The Millionaire's Baby

The thoughts that statement conjured up in his brain were definitely X-rated and, dammit, if she persisted in pretending to be a bona fide nanny then there was nothing he could do about it.

The need to take her in his arms again, to learn the shape of her—every last delightful curve and deli­cious hollow—both with his eyes and his hands, to take the taste of her into his mouth, was irresistible. He didn't think he was going to be able to wait until she decided she could trust him enough to tell him who she was and what she really did for a living.

And if he had read the signals right she was ready to respond to him. His hand moved to the nape of her neck and he saw her golden eyes haze with desire, her lips part softly under his gaze, and knew that should he ask her to stop him, as he had felt constrained to do last night, she would do nothing of the sort. Not this time.

But there was no hurry. It would be criminal to rush her, to force his way through to her by means of the purely physical. She had to be ready to respond to him emotionally, too.

They had all the time in the world, and besides, nothing earth-shattering could happen with his pre­cious little daughter a mere few yards away. The fact that she was sound asleep made no difference at all.

However—his head dipped fractionally towards her, his hand cupping the back of her glossy head now—a kiss, just one, just a taste of her, the begin­ning of a slow, sweet build-up... A build-up that could last for days or even weeks but which would end, inevitably, in rapture.

He heard the tiny gasp she gave and sensed the sexual tension in her body, and—dear heaven!—how sweetly her breath fluttered against his mouth! The touch of her small hands as they crept up and splayed out against his ribcage was managing to send him out of his mind! And the way her full, rounded breasts brushed against his chest, the sensual contact scalding him through the thin cotton of his shirt, ignited flames that threatened to rage right out of control.

It was what had happened to her when he'd said she needed babies of her own that had done the mis­chief! Caro decided wildly. What he had said and the way he had said it in that slow, sexy voice of his that had started that primeval ache deep inside her, the sudden need for a baby of her own-—for his baby...?

The way her thoughts were taking her made her panic. But not even panic could help her to move. It paralysed her. It made her want to stay. Here. Right here. With him. She didn't know what was happening, only that they were both highly aroused, incapable of stopping what was happening to them.

One of his hands was behind her head and his lips were a breath away from hers. She took a gulp of air, feeling the tight flowering of her breasts, the way they pushed against him as if drawn, body to body, mouth to mouth... Her hands clutched at him, holding him, the heat and hardness of his body making her head spin, and she saw his eyes glitter hotly, darkly, just a split second before his mouth curved with a heart-jolting sensuality and moved swiftly to cover her own.

Her own lips met his, responding, slow, erotic strokes and softly moist explorations turning to wild, unthinking demands as together they sank back on the grass, feverish bodies entwined as he lifted his mouth from hers, pushing her tumbled hair back from her face with a slightly unsteady hand, holding her eyes with the intensity of his as if to reinforce and give credence to his hoarsely uttered words. 'Caro, I can't help it if you think I'm crazy—but, hell, I think I'm falling in love with you!'

His words acted like a bucket of icy water, bringing her cruelly to her senses. He didn't know the meaning of the word; men like him used lies like that to talk gullible women into their beds all the time. And, even if the world was pear-shaped and he was telling the truth, he wasn't free to do any such thing!

How could she have given in to the wicked thoughts and desires that he alone seemed capable of creating, responded so lustily to such a man?

Shame made it almost impossible to speak, definitely impossible to bunch up her fists and push him away. And when she could get her words out they were instinctive. The means to hurt him, to take the revenge that had been handed to her on a plate. And the words emerged huskily on the merest thread of sound. 'I wonder what your wife would think if she heard you saying that?'

Muzzily, she realised that earlier she had given up on the idea of making him bite the bullet of sexual frustration as a way of exacting a measure of revenge for what he had done to Katie. But the situation had somehow presented itself and the words had come out of her mouth as if they'd been programmed to do so, and the effect that the reminder of his wife had had on him was everything she could have hoped for.

He went very still, every muscle and sinew taut and strained, and she saw the colour drain from his face, his eyes go black with some bleak emotion before he gathered himself and pushed away from her, swung round, his back to her as he pushed his fingers roughly through his thick dark hair.

Finn got to his feet, his face harsh, mirroring his thoughts.

He could barely believe he'd heard that. The first woman to make him feel like a lovesick adolescent at the mercy of his hormones for God only knew how many years, the first woman ever to arouse a whole raft of masculine protectiveness he had never known he possessed, the desire to cherish and respect as well as the desire to bed. All these crazy emotions shown up for the folly that they were by those husky, taunt­ing words of hers.

He had believed himself in love for the first time in his life. In love with a woman who would have had sex with a man she believed to be married.

Her partner back at the agency had obviously omit­ted to pass on the information that the Mrs Helliar who had accompanied him from Canada, who was presently visiting with friends in the London area, was his mother. She had responded to every advance he had made, initiating a few of her own, all the time believing him to be a married man.

He was blisteringly angry with them both. With himself for putting her on a pedestal, with her for having feet of clay right up to her pretty neck!

CHAPTER NINE

'Fleur—my wife—died before Sophie was a month old.' His words dropped heavily, coldly, and when he turned to face her again his features displayed no ex­pression at all. Except, perhaps, distaste.

Soft-footed, he moved to where his daughter slept in the dappled shade of the tree, dark lashes fanning her flushed chubby cheeks. Finn picked the little girl up and cradled her caref

ully in his arms, his lips barely moving as he instructed tersely, 'Pack every­thing up, will you? We're leaving. I'll wait for you at the car.'

Caro watched him walk away. She felt physically sick, her heart jumping about dementedly under her ribs. The warm, still summer afternoon was suddenly oppressive. Yet she shuddered.

His wife was dead. The knowledge stunned her. All the time she'd been in his employ she'd almost been inventing him to fit into the shoes of the character she'd believed him to be: a philanderer whose lack of loving commitment had driven his wife back to her abandoned career, the type of man who would play around with his personal secretary, not to mention his daughter's nanny, while his wife was out of sight.

But he didn't have a wife. Fleur Helliar had been dead for over a year.

Caro knew she'd done him an enormous injustice and she felt truly bad about that. But, in her own defence, no one, least of all Finn, had explained the situation to her. And who the heck had the sultry Sandra been talking about when she'd mentioned Mrs Helliar?

Gloomily, she re-packed the picnic things and folded the blanket and followed to where he'd parked the car. Her mention of his wife had obviously done something to put him off the idea of going over the house he wanted to buy again this afternoon. She knew he'd been looking forward to doing just that but now he couldn't wait to get away. She felt bad about that, too.