The Tycoon's Instant Daughter Page 12

  “Yes, we can.” His voice was low, intense. It rubbed every nerve she had, making them all stand to eager attention. “You can stay here. I don’t want any other woman raising my little girl, anyway. And you don’t want to leave Becky. It’ll kill you to leave her.”

  What he didn’t say hung in the thick air between them: You don’t want to leave me, either.

  She shook her head. “No. No, it will not kill me. It’ll hurt. Bad. But I’ll get over it.”

  “Damn it, you don’t have to get over it. Forget the interviews. Admit the damn truth. You don’t want to replace yourself.”

  “Please stop telling me what I want.”

  He dared another step.

  She said it again, “Stop,” in a raw whisper.

  But this time he ignored her command. He took the last step that brought him right up into her face. Her helium balloon of a heart bounced even higher.

  Blue eyes burned into hers. “Pack your bag and a bag for Becky. You’re coming to Houston with me.”

  “No, Cord. I’m not. I’m sorry. I have work to do here.”

  He lifted both big hands.

  Ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-boom went her heart.

  She saw what was about to happen. It was right there, in his eyes.

  He would take her by the arms and haul her against him. His mouth would come down on hers. She would taste his kiss—his forbidden kiss, the kiss that both of them had vowed would never take place.

  And she wanted it. She wanted it with all that was in her to want.

  But Cord Stockwell had more control than that. He muttered another low invective. And he dropped his arms.

  He took one step back and he said, very softly, “I told you that nothing would happen between us.”

  Her throat felt like big fingers were squeezing it hard. “I…yes,” she managed to croak. “That’s what you said.”

  “And I meant it. Nothing is going to happen—unless you say it’s what you want.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth—and then released it. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

  “So? Do it anyway.”

  “No.”

  His gaze roamed her face. “You sound certain.”

  “I’m positive.”

  His eyes were blue ice. “Then we know where we stand, at least. Don’t we?”

  “We do.”

  He said, with total lack of sincerity, “Good luck with those interviews.” He arched a brow at her. “How many have there been so far?”

  She had no answer ready. It wasn’t as if she’d been keeping an exact tally.

  “What?” he taunted. “Lost count?”

  “Of course not.” She glared at him as she added them up. “There have been thirty-four—no, thirty-five. Yes. Thirty-five applicants so far.”

  “Thirty-five. Impressive. And not one of them has been what you’re looking for.”

  She didn’t reply. It seemed much wiser, right then, to keep her mouth shut.

  “It’s almost starting to seem as if you’re never going to find that perfect nanny, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll find her. Don’t you worry.”

  “Did I say I was worried?”

  “Well, if you were, you don’t need to be.”

  “Hannah, you can stay in this house as long as you want to. Take forever to find the damn nanny. It’s all right with me.”

  “Thank you. But forever won’t be necessary.”

  He made a low, derisive sound in his throat. “Did I say forever? Imagine that. It’s a word I never use.”

  She folded her arms over her stomach, hurt all out of proportion by the cynicism in his tone.

  It was silly to be hurt, and she knew it.

  He had never lied to her, never pretended to be anything other than what he was—a man born to privilege, who had a talent for making money. A man who adored women. Lots of women, one after the other, in a never-ending chain. He’d said he didn’t have it in him to be true to just one.

  Still, in the time she had spent with him, teaching him how to care for his daughter, getting to know his family, hearing the stories of his childhood, Hannah had come to believe there was real goodness in him. And sometimes she knew he saw the goodness in himself.

  Not right now, though.

  Right now, he looked at her through calculating eyes. Right now, he was the ruthless Caine Stockwell’s favorite son, a chip off the old block in every way.

  The morning had barely begun, but all at once Hannah felt very tired. “I don’t want to fight with you, Cord. I truly don’t.”

  His lips pulled back from his fine, white teeth in a cruel approximation of a smile. “You call this fighting?”

  “Sparring, then. Whatever. Trading insults and digs. I don’t like it. Can’t we just stop?”

  He stared at her. His gaze seemed to burrow right down into the center of her. Then he stuck his hands into the pockets of his beautiful gray silk slacks—as if he had to, to keep himself from reaching for her.

  “You’re driving me crazy,” he said low. The cruel smile had vanished. He was deadly serious now. “We’re going to have to do something about it. One way or the other. You’d better find that nanny and go back where you’re so sure you belong. Or else you’d better admit where the two of us are headed.”

  “I don’t—”

  He silenced her with a look. “Think about it. While I’m gone.” Then he turned without another word and went out through the door to the hall.

  Chapter Eleven

  Think about it, he’d said.

  As if she could think of anything else.

  Hannah saw five nanny candidates between nine in the morning and three in the afternoon. She tried to focus on the answers they gave to her questions, to pay close attention to the way they interacted with Becky. She needed to find the right person to take care of Becky and she needed to find that person fast.

  But it was hopeless.

  Her mind kept wandering off to places she had no business allowing it to go.

  She kept seeing the two of them—herself and Cord—facing off in the playroom just the way they had that morning. But then everything would go haywire. Instead of stepping back, he would reach for her. She could actually feel the heat of his mouth on hers, the pressure of his hands splayed on her back, holding her so close against him. She felt herself melting, sighing, crying out as she returned his kiss…

  She’d shake herself. She’d order her foolish mind back to the here and now—only to take one look at Becky and want to burst into tears.

  Oh, she didn’t want to leave her. It would be a little like dying to walk away from her.

  But what was the alternative?

  Cord had made that pretty clear.

  She had to get out. Or she would end up in his bed.

  He might be a cynic, but he was an honest one.

  And she had to agree with him. They probably couldn’t go on much longer as they were.

  The attraction, at least on her part, was much too powerful.

  And what good could come of a love affair between them?

  Oh, she could hardly believe she was even considering it.

  But she was. Lord help her, she was.

  What good could come of it?

  She could see none. He’d made it clear it wouldn’t be anything with the word forever in it. And once it was over, she would end up just as she had seven years ago. Picking up the pieces. Trying to find a reason to go on.

  At three-fifteen, after she’d thanked the fifth nanny candidate of the day and sent her on her way, the phone rang in her room. She left Becky in the baby swing and hurried to answer.

  “Ms. Miller, you have a call.” It was Emma Hightower. “Someone named Maya from Child Protective Services.”

  Maya Revere was a fellow caseworker at CPS. She’d been helping to fill in for Hannah while she was gone. “Thanks, Mrs. Hightower.”

  “Just push the second button down on the right.”

&nbs
p; “Will do.” Hannah punched the button. “Maya?”

  “Hey.” Maya put on a heavy Southern drawl. “How’s it going up there at de big hay-ouse?”

  “It’s going okay. How are things with you?”

  “You don’t want to ask me that. You’ll only feel guilty when you hear my answer. Anyway, I didn’t call to complain.”

  Hannah grinned. She did like Maya, who braided bright beads into her dreadlocks and always wore a wide, friendly smile, even though, in their line of work, there wasn’t always much to smile about. “What then?”

  “You said you wanted me to let you know when the Stockwell letter came in from DNA Profiling.”

  Hannah clutched the receiver a fraction tighter. “It came?”

  “Today.” Which meant that a copy had probably been delivered to the mansion, as well. A copy with Cord Stockwell’s name on it. The lab had been given instructions to inform both the baby’s caseworker and the father in question.

  “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet. Do you want me to?”

  Hannah hesitated. She considered driving over there and collecting the letter to read in private.

  But that was silly. Either Cord was Becky’s father or he wasn’t. Keeping a secret of it from Maya Revere wouldn’t change the facts.

  “Hannah? Girlfriend, you still there?”

  “Sorry. I’m here. Please. Read it to me—just the conclusion will be fine.”

  “All right, then.” Hannah heard paper crackling.

  “Let’s see.” Maya coughed. “It says…a 99.9 percent likelihood.”

  Hannah felt moisture burning in her eyes. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “So. He is the father.”

  “You’re surprised?”

  “No.” And she wasn’t. A dream had died, that was all. The faint, fading hope that a miracle might occur. That somehow she would manage to adopt Becky herself.

  She’d pretty much accepted that it would never happen. But the lab results brought reality into even sharper focus. Becky Lott was a Stockwell. Cord was her natural father. He had a father’s irrefutable claim.

  From the other room, in the wind-up baby swing where Hannah had left her, Becky started crying. The sound reminded Hannah how very much she loved the child. The lump formed again in her throat and a single tear over-flowed to slide down her cheek.

  She said, “Thanks, Maya.”

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.” She swiped that futile tear away. “Becky’s fussing…”

  “Gotta go?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “You’ll be in on Monday, right?”

  Hannah thought of Cord again, of the heat in his eyes and the hunger in his voice just before he’d walked out on her that morning.

  You’re driving me crazy…

  We’re going to have to do something about it…

  “Hannah. Yoo-hoo. Are you coming in Monday or not?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Say that like you mean it.”

  “I do mean it. I’ll see you Monday. And thanks. For getting that information right to me.”

  “Anytime.”

  Hannah said goodbye and went to comfort the wailing Becky.

  Later, Kate dropped by. She fed Becky and played with her on the changing bureau, rattling rattles and practicing the most basic versions of peekaboo.

  “Come down for dinner. Seven-thirty,” Kate said before she left.

  Hannah almost said no. She didn’t feel much like company that evening. But Kate had become a friend—a friend who was definitely no fool. Hannah knew if she turned the invitation down she would end up having to explain why.

  “I’ll be there.”

  It was a quiet meal, just the two of them. Rafe hadn’t returned from his last assignment. “And I haven’t a clue where Jack’s gone off to,” Kate said. “But he’s not here. It’s just us girls.”

  They ended up talking jobs and movies and sharing a few childhood stories. Hannah was careful to keep the talk away from the subject of men, though she really would have liked to ask a question or two about the man named Brett Larson. But man talk, right then, was way too dangerous—even with another woman as bright and sympathetic as Kate. For Hannah, talking men could and probably would lead straight to Cord Stockwell. And the last thing she wanted was to end up crying on his sister’s shoulder.

  What could she tell Kate anyway?

  I want your brother. I think I love your brother. And falling for him is probably the second most ridiculously foolish thing I’ve ever done in my life—no. Wait. Make that the most ridiculously foolish thing. I was seventeen before, and I didn’t know any better. Now, I’m twenty-five, a grown woman who ought to have learned something from the whopper of a mistake she made once.

  And then, of course, Kate would ask, “What mistake?”

  No. It was not a good idea to start talking men with Kate.

  Hannah excused herself at a little before nine. Upstairs, Becky was still sleeping, so Hannah turned on the television in her room and channel-surfed for a while. When she couldn’t find a single thing that held her interest, she turned it off and tried to read.

  That didn’t work, either. The words blurred in front of her. Instead she saw blue eyes and a mouth she wanted to feel pressed against her own.

  She kept hearing those cruel things he had said…

  Did I say forever? Imagine that. It’s a word I never use. And, You call this fighting? And worst of all, You’d better find that nanny and go back where you’re so sure you belong. Or else you’d better admit where the two of us are headed.

  Another day down. And she had not hired the nanny. She could easily become very disgusted with herself.

  At ten-fifteen, she gave up on her book. She marked her place—only a few pages from where she’d begun an hour before—and went into the small bath off the nanny’s room. She took a quick, hot shower and brushed her teeth. By ten-forty, she was dressed in her nightgown, all ready to sneak a few winks before Becky woke and wanted one more meal.

  She got under the covers and switched off the lamp.

  And stared at the ceiling.

  The wind was up outside. She had been aware of it before. But now, with no book or television image to distract her, she thought it seemed louder than before, hard and insistent, rushing at the thick walls of Stockwell Mansion, rattling the windows. A wild Texas wind—which wasn’t a heck of a lot different from an Oklahoma wind. Both blew strong and relentlessly.

  She lay there, listening to it gust and moan, watching the dim shadows play across the ceiling, waiting for Becky to wake and cry out.

  But it wasn’t Becky she heard, from the monitor on the windowsill.

  It was a sound so soft, she might have missed it beneath the crying of the wind, had not every sense she possessed been so acutely attuned right then.

  The faint creak of a door opening. Yes. She knew that was what she had heard.

  There was someone in Becky’s room.

  The wind howled louder, a long, hard, whooshing wail of sound.

  It might have been any one of the Stockwells. Or Mrs. Hightower. Or even, God forbid, an intruder.

  But it wasn’t.

  Hannah knew who it was. She could feel him. He was here, in the huge house. In Becky’s room. Cord Stockwell had not stayed the night in Houston, after all.

  Hannah sat up in bed and started to push the covers away.

  But no.

  She lay back down. It was impossible. She couldn’t go in there. That would only be asking for…

  Exactly what she wanted.

  For an endless minute or two, she remained there, flat on her back under the covers, thinking, No, I will not go in there. I will stay here. If Becky wakes, Cord can tend to her. There is no reason for me to go in there.

  Except that he’s in there.

  And she wanted to be where he was…

  In the end, she sat again. And this time she shoved
the covers to the side and swung her bare feet to the floor.

  She shouldn’t…

  The wind gusted again, rattling the windowpanes. It had a sad, lost sound right then, like a lonely ghost locked out to wander in the night.

  She reached for the light and then for her robe.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cord moved silently to the crib and stood looking down at his daughter. She lay on her back, one plump arm raised over her head, her little fist like the bud of some perfect, pink flower.

  Outside, the wind howled.

  He had missed her—and he had missed the infuriating woman who was sleeping in the nanny’s room. Missed them both, damn it, though he’d been away from them for less than a day. So he’d wrapped up his business as fast as he could and flown himself home. His landing had been rough, with the wind so bad. But in the end, he’d touched down and taxied in safely enough. And his car was waiting for him—the Ferrari 360 Modena this time. He’d driven home way too fast. But why own a Ferrari, if you couldn’t drive it good and fast?

  Becky sighed, her fingers opening, then closing gently against her sweetly wrinkled little palm.

  The wind howled all the louder.

  Cord bent closer. Becky’s eyelids were jittering. Probably dreaming. What the hell did a three-month-old baby dream of, anyway?

  The simplest things, most likely. Tender arms to hold her, warm bottles full of formula, a gentle voice and a loving smile.

  It occurred to him that, except for the formula, what a baby wanted wasn’t a lot different than what most every other damn fool in the world wanted.

  Tender arms. A gentle voice. A loving smile.

  He dared to think her name: Hannah.

  And just as that word whispered through his mind, the light winked on in her room.

  As usual, she’d left the door to the playroom ajar, so he saw the flash of brightness at the edge of his vision. He glanced up. Yes. A sliver of golden light glowed under her door.

  It all came back to him, when he saw that glow: the first night she’d come to stay in his rooms. Her light under the door. Her white gown with the virginal ruffle at the neck. His first sight of those slim, pale feet…

  Damn.

  He was bad off.