. One, she managed to put the nappy on properly. Two, she also slid the seemingly boneless little body snugly into the cotton sleeper she’d found stashed in one of the drawers without any hassle worth the name. And three, the baby’s eyes were already drooping as she laid her in her cot.

Such was the power of positive thinking, she told herself. Then peace blew up in her face as Finn murmured from behind her, ‘Shall I sing her to sleep, or would you rather do it?’

Her breath froze in her lungs with shock. Why did he have to creep up on her like that, making her jump out of her skin? He seemed to find it impossible to leave her alone with his daughter for more than a few minutes at a time. Tension bunched up her shoulder muscles until they hurt. And why did he have to stand so close?

‘She’ll want her daddy.’ She had her voice back, but only just. ‘I’m still a virtual stranger.’ She walked out of the room then, quickly, softly, and stood in front of the now blank TV screen, staring at it, wondering how Fleur could leave her gorgeous little daughter for as much as a minute.

‘She went out like a light.’

He was doing it again, creeping up behind her, his voice too darn soft, too warm and honeyed.

‘Good.’ What else could she say? She moved a few paces away from him and her heartbeats slowed a little. Then everything inside her dropped—heart, lungs, lights and liver—right down to the soles of her feet; it was a miracle that she stayed upright at all, she marvelled as she wallowed in the agitated aftermath of his simple words:

‘We’ll eat dinner here. Room Service will deliver any time now.’

‘You’re going out,’ she managed at last. She wanted him out. She needed time on her own to plot and scheme, didn’t she? She couldn’t think straight when he was around. He muddled her and she was totally unused to being muddled. She couldn’t bear it!

‘News to me.’ He flipped through the television listings then tossed the magazine back on a low coffee table. He didn’t look like a man who would contentedly spend a night in flicking through the channels to find something he wanted to watch then going to bed early with a good book when he couldn’t.

From what she’d heard of him he would want to be out and about, seeing friends. Female friends. Hadn’t Sandra opined that he could now get himself a life? And the way she’d looked at him when she’d said it meant she would willingly be in on the action.