The Tycoon's Instant Daughter. Christine Rimmer
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“No. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
At the liquor cart in the corner, he took his sweet time dropping ice cubes into a glass and pulling the crystal stopper out of a whiskey decanter. He poured himself a shot, reconsidered and splashed in enough to make it a double. Then he restoppered the decanter and looked at Ms. Miller again as he swirled the amber drink, ice cubes clinking in the process. He knocked back a sip. It warmed his throat, hot velvet, going down. Ms. Miller remained absolutely still on the edge of her chair, eyes wide and wounded, watching him—and waiting for whatever grim information he had to impart.
Cord sipped from his drink for a second time. The woman didn’t fool him. She might look scared as a lost lamb at the moment—ever since he’d figured out she’d let herself get too attached to his little girl. But she was no lamb. She was a thoroughly exasperating creature who had made him jump through hoops to get what belonged to him. She was bossy and she wanted things done her way. Not his kind of woman at all.
But that shouldn’t pose a problem. He didn’t intend to date her or take her to bed. What he did intend to do was to see that his daughter got the best care available. And the woman showed a definite aptitude in that department.
“I’ve just come to a realization, Ms. Miller,” he finally said.
She turned her head, but only enough so that she was facing him straight on. And she waited some more. He found he liked that: her silence, the fact that she didn’t make some eager, hopeful little yes-person noise.
He said, “It occurred to me about a minute and a half ago that you and I want the same thing.”
He paused—mostly to see if she’d lose her nerve and warble out, “What’s that?”
She didn’t. She went on waiting, looking apprehensive, but unbowed.
So he told her, “We both want what’s best for Becky.”
She opened her mouth a fraction—then closed it over whatever words she might have said. He knew, of course, what those words would have been. Something short. And skeptical: Oh, really? or I doubt that.
“It may come as a surprise to you,” he said with ironic good humor, “but I want my daughter to have loving and devoted care every bit as much as you do.”
She was looking at him sideways again. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. Hell if he’d confess it, but he was pretty nervous about the whole idea of being a father. His own mother, Madelyn, had died when he and his twin, Rafe, were only four years old.
And his father was and always had been a coldhearted, verbally abusive SOB. It wasn’t as if Cord—or Rafe, or their older brother, Jack, or their sister, Kate, for that matter—had known much in the “love and devotion” department when they were growing up.
But Becky could have better. Cord had seen it in the look on Hannah Miller’s face when she stared down at his daughter. Becky would get all the love any child could ever want from a woman who gazed at her like that.
He swirled his ice cubes again—and made his offer. “Becky needs a nanny. And you don’t want to let her go. So my question is, why should you? I’ll pay you fifty thousand a year, plus the best benefits package Stockwell International has to offer, if you’ll give up your job at Child Protective Services and come to work for me taking care of my daughter.”
Chapter Two
Through a sheer effort of will, Hannah Waynette Miller kept her mouth from dropping wide-open.
She was stunned. Yep. That was the word for it. Stunned. Astonished. Astounded and amazed.
By Mr. Cord Stockwell, of all people.
He wanted her to be Becky’s nanny?
She’d been sure the man disliked her. And she had told herself she didn’t care. After all, she understood his kind. He was a rich man with a rich man’s ingrained belief that the rest of the world existed for his comfort and convenience.
Well, Hannah Miller cared no more for what a man like that believed than she did for what he thought of her. Since that first day she had called him to tell him about Becky, she had never once put forth the slightest effort to make things comfortable for him—let alone convenient. For Becky’s sake, she had stood her ground against him. She had been determined to make sure that Becky got a real home, a home with love and attention and patience and hope in it. Of course, she always tried to make sure of those things for all of the children assigned to her care.
But she’d tried even harder with Becky. Too hard, maybe…
She hated to admit it, but the man had been right on that one little point.
She was much too attached to Becky, all out of proportion really, and she knew that. Hannah also knew she had to let go of the adorable blue-eyed darling and get on with her life. She had planned to do just that: to make certain Cord Stockwell found a loving nanny, one who would provide the intangibles that all his money could not buy. And then Hannah Miller had meant to be on her way—to return only if the paternity test she’d insisted he take proved he wasn’t Becky’s father, after all.
Cord Stockwell was waiting for an answer, standing there so tall and commanding on the other side of the beautifully appointed room, holding his glass of fine whiskey and looking at her with an amused expression on his too-handsome face.
Hannah knew what that answer should be: Thank you, but no. As much as she might wish it to be otherwise, as much as she had longed in the past seven lonely years for another chance, Becky was not her baby girl.
On the other hand, Hannah had no doubt that Becky did need her.
Cord Stockwell might be sexy as sin itself—he stood over six feet tall and he was possessed of lean hips, shoulders that went on for days and truly arresting deep blue eyes. An aura of excitement surrounded him. Even Hannah, who certainly ought to know better, couldn’t help but feel the power of his presence every time she was forced to deal with him. And on top of the sex appeal and the charisma, he did have pots of money, money he was willing to lavish on Becky.
But did he know how to love and raise a sweet little girl? Hannah seriously doubted it.
Cord Stockwell sipped from his drink again. “Well?”
Right then, the telephone on one of the inlaid side tables buzzed.
Cord set his drink on the liquor cart. “Excuse me.”
He strode to the phone, noting before he got there that it was his father’s private line that had rung. He punched in the line and picked up. “What is it?”
“Mr. Stockwell, I’m sorry to bother you.” It was a male voice with a slight Scandinavian accent, the voice of one of the nurses who attended his father round-the-clock—the big blond one named Gunderson. “But, sir, your father is insisting…”
In the background, Cord could hear the hoarse commands. “Get him in here. Get my boy in here. Now!”
The nurse reported the obvious. “He demands to see you, sir.”
The cracked, rough voice shouted louder, “Now, I said. Are you deaf? Tell him to get in here on the double.”
“I’m so sorry, sir.” Nurse Gunderson made excuses in Cord’s ear. “But right now, our problem is that he refuses to take his medication until you—”
“Get me Cord now!” the old man shouted.
A woman’s voice—the other nurse—spoke up then.
“No. Please put that down, Mr. Stock—”
Whatever it was, Caine must have thrown it. Cord heard what sounded like breaking glass.
The nurse on the other end of the line released a sigh. “Sir, maybe you should—”
“Try to keep him from hurting himself,” Cord said. “I’ll