The Millionaire's Baby

The sitting room of the suite she was shown into had all the comfortable, relaxed charm of an English coun­try home and the receptionist she had announced her­self to, and who had spoken for a few seconds into the house phone, now said, 'Make yourself comfort­able. Mr Helliar asked me to give you his apologies. He won't be more than a few minutes.'

It was, however, much less than that. Just a few seconds, but time enough to note two silver-framed photographs of his wife, the French singer who had briefly blazed to stardom before marriage and immi­nent motherhood had taken her to apparent obscurity.

His sudden, silent emergence into the room was a shock. It shouldn't have been, but it was. His appear­ance took her by the throat and shook her, dislodging all her famed composure, depriving her of her wits so that she could only stand and stare at six feet some­thing of honed male power.

His soft dark hair was appealingly rumpled, stick­ing up in wayward tufts, making him look younger than his thirty-four years. The front of the white shirt he wore above narrow black trousers was decidedly damp, the sleeves rolled up to expose the tanned skin of strong forearms. And his hands, the hands that held the child so gently and held her unwillingly fascinated stare for longer than was sensible, were beautifully made, strong-boned yet sensitive.

'Please excuse the delay, Miss Farr. Sophie got more lunch outside her than in. She and I both agreed—didn't we, my pet? —That she'd look more presentable after a bath, though the same can't be said for me! Won't you sit down?'

The intent silver-grey, black-fringed eyes were bright with enquiry, yet they held a h

int of mischief, too. Caroline didn't like that because that, and his rumpled appearance, the loving way he held the baby, made him seem human.

Reminding herself that he wasn't—only a cold-hearted, selfish, inhuman brute could have done what he'd done to her young sister, Katie—she sat, feet neatly together, her features carefully blank.

As the interview progressed, Caroline realised he was more interested in what made her tick, as a per­son, than in references and credentials. He didn't mention either and she found herself enjoying the ex­perience of re-inventing herself, presenting him with a dedicated lover of children whose hobbies were knitting, making model castles out of matchsticks, collecting wild flowers and recipes for fairy cakes.

The twitching of his mobile, sexy mouth brought her back to reality with a thump. Aborting her flights of fantasy, she asked herself tartly what she thought she was playing at. She should be taking advantage of what fate had handed her and giving him a piece of her mind.

No sign of Fleur, his wife. She wouldn't be out shopping or lunching with friends while something as important as an interview for a nanny was going on.

So she was probably back in her native France, re­cording an album, or whatever pop stars did when they wanted to make a come-back. Nothing had been heard of the singer since her short but meteoric rise to fame had been grounded by marriage and mother­hood. No doubt she was re-launching her career— hence the need for a nanny.

But something held her back—the memory of what he'd done to poor sweet Katie...

Wait and see. If he offered her the job she'd have more time at her disposal to think up something more fitting than a mere tongue-lashing.

As yet she had no idea of what that something might be. But she'd get there. Hadn't her formidable old grandmother repeatedly praised her for being strong and resourceful, a chip off the old Farr block?

'Of course, if you enjoy the situation, if Sophie takes to you, and you don't object to living out of town, then the situation could be permanent.'

It wasn't a statement. More like a question, a prob­ing question at that. Caroline shook her head and did her best to look regretful. No way. No way! This was a one-off. She was no nanny, she was simply the busi­ness brain behind the agency. She wouldn't need long to find a way to pay him back and after that he wouldn't see her for the jet-stream!

'I'm afraid I only ever take temporary work, Mr Helliar.' Earnestly said, with a tiny smile.

'Can you tell me why?' One sable brow slanted towards his hairline, the slight alteration in expression suddenly reminding her that he wasn't the pussy-cat his relaxed pose, with the child perched on his knee, suggested. This was a formidable man.

Pulling an answer out of the air, she invented, 'I get far too fond of my charges if I stay around for longer than a few weeks. It's easier for all concerned if I take on temporary situations only.'

But he didn't believe her. She could see he didn't. The silver eyes had gone hard and flat. She could almost hear the scornful words, calling her a liar, clicking around in his brain.

She knew she'd been telling fibs, but she couldn't bear that this... this wretch who had hurt and betrayed her sister should know it, too.

He was the one in the wrong, he was the one who had walked away, uncaring of the misery he left in his wake, not giving his broken-hearted victim a sec­ond thought. And the way he was looking at her, as if he knew she was telling a pack of lies, put her down on his contemptible level.

She couldn't bear that, either. It made her feel squirmy inside, nauseous, even, and she was on the point of beating a dignified retreat, forgetting the rea­son for her being here in the first place, when he un­expectedly and mildly defused the situation.

'Why don't you and Sophie get to know each other?' Gently but firmly, he put the little girl on her bare pink feet. Caroline huffed out her pent-up breath and relaxed her rigid shoulders. She had been on the point of walking out, her pride making her forget why she had come here, forfeiting her opportunity to some­how find a way to make him pay for what he had done.

She would never, ever let him get to her like that again.

'Yes, why not?' she concurred, smiling at the child. That was easy. Clad in a miniature pair of white cot­ton dungarees and an apple-green T-shirt, the round-eyed moppet was adorable. Caroline's eyes flicked to the silver-framed photographs and back again to the baby.

Even at this tender age the resemblance was star­tling. The same fine, flaxen wavy hair—although of course the mother's was much, much longer—and the same piquant features and enormous dark brown eyes. Unusual colouring, bearing no resemblance whatso­ever to her father. Caroline's smile widened as she saw dimples appear on either side of the rosebud mouth and then she sobered, wondering what the heck came next in the game of getting-to-know-you. Did fifteen-month-old babies walk? Did they talk? She had no idea!

Finn Helliar's eyes were on her, contemplative, knowing, almost as if he was fully aware of the way she was floundering, out of her depth. She looked away quickly, feeling her face go hot. Any minute now she would blow the whole thing.

Trouble was, she had never had anything whatso­ever to do with young children. None of her friends were married and producing babies. Should she go and pick the moppet up? Would it scream if she did?