The Tycoon's Instant Daughter. Christine Rimmer
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first, she didn’t see him. She had left the door open. And he entered quietly, listening as he came, for the soft sound of her lullaby, for the slight creaking of the rocking chair.
He stood there, in the doorway, watching the light on her hair, the curve of her arm as she cradled his child.
He felt the strangest sensation right then. A warmth down inside himself, a tiny bud of something.
It might have been hope.
But no.
More likely, it was only weary relief. The peace here, in his daughter’s blue bedroom, was a thousand miles removed from the Napoleonic horror of his father’s sickroom. And the little Okie’s tongue could be sharp, but right now, she wasn’t using it. Right now, she sounded damn sweet, humming and rocking away, a dreamy smile on her lips, as his child contentedly sucked at her bottle.
Naturally such a sight would soothe him, after what had just transpired in his father’s room.
Hannah looked up. The humming stopped, the rocking chair stilled. He heard her quick, surprised intake of breath.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She shrugged. And then she actually granted him a smile. “This girl was hungry.”
Damn. She was a pretty woman when she smiled.
He demanded, more gruffly than he intended to, “Have you made up your mind?”
She didn’t seem bothered by his gruffness at all. She looked down at Becky again, said in a dreamy voice to match the expression on her face, “I have.” She looked his way again, frowned. “You’ve cut yourself.”
He touched the scratch on his jaw, where the beads of blood had dried now. “It’s nothing.”
“Don’t rub it. You’ll start it bleeding again—here.” She produced a tissue from her sleeve and held it out.
“Blot it real gentle.”
He stared at the tissue dangling from her slender hand.
And, out of nowhere, an old memory popped to the surface of his mind and bobbed there, clear as a bubble made of glass.
Outside, in back, on the wide sweep of lawn between the house and the formal gardens. High summer. And ice cream. Vanilla with fudge syrup. He’d had a big bowl of it.
His mother had worn white—all white. Her blue eyes were shining and her dark brown hair tumbled in soft waves down her back. She had laughed. And she’d pulled a handkerchief from her white sleeve. “Cord, honey, you’ve got chocolate all over your little face. Come here to Mama. Let me clean you up….”
“Mr. Stockwell?” The social worker was staring at him, a crease of worry etching itself between her smooth chestnut brows. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he said curtly. “I’m fine.” He stepped up close and took the tissue from her, just to stop her from holding it out. And he blotted his jaw, as she’d told him to do. The tissue came away with two bright red spots on it.
“There.” He tipped it briefly toward her so she could see.
“Nothing, as I told you.”
She made a low, considering noise, as if she didn’t agree, but could see no benefit in arguing the point.
He thought of his father, once so proud and strong, now weak and wasted, striking out, prone more and more frequently to episodes like the one today as death closed in on him. Maybe Ms. Miller was right. It meant a lot more than nothing, this tiny scratch on his jaw.
He tucked the tissue into the pocket of his slacks. “I’m still waiting for your answer.” He couldn’t resist adding, “You seem to enjoy that—making me wait.”
He assumed she’d take offense. She was always so prickly. But no. She only smiled again, that smile that transformed her. “I’m sorry you think that. Of course, it’s not even a tiny bit true.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Fair enough.”
Becky pulled away from the bottle then, and yawned wide and loudly. Cord watched his daughter, wondering how such a tiny mouth could stretch so big.
“Here.” Ms. Miller tucked the empty bottle into the flowered bag on the other side of the rocker. “You can burp her.” She found a cloth diaper in the bag and held it toward him, the same as she had that damn tissue a minute ago. “Put this on your shoulder. I’d hate to see you get spit-up on that beautiful shirt.”
He scowled, thinking, I’m Cord Stockwell. I don’t do burping.
“Take the diaper,” she said.
So he took it.
“Put it on your shoulder.”
He did that, too.
She gathered the baby close and rose from the rocker.
Cord backed up.
“Come on,” she dared to taunt him. “It’s a skill you’ll have to develop sooner or later.”
“How about later?”
“How about now?”
What the hell choice did he have? He held out his arms and she put his baby in them.
“Good,” she said. “Cradle her head. That’s right. Now gently, onto the shoulder…”
Becky sighed when he lifted her and laid her against his chest. He could feel her little knees, pressing into him. She smelled of milk and baby lotion. And her hair was soft as the down on a day-old chick. She made a gurgling sound. And then she let out one hell of Texas-size burp.
“Excellent,” intoned Ms. Miller.
He gave her a look over the dark fuzz on Becky’s head.
“I’m so relieved you approve—and are you coming to work for me, or not?”
She nodded. “I am. Temporarily.”
He patted Becky’s tiny back—gently. She was so small. It was like patting a kitten. “What does that mean, temporarily?”
“It means I’m going home now to pack up a few things and arrange for a neighbor to water my houseplants. Then I’ll stay here, in the nanny’s room, for a few days, or however long it takes to find you some quality live-in child care.”
She would work for him. But not for long. Strange how he disliked the idea of her leaving. She was an exasperating female, but a damn worthy adversary, too. He could respect that. “Why don’t you just take the job yourself? You’re exactly the kind of nanny Becky needs. And I can guess what a social worker makes. Not near what I’m willing to pay.”
Was that sadness he saw in those green eyes of hers? “Thanks for the offer, but no.”
He stroked Becky’s dark head and wanted to ask, “Why not?” But he held back the question. It was none of his business. And he doubted she would tell him anyway.
He inquired with ironic good humor, “I take it you’re going to be interviewing nannies for my daughter.”
“If that’s all right with you, yes. I would like to do that.”
“If that’s all right with me? Ms. Miller, you sound downright agreeable.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts, Mr. Stockwell.”
“Ms. Miller, I intend to do just that.”
Chapter Three
It was a little after seven that evening and Hannah was just putting the last of her clothes into the maple bureau of the nanny’s room when the tap came on the door to the hall.