Diana Whitney - Baby Of Convenience

Lifting her chin, she narrowed her eyes, cooled her voice. “If you choose to investigate without my presence, Mr. Burton, I can assure you that your question of Maggie’s ability to do harm will be answered in a manner that will definitely not be to your liking.”

He studied her with the bold, unblinking stare that strong men use against those who would challenge them. When he spoke, however, his voice had softened in tone, if not in authority. “Marta, continue arrangements for the finance committee meeting as I requested. You may hold off placing the Brussels call until I return.”

Marta was clearly flabbergasted. “Return from where?”

“Why, from escorting Ms. Michaels to the basement.” He laid the documents on a nearby sideboard before cupping Laura’s elbow with a gentleness that was surprising and guiding her to an enameled doorway in the base of a curving staircase off the foyer.

“Actually,” he whispered when out of the frantic Marta’s hearing range, “we wealthy elitists prefer to call it a wine cellar. That sounds much more privileged, don’t you agree?”

An embarrassed heat slithered up Laura’s throat at the realization that her disdain for his lifestyle had been so obvious. Royce Burton was apparently a man who let little slip by his perception.

Still, there was no excuse for rudeness. She regretted her own pomposity in daring to judge him for the sin of having more than he needed while others never had enough.

She cleared her throat. “I apologize if I’ve offended you, Mr. Burton.”

The vaguest trace of amusement softened his reply. “I’m not easily offended, Ms. Michaels, although you are certainly welcome to make the attempt.”

As he opened the cellar door, she chanced a glance upward. That’s when she saw it, the upward tilt of sculpted lips, the soft gleam transforming ordinary brown eyes into glowing amber. He was smiling.

The effect was devastating. Oh, Maggie, she thought as her heart gave a palpable thump of longing. What have you gotten us into this time?

Soft lights lined the cellar, illuminating rich oak wine racks filled with dusty bottles, presumably containing the most extravagant and rarest of vintages. A split-oak tasting table posed in the center of the room, upon which a silver corkscrew and several pieces of crystal stemware had been placed. Wooden crates were stacked in a corner. Thin curls of straw packing material were strewn over the hardwood floor, and at the apex of the cinder-block wall a thin slice of daylight sprayed from the narrow opening beneath a basement window that had been painted black.

Beside her, Royce glanced around with mild curiosity. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“Not everything,” Laura murmured. Her gaze was riveted on a pair of golden eyes gleaming in a pool of shadow beyond one of the massive wine racks. Tightening her grasp on her weary son, she glided forward, murmuring softly. “So there you are, precious. Shame on you for worrying me half to death.”

The golden eyes blinked.

Laura felt Royce move behind her. “What on earth…?” A warning hiss moved him back a step. He straightened, his practiced impassivity melting into obvious astonishment. “My God.”

“Don’t frighten her,” Laura said. “She’s not fond of strangers.”

On cue, Maggie issued a low growl, then turned with a swish and slunk into the shadowy corner.

Moving quietly, Laura followed, knelt down and saw what she had feared. There was her beloved Maggie, nested in an empty wine crate softened with supple straw packing, settling down to nurse her brood of newborn kittens. “Oh, dear,” Laura murmured. “Five of them. I never counted on so many.”

Jamie suddenly yanked his thumb out of his mouth, squealing with delight. “Kitty, kitty!” He lurched forward, fat arms outstretched toward his beloved pet.

Laura reeled him back a moment before he squirted out of her grasp. “No, no, honey, Maggie doesn’t want to be petted right now. She’s feeding her babies.”

“Babies?” Royce’s voice changed from quizzical to horrified in the space of a heartbeat. “Babies?”

A pleasant warmth on her back confirmed that he’d ventured forth to observe for himself.

“It is a cat,” he said finally.

Laura smiled. “Indeed.”

“I detest cats.”

Her smile faded. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

A draft chilled her spine as he stepped aside, perhaps for a better view of the feline family, perhaps simply to put an extra foot of distance between them. “This is totally unacceptable.”

Heaving a sad sigh, Laura struggled to contain the gleeful toddler while hoisting herself to her feet. “I was afraid that it would be.”

“How could this happen?” he demanded.

“Well, Maggie is a girl cat, you see, and she met this perfectly charming boy cat, whereupon they did what little girl cats and little boy cats have been doing for ever so long—”

“Very amusing.” That same traitorous muscle twitched along his jaw. “I’m familiar with the biological process of feline reproduction. What bewilders me is the process by which this particular feline chose to complete the process—” his voice rose, startling Jamie “—in my basement.”

“Wine cellar,” Laura corrected him, then turned her attention to comforting her son, whose lip was quivering. “There, there, sweetie, it’s okay.” Tears gleamed in the baby’s wide brown eyes. He hiccuped, gulped and emitted a thin wail of distress. Laura hugged him, coaxed a damp strand of sable hair from his moist baby forehead. “Shh, Mama is here, everything is all right.”

Royce frowned. “Is the child ill?”

“No. Loud voices frighten him.”

Clearly stunned, Royce rocked back a step, regarding the trembling toddler with unabashed shock. “I caused the child’s distress?”

“Not deliberately, of course. Jamie just…” She allowed the words to dissipate, unwilling to divulge details of the experiences that had led her beloved child to quake with fear at the sound of a booming male voice.

“I’m so sorry.”

Genuine remorse cracked his dispassionate demeanor, a tiny flaw of humanity that surprised her.

Before she could study it more intently, he rearranged his features, focused on the baby and spoke with exaggerated gentleness. “Please forgive me, young man. It was not my intention to upset you.”

A moist streak stained the child’s pink cheek. Jamie eyed the impeccably groomed stranger who had paused several feet away as if fearing to step any closer. “Me firsty,” the toddler whined.

“Are you now? That is something we can certainly rectify.” With that tantalizing hint of a smile, Royce strode to a wall by the curving wrought-iron staircase and flipped an intercom switch.

A moment later, a taut, familiar female voice replied. “Yes, Mr. Burton?”

“Marta, please bring a pitcher of orange juice to the cellar.”

“Orange juice?” came the bewildered reply.

“Hold on a moment.” He glanced at Laura. “Would you or the child prefer something else? I can offer an assortment of fruit juices. Also, coffee, iced tea, your choice of carbonated beverage or wine, if you’d like.”

“No, thank you. Orange juice would be lovely.”

“Something to eat, perhaps? Is the child hungry?”

“That’s kind of you, but it’s nearly his lunchtime. A snack would spoil his appetite.”

“Very well.” He turned back toward the intercom. “That will be all, Marta. Thank you.”

After clicking off the speaker switch, Royce pursed his lips thoughtfully, casting first a quick look at Laura and Jamie, then glancing over his shoulder to the cozy nest where a purring, contented Maggie was in the process of bathing a mewing ball of orange-and-white fluff.