The Billionaire's Baby Plan / Marrying the Northbridge Nanny: The Billionaire's Baby Plan. Allison Leigh
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seriously eligible bachelor. There was no question that the man had women in his life.
“Dating gets…messy.”
Wasn’t that what she believed, herself?
“This feels pretty messy to me,” she countered.
“This is business. The terms are already outlined.”
“A child is not a business.”
“So says the woman whose entire life revolves around an institute that creates them.”
“We’re not cloning people, for heaven’s sake! We’re helping infertile couples achieve fertility.” She went stock-still when his hand suddenly lifted toward her.
“This strand of hair keeps working loose of that knot you keep it in.” His knuckles brushed the underside of her jaw as he ran his thumb and forefinger down the long, wavy lock.
It didn’t seem to matter that he was wreaking havoc on her life. Just that faint touch made her bones feel like gel. “Wh-what are you doing here? For that matter, how’d you even know where I was?”
He wound the strands of hair around his finger. “Your assistant told me.”
She jerked back, and he let her hair loose though he still left her feeling crowded on what was supposed to be a very spacious porticoed entrance. “What were you doing calling Ella?”
“Finding out your schedule, obviously.”
“You should have contacted me.”
He smiled faintly. “Somehow, I think Ella was more forthcoming than you would have been.”
The truth of that stuck in her throat. “You said we…we would work out the details of our—” She couldn’t even manage an appropriate word and just waved her hand instead. “Later.”
“And now it’s later. You’re meeting with your family this evening. I figured it’d be logical for me to be here when you tell them we’re getting married.”
“Maybe I didn’t plan to tell them this evening,” she bluffed. Badly.
“I’d think you’d rather they hear it from you than from somewhere else.”
“What’d you do? Issue a press release?” She hadn’t really taken him seriously on that score.
“I’ve arranged for the ceremony to be held in New York at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”
“What?” The cathedral was famous. It was Catholic. “I’m not Catholic.” She hadn’t even been to church in years. And he was a divorced man.
“I am.”
She folded her arms tightly. “Aren’t there…requirements to be met there? Marriage classes or something?”
“Ordinarily.”
How simply he glossed over what she knew had to be an encyclopedia of protocols, and it was just another example that he wasn’t any ordinary man. Not even an ordinary, wealthy man.
So she squashed the multitude of questions that her detail-oriented mind wanted answers for, and settled for just one. “Why do you want a church ceremony when you’ve already promised that our…union…has an expiration date?”
“That’s a promise known only between you and me, remember? As far as anyone else is concerned, this is the real deal. Unless you’re already chickening out.”
She made a face. “I’m not chickening out.” Not because she didn’t want to back out. She did. But she wanted to ensure the institute’s security even more.
“Good.” He slid his hand inside the pocket of his coat and he pulled out a small, square jeweler’s box. Without ceremony, he thumbed it open and pulled out a diamond ring. “Put this on.”
She eyed the simple, emerald-cut solitaire. If this were a real engagement—if she were head over heels in love with the man—she would have been bowled over by its exquisite beauty. Something she would have chosen for herself—albeit a more modest-size stone—if she were given the opportunity.
But in that sense, there was nothing real about any of this.
She took the ring and slid it onto her left ring finger. The narrow band fit a little loosely and she nudged it with her thumb, pushing the weighty diamond to the center.
Beautiful or not, the ring felt more like a noose around her neck.
“I suppose you’ve already decided what date, too?”
“Next week.”
She nearly reeled. “So soon?”
“I can fit it into my schedule now. And yours, as it happens, since you’ll be able to cancel all of those meetings you have lined up next week with potential investors.”
“H-how did you arrange the cathedral on such short notice?”
“I asked.”
Panic bloomed inside her head. How could she ever be a match against him?
“Everything is already arranged,” he continued. “The ceremony will be at four. We’ll have a small reception afterward at my penthouse. It’s easier than finding another suitable venue, and Raoul will provide the catering. All you have to do is find a gown. We’ll issue a few official photographs for the press, so keep that in mind.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t take care of the gown, then, too.”
“Your taste is excellent. But if you prefer, I can make a few calls to some designers I know.”
“Gosh. Thanks.” She shivered and her sarcasm was shaky.
“You’re cold.” He suddenly pulled her close to him, wrapping his overcoat around her.
It was like being engulfed by a blast furnace. And for the life of her, she couldn’t pull away.
“Better?” His voice dropped, whispering against her temple.
Her fingers curled against his shoulders, easily discerning the hard feel of him beneath the soft wool. No extra padding in that coat, at all. “Not really,” she admitted.
“It won’t all be bad. Have you seen the Mediterranean?”
She shook her head. She had to fight against the urge to lean against him. To just let him take her weight, and everything else on her plate…
But wasn’t that what he was doing, anyway?
“I’ve arranged a private villa in the French Riviera for the honeymoon.”
Honeymoon. She almost laughed. Or cried. Because he was covering all of his bases as far as appearances went. “I don’t want to be away from the office for even a week.”
“You will be, and it’ll be three weeks.”
Her gaze flew to his. “That’s impossible. I can’t just flit off for—” She broke off when the door behind them opened again.
“What on earth is taking so.” Emily’s voice trailed off at the sight that met her. “Long?” Her eyebrows lifted in silent demand.
Lisa tried to untangle herself from Rourke’s arms, but he wasn’t cooperating. Which left her to peer over his shoulder at her mother. But when she opened her mouth to explain, nothing came. “I…I—”
“Blame it on me, Mrs. Armstrong,” Rourke said smoothly. Without releasing Lisa, he tucked her against his side and turned to face Emily, his hand extended. “It’s good to meet you again.”
Again? Startled, Lisa looked from his face to her mother’s.
The insistent inquiry on Emily’s face was replaced by surprise. And no small amount of confusion. “Mr. Devlin. How nice to see you.”