Baby Of Convenience. Diana Whitney
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smile on Royce’s surprisingly youthful face, no hint of humor in his eyes. He slipped the cell phone into his coat pocket, tucked the sheaf of documents under his arm. “Ms. Michaels has one minute to convey this matter of urgency.”
Jamie squirmed in Laura’s arms, extracting his thumb with a pitiful whine. “Firsty, Mama.”
“Shh, I know you are, sweetie. Just a few more minutes.”
Royce regarded the child without visible emotion, although his eyes appeared to warm for a moment. A very brief moment. “You have fifty-five seconds remaining, Ms. Michaels. I suggest you make the most of them.”
Taking a deep breath, Laura filled her lungs, emptied them slowly and managed to meet his unwavering stare without trembling. “I have reason to believe that your basement is being occupied without your knowledge or consent.”
Whatever he’d expected to hear, that clearly was not it. A muscle twitched along a jaw that was firmer and stronger than Laura had expected. No other expression of surprise was allowed, although she noticed him blink twice, a revealing gesture she doubted he meant to display. “On what do you base that interesting speculation?”
“I followed her here.”
“I see.”
Laura was fascinated by the practiced ease with which he conducted himself. Every muscle in his face impassive, his eyes carefully steadied to reveal nothing beyond that which he wished to reveal. There was no twist of fingers, no absentminded straightening of cuffs or brushing of invisible lint. This was a man used to being in control, in control of himself, of others, and of any situation, no matter how unexpected or startling.
Laura moistened her lips. “I believe she entered through the basement window.”
Still no change in expression, no gleam of interest in eyes so dark a woman could get lost in them. “Is this individual a fugitive of some kind?”
Feeling profoundly silly all of a sudden, Laura was annoyed by an irksome dryness in her mouth. “I wouldn’t exactly call her a fugitive.”
“So we are in no danger?”
She allowed herself the luxury of a smile. “That rather depends, I suppose—”
He glanced at his watch. “Your minute is up, Ms. Michaels. Thank you for the information. We’ll certainly look into the matter.”
At the signal, the annoying Marta person spun to grasp Laura’s elbow, no doubt preparing to shuffle her out the door. “No, wait, you don’t understand.” Wriggling out of the older woman’s grasp, Laura blurted, “There’s more.”
Again he hiked that well-formed brow in what Laura decided was a deliberate gesture designed to demean those toward whom it was so purposefully aimed. “I’ve assured you that the matter will be investigated.”
Ego trips by powerful men brought out the devil in Laura. She could have simply told him what he needed to know, but she found that damnable arched eyebrow irksome.
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