The Millionaire's Baby

Caro swallowed raggedly. 'What is Finn Helliar do­ing here?' Besides haunting her, reminding her of what she wanted and couldn't have.

'Apart from doing all the donkey-work—and here I'm talking about the news I'm about to give you all—he asked if he might come. He needs to talk to you.' Her eyes glittered with mischief. 'About a nanny for that little daughter of his, perhaps? Ah.' She leaned more heavily on her stick and poked her face closer to Caro's. 'I know all about that little escapade. Or as much as Finn Helliar thought fit to tell me. I suspect he left the more outrageous bits out of his narrative, not realising that I'm completely unshockable. Well, are you coming? Or have you turned into a coward since I saw you last?'

That did it. Caro swallowed the wine in her glass, shot to her feet and offered her arm to her grand­mother.

She would face Finn Helliar, hear what he had to say—which, she had no doubt at all, would be some­thing about her devious nature, her incompetence, and quite possibly about his intention to sue Grandes Families for misrepresentation or whatever, and would make quite unpleasant hearing. But she would do it. No one would ever have cause to call her a coward!

And then she would slip away from the party and go home and restart the process of putting him right out of her heart and mind and hope she found it easier second time around.

She was aware that she and her grandmother made quite an entrance, that the family and the indoor staff—the Fairchilds and Pol—were seated and wear­ing their most expectant faces, and that Finn stood over by the windows, his back to what was left of the evening light so that she couldn't have seen his face properly even if she'd wanted to, which she didn't.

While Elinor seated herself in an elaborately carved, high-backed chair that was suspiciously remi­niscent of a throne and regally waved aside Pol's offer of coffee, Caro stood by the door, ready to make a rapid departure as soon as she possibly could, con­scious, horribly, of Finn's eyes on her but steadfastly refusing to look his way.

If he wanted to talk to her then he would have to approach her, not the other way around. She wasn't in the habit of going out of her way to look for heart­ache—and in this case it would be more heartache than she could handle.

Her grandmother was talking but Caro couldn't hear what she was saying; her heart was beating such a loud, heavy tattoo, it drowned out everything else. Until the sound of Finn's name sliced through the thunderous racket. 'Finn Helliar's father helped my husband set up all these trusts many years ago and Finn himself was kind enough to agree to set about the arduous task of unravelling them.

'Twshot to her feet and offered her arm to her grand­mother.

She would face Finn Helliar, hear what he had to say—which, she had no doubt at all, would be some­thing about her devious nature, her incompetence, and quite possibly about his intention to sue Grandes Families for misrepresentation or whatever, and would make quite unpleasant hearing. But she would do it. No one would ever have cause to call her a coward!

And then she would slip away from the party and go home and restart the process of putting him right out of her heart and mind and hope she found it easier second time around.

She was aware that she and her grandmother made quite an entrance, that the family and the indoor staff—the Fairchilds and Pol—were seated and wear­ing their most expectant faces, and that Finn stood over by the windows, his back to what was left of the evening light so that she couldn't have seen his face properly even if she'd wanted to, which she didn't.

While Elinor seated herself in an elaborately carved, high-backed chair that was suspiciously remi­niscent of a throne and regally waved aside Pol's offer of coffee, Caro stood by the door, ready to make a rapid departure as soon as she possibly could, con­scious, horribly, of Finn's eyes on her but steadfastly refusing to look his way.

If he wanted to talk to her then he would have to approach her, not the other way around. She wasn't in the habit of going out of her way to look for heart­ache—and in this case it would be more heartache than she could handle.

o events were instrumental in my decision. Katie almost drowned, and would have done had my future grandson-in-law not jumped in and pulled her out of the lake, and Emma could so easily have been killed or maimed for life in a road traffic accident. I realised then how much these two people really mean to me. Playing the matriarch and watching people jump when I pulled their strings became totally un­important for the first time in my very long life.'

Elinor Farr fell silent. No one spoke. Caro was aware of Finn watching her from across the room. The intentness, the steadiness of his scrutiny made the air fizz. She wanted out, but couldn't move. She would just have to endure and wait until he decided to come out with whatever it was he felt he had to say to her. 'So...' Elinor looked into each face in turn. 'This house, this estate, is to be sold. All the family assets are to be liquidised. Dora and Bert—' she smiled at the Fairchilds '—and you too, dear Polly, will have what is due to you to enjoy without the tedium of waiting for it to appear in my will. The rest will be divided into four equal parts.'

Murmurs of barely suppressed excitement issued from the indoor staff. They were all elderly, had served Gran well, and had earned a peaceful retirement. And Caro could hardly believe that her grand­mother was letting so much power slip through her fingers. She had held the reins so long, so tightly...

She must have had all this in mind that day when she'd phoned with the news of Mum's accident. She'd insisted on speaking to Finn, on seeing him...

'Emma and I have decided to travel,' Elinor said, to Caro's total amazement. 'When we find somewhere we really like we'll settle.' And to Katie, who was still looking shell-shocked, she added, 'You and David must do as you see fit with your share, dear. But I have it on good authority that the old Travers' place—the market garden—will shortly be going to auction...'

Caro slipped out of the room. In the excitement, the rapid-fire discussions that were now going on, she wouldn't be missed. She really and truly had meant to stay and hear whatever it was that Finn wanted to say to her but now knew she simply couldn't face it.

So she was a coward after all, but there was pre­cious little she could do about it. It was much too soon after she'd confessed her feelings for him, told him she loved him, then suffered the hurt and hu­miliation of having him throw her out.

Tears flooded her eyes and thickened her throat as she stumbled blindly across the hall. Call her a cow­ard, but she'd have to be a darn sight stronger emo­tionally than she was at the moment before she could do as much as stay in the same room with him, never mind hold a one-to-one conversation with him and emerge from the probably acrimonious encounter with any dignity left at all.

'Caro—stop.' The manacle of his hand trapped her arm. She looked around her wildly. Everywhere was still and silent, apart from the ragged sound of her breathing, the manic thumping of her heart. But very soon now the party guests would begin to arrive and her immediate escape route would be blocked.

She tried to tug her arm away. 'Please let me go. I'm leaving. We can talk some other time. Or,' she tacked on bitterly, 'write me a letter.'

'We talk now.' He was wearing a lightweight pale grey tailored jacket over a black silk polo shirt. He looked powerful and menacing and her poor heart shook. 'But not here.' He strode towards the open front door and Caro, still manacled, tottered behind him. 'We're leaving. And before you get any ideas you're leaving with me, not running away from me.' His eyes were hooded, hiding his expression as they fastened on her mouth. His mouth was curved in that lazy, effortlessly sensual smile that made her feel as if she was being very thoroughly ravished.

She turned her head swiftly, before he could recog­nise the yearning in her eyes for what it was. A yearn­ing to be kissed. And the abrupt movement made the tears that had been giving her eyes a glittering sheen trickle down her face, and he muttered gruffly, 'Caro—don't!' and swung her up into his arms and carried her out, popping her in the passenger seat of the off-roader, which was neatly parked behind her car, hemming her in so that she couldn't have es­caped, not without his say-so.

He was beside her, in the driver's seat, before she could gather her wits, or the will, to jump straight back out.

He turned to her, rubbing the traces of moisture from her cheeks with the ball of his thumb. His touch transfixed her; she could have stayed where she was for ever, letting him touch her. It was as if he had cast a spell over her, robbed her of her will, the power to think for herself. He could turn her into his sex slave—no trouble at all!

Self-destructive madness!