Diana Whitney - Baby Of Convenience

Despite outward success, the market share of Burton Technologies was slipping. Research and development was stagnant. They desperately needed an infusion of cash. Investment capital. Lots of it.

This was a business discussion of tremendous importance. And all he could think about was the color of Laura Michaels’s eyes.

They were green. Not loden, not olive, not even the hue of warm grass in springtime. Rather, they were a multihued tapestry of every verdant tint and tone that nature could supply.

In the bright foyer light they had seemed almost transparent, the pale shade of cymbidium orchid leaves brightened with sparkling emerald. In the amber illumination of the cellar, they’d taken on the golden glow of a summer pond at sunset.

More than the color of those haunting eyes, Royce had been affected by their clarity. The lush young woman with the haunting smile had hidden nothing, exposed all.

He was fairly certain she was unaware that her emotions were so blatantly revealed. He also doubted she realized that her habit of scraping her lower lip with her teeth while trying to construct an evasively truthful reply was quite revealing to a man who’d created a career out discerning information that others wished to hide.

The child was interesting, too. Obviously well-loved and carefully nurtured, judging by his bright-eyed curiosity. Dark eyes, too. Deep brown, coffee-colored, closer to Royce’s own eye color than to that of his mother’s.

The boy’s fear of loud voices was telling as well. He wondered about it, didn’t care for the speculation crowding his thoughts. His own father had been a controlled man, neither outgoing nor withdrawn. He’d been brilliant, of course. Royce had loved him, admired him, had been desperate to please him.

He’d never succeeded in pleasing him, but might have done so eventually if he hadn’t died so young, leaving Royce’s mother to work herself into an early grave trying to support herself and her son. Having found himself alone at a relatively early age, he’d learned to rely on self-approval for motivation.

For the most part that had been enough.

A familiar voice broke into his thoughts. “What is that abominable sound?” Dave Henderson was asking. “You’d better have a service call on the air-conditioning, Royce. It sounds as if one of the unit bearings has blown.”

Blinking, Royce considered the sound in question, a series of thin squeaks emanating from the air ducts.

Mewing kittens, he decided, and was besieged by fresh annoyance at the intrusion.

He couldn’t fathom why he’d allowed the irksome animals to stay. It was foolish, and Royce Burton was not a man who accepted foolishness, not even from himself.

“The presentation needs work,” Royce announced, anxious to redirect attention back to the problem at hand. “You’ve shown how the infusion of investment capital will assist our expansion efforts without offering a reciprocal incentive.”

Henderson blinked, swallowed, touched his tie. “I know. That’s rather a problem, since there doesn’t appear to be any. We need them. They don’t need us.”

Royce understood that Henderson was referring to the Belgian directors of Marchandt Limited, the most prestigious investment firm in Europe. “Then we’ll have to develop a reason for them to need us.”

“There is one option.…” Henderson’s voice trailed off as he feigned flipping through a thick document, spiral-bound and bristling with sticky yellow notes. “We could, ah, offer to transfer our research and development division to Brussels. Economic incentive to their personal turf, so to speak.”

The suggestion came as no surprise to Royce. He doubted any of his staff could conceive of an option he hadn’t already considered, and discarded. “We’d lose thousands of local jobs.”

“An unfortunate side effect,” Henderson agreed.

Steepling his fingers, Royce spoke quietly. “Mill Creek is a small town. An economic blow like that could destroy its economy.”

“There would be a significant economic effect, to be sure. However, Mill Creek existed before Burton Technologies chose it to be the homesite, and would still exist if we moved the entire complex somewhere else.” Henderson sighed, rubbed his forehead. “Hell, I don’t like the idea, either, but if there’s any other option I haven’t thought of it.”

Neither had Royce. “Then keep thinking.”

“But—”

“That option is unacceptable. Come up with another.” Royce stood. Six stiff-suited executives lurched to their feet in unison. “We have six weeks before the Marchandt directors arrive. I expect all the loose ends to be tied up before then and a suitable quid pro quo available for negotiation. Marta will show you out.”

With that, the executives filed out of the study, talking quietly among themselves. Only Henderson stayed behind, which wasn’t unusual since he was a trusted friend as well as Royce’s right-hand man.

“About those loose ends,” Dave said as Royce poured aged Scotch into a pair of cut-crystal glasses. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

Royce handed his friend one glass, took a sip from his own and studied a thin line of moisture forming across his finance director’s upper lip.

Dave took a healthy gulp, wheezed, coughed, then twirled the glass between his palms. “You know, Europeans are not always a liberal bunch, particularly when it comes to business. They have strictly conservative views about money, and about—” he sucked a breath, took another swallow “—family.”

Royce waited.

Dave cleared his throat. “Marchandt himself is Old World, comes from generations of wealth and power. He can list his ancestors back to the time of the Crusades. He inherited the company from his father, as did his father before him, and already has his sons in the business ready to carry on the family tradition.” Puffing his cheeks, he blew out a breath, meeting Royce’s gaze directly. “Do you remember that magazine article that came out a while back?”

“That silly ‘Bachelor of the Year’ thing in Finance and World Reports?” Royce snorted. He remembered the article well. He had fired the marketing executive who’d insisted he give the interview in the first place. “Idiotic piece of tabloid trash. I canceled my subscription in protest.”

“Yes, well, to you it’s tabloid trash, to Western Europe it’s considered the pinnacle of financial trade information. When I went to Brussels last month, Marchandt himself had a copy of that issue on the corner of his desk.”

That got Royce’s attention. He leaned forward, ignored the telltale jitter of a muscle stress-twitching just below his ear. “You’re just getting around to mentioning this to me?”

Dave shrugged. “I’d already handled the situation.”

“How?”

“I told him the article was basically a publicity stunt by a rogue marketing executive who was no longer employed by our firm.”

“Good.”

“I told him there was nothing to the allegations of wild parties, beautiful starlets on each arm and the speculation that you were the real father of Madonna’s love child.”

“Good.”

#8220;I told him you were committed to your, er, family.”

Royce narrowed his gaze. “I don’t have a family.”

“Well, boss, you’ve got six weeks to hunt one up. I told him you were a doting husband and father.” Dave drained his glass, set it on a polished mahogany desk by the study window and heaved the long-suffering sigh of a man ascending a gallows. “Am I fired?”

“No.” Setting his own glass aside, Royce brushed his palms lightly and pushed away from the plush burgundy recliner against which his hip had been propped. “The formality of employment termination isn’t required for a dead man.”