The Millionaire's Baby

Caro wished with all her heart that it would. She pushed a hand through her hair, mussing it wildly. The tension of waiting for something to happen was far worse than coping with it when it did.

Sophie, tucked up in her cot, was sleeping the sleep of the totally innocent and Caro, feeling far from in­nocent, glared at her reflection in the mirror and knew she had to try harder.

Either she and Finn were working to a different set of rules and she'd been mistaken about those signals, or he'd completely lost all interest.

They'd shopped, they'd eaten, they'd made the cross-country journey to the first property he had ar­ranged to view and Finn Helliar had behaved like a perfect gentleman throughout.

Which under normal circumstances would have been fine, exactly right and as it should be between employer and employee.

But these weren't normal circumstances. She needed him to make an advance of some kind so that she could respond and lead him on, let him believe she was eager for the sort of hole-and-corner affair he thrived on. And then, when he was all fired up, slap him down and walk away, only pausing long enough to ask him if he liked the feeling of being dumped.

'I'll put a salad together and barbecue a couple of steaks,' he'd told her after they'd bathed the baby and put her down to sleep. And now the smell of chargrilled meat was drowning out the evening scents of roses and honeysuckle, making her feel sick.

Or did that feeling of nausea spring from nervous tension? A fastidious distaste for the way she had cho­sen? Whatever. She only had to remind herself of what he'd done to Katie to get herself back on track. The gauzy bedroom drapes were billowing gently in the soft evening breeze. She lifted them slightly to one side. She could see him moving about on the paved terrace below, putting a bowl, plates, wine and glasses down on the teak picnic-style table.

Her stomach lurched. She was going to have to try harder, tempt him to make a move. She didn't have time to waste because in another thirty-six hours or so they'd be back in London and as soon as they were she wouldn't hang around. She'd be back to the agency faster than he could blink, mission accom­plished.

After bathing she'd wrapped herself in a silky, thigh-length robe. She could stay that way, barefoot and naked apart from wispy blue silk secured by a loosely tied sash, if only she were brave enough. But she wasn't.

Impatient with herself, she pulled on a pair of very short shorts and topped them with a toning pale amber top. Cropped and sleeveless, it looked much less workmanlike with most of the covered buttons left carelessly undone.

By twisting and peering she could see most of her­self in the small tilting mirror on top of the narrow chest of drawers. With the limited choice of clothes she had with her she'd achieved the desired effect.

Sexy and sensual without looking cheap or up for grabs. It was the best she could do.

She decided to stay bare-footed, left her normally sleek bob mussed, ignored the contents of her make­up bag, checked on the blissfully sleeping baby one last time and, scarcely daring to breathe, trailed the back of her fingers gently over the rosy cheeks.

A wave of tenderness turned her heart to mush. She could hardly believe the speed with which this de­lightful child had become so important to her. She wished she could wave a magic wand and turn the baby's father into a faithful husband, bring her miss­ing mummy back from wherever she was and give the child the precious gift of a happy family life. Then she silently berated herself for being such a sentimen­tal fool.

She had no magic wand. The only thing she could do to help change Sophie's daddy's attitude to women was give him a taste of his own medicine. Then, if he experienced the misery and humiliation of being used and dumped, he might stop doing it to other people.

Caro braced herself then padded silently down the twisty stairs to try her reluctant hand at the flirt­ing game.

CHAPTER SIX

Caro walked quickly out onto the terrace. Her cour­age would desert her entirely if she stopped to actually think about what she was doing.

Although she was sure her bare-footed approach had been completely silent Finn was obviously aware of her presence. He didn't turn from the barbecue he was working with but he knew she was there because he remarked evenly, 'Why don't you help yourself to wine? There's a bottle on the table. The steaks won't take much longer.'

Caro pulled in a deep shuddering breath. She didn't know why she looked on his instruction as a reprieve, the excuse she needed to make herself invisible, but she did. That reaction made her hands shake as she lifted the wine bottle from the cooler, made the neck of the bottle clatter against the rim of the glass as she poured.

The obvious thing to do, given the dubious role she had taken on, was to pour him some of the chilled white wine too, carry it over, talk to the man while he was cooking their supper, smile, pout, gaze into his eyes and bat her eyelashes—whatever—whatever it took to signal her willingness to play games.

But she couldn't bring herself to do any of those things. She wanted to run and hide because the height of him, the breadth of his back, the daunting width of his shoulders all suddenly intimidated her. At least, she was as certain as she could be that that was what was giving her the shakes.

Her eyes wide and wary, fixedly staring at the back of his dark and handsome head, she sidled silently over the paved terrace and down to the curving lawn until, out of sight, she sank cross-legged on the cool green grass and drained the contents of her glass in one long, recklessly thirsty swallow.

'You looked as if you needed that!' The husky, slightly gravelly voice was threaded through with strands of amusement

and Caro flinched at his unex­pected and unwanted appearance, squeezing her eyes tightly shut as he lowered himself to the ground be­side her. Close beside her.

Alcohol fizzed through her veins. Or was it the nee­dle-sharp awareness of how close his body was to hers? Of how scantily clad she was?

'Here, have mine.' Finn exchanged the full glass he'd carried down with him for her empty one. Their fingers brushed. Caro took a sharp breath and her eyes batted open, fastening with unwilling fascination on his sensual mouth, on that barely discernible slow, wicked shadow of a smile.

She didn't really want more wine, but took the glass because holding it gave her something to do, taking unthinking sips of the crisp, cool liquid until she realised she'd slurped her way through half the contents in less than a couple of minutes. She put the glass down quickly on the grass. Was he trying to get her drunk, incapable of knowing what she was doing? Was that the way he operated?

Having satisfied himself that she was willing to play along, he had done nothing more about it until his daughter was safely asleep for the night. That made sense, she supposed. But what happened now? Get her drunk and incapable, cutting out the tiresome need to sweet-talk her or the chore of having to make some pretence of caring about her, then jump on her?