The Tycoon's Instant Daughter Page 13

  Lately, every thought he had seemed to lead right back around to Hannah—her smile, her laugh, her sweet Okie twang. She was driving him crazy. Plain out of his mind.

  It wasn’t supposed to have turned out like this. He should have been immune to her. He’d never been attracted to her type.

  Till now.

  And now? Now, he had started to see things in a whole different light. Now, he found himself thinking that it wasn’t the type of woman that mattered, after all.

  It was the woman herself.

  Outside, the wind seemed to be crying. An oak branch too near the window scraped the glass—the sound like some forlorn creature scratching hopelessly in the fading chance some kind soul might take pity and open up.

  He could see the shadows of her feet moving under her door. Cord stared at that door, willing it to open.

  And it did.

  “Cord? Is that you?”

  It was the first night all over again: the white gown, that damn green robe, the pretty naked feet. Her hair was a halo around her face, dark near her head, moving outward to spun gold.

  He didn’t speak, just left the crib and strode toward her.

  They met where they had stood that morning, in the center of the dark playroom. Met, and then hung poised there, staring way too hard into each other’s eyes.

  They spoke at the same time, the words breathless, and hushed.

  “I didn’t expect you—”

  “Hannah, I’m sorry.”

  She put her hand to her neck, fingers touching her pale throat, her palm brushing that maddeningly innocent white ruffle. “You’re…sorry?” Her soft mouth trembled.

  He couldn’t stop himself. He lifted a hand. Touched those lips. “The things I said, before I left—I shouldn’t have said those things.”

  “It’s all right.” Her breath flowed down his palm as her mouth moved beneath his fingers. “What you said was only the truth.”

  His hand did what it wanted to do, sliding across the velvet softness of her cheek, moving around to cup her nape beneath the cloud of chestnut hair.

  God. She was warm. And she smelled the way only she could smell. Soap and flowers and a hint of baby lotion.

  He had to kiss her and said it aloud. “I have to kiss you, Hannah. Just once…”

  She made a small, lost sound—of agreement, or protest? He couldn’t tell which. But then she tipped her face slightly higher, offering her mouth.

  He wished that could be agreement enough.

  But no. She did have to say it. He had set the terms himself, promised that nothing at all would happen between them unless she admitted she wanted it, too.

  “Say it, Hannah. Yes. Or no.”

  His heart ceased to beat as he waited for her reply.

  “Yes.” The one word, in a whisper.

  His heart kicked to life once more.

  He lowered his head and took what she offered—tenderly, carefully, with no sudden moves, letting her get to know him in this new way. He brushed his mouth over hers, nibbling a little.

  Never, he thought. I will never get enough…

  Was it only a moment before that his heart had ceased to beat? Impossible. Now it hammered loud and urgent, pounding in his ears.

  She sighed. Her sweet breath mingled with his, her mouth trembled some more, this time beneath his.

  So incredible. The taste of her…

  And he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He gathered her close, slipping his free hand around her waist, his other hand cupping her nape more firmly than before.

  She moaned as their bodies made contact, and she slid her own arms up over his shoulders, around his neck. He felt her, the whole slim, curvy length of her, pressed right against him as his mouth devoured hers.

  He brushed his tongue along the seam where her lips met. She moaned once more, and let him in. He tasted her all the more deeply, his hands roaming her slender back.

  There were almost too many sensations for him to process—her waist between his hands, her soft breasts against his chest, her lips under his, the scent of her hair, the sweetness of her sighs…

  How many women had he kissed in his lifetime, how many had he held like this? More than he should have. More than he would ever admit to. So many that the thrill of mere kissing, especially in recent years, had begun to elude him.

  But not now.

  Now, it was all new again.

  It was the first time again.

  Better than the first time. A hundred, a thousand times better.

  It was magical, beautiful, tender and sweet.

  It hurt, it was so perfect. He wanted it never, ever to stop.

  It was…

  Hannah.

  His full arousal pressed hard at the placket of his slacks. Imagine that. From just a kiss.

  But not just any kiss.

  Hannah’s kiss.

  He dared to move his hands downward, to the round globes of her bottom. He cupped her and pulled her closer. She gave a cry—but a willing one, as she felt how much he wanted her.

  His heart pounded harder. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, claiming it, as he pulled her into him so tight, he was probably hurting her.

  But he didn’t mean to hurt her. He only wanted…the pleasure, this pleasure, never to stop. And she wasn’t fighting him. She wasn’t objecting. Her tongue in his mouth was eager, questing, driving him crazy. Wild. Out of his mind…

  Outside, the wind kept crying, wailing around the brick and mortar of the massive house his grandfather had built, seeking entry it would never find.

  He wanted…

  All of her. To see. To touch. To taste.

  To know.

  Far in the back of his reeling mind, a voice began chiding, It was only supposed to be one kiss. One kiss. That’s all…

  But he didn’t give a damn for that voice.

  She was willing. She wanted this as much as he did…

  Well, maybe not as much. It probably wasn’t possible for her to want it that much.

  But she did want it. Those were her arms, around his neck. It was her tongue inside his mouth.

  He brought one hand between them, as he continued to hold her close with the other. He found the end of the sash that belted the green robe. He gave it a tug. The sash came away. The green robe fell open.

  Letting the sash drop to the floor, he slipped his hand between the robe and the gauzy fabric of the white nightgown. She gasped into his mouth. He kissed her harder, taking that gasp into himself, his arm banding around her, pulling her up so tight she would never get away.

  She returned his kiss, pressed herself against him eagerly. He brought one hand up to peel the robe away.

  And the baby started crying.

  Both of them froze.

  Expletives echoing in his brain, he continued to hold her, close and hard, the breath scraping in and out of his lungs as if he’d just run a marathon—one he was coming to the grim realization that he was not going to win.

  Becky cried louder.

  Hannah pulled her mouth away from his and stared up at him wide-eyed, two spots of hectic color staining her cheeks, her mouth soft and red and very much kissed.

  He resisted the urge to tangle his fingers in her hair and yank her head back again, bringing that mouth into position for another kiss.

  Becky stopped crying—but only to suck in a breath and let out a long, loud, get-in-here-and-see-to-me yowl.

  Fatherhood, he decided, did have its drawbacks.

  Hannah pushed at his chest. He released her. She bent to scoop up the sash to her robe. She was tying it snugly in place as she hurried to deal with his child.

  He remained where he was, facing the open door to Hannah’s room, waiting for his arousal to subside at least a little. Becky kept wailing. The demanding cries took care of his problem. A moment later, he was able to go get the bottle ready. A few minutes after that, he took it to Hannah.

  She tried to give him Becky. But he knew what would happen if h
e allowed that. The instant he had his daughter in his arms, Hannah would leave him. He wasn’t letting that happen, so he gave her the bottle instead.

  A frown creased her brow, but she didn’t protest. She took the bottle and touched the nipple to Becky’s howling mouth. The howling stopped.

  In the silence, he was aware of the wind again, crying so sadly outside, of that lone branch scraping the window-pane.

  Hannah went to the rocker and lowered herself into it. He stood by the crib and watched her feed his child.

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes, not at first. She rocked and stared down at the baby. He felt she was wishing that he would just leave.

  Fat chance.

  Finally she looked up. He knew she was going to say something critical, something regretful. We shouldn’t have done that. Or, you shouldn’t have kissed me.

  He was wrong.

  She said, “The letter from DNA Profiling came today.”

  The comment was so completely out of the blue, it took him a moment to absorb it. He stared at her, wondering why she thought he would care. He already knew who Becky’s father was.

  “The results of that DNA test you took,” she reminded him, obviously picking up on his puzzled look. “They came through. A friend at CPS called me and read me the findings. You should be getting a copy, too. Have you…did you see it already?”

  He speared his fingers back through his hair. “Hannah, I just got here. I’ve hardly had time to check my mail.”

  “Well,” she said. She glanced down at the baby, then met his eyes again. “It’s official. You’re Becky’s dad.” She looked as if she just might burst into tears.

  He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, to tell her it was all going to be all right—whatever, exactly, it was. “Hell. Hannah…” He took a step toward her.

  “No, don’t…”

  He froze.

  She braced the bottle awkwardly against her breast and used her free hand to swipe at both cheeks. “I’m okay.” She took the bottle in her hand again.

  Suddenly he understood. “You thought, just maybe, that you could get her away from me.” Should that have made him mad? Probably. But it didn’t. All he felt was tenderness—and the low, insistent throb of unfulfilled desire. He said, very gently, “It wouldn’t have happened, Hannah. No matter what the results of the test turned out to be.”

  She closed her eyes, drew in a long breath—and let it out in a rush. “Oh, please.” Her pretty mouth had pursed up tight. “If she wasn’t your daughter, wasn’t a Stock-well? If she was just the baby of a woman you had slept with once, a baby fathered by another man? I don’t believe you. You’d have given her up in a minute.”

  “No.” He uttered the word with total conviction.

  She actually sneered at him. “That’s easy for you to say—now that there’s no doubt.”

  He shrugged. “You’re right. I always knew she was mine, from the minute I laid eyes on her. And now even you have to be satisfied that she is. So this is all pointless. We don’t have to play ‘what might have happened if?”’

  She opened her mouth to reply. And then she shut it. Again, she looked down at the baby in her arms.

  He said, softly, “You’re angry. Because of what just happened in the other room.”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head, still refusing to look at him.

  “Hannah.”

  She swallowed and then, reluctantly, she lifted her head.

  “What is it, then?”

  She sighed again. “You’re the last person I should tell this to.”

  “I don’t think so. I think I’m exactly the person you should tell this to—whatever the hell it is.”

  “How can you say that, if you don’t know what it is?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know.”

  She gave him her sideways look, wary and measuring.

  “Come on.”

  She shook her head, but then muttered, “Oh, all right.” She let it out in a rush. “It’s just that…you were right, this morning. Those mean things you kept hinting at. I’ve been flat out lying to myself for days now, turning away one perfectly acceptable nanny applicant after another, finding reasons why none of them is ever quite good enough.”

  He felt his mouth trying to pull into a smile. But a smile, he decided, probably wouldn’t go over too well at that moment. He kept his expression deadly serious.

  She went on, “I don’t want to leave this baby.” She looked down at the child in her arms, a desperate look, full of love and unhappiness. “I never want to leave her—and God help me, I don’t want to leave you, either.” She said that last very low, her head bowed, her gaze on the baby.

  But he heard it.

  He folded his arms over his chest. It was the only way he could keep himself in place—keep himself from covering the distance between them, yanking her out of the rocker, Becky and all, and hauling her into his embrace.

  She didn’t want to leave him.

  So they had no damn problem, after all.

  Because he didn’t want her to leave, either.

  He wanted her in his arms.

  And in his bed.

  All at once, he felt totally calm. Completely sure.

  He said, quietly, “She’s finished.”

  “I know that.” She still wouldn’t look at him. She set the bottle on the floor beside the rocker and lifted Becky to her shoulder.

  Cord waited. He would have waited a century if that had been necessary.

  But it didn’t take that long for Becky to complete her late-evening routine. Burping and filling her diaper—which he did not change. Not tonight. He let Hannah do it.

  He was more certain of her than he’d ever dared to be till now. But once she put his baby in his arms, she could still make one last-ditch attempt at escape.

  Damned if he would give her the opportunity.

  So he waited. Hannah avoided looking at him, as she took Becky back to the rocker and sat down again. She rocked the baby. The wind moaned, died away, then moaned anew. Cord remained by the crib. He watched his daughter’s dark eyelashes flutter down.

  Finally he whispered, “She’s sound asleep.”

  Hannah said nothing. Carefully she rose. He stepped aside enough that she could put his daughter in her bed. And then, for a moment, she stood, staring down at the sleeping child, just as he had done, earlier, when he first got home.

  “She’s so beautiful,” Hannah whispered.

  He made a low sound of agreement.

  At last, she looked up. They stared at each other, heat and need seeming to arc in the air between them.

  “Excuse me.” She slid around him.

  He followed her into the playroom, where she went to the little sink in the kitchen area and washed her hands. Once she’d turned off the taps, she pulled a paper towel from the wall dispenser. She took way too long to dry.

  But finally, she couldn’t stretch the simple task out for another second. She tossed the damp towel into the wastebasket under the sink.

  They faced each other. He reached out and ran his finger along the smooth line of her jaw. She made a small sound, very close to a whimper, and caught her lower lip between her white teeth.

  He tipped up her chin. “Where’s the receiver?”

  She frowned.

  He prompted, “The receiver, to the baby monitor?”

  She gulped. He tracked the movement of her throat with the back of his index finger. She shuddered as he stroked her.

  “Is it in your room?”

  “Yes. In my room.”

  “Go get it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You do.”

  “Cord, we—”

  He put his palm against her mouth. “Just get the receiver.” And he waited, watching her wide, wounded eyes.

  In the end, she nodded.

  He dropped his hand away. She turned and padded through the open door to he
r room. A moment later, she was walking back toward him with the receiver in her hand.

  “What now?” she said.

  He took her other hand and led her out into the hall.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hannah’s bare feet whispered along the fancy Oriental runner in the hallway as Cord led her along. Her pulse pounded hard in her ears.

  She could stop this, she thought. She could pull away. She could say no…

  But she said nothing. Her heart raced and her feet followed where he led her.

  To his room, at the end of the corridor.

  When they got there, he turned the brass handle and pushed open the heavy door.

  He stepped over the threshold and she went right along. He shut the door behind them and turned the lock beneath the handle.

  In its prime location at the end of the upper hall, the big room had windows on both the north and south walls. The curtains all stood open, so that, with the lights off, everything seemed bathed in a silver glow from the lamps on the grounds below—and from the stars and the nearly full moon.

  There was a large sitting area, with a full bar, comfortable chairs and a beautiful sofa upholstered in satin; it seemed to glow in the silvery light from outside. And at the other end of the room, on the westernmost wall, Hannah saw a king-size sleigh bed, head and footboard carved of some kind of beautiful burled wood. A heavy chest waited at the foot of the bed. There were bureaus and side tables, each of fine, rich old wood. The walls were hung with the kinds of pictures a man might choose—prints of bridges and airplanes, old photographs and a few framed documents. Over the full-sized stone fireplace loomed a huge oil of a sailing ship on a stormy sea. And there were flowers, fresh-cut ones, on the low tables and gracing two of the bureaus. Emma Hightower saw to it that there were fresh flowers everywhere in Stockwell Mansion—at least in the rooms that Hannah had visited.

  Cord turned a dial. Two lamps, one on either side of the bed, came on, creating a warm golden glow.

  He took the baby monitor from her and set it on a low table near the door. “Come with me.” He pulled on her hand again. She followed automatically, across the rug that felt like velvet beneath her feet.

  At the side of the beautiful bed, he released her hand. And he stepped away.

  “That first night you stayed here.” His voice was low and hungry and rough. “I…imagined you. In exactly this nightgown—minus the robe.”