The Millionaire's Baby

CHAPTER TWO

CAROLINE hadn’t been in her new employment for more than five minutes before she was seething. Absolutely seething! The beastly man was at it again!

Quickly, Caroline scooped the baby up into her arms and held her close and felt the little face press into her neck, blowing bubbles. She cradled the back of the golden head with a gentle hand, keeping it safely where it was, regardless of tickling bubbles, blown raspberries and baby-type giggles. She would do anything to prevent the innocent little scrap from seeing her father coming on to a woman who was not her mother!

When she’d arrived at ten that morning Finn had shown her to her quarters, a suite within a suite. A large sunny bedroom holding all the usual furniture, plus a cot complete with teddy bear. En suite bathroom, nicely luxurious, with a baby bath on a stand. Plus a small sitting room, the carpet lavishly littered with toys, comfortable armchairs, TV and writing desk. And Sophie, clad only in a disposable nappy, crawling around the furniture as if going for some kind of land-speed record.

‘I’ll leave you to settle in.’ He’d smiled, his eyes warm with discomfiting male appreciation as they’d languorously swept her slender figure. ‘Like the dress. Pretty. It suits you far better than that dark thing you were wearing yesterday.’

Oh, did it? It was floral cotton, years old, did he but know it. She hadn’t dressed to please him, or only inasmuch as he’d stipulated mufti, so he needn’t think it! Amber scorn had glinted at him between tangled dark lashes but had been rapidly veiled as she’d caught the devilish silver mockery of his eyes.

Her breath had tugged, stuck in her chest and hurt, but he’d turned away, saying to his daughter, ‘Come and say hello to Caro, poppet. It’s time you were dressed.’ And he’d then said, obviously to her—although she hadn’t looked at him, kept her eyes glued to the bottoms of his lightweight fawn trousers where they touched the top of his bare feet. Bare feet?—‘Do say if it goes against all your training, but I thought Caro more infant-friendly than the formal title of Nanny. And Caroline’s a bit of a mouthful.’ And, when she’d failed to answer because she was too busy wondering about the odd inflexion when he’d mentioned ‘all your training’, he’d imparted lightly, ‘She’ll probably need her nappy changing, but leave it. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes and you can let me in on your theories on toilet training later.’

Caroline had gulped. She knew of no theories. She’d have to make them up as she went along. But at least he’d left, walking out of the room into the main living area, although leaving the door to her quarters wide open, she noted now suspiciously.

As if he intended to watch her, check up on what she was doing, even though he’d told her he’d be back in no time.

It simply wasn’t on. Having him watch her fumbling attempts to dress his child was a bad idea. Having him watch her, in any capacity, was a worse one. The very thought of it made her feel overheated.

She walked to the door to close it, the soft skirts of her dress brushing against the long, silky lines of her legs. And stopped in the open doorway, appalled.

Finn had admitted a woman into the main suite. A very polished, beautiful woman. Not his wife. This one had short dark hair, cut in a modern, sophisticated style. Very sharp. Pale skin, scarlet lips, dark blue silk dress with a bloused top and cleavage. And what a cleavage!

The moment he’d pushed the door to behind his guest, Finn slipped an arm around the slender waist, pulling her to him, then bent to drop a kiss on the invitingly upturned, poutily scarlet lips.

It couldn’t have been much of a kiss because none of the red had come off on his mouth, Caro noted, brows beetling as they walked further into the body of the room as if permanently joined at the hip. But even so...

She decided to use her authority as nanny to tell him, at a suitable moment, of course, that she wouldn’t permit such carryings-on in front of her charge. She wouldn’t mention Fleur—naturally she wouldn’t; their marriage wasn’t any of her business. But she could justly claim that the baby was.

Seeing her in the open doorway, the baby held protectively in her arms, Finn grinned broadly. ‘The two of you make a pretty picture. Nice.’ Which probably accounted for the way the newcomer raised perfectly arched brows above the suddenly icy blue eyes that swept dismissively over the softly faded cotton dress to drift up again to meet amber scorn with a chilling sneer.

‘So you found a suitable minder.’ The woman was obviously bored, but sounded far more interested in her next pronouncement. ‘With Mrs Helliar being away you’ve been so tied down. You can get yourself a life now. Have fun.’

‘This is Sandra,’ Finn introduced. ‘My personal secretary from the London office.’ Perhaps something about the unconcealed disapproval in Caroline’s eyes got through to him because he moved sideways, putting a distance of an inch or two between him and the curvy, silk-clad body as he dropped his arm from her waist. ‘I’ve taken a few weeks’ leave to go house-hunting, get settled back in England, but I still like to know what’s going on. Sandra keeps me posted.’

And Sandra had moved back in, close to his big body, joining them at the hip again. Sandra was not willing to be deprived of what she wanted, Caroline noted, her hackles rising when the other woman smiled winningly up into her employer’s face and cooed, ‘Did you get the particulars from the estate agents? I emphasised you needed them at once.’ And, not waiting for an answer, she added, ‘Perhaps thingy—the nanny—could make coffee. We could go through the particulars while we drink it.’

‘That is a job for a secretary, not the nanny,’ ‘thingy’ responded tartly, and closed the door on the pair of them, muttering.

He certainly believed in spreading himself around! He didn’t go for a particular type, either. Secretary Sandra could look out for herself, no problem. She would be only too willing to play games in the absence of his wife, and wouldn’t be too demanding, or make a nuisance of herself. A fat bonus in her pay packet would suffice, and she’d be happy to put in a bit of discreet ‘overtime’ when his wife returned.

Katie had been different. Katie had completely broken down after Finn Helliar had seduced her, promised her the earth, then promptly married another woman, the one who was expecting his child.

And he hadn’t married Fleur because he loved her; he wouldn’t have seduced Katie if he had. The brute was obviously incapable of committing himself to one woman. But he’d been caught in the age-old trap and he was clearly not averse to having a child. Much as she disliked admitting it, so far she couldn’t fault the way he was with his baby daughter.

The pregnancy wouldn’t have been deliberate, but Finn had been relaxed enough about the prospect of fatherhood to marry the mother and drop poor bewitched Katie flat. Plus half a dozen others, in all probability.

Was that why Fleur was conspicuous by her absence? Had she discovered, after marriage, that her husband was constitutionally unfitted for monogamy? Was that why she was, presumably, re-launching her career?

She set the now squirming baby down on her feet. ‘Come on, poppet, time to get dressed.’ She looked down into the happy little face and felt a great pang of protectiveness engulf her. It was a similar feeling to the one she had whenever her gran had a go at her mum and Katie.

Poor little scrap. With a father like Finn Helliar she was to be pitied, because unless her mother was remarkably forbearing she’d end up as yet another broken home statistic.

‘Room Service will be delivering lunch in five minutes,’ Finn said. Caroline glared at him, bristling with dislike. He had got rid of Sandra in next to no time, invaded the nanny suite, hovering over her while she’d bathed and dressed his daughter, just as if he didn’t trust her to do anything properly. He was still hovering and, right at this moment, his child was investigating her new nanny’s luggage and trying to strangle herself with one of Caro’s bras—the one with pink rosebuds and lacy bits.

‘Five minutes,’ he reiterated, unwinding the bra from his daughter’s chubby hands and neck, scooping her into the crook of his arm, his obvious but silent amusement alarming as he eyed the scrap of lacy material for a few tense fizzing moments then swept his gaze over her now fluttering bosom for even longer.

This time he closed the door behind him and that gave her a little breathing space, but nowhere near enough.

The dreadful man was getting to her, no doubt about it. The way he’d looked at her had been an insult, making her flesh tingle, and her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would choke her.

His sex appeal was awe-inspiring. And he knew it.

She brushed her hair, transforming the baby-rumpled mess into its usual glossy bob, deliberately not allowing her eyes to wander lower than her neck or higher than her chin. The caressing, lingering stroke of those come-to-bed eyes had done alarming things to her physiognomy.

The first, unguarded glance in the mirror had given her an image of glittering golden eyes and lips that looked softer, fuller than usual, parted in mindless anticipation.

Anticipation, pray, of what? she demanded of herself, hating the way her breasts were pushing at the soft cotton of her dress, refusing to let her eyes wander and witness that piece of humilation.

If his technique was good enough to make level-headed, no one-tangles-with-me Caroline Farr respond to it, albeit unwillingly, what chance had poor Katie had?

No chance at all.

This observation thankfully counteracted the effect of those seemingly endless moments of sizzling sexual appraisal and sent her into the bathroom to run cold water over her wrists. It also enabled her to march sturdily out into the main living area to endure the horror of having to share a meal with him. But the experience wasn’t as distasteful as she’d expected it to be—not to begin with.

For one thing his attention was entirely on his daughter, on the small tasks of fastening her into the high chair, tying her bib, serving her with vegetables, pouring cheese sauce over the small helping of cauliflower and mashing it all together with the back of his fork.

Caro, feeling redundant, said, ‘I’ll take Sophie for a walk in the park this afternoon.’ It would get her out of here for an hour or two. She was beginning to feel decidedly trapped.

‘Sophie has a nap in the afternoons.’

Was there condemnation in the tone, as if he was telling her, in a roundabout way, that she didn’t know anything? Well, he’d be right.

To cover herself, she remarked repressively, ‘Naturally she does, Mr Helliar. I merely decided she would benefit from taking that nap while out in the fresh air of the park.’ She had noted a folding pushchair in the small entrance lobby of the suite and that was what nannies did, wasn’t it—push their charges endlessly round in the fresh air?

She felt, watching him gently wrap Sophie’s small fingers round the full plastic teaspoon, that she had put herself in a position of control. She had ‘decided’, had neatly sidestepped his suspicions about her ability—had he had any—and put herself firmly in charge.

Until he said, ‘Fine; we’ll go together.’

Her stomach lurched. She put the forkful of grilled Dover sole back down on her plate. She had suggested the outing to escape his company, not get more of it!

She needed the time and space; heaven knew she did. So far she had not had a single moment to herself to even begin to work out how to pay him back for what he had done to Katie.

‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Helliar.’ Said sweetly and, she thought, reasonably, but he glanced across the table at her, his silver eyes probing, and not probing gently, either.

‘The name’s Finn. And I decide what’s necessary.’

That figured. She regrouped and began another attack, cloaked in common sense.

‘You employed me to look after Baby, Mr—Finn. Presumably to free you up to do other things.’ Hadn’t the sultry Sandra gloated that at last he could get himself a life? Caro was frankly surprised he wasn’t doing just that right now, given his track record. ‘If you question my ability to look after my charge more than adequately...’

She left the implication hanging in the air, marvelling at her own temerity. He had been standing over her while she’d been dressing Sophie so he had to have noticed the way she’d put the baby’s nappy on. She’d pulled the sticky tape thing too far on one side, leaving the other side barely connected, and the whole bunchy, lopsided bundle was held in place only by the intelligent choice of minute emerald-green shorts for nether-region wear. So he’d know that ‘adequate’ didn’t get a look in when applied to her non-existent child-care abilities.

He didn’t look up from his meal, which he was enjoying with the air of a man completely at ease with himself. Just told her, ‘No one’s questioning anything. I fancy some fresh air and exercise, in the company of my daughter. OK?’

It would have to be, since she wasn’t in a position to forbid him to do anything. She lifted her fork again and began to wonder if by believing she could force him to acknowledge what he’d done to Katie she was making a complete fool of herself. She was sure of it when he added, replying to her earlier statement, ‘I employed a nanny—you, as it happens—so that Sophie could get used to having someone else look after her while I’m still around, before I start nine-to-five-ing again.’

Not one mention of when his wife might return to take his place. Which didn’t augur well for the innocent poppet. Was her mother so disillusioned with her marriage that she intended to devote herself full-time to re-launching her career, making flying visits to her little daughter when and if she could spare the time?

She wasn’t going to ask, wasn’t going to involve herself in their domestic troubles, because she had enough on her mind without adding to her burdens, and she put the blame for everything firmly at Finn’s feet.

They ended up in the Rose Garden, the beautiful blooms making the warm July afternoon heavy with perfume. Finn noted the rapt expression on Caro’s s face. She had lost that prim and starchy look and it was a revelation. She was beautiful.

The snapshots Elinor Farr had paraded for his inspection had depicted serious, symmetrical features and wide, impatient eyes. He had barely glanced at them, already dismissing the absent, favourite grandchild as a prig, too good to be true, tired of hearing how all-fired wonderful she was in comparison with her mother and sister, both of whom he had felt immediately and instinctively sorry for.

But reality, as she bent to cup a bloom and inhale its heady fragrance, was a softly sensual smile and a gentle curve of glossy hair the colour of burnished chestnuts which fell forward to caress creamy, apricot-tinted skin and reveal the elegant, delicate length and slenderness of her neck above the graceful curve of a body at once fragile yet utterly, gloriously feminine.

Something jerked inside his chest. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, if her business was going downhill, if she was in danger of losing her capital. To tell her right now that he knew who she was and she could trust him. He wanted to help.

He wanted, quite suddenly, to touch, to take her delicate hands in his, to end the subterfuge and offer his considerable financial expertise, quite freely. If she was in some kind of a mess then he could help her get out of it.

But for some reason he couldn’t formulate the words. There was a tightness in the muscles of his throat, a strange constriction. And then it all became academic because Sophie was waking, babbling baby talk and wriggling in her pushchair, wanting out.

So they would go to the boating lake to look at the ducks, and tonight, over dinner, when his daughter was tucked up and asleep, he’d speak to Caro, discover the truth, he promised himself.

It was important that there should be no equivocation between them. Just how important he was yet to realise.

CHAPTER THREE

‘JUST one more spoonful, there’s a good girl!’ Caro registered the pleading whine in her voice and was horrified. Where had her Nanny-knows-best-and-won’ t-be-thwarted voice disappeared to? But Finn had opted for a quick shower and she’d so wanted to give the baby her supper and prove to him that she could do something right.

‘Lovely onion soup!’ she cried more bracingly, remembering how she had doted on the stuff as a child. But she must have had depraved taste buds, she decided glumly as Sophie blew a monster raspberry and showered her with the despised offering.

‘Having trouble?’ Finn, tucking the tails of a crisp white shirt into the waistband of narrow-fitting slate-grey trousers, walked into the sitting room of her suite, eyeing the cross red face of his infant daughter.

Sophie’s mouth went square as soon as she saw her father, and Finn plucked her out of the high chair to take her mind off onion soup and nip the wailing session in the bud. ‘She usually has a boiled egg followed by fruit for her supper.’ He looked unbearably smug, as if he’d given her a test, knowing she’d fail, and felt superior because he’d proved himself right.

Caro wanted to hit him for walking in and discovering her ineptness—for walking in at all when she’d imagined she’d seen the last of him for the evening after their return from the park—quality time, he’d called it. Before disappearing he’d told her, ‘Sophie has supper around now. Ring Room Service. You’ll find the kitchen staff very accommodating.’

At a huge disadvantage, covered in onion soup as she was, Caro tried to salvage something and managed to find some dignity as she told him, ‘Onions cleanse the blood.’ Everyone knew that, didn’t they? And she watched him tuck the baby more securely into the crook of his arm as he went to the phone in the main living room, and wondered whether the snort he gave denoted scorn or amusement at her expense.

Deciding she didn’t give a damn either way, she began to tidy away the mess Sophie had made, making herself stay calm because in the not too distant future he would be the one who was cringing.

He’d showered and changed so he’d be going out for the evening, which was lovely. She’d bath the baby and put her to bed and spend her own evening plotting the best way to hurt his conscience.

But she immediately felt mortified when the waiter carried through the revised supper on a tray. A boiled egg in a cup decorated with rabbits wearing blue bonnets, a similarly decorated bowl of diced fresh fruit and a plate of thinly sliced bread and butter.

It was worse still when Finn followed through with Sophie. She was wearing a fresh bib and her sunniest smile and Caro, feeling ridiculous, just standing there clutching the toast soldiers she’d gathered up from the floor where the baby had flung them, realised that Mary had been right when she’d said she was crazy.

She should never have got herself in so deep. More at home with balance sheets, with interviewing nannies who were anxious to be adopted by the now prestigious Grandes Familles Agency or wealthy parents from the UK and America, as well as France, who wanted only the very best for their offspring, than dealing with offspring, she felt like an idiot.

For the first time in her life she felt like giving up on a project. She could contact Mary and ask her to send that replacement, the one who was probably already on the starting-block. And bow out.

She couldn’t alter the way he was. Nothing she could say to him, no matter how stinging, would make a scrap of difference. He would go on using women all through his life, never giving them a second thought once he had tired of them, never looking back or wondering what had happened to them. How could she hurt his conscience if he didn’t have one?

‘Why don’t you go and freshen up? I can feed this little monster,’ Finn suggested lightly, smiling to show he wasn’t about to put on his outraged employer’s hat.

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.