The Millionaire's Baby

Seeing her in the open doorway, the baby held pro­tectively in her arms, Finn grinned broadly. 'The two of you make a pretty picture. Nice.' Which probably accounted for the way the newcomer raised perfectly arched brows above the suddenly icy blue eyes that swept dismissively over the softly faded cotton dress to drift up again to meet amber scorn with a chilling sneer.

'So you found a suitable minder.' The woman was obviously bored, but sounded far more interested in her next pronouncement. 'With Mrs Helliar being away you've been so tied down. You can get yourself a life now. Have fun.'

'This is Sandra,' Finn introduced. 'My personal secretary from the London office.' Perhaps something about the unconcealed disapproval in Caroline's eyes got through to him because he moved sideways, put­ting a distance of an inch or two between him and the curvy, silk-clad body as he dropped his arm from her waist. 'I've taken a few weeks' leave to go house­ hunting, get settled back in England, but I still like to know what's going on. Sandra keeps me posted.'

And Sandra had moved back in, close to his big body, joining them at the hip again. Sandra was not willing to be deprived of what she wanted, Caroline noted, her hackles rising when the other woman smiled winningly up into her employer's face and cooed, 'Did you get the particulars from the estate agents? I emphasised you needed them at once.' And, not waiting for 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 level­headed, no one-tangles-with-me Caroline Fair 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 foldi

ng 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.