The Millionaire's Baby. Diana Hamilton
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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,