The Millionaire's Baby

'May I call a cab? I need one to take me to the hospital. When I've seen Mum I'll arrange to collect my own car.'

'In a moment.' He put Sophie on the floor and stood up, his concerned eyes raking her pale face. 'Five minutes, that's all. There are a couple of calls I have to make and then I'll see you get to the hospital.'

How selfish could a man get? 'I don't believe this!'

'Trust me.' He began to punch numbers and Caro, grinding her teeth, turned away. Revising her former opinion of his 'kindness and warmth', she collected Sophie and Horn and took them both to the bedroom. At least she could use the time to freshen up and change into something more suitable for a sickbed vigil. She wondered if Katie was coping, if she was sitting at their mother's bedside or if she'd taken fright, hiding herself in a corner back at home, crying her eyes out.

Fuming at the unnecessary delay forced on her by that inconsiderate beast, Caro sluiced her hands and face with cold water, changed her shorts and T-shirt for a wrap-around cotton skirt and sleeveless blouse and dragged a comb through her hair.

She should be there, at the hospital, sitting with her mum, giving Katie the support she would need, allow­ing her sister to lean on her strength. It wasn't that Katie was mentally feeble—she was insecure, unsure of herself; she needed constant reassurances.

That was why she should be on her way to her right now, not waiting while Finn concluded his vital phone calls—probably to his solicitor about getting the ball rolling towards the purchase of Mytton Wells, and to the sultry Sandra, telling her to get herself over here to keep him company.

It would only have taken her one minute, if that, to phone for a cab—

'Everything's going to be fine—'

'Why the hell can't you learn to knock?' she spat out at him, goaded beyond endurance. He'd forced her to delay that call for a cab, was mouthing meaningless platitudes about everything being all right—of all the facile... And yet, dammit all, her heart soared and swelled at the sight of him and she wanted him to take her in his arms and comfort her. She wanted to lean on someone for a change, instead of being leant upon.

Not any old someone. Only him.

'Caro—it's OK, I promise.' The reassurance of his voice and his smile would have soothed an elephant with tusk-ache. Her eyes glimmered at him suspi­ciously between dark and tangled lashes. 'I phoned the hospital to get the facts straight,' he told her. 'Elinor had more or less said that there was little or no hope for your mother's recovery and because I imagine she said the same thing to you I needed to check.'

He searched her face with narrowed eyes. 'The ac­cident happened early this morning. She had been un­conscious ever since, but is now awake and doing fine—apart from cracked ribs, an acre or so of bruising, and the remnants of concussion. She's al­ready out of Intensive Care and in a side ward— Hey—'

His arms steadied her as she swayed on her feet, relief weakening her. He half carried her into the sit­ting room and led her to the sofa. 'It's not a life and death situation, I promise you, so relax for half an hour. My mother will be with us by then—that was the second call I had to make. She'll stay here with Sophie and I'll drive you to the hospital'

Tears washed her eyes and spangled her lashes. Again she had misjudged him. Horribly. He had taken charge, sorted everything out, made everything so very much better.

She gave him a wobbly smile. 'I should have ques­tioned everything Gran said myself instead of leaping at a tangent. I know her a lot better than you do and should have remembered

how she unfailingly drama­tises each and every situation.'

A tendency Katie had inherited, but whereas the old lady dramatised for effect and to make herself appear even tougher than she undoubtedly was Katie created dramas so that she could lie down under them and wail!

'And you really don't have to drive me. I am ca­pable of sitting in the back of a cab—I know you say Mum's going to be fine—and I'm grateful to you for finding out—' She got to her feet, annoyed to find herself swaying, not knowing why she was feeling so light-headed, doing her best to make her voice sound firm as she told him, 'I could be on my way now, not sitting here—'

'Stay where you are.' The lightest pressure from his hands on her shoulders eased her back amongst the cushions. 'Your grandmother appeared to be in quite a state. I think your mother's accident brought home the fact of her own mortality. She wants advice on all those trust funds—my father helped set them up, remember? He and your grandfather were old friends.' He stood back, hands on hips, watching her closely as if to satisfy himself she wasn't about to pop back to her feet like a jack-in-the-box. 'So I might as well kill two birds with one stone—get to the bottom of what she wants to do about the trusts and deliver you to the hospital. You've had a shock, don't forget, so do yourself a favour and relax. I'll get Room Service to bring up some tea.'

Satisfied she was staying put, he used the phone to order up Sophie's milk and Caroline's tea. A frowning glance at his watch told him his mother should arrive in less than an hour. Until then he would have to keep a firm grip on his tongue and a firmer one on his emotions.

On the way back from the cottage he had been practically counting the minutes until she would be right out of his life. He had been on the point of making a fool of himself, had actually believed he'd fallen in love with the minx.

How could his judgement have been so way off the mark? How could he have imagined himself in love with the type of woman who would fall into the arms of a married man—at least a man she fully believed to be married, with a young child into the bargain? Not only fall into his arms but respond to his kisses, revel in his caresses, and give every impression of being ready for very much more!

He felt as if he'd been slapped in the face. He felt hurt and betrayed. Yes, dammit, he felt as if she'd betrayed him, as if she'd offered him something in­describably beautiful only to let him discover that the glittering shell covered something vile and loathsome.

Yet no way could he let her cope with the trauma of her mother's accident on her own. From what he could remember of her sister Katie she would be more of a liability than a help in this sort of situation.

Besides, he had to see old Elinor Farr at some time in the very near future. He could get that over with and deliver Caroline to her mother's bedside on the same journey. Do what was right then wash the whole troublesome family out of his hair.

Caro rubbed her fingers over her forehead. Everything was in a muddle. His mother had to be the Mrs Helliar Sandra had spoken of. And when she herself had spoken of his needing Mrs Helliar's opin­ion before he went ahead and purchased a new house she had been referring to his wife and he, of course, had been talking of his mother when he'd said she would be in England only one month out of twelve.

'So your mother doesn't live here,' Caro said, won­dering why he looked so tense. Something was bug­ging him and she didn't know what it was and it was doing her head in.

If she was going to have to spend more time with him then she supposed she must try to keep every­thing normal on the surface. Forget he'd sacked her, acted as if he loathed her—for absolutely no good reason that she could see—then turned into something her mother would have called A Tower Of Strength, in capital letters. Forget that she only had to look at him to grow weak with longing.

'No.' Something caught at his throat and filled it, tugged at his heart and nearly broke it. At least, that was what it felt like, he amended savagely. Sophie, tired of crawling round the furniture, had clambered up on Caroline's lap, wound her chubby arms around her nanny's neck, and tucked her curly head into the curve of that same nanny's elegant neck.