The Billionaire's Baby Plan / Marrying the Northbridge Nanny: The Billionaire's Baby Plan

But he also had plenty of good reasons to want to ensure that Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios were able to continue their work without any more hitches. Investing in anything that Ted was involved in would be a good bet.

But through the Armstrong Fertility Institute?

Not even Ted knew why that particular idea was anathema to him.

Maybe it was small of him, but he wasn’t ready yet to release Lisa Armstrong from this particular hook. He was enjoying, too much, having the ice princess right where he wanted her.

He hid a dark bolt of amusement directed squarely at himself.

Nearly where he wanted her.

“Our salads,” he said instead, glancing at Tonio, their waiter and Raoul’s youngest son, as he approached with his tray.

He could see the ire creep back into Lisa’s eyes.

She controlled it well, though. Merely smiling coolly at Rourke as Tonio served them. He wondered if beneath that facade she would have preferred giving him a swift kick or if she really was that cool, all the way through.

It would be interesting to find out.

Interesting but complicated as hell.

He picked up his fork, his appetite whetted on more levels than he presently cared to admit. “Eat,” he said when she looked as if she weren’t even going to taste Raoul’s concoction. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d observed that she’d lost weight.

At the Founder’s Ball in her floaty gown of slippery brown and white that had hugged her narrow hips and left the entirety of her ivory back and shoulders distractingly bare, she’d felt slender and delicate in his arms.

Now, even with the thick weave of her jacket and the wide-cut legs of her slacks, he could tell she was even thinner.

She took her work to heart.

He could have told that for himself, even if Ted hadn’t mentioned it.

Often in the office before anyone else arrived. Often there later than anyone stayed.

For Ted to even notice something like that, beyond his Bunsen burners and beakers, was something. He’d said she was a workaholic.

Ironically, that gave her and Rourke something in common.

She was poking at the tomato salad and he was glad to see that some of it actually reached her mouth. His sister Tricia would take one look at her and want to fatten her up with plenty of pasta.

“How long have you and Dr. Bonner been friends?”

He had to give her points for adaptability. He’d expected to receive a mostly chilly silence for his autocratic refusal to discuss what they both knew she’d traveled to New York City to discuss. “Since we were boys.”

Her gaze flicked over him. “I find it hard to envision you as a boy. Were you schoolmates?”

He almost laughed.

Ted Bonner had grown up with wealth and privilege. Rourke and his three sisters might have had the same, if their father hadn’t walked out on them when they were young. Instead, the Devlin clan had gone from being comfortable to being…not.

They’d been locked out of their fine Boston home with no ceremony, no explanations.

He’d been twelve years old.

For a while, his mother had struggled to keep them in Boston. He and his sisters had switched from private to public schools. They’d moved into a basement apartment a lifestyle away from what they’d been used to. But in the end, within a handful of years, Nina Devlin had simply been forced to move them all back to New York where they’d moved into the cramped apartment above the home-style Italian restaurant his grandparents owned and operated.

And Rourke’s father? He’d landed in California with a surgically enhanced trophy wife who’d been fewer than ten years older than Rourke.

He’d seen them only once. When he’d been twenty-three and had raked in a cool million over his first real deal.

That was when Trophy Wife had indicated a considerable interest in Rourke’s bed and Dad had claimed Rourke was a chip off the old block.

He’d never seen either one of them again.

“Ted and I were in the same Boy Scout troop,” he told Lisa, fully expecting the surprise she couldn’t hide. Before they’d left Boston, his mother had chugged him across town to keep him involved in the troop that he’d been drafted into by his father, before he’d skipped. Rourke had hated it until he and Ted had struck up an unlikely friendship.

“You were a Boy Scout.”

“Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly—” He broke off the litany of Scout law when she snorted softly.

“Sorry,” she said, but aside from the bloom of pink over her sharp cheekbones, she didn’t particularly look it. “I just have a whole mental image of you wearing khaki shorts and merit badges.” The tip of her tongue appeared between her pearl-white teeth. Then she laughed softly, and shook her head. “A considerable change from your usual attire.”

He dragged his gaze away from the humorous stretch of her lips only to get caught in the sparkle of her eyes.

He tamped down on the heat shooting through him.

He hadn’t seen her smile, really smile, since that first glimpse of her at Shots when she’d been laughing over something with her friend Sara Beth.

Glancing at Tonio, who immediately cleared away their salads, Rourke picked up the prospectus. “The Armstrong Institute’s been plagued with bad press,” he said, breaking his own trumped-up rule of no business over lunch. “Questionable research protocols. Padded statistics.”

“Both allegations were proved false. By none other than your Scout buddy, Ted.”

“Yet the bad aftertaste of innuendo remains.”

The sparkle in her eyes died, leaving her expression looking hauntingly hollow. “That’s a little like blaming the victim, isn’t it? The Armstrong Institute has never operated with anything less than integrity. Nor has any of its staff. But we’re to be held accountable now for someone else’s shoddy reporting?”

“Integrity.” He mulled the word over, watching her while Tonio returned again with their main course of lobster risotto. “Interesting choice of words.”

Her gaze didn’t waver as she reached for her wineglass again. “I cannot imagine why.”

She would be a good poker player, he decided. Not everyone could baldly lie like that without so much as a blink. She was even better at it than his ex-wife had been.

But for the moment, he let the matter drop. “Eat the risotto. It’s nearly as good as my mother’s.”

She picked up her fork and took a small bite. Poked at the risotto as if moving the creamy rice around her plate would be an adequate substitute for actually eating. “Investment in the Armstrong Fertility Institute would be along the line of similar projects for Devlin Ventures. You’ve had great success in medically related firms.”

“None of which was family controlled,” he said flatly. “I don’t do family-owned businesses.”

“You invested in Fare.”

“I’m a partner in Fare.”

Lisa’s gaze finally fell, but not quickly enough to hide the defeat that filled it. She set down the fork with care. Dabbed the corner of her lips with her linen napkin before laying it on the table. “I believe I’ve wasted enough of your time. Clearly you agreed to this meeting only because of your friendship with Ted.” She pushed her chair back a few inches and picked up her briefcase as she rose. Her gaze flicked back to him for a moment. “Please assure Raoul that my departure is no reflection on his excellent meal.”

She turned away and started to leave the dining room.

“I’m surprised you would give up so quickly,” he said. “So easily. I would have thought you were all about duty to the institute.”

He saw her shoulders stiffen beneath the stylish jacket. She slowly turned, clasping the handle of her briefcase in both hands in front of her. “I am. And that duty dictates that my time is better served on prospective investors. Not dallying over amazing risotto and good wine with a man who has a different agenda. Whatever that may be.”

He had no agenda where the institute was concerned. With the single exception of his unwelcome attraction to her, anything to do with the Armstrong family put a vile taste in his mouth.

“The institute is on the brink of financial collapse,” he said evenly. “I’m not in the habit of throwing away good money.”

“The institute is experiencing some financial hiccups,” she returned coolly. “Nothing from which we cannot recover. And if you didn’t have some burr under your saddle that I still fail to understand, you’d be able to recognize that fact, too.”

“That’s what you really believe.” It was almost incomprehensible. The losses that the institute had incurred were nearly insurmountable.

Her chin angled slightly.

Too thin. Too tense.

But undeniably beautiful and certainly dutiful to her cause.

“Fine. We’ll meet in the morning.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Where? Your favorite breakfast shop?”

He very nearly smiled. The ice princess did have a claw or two. “My office. Nine o’clock.”

Her eyebrow lowered. Her eyes flared for a moment. She nodded. “Very well.”

“And don’t be late. I’ll be squeezing you into the day as it is.”

“I’m never late,” she assured him and, with a small smile, turned on her heel and strode out.

He watched her go, waiting to see if she’d glance back.

She did. But not until she was nearly out of sight. He still managed to hold her gaze for a second longer than was comfortable.

Her cheeks filled with color. This time when she turned to go, there was a lot more run in her stride.

How far would duty take her?

He picked up his wine, smiling faintly. It would be interesting finding out.

Chapter Two

“Of course he’s going to invest.” Sara Beth Bonner’s voice was bright and confident through the cell phone’s speaker. “Why else would he ask you to come to his office this morning?”

“I don’t know.” Lisa shook her head, glancing from the phone that was sitting on the vanity in her hotel room, to her reflection in the mirror. She’d already smudged her mascara once and had had to start over. She didn’t have time to mess up again, or—despite her falsely confident assurance to Rourke the day before—she would be late for their appointment that morning. “I know he’s an old friend of your brand-new husband, but the man’s a player. I don’t know what he wants.”

“Ted keeps saying Rourke is rock-solid.”

Lisa made a face at her reflection. The man was rock-solid—she’d found that out for herself when they’d danced together at the Founder’s Ball. But that, of course, wasn’t what Ted meant. “Just because Rourke was Boy Scout material once, doesn’t mean he still is.”

“What does Paul say?”

Lisa decided her mascara was finally acceptable and closed the tube with one hand while reaching for her lipstick with the other. “The same thing. That of course I can convince Devlin to jump on board.” She smoothed the subtle pink onto her lips. “Unfortunately, Paul doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that such blind faith only makes the pressure worse.”

“It’s not blind faith,” Sara Beth assured her. “It’s confidence. Come on, Lisa. Don’t start doubting yourself now. You can do this.”

“When did you trade in your nurse’s uniform for a cheerleader’s?”

“Hmm.” Laughter filled Sara Beth’s voice. “I wonder how Ted would feel about me in a short little skirt, waving pompoms around.”

Lisa groaned. “Newlyweds,” she returned. “Listen, I’ve gotta run. My flight gets in around three so I’ll probably see you at the institute before you get off. Shift, I mean.”

“Nice.”

“What are friends for?” She disconnected the phone, but she was finally smiling.

Thank goodness for Sara Beth. Her friend never failed to cheer her up.

She smoothed her hand once more over her pulled-back hair and pushed the phone into the pocket of her briefcase. She hadn’t come to New York the day before prepared for an overnight, which had necessitated a quick trip out to find something suitable to wear for today’s meeting because she refused to meet with Rourke again looking like day-old bread.

Since she’d already spent a small fortune on her Armani ensemble for the debacle of the day before, her personal budget was definitely taking a hit. But the black skirt she wore with the same black jersey tee from yesterday looked crisp and suitably “don’t mess with me” teamed with the new taupe blazer. She looked good and wasn’t going to pretend that it didn’t help bolster her confidence where the man was concerned.

She pushed her bare feet into her high-heeled black pumps, snatched up the briefcase and hurried out the door.

The morning air was brisk and breezy, tugging both at her chignon and her skirt as she waited for the cab that the doorman hailed for her.

The traffic was heavy—no surprise—and she wished that she hadn’t taken time to phone her mother that morning. It would have been one less item taking up time, and it wasn’t as if Emily Stanton Armstrong had had anything helpful or productive to say, anyway.

The only thing that Lisa had in common with her mother was a devotion to the man they had in common—Gerald. The great “Dr. G.” She’d given up, years ago, trying to understand what made her mother tick, much less trying to gain her approval. Emily already had the perfect daughter in Olivia, anyway. Olivia was the wife of a senator, for heaven’s sake. Jamison Mallory was the youngest member of the U.S. Senate and the eldest son of Boston’s most powerful family. He might as well be royalty. And he was probably headed for the White House. Olivia and Jamison had even recently adopted two children who’d lost their own parents, completing their picture of the perfect family. Rarely did a week pass when Lisa’s sister and brother-in-law weren’t featured in either the society section or the national news.

Not that Lisa was jealous of her older sister. Olivia looked better—happier—now than she had in years. Lisa just never felt as if they were quite on the same page. The things they wanted in life had always been so different.

She sighed a little, brushing her hands nervously over her skirt. She had to pull the institute out of the fire.

The cab finally pulled up in front of the towering building that housed Devlin Ventures. A glance at her chunky bangle watch told her she had nearly ten minutes to spare.

Perfect.

She quickly paid and tipped the driver and left the cab, weaving between the pedestrians on the sidewalk to enter the building. Gleaming marble, soaring windows, shops and an atrium filled with live trees greeted her. It was impressive, and if she’d had more time, she probably would have wandered around the first floor, just to explore. But since she didn’t, she aimed for the information desk that ran the length of one wall.

In minutes, she possessed a visitor’s pass that got her through the security door that wasn’t even visible from where she’d entered, and had bulleted dizzyingly to the top floor of the building in an elevator that went strictly to that floor, and that floor alone.

Devlin Ventures wasn’t merely an occupant of the building.

It was the owner.

She barely had time to smooth her hand over her hair and run her tongue discreetly over her teeth to remove any misplaced lipstick before the elevator doors opened and she stepped out onto a floor that was as calm and soothing as the first floor had been busy and vibrant.

For some reason, she hadn’t envisioned Rourke Devlin as a man to surround himself with such a Zen-like environment.

A curving desk in pale wood that matched the floor faced the elevator and she stopped in front of it. “Good morning,” she told the girl sitting there. “I’m Lisa Armstrong. I have an appointment with Mr. Devlin.”

The model-thin girl consulted something behind her desk, and seemed to find what she was looking for. “I’ll show you to his office.” She rose and swayed her way along a wide corridor. At the end, she turned, hip jutted, and lifted a languid hand. “Cynthia is Mr. Devlin’s assistant,” she said. “She’ll see to you now.”

Lisa found herself facing a woman who was as unattractive as the receptionist was attractive, right down to the heavy black-framed glasses that did little to disguise a hawkish nose. “Good morning.”

Rourke’s assistant gave her a short glance. “Mr. Devlin is unavoidably detained. I’m afraid he can’t see you as scheduled.”

Lisa felt her chest tighten. Dismay. Annoyance. Disappointment. They all clogged her system, jockeying for first place. “I’m happy to wait,” she assured her.

Cynthia gave her an unemotional stare that told her absolutely nothing. “If you wish.” Her gaze drifted to the collection of low, brown leather chairs situated near the windows.

Taking the cue, Lisa headed toward them. The view would have been spectacular if she had been in the mood to appreciate it.

Would Rourke stoop to blowing her off like this, without so much as meeting her face-to-face?

It didn’t seem to fit, but what did she know?

The man was impossibly unpredictable.

She set her briefcase on the floor beside one of the chairs that had a view of the important one—the entrance, so she wouldn’t miss spotting Rourke when he came in. If he came in.

The minutes dragged by and she tried not to fidget. She was used to being busy, not cooling her heels like this. But she sat. And she waited and she watched.

Several people came and went. She honestly couldn’t tell whether they were members of Rourke’s staff or visitors. Cynthia of the ugly glasses seemed to treat them all in the same way.

Nobody came to sit in one of the other chairs near Lisa, though. And after at least an hour of sitting there, she pulled out her BlackBerry. Answered a few dozen e-mails. Listened to even more voice mail messages. Her secretary, Ella, confirmed that she’d successfully rescheduled the appointments that she’d originally had on her calendar for that day.

The last message was from Derek.

As soon as she heard her brother’s voice, her teeth felt on edge. She skipped the message, neither listening to it, nor deleting it.

Her fingers tightened around the phone and she turned to stare out the windows.

How could her brother have stolen from the institute—from his own family—the way he had?

How could she not have realized? Suspected?

She should have just deleted the message. There was nothing Derek could have to say that she wanted to hear.

Not now.

Unfortunately, beneath the anger that bolstered her was a horrible, pained void that she couldn’t quite pretend didn’t exist.

“You waited.”

She jerked her head around to see Rourke standing less than a foot away. The phone slipped out of her hand, landing on the ivory-colored rug that sat beneath the arrangement of chairs. “We had an appointment.” Her voice was appallingly thick and she leaned forward quickly to retrieve her phone.

He beat her to it, though, and she froze, still leaning forward, her face disconcertingly close to his as he crouched there.

He slowly set the phone in her outstretched palm, but didn’t release it even when her fingers closed around it. His dark, dark gaze roved over her face.

She felt almost as if he’d stroked his fingers along her temple. Her cheek. Her jaw.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was low. As soft as that never-there touch.

Everything.

The word nearly slipped out and, realizing it, she quickly straightened. The phone slid free of his grasp; once again hers alone. She tucked it into her briefcase. “Other than enjoying the view for the past two hours? Not a thing.”

His expression hardened a little, making her realize—belatedly—that it had been softer after all. For a moment. Only a moment.

He straightened. “You should have rescheduled.”

Cynthia was at her desk, but that was a good thirty feet away. Still, Lisa kept her voice low. “And waste another morning?”

“For someone courting my financing, you’re sounding very waspish.”

The damnable thing was, he was right. And if he were anyone else, she would have sat there all day, happily, and still had a smile on her face when he finally got around to meeting with her.

“I’m sorry.” She rose. “It’s not you.” Not entirely, anyway. “And of course, if you would like me to reschedule, I’ll do so.”

He studied her for a moment. “I have to make a small trip today.”

Even prepared for it, she felt buffeted by more dismay.

But before she could formulate a suitable reply, he’d leaned over and picked up her briefcase. “Come on.”

He was heading for the elevator, not even stopping to speak to Cynthia along the way. Lisa had to skip to catch up with him and stepped onto the elevator when he held it open for her. “You don’t have to escort me from the building to make sure I leave,” she said when the doors closed on them. He held the briefcase away from her when she snatched at it.

“I’m sure you learned somewhere along the way that you get more flies with honey,” he observed.

“Fly strips work amazingly well, too,” she countered and folded her hands together. She was not going to play tug-of-war with the man where her own briefcase was concerned.

His lips twitched.

For some reason the descending elevator seemed to creep along, in direct contrast to the way it seemed to have shot her to his floor when she’d arrived. He turned and faced her, leaning back against the wall that was paneled in gleaming mahogany with narrow mirrored inserts. “You look nice today.”

Her lips parted. She blinked and looked up at the digital floor display above the door. Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. “Thank you.” He looked nice today, too. Mouth-watering nice.

Which was a direction her thoughts didn’t need to take.

“Did you sleep well?”

Even more disconcerted, she slid him a quick glance, then looked back up at the display. “Yes, thank you. My hotel was comfortable.” It was hardly The Plaza, but then she was on an expense account. Unlike her wardrobe, the cash-strapped institute would foot the bill for this little junket. As such, the room was moderately priced and not entirely conveniently located. She glanced at her watch. “My flight leaves this afternoon.”

Twenty-four. Twenty-three.

“Do you ever wear your hair down?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He pushed his hand in his trousers pocket, dislodging the excellent lay of his black suit coat. “It’s long, isn’t it?”

Eighteen. Seventeen.

“A bit,” she allowed, trying to figure out what angle he was coming from.

“I’ve never seen you wear it down.”

She huffed a little, exasperated not just with him, but with the eternal slowness of the elevator. “Since you’ve seen me only a handful of times, is that so surprising?” She didn’t like—or trust—the faint smile hovering around his lips. “If we’re going to be asking for personal information, then what was it that had you—” her voice dropped into a toneless imitation of Cynthia’s “—unavoidably detained?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“My mother was in the hospital last night.”

Stricken, her eyebrows lowered. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She looked more closely at him. He didn’t look unduly upset. His suit was as magazine-perfect as always, his eyes clear and sharp; he didn’t look as if he’d spent the night in some hospital waiting room. “She’s all right?”

“A sprained ankle that they thought might be broken.”

“Oh. That’s good then. Well. Not good that she has a sprain, of course. But—” She realized she was babbling and broke off.

Fortunately, the elevator finally rocked softly to a stop and the doors slid open. He waited for her to exit first but he still held her briefcase. And continued to do so, either oblivious to, or choosing to ignore, her awkward gestures of taking it back.

They were nearly to the main entrance and he was still in possession of it when he spoke again. “Your security pass.”