Diana Hamilton - The Millionaire's Baby

Or sweeter. And open now. The parted, berry-sweet lips held him fascinated as he said in a voice he barely recognised as his own, ‘You’d like that?’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘NOT a lot!’ The words were snapped out before Caro could stop them.

A secluded country cottage, just the three of them—and a fifteen-month-old toddler hardly counted as a chaperon—sounded definitely something to avoid, given his despicable womanising inclinations.

It wasn’t what he had actually said but the way he had said it that had set alarm bells ringing. But to keep the nanny pretence up and running she should have acceded to whatever her employer had suggested with a calm ‘Of course, whatever you say, sir’.

Too late now, though. She presented him with a face as blank as she could possibly make it while she waited to discover what he’d make of this further insubordination and noted that, impossibly, he appeared to be smothering laughter.

‘So you’re a city girl.’ He noticed her taut features. In all probability that was a natural reaction to a childhood spent in rural Hertfordshire, physically isolated by the vastness of the family estate, mentally dominated by that scratchy old matriarch, Elinor Farr. It made sense, and at least she’d been up front about that. It was a start.

‘Come with me.’ He left the table and her eyes raked suspiciously over the lean length of him. He looked great. Nature had given him the perfect male physique, added a few barrowloads of laid-back charm and topped off the recipe with more simmering sex appeal than was good for him or womankind.

Swallowing some sort of obstruction that was annoyingly clogging her throat, Caro reluctantly followed him to the sofa and sank down on the empty space beside him which he was patting invitingly.

Evening sunlight was streaming through the windows, touching his skin with gold, glancing off the coppery highlights in his thick dark hair. Caro swallowed another lump and forced her eyes away, fastening them on the sheaf of estate agents particulars he was extracting from a glossy folder.

She didn’t want to find anything about him appealing; it would be a type of betrayal, both to herself and her darling little sister. She would remind herself of that every time she found herself watching him, inadvertently admiring the way he looked.

‘I’m house-hunting, as you know, and I’ve got the details of three properties in Bedfordshire here, any one of which could fit the bill, but obviously I need to view.’ Long, blunt-ended fingers flicked through the glossy pages. ‘A friend of mine has a weekend cottage in the area as it happens. He offered me the use of it while he and his family are holidaying abroad, and I think we could find ways to make good use of it, don’t you?’

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