The Tycoon's Instant Daughter Read online

She could get over a broken heart. She had done that more than once already in her twenty-five years of life.

  But oh, if she lingered, it could only get worse. With every day, every hour, every minute that passed, she would love Becky more. And the risk would be greater, the pain a thousand times more terrible, if for some reason, she had to let Becky go.

  And that could happen, so very easily. Cord Stockwell was a rich man. And the rich—at least in Hannah’s sad experience—were different. They broke rules. They broke hearts. They broke agreements. And they thought that their money gave them the right to run right over everyone else getting things their way.

  Hannah sat up straighter.

  Wait a minute, she thought. Just a cotton-pickin’ minute here.

  This was not seven years ago and she was a grown woman now, not some lost little orphan looking for love where she shouldn’t be. And Cord Stockwell may have been too rich and too good-looking and too lucky with the ladies for her peace of mind, but he did seem, sincerely, to want to do right by Becky.

  Her peace of mind was not the issue here. Neither was her foolish heart.

  The issue was, what was right for Becky.

  And she would make her decision based on that and that alone.

  Right then, Hannah heard Becky cry. One short, insistent yelp came through the receiver on the table beside her.

  A silence followed, but a brief one. In a moment, Becky started to wail. She was hungry.

  Or she needed changing.

  Or comforting.

  Whatever.

  Hannah rose to go to her.

  Gunderson and the redheaded nurse reappeared a moment or two after Cord buzzed for them.

  Cord was holding his father by then, an embrace that was actually an attempt to keep the sick man from harming himself. “More morphine,” he said. “And it will have to be by injection. Get it ready. Now.”

  In his arms, Caine thrashed. “Didn’t I? Didn’t I keep my promise? Raised the bastard as my own…”

  Gunderson glanced at his watch. “He had his last dose at—”

  Caine raved right over him. “You witch…I loved you. Always loved you. All those others…nothing, damn it. Never. No one. Only you. But you…I know you loved him. Always. You never stopped. So I only wanted…to wipe out the taste of you.”

  Cord held his struggling father close and glared at the nurses. “Get it ready, I said.”

  The redhead filled the syringe. Cord held Caine still as she administered the dose.

  Caine gasped. “Cold. Cold. Sinking…down…”

  Within seconds, the old man went lax. Gently Cord laid him back against the pillow. A rank sigh escaped him and then he was still.

  Cord rose from the bed. “Can you two take care of him now?”

  “Of course, sir,” said Gunderson.

  The redhead nodded.

  “Trim his fingernails, will you?” Cord commanded as he strode toward the door. “He cut me, they’re so long.”

  Behind him, both nurses made sounds in the affirmative.

  In the hall, he found the maid he had sent away earlier. She hovered near the door to his father’s rooms, brown eyes huge with apprehension.

  “It’s all right,” he said gently. “Go on in and finish up. He won’t bother you. He’s sleeping now.”

  The maid dipped her head. “Sí. Okay. Thank you, Mr. Cord.”

  He returned to his private sitting room to find that Hannah Miller wasn’t there.

  His first reaction was a hot burst of fury. The little upstart had dared to take his daughter and leave.

  But then, over the baby monitor, he heard it: the soft sound of a woman’s voice, sweet and only a little off-key, humming a lullaby.

  He found her in the baby’s bedroom, which had robin’s-egg-blue walls, white furniture and a border near the ceiling of twinkling stars and smiling moons.

  She sat in the white wicker rocker. She’d pulled up the shade of the window a few feet away to let in the afternoon light. She rocked slowly while she hummed, cradling his daughter and feeding her a bottle.

  The woman’s hair had both auburn and gold highlights, just slight hints of red and blond in the chestnut waves that fell to her shoulders. The curve of her cheek, as she bent over his daughter, looked pale as milk, soft as the petals of a white rose.

  At first, she didn’t see him. She had left the door open. And he entered quietly, listening as he came, for the soft sound of her lullaby, for the slight creaking of the rocking chair.

  He stood there, in the doorway, watching the light on her hair, the curve of her arm as she cradled his child.

  He felt the strangest sensation right then. A warmth down inside himself, a tiny bud of something.

  It might have been hope.

  But no.

  More likely, it was only weary relief. The peace here, in his daughter’s blue bedroom, was a thousand miles removed from the Napoleonic horror of his father’s sickroom. And the little Okie’s tongue could be sharp, but right now, she wasn’t using it. Right now, she sounded damn sweet, humming and rocking away, a dreamy smile on her lips, as his child contentedly sucked at her bottle.

  Naturally such a sight would soothe him, after what had just transpired in his father’s room.

  Hannah looked up. The humming stopped, the rocking chair stilled. He heard her quick, surprised intake of breath.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She shrugged. And then she actually granted him a smile. “This girl was hungry.”

  Damn. She was a pretty woman when she smiled.

  He demanded, more gruffly than he intended to, “Have you made up your mind?”

  She didn’t seem bothered by his gruffness at all. She looked down at Becky again, said in a dreamy voice to match the expression on her face, “I have.” She looked his way again, frowned. “You’ve cut yourself.”

  He touched the scratch on his jaw, where the beads of blood had dried now. “It’s nothing.”

  “Don’t rub it. You’ll start it bleeding again—here.” She produced a tissue from her sleeve and held it out.

  “Blot it real gentle.”

  He stared at the tissue dangling from her slender hand.

  And, out of nowhere, an old memory popped to the surface of his mind and bobbed there, clear as a bubble made of glass.

  Outside, in back, on the wide sweep of lawn between the house and the formal gardens. High summer. And ice cream. Vanilla with fudge syrup. He’d had a big bowl of it.

  His mother had worn white—all white. Her blue eyes were shining and her dark brown hair tumbled in soft waves down her back. She had laughed. And she’d pulled a handkerchief from her white sleeve. “Cord, honey, you’ve got chocolate all over your little face. Come here to Mama. Let me clean you up….”

  “Mr. Stockwell?” The social worker was staring at him, a crease of worry etching itself between her smooth chestnut brows. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” he said curtly. “I’m fine.” He stepped up close and took the tissue from her, just to stop her from holding it out. And he blotted his jaw, as she’d told him to do. The tissue came away with two bright red spots on it.

  “There.” He tipped it briefly toward her so she could see.

  “Nothing, as I told you.”

  She made a low, considering noise, as if she didn’t agree, but could see no benefit in arguing the point.

  He thought of his father, once so proud and strong, now weak and wasted, striking out, prone more and more frequently to episodes like the one today as death closed in on him. Maybe Ms. Miller was right. It meant a lot more than nothing, this tiny scratch on his jaw.

  He tucked the tissue into the pocket of his slacks. “I’m still waiting for your answer.” He couldn’t resist adding, “You seem to enjoy that—making me wait.”

  He assumed she’d take offense. She was always so prickly. But no. She only smiled again, that smile that transformed her. “I’m sorry you think that.
Of course, it’s not even a tiny bit true.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Becky pulled away from the bottle then, and yawned wide and loudly. Cord watched his daughter, wondering how such a tiny mouth could stretch so big.

  “Here.” Ms. Miller tucked the empty bottle into the flowered bag on the other side of the rocker. “You can burp her.” She found a cloth diaper in the bag and held it toward him, the same as she had that damn tissue a minute ago. “Put this on your shoulder. I’d hate to see you get spit-up on that beautiful shirt.”

  He scowled, thinking, I’m Cord Stockwell. I don’t do burping.

  “Take the diaper,” she said.

  So he took it.

  “Put it on your shoulder.”

  He did that, too.

  She gathered the baby close and rose from the rocker.

  Cord backed up.

  “Come on,” she dared to taunt him. “It’s a skill you’ll have to develop sooner or later.”

  “How about later?”

  “How about now?”

  What the hell choice did he have? He held out his arms and she put his baby in them.

  “Good,” she said. “Cradle her head. That’s right. Now gently, onto the shoulder…”

  Becky sighed when he lifted her and laid her against his chest. He could feel her little knees, pressing into him. She smelled of milk and baby lotion. And her hair was soft as the down on a day-old chick. She made a gurgling sound. And then she let out one hell of Texas-size burp.

  “Excellent,” intoned Ms. Miller.

  He gave her a look over the dark fuzz on Becky’s head.

  “I’m so relieved you approve—and are you coming to work for me, or not?”

  She nodded. “I am. Temporarily.”

  He patted Becky’s tiny back—gently. She was so small. It was like patting a kitten. “What does that mean, temporarily?”

  “It means I’m going home now to pack up a few things and arrange for a neighbor to water my houseplants. Then I’ll stay here, in the nanny’s room, for a few days, or however long it takes to find you some quality live-in child care.”

  She would work for him. But not for long. Strange how he disliked the idea of her leaving. She was an exasperating female, but a damn worthy adversary, too. He could respect that. “Why don’t you just take the job yourself? You’re exactly the kind of nanny Becky needs. And I can guess what a social worker makes. Not near what I’m willing to pay.”

  Was that sadness he saw in those green eyes of hers? “Thanks for the offer, but no.”

  He stroked Becky’s dark head and wanted to ask, “Why not?” But he held back the question. It was none of his business. And he doubted she would tell him anyway.

  He inquired with ironic good humor, “I take it you’re going to be interviewing nannies for my daughter.”

  “If that’s all right with you, yes. I would like to do that.”

  “If that’s all right with me? Ms. Miller, you sound downright agreeable.”

  “Enjoy it while it lasts, Mr. Stockwell.”

  “Ms. Miller, I intend to do just that.”

  Chapter Three

  It was a little after seven that evening and Hannah was just putting the last of her clothes into the maple bureau of the nanny’s room when the tap came on the door to the hall.

  “It’s open,” she called.

  A slim, dark-haired woman poked her head in. “Hi. I’m Kate. Cord’s little sister—and Becky’s aunt.” Kate Stockwell smiled. She had a great smile. It lit up her fine-boned face. “You’re Hannah, right?”

  Hannah nodded. “Come on in.”

  “I’m not interrupting?”

  “Nope. I just finished unpacking.” Hannah turned to the bed, on which her ancient hard-sided suitcase lay open. With both hands, she levered it closed and pressed the latches. Then she grabbed the handle, lugged it to the floor and dragged it into the closet.

  When she turned back to the room, Cord’s sister was standing near the bed. She was dressed for evening, her dark hair swept up, a little chain of diamonds dangling from each ear. Her dress was a simple cobalt-blue cocktail-length silk sheath that had probably cost a fortune at Neiman-Marcus. The dress brought out the blue of her eyes—eyes that watched Hannah with undisguised curiosity.

  “Cord told me this afternoon that you’d be moving in for a while. You’re not what I expected.” Smoothing her dress beneath her, Kate Stockwell sat on the edge of the bed. “Then again, I’m not sure exactly what I expected.”

  Hannah frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, I have to confess, Cord has mentioned you once or twice in the past several days. I mean, that you’re Becky’s caseworker with Child Protective Services. And that you’re, um…”

  Hannah did understand then. She laughed. “You are being so tactful. I think what you mean is that your brother didn’t have too many nice things to say about me.”

  Kate’s gaze slid away. “Well…”

  Hannah said with cautious honesty, “Your brother and I don’t always agree, I’m afraid. He’s a very determined man.”

  Kate met Hannah’s eyes again. “And you’re pretty determined yourself, right?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Kate was grinning now. “But you know, even if you two have had some disagreements, he seems pleased with the idea of your taking care of Becky.”

  “It’s only for a few days—until I find the right nanny.”

  “Yes. I know. That’s what Cord said.”

  Hannah still hovered by the closet door, feeling unsure. Her instincts told her that with this woman she could skip right on into “girlfriend” mode—but then that seemed inappropriate. She would no doubt be wiser to respect the usual professional boundaries between herself and a relative of one of her charges.

  Kate looked confused. “What did I do?”

  Hannah hesitated, still unsure how best to proceed.

  And Kate caught on. “I get it. You don’t know how to treat me—and I’ll bet my brother’s been giving you his Lord of the Manor routine. He does that. You’ll get used to it. Underneath, he’s a sweetheart, I swear to you. And the rest of us do our level best to act like normal human beings.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Well, I suppose I should clarify that. Most of the rest of us act like normal human beings.”

  Hannah wondered which Stockwell didn’t fall in the “normal human being” category.

  Kate didn’t enlighten her. She sighed. “I’m rambling. But my point is, I meant it when I asked you to call me Kate.”

  Hannah looked into those blue eyes—so much like Becky’s eyes, really—and decided to go ahead and follow her instincts. “All right. Kate, then.” She left off hovering by the closet door to take the hand Cord’s sister offered.

  “And I don’t have to call you Ms. Miller, do I?”

  “Please. Just Hannah is great. You came to see Becky, I’ll bet.”

  Kate nodded. “I can’t believe it. Cord has a daughter. And I’m an aunt—but maybe she’s sleeping. If she is, just tell me the best time and I’ll come back.”

  “I put her down about an hour ago. We could go check on her—and just sneak back out if she’s asleep. What do you say?”

  Kate stood. “I’d love it.”

  Hannah led the way through the door that joined the nanny’s room to the play area of the nursery—and the darkened baby’s bedroom beyond that.

  Becky was asleep, lying on her back, her black lashes like tiny perfect fans against her plump cheeks. The two women stood over the crib. Hannah stared down at Becky, smiling like a fool, just grateful to be allowed to care for her for the brief few days to come. She heard a small sound from Kate—a sigh, she thought.

  But when she glanced over at the other woman, what she saw made her want to cry out in sympathy. Such sadness. Such…despair, the eyes far away and lost, the soft mouth bleak and twisted.

&
nbsp; Hannah couldn’t stop herself. She reached out, touched Kate’s slender arm. Kate shivered.

  Hannah wanted to offer comfort—and to her, the greatest comfort in the world was cradling Becky against her heart. “Here. Hold her…” Hannah formed the words without giving them sound, already reaching for the sleeping child.

  Kate caught her arm, mouthed, “Next time.”

  Hannah froze, mimed, “Are you sure?”

  And Kate nodded, her delicate chin set. She gestured toward the door to the playroom, signaling that she was ready to go.

  What else could Hannah do? She followed Kate out.

  Back in the nanny’s room, Kate said that she had to be on her way. “I’ll be back, tomorrow, though, and see if I can catch that little darling awake.” Her voice sounded brittle now, and way too bright.

  “Tomorrow,” Hannah promised, “we’ll just wake her up if she’s sleeping.”

  “Oh, no. She needs her sleep—and I’m sure you enjoy the break whenever she gives it to you. Tell you what, next time I’ll buzz you first.”

  “Buzz me?”

  Kate pointed at the phone on the nightstand. Hannah had been purposely avoiding confronting the thing, though the housekeeper, Mrs. Hightower, had briefly described its operation when she had ushered Hannah into the room an hour before. The darn thing looked as complicated as a switchboard.

  “We all have our own private lines,” Kate explained.

  “It’s a big house and we can’t go running from one end of it to the other every time we need to ask each other some simple little question. Cord is line two—that one buzzes both in his office downstairs and in his private rooms. I’m line four. And the new nursery is…” She craned toward the phone. “Ah. Cord’s had it all set up. Thirteen.”

  Hannah pulled a face. “My lucky number.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “In the few days I’ll be here? I doubt it.”

  “The outside lines are on the right. Just punch one of them if you want to make a regular call.”

  “Will do.”

  “I really have to go.” A wry smile twisted Kate’s mouth. “I’m due at one of those endless charity dinners. It is for a good cause, though. Raising money for learning-impaired children.”