The Millionaire's Baby

CHAPTER ONE

Caroline Farr was afraid she'd made a terrible mis­take.

As the taxi wove through the snarl of traffic on Prince Albert Road she was convinced of it. So utterly convinced she had to grit her teeth in order to stop herself from telling the driver to stop and allow her to walk off her agitation in the sun-drenched green­ness of London's Regent's Park.

It was so, so tempting...Mary Greaves, her busi­ness partner, could phone through and apologize, ex­plain to the Helliars that, unfortunately, Ms Farr was unable to attend the interview for the position of nanny to their baby daughter, suggest another appli­cant, another interview.

But she wasn't that weak! Mercifully, the unaccus­tomed feeling of panic began to subside as the taxi made a left turn into one of the leafy Georgian streets that abounded in this area. She wasn't going to back down at the last moment and prove Mary right. It wasn't in her nature to back away from her own de­cisions.

Mary had said, 'Carol Have you gone mad? You can't do it! You're not trained—you know nothing about caring for children! That's my area of expertise, not yours. Think of the agency's reputation!'

And for the first time ever she had pulled rank and reminded her partner of just who had built up that enviable reputation, adding, 'I've worked all hours on the administration side for two whole years. Now I fancy some hands-on experience. Humour me, Mary!' Her smile when she'd wanted to appear relaxed had been big and wide and winning. 'Looking after a child can't be all that difficult. Millions of women do it all the time—and if I get out of my depth I promise I'll let you know. The Grandes Families Agency is as much my baby as yours; I won't do a thing to harm our good reputation.'

The bit about fancying some hands-on experience had been a downright lie, plucked out of the air as an excuse for what had to appear as sheer craziness, a totally uncharacteristic deviation from her normal level-headed approach to her work at the agency.

But was it so crazy to want revenge?

She'd been in the main office when Honor, their secretary, had shown Finn Helliar into the room Mary used for client interviews. The band that had tightened around her chest with the painful suddenness of a steel trap had kept her immobile until Honor had teetered back on her very high heels a few moments later, a pussy-cat smile on her pretty, pointed face.

Caroline hadn't needed to ask who he was. She'd known. She had never met him but she knew all about him, had seen that photograph in the press a couple of years ago. Handsome as he had looked—his smile tender for the lovely new bride on his arm—the cam­era image hadn't done him justice. In the flesh his impact was nothing short of stunning.

She'd asked instead, 'Why is he here?' and she'd thanked heaven her voice sounded normal, coolly in­terested and utterly professional.

'Some hunk, huh?' Honor had smoothed the fabric of her pale grey skirt over her hips. 'He phoned first thing this morning before you arrived. It seems they flew in from Canada a couple of days ago and need a temporary nanny until they find a permanent home outside of London. Nice work for some lucky lady!'

It had been then, precisely then, that Caroline knew what she was going to do, and when Honor had mused, 'I wonder what his wife's like?' she'd merely shaken her head and gone into her own office to wait until her partner had finished interviewing Finn Helliar.

She could have told her secretary exactly who his wife was, what she looked like, but had been afraid she wouldn't be able to hide her anger and outrage if she did.

Now, as the taxi drew up in front of the hotel where the Helliars were staying, Caroline swiftly ran through a mental check-list.

A good nanny was quiet and subdued in her ap­pearance.

Well, she had done her best in that respect.

The mandatory street-wear uniform of the Grandes Families nannies meant her slim body was success­fully de-sexed by the severely plain, tailored dark grey linen suit, the desired touch of white at her throat given by the crisply starched cotton shirt she wore beneath it, her jaw-length bob of glossy, dark auburn hair hidden beneath the grey cloche-style hat, her five feet six inches played down by her sensible flat-heeled

shoes.

A good nanny had received rigorous training and carried impeccable references. Caroline Farr had the benefit of neither and as soon as that was discovered she would be shown the door.

Which meant she would have to deliver her castigation right there and then. She would prefer more time to plot a more fitting retribution but only by her acceptance as the Helliars' temporary nanny could she get that.

She would just have to keep her fingers crossed and hope that the gods of retribution were fighting her corner!

After paying off the driver she faced the hotel, straightening. She would have expected Finn Helliar, hot-shot financier, chief executive of an awe-inspiringly successful international merchant bank, to choose something ultra-modern, trendily sophisti­cated. But maybe his wife had insisted on somewhere like this—restrained, comfortable, old-fashioned, even.

Caroline shrugged. It wasn't important. And the niggle of anxiety she had been trying to suppress bub­bled up to the surface of her mind, making her frown and sink her teeth into her full lower lip.

The trouble with knee-jerk reactions, as her impulse to present herself as a temporary nanny had been, was a built-in, fatal lack of forward planning. She was uncomfortable with that.

So far she had planned her life meticulously; she had known where she was going, what she wanted. And if, as was a distinct possibility, she was shown the door as soon as her lack of credentials became known she could only hope that Finn Helliar himself would show her to that door and not leave the chore to his wife.

If the worst came to the worst and she was asked to leave she would say she needed a few moments alone with him. No way would she say what needed to be said in front of his wife. Fleur Helliar wasn't the guilty one.

She stiffly approached the revolving doors with their solid mahogany and brass fittings. It would work out. Fate had obligingly delivered the callous brute into her hands—it wouldn't let her down at this last minute.