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

“I just need the overnighter. The small one. But I can get it.” She was already speaking to an empty room and could hear the sound of his footsteps on the half-dozen stairs that would carry him back to the living room’s level.

She let out a shaking breath, looking around the room again.

The bathroom had possessed several mirrors, but the bedroom itself contained none and for that she was grateful. There were two large armoires on each side of the room and a bureau in the arching hallway that opened into the adjacent bathroom. She peeked inside each, finding them all empty.

Rourke still hadn’t returned, so she opened one of the French doors and went outside onto the terrace.

If she looked up and to her right, she could see the terrace level off the living room. If she looked down and to her left, she could see the lowest terrace, which could be reached by another set of stairs. But the terrace on which she stood was the only one that possessed a setting of deeply cushioned chaises and chairs positioned beneath a tall pergola. Long, pale drapes hung down the colonnades, drifting softly in the night air.

She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped. It was all so impossibly beautiful.

If he chose a place like this for a honeymoon with someone he didn’t remotely love, what would he do for someone he did?

“Here.”

She whirled on her heel, pushing aside the disturbing thought. What did she care what he’d do for someone he loved?

Rourke stood in the deep shadow of the doorway, holding out her small case. She went to him and carefully lifted the strap away from his hand before sidling past him into the room.

Now what?

She was so far out of her element she didn’t have a clue. She twisted the leather strap in her hands. “I—”

“I—”

They both broke off.

He lifted an eyebrow, but she just shook her head, mute all over again.

“I have some calls to make.”

It was the last thing she expected him to say. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Not in New York.” He started to leave the room again. “It’s going to take me at least a few hours so if you’re hungry, I’m sure you can find something in the kitchen.”

“I don’t cook.”

He glanced back at her. “Don’t, or don’t know how?”

Her cheeks went hot. “Does it matter?”

He shrugged and she felt positive it was her fanciful imagination that colored his faint smile with a shade of indulgence. “Cooking isn’t part of the job description. But this place is always stocked with fruit and breads. Even someone who doesn’t cook won’t starve.”

Job description.

Her hands curled so tightly, the leather strap dug into her palms. “I suppose you want something to eat.”

His eyes were unreadable. “I’ll manage.”

Then he turned and left her alone and she almost wished she had jumped on the idea of preparing them some sort of meal. Because now all she was left with was that wide bed behind her and the sense that she was expected to prepare herself for it.

And for him.

Nerves spurred her into motion and she dumped her overnighter on the bureau. She needed to stop thinking like some Victorian virgin. She was a modern twenty-first-century woman, for God’s sake.

She yanked open the case and unloaded the few items inside. The travel bag containing her toiletries, the oversize Bruins jersey that she preferred to sleep in, and a pair of clean, thoroughly utilitarian white cotton panties.

Not a speck of lace or ribbon or silk in sight.

Sadly, she didn’t know if she’d have felt more confident if there had been. Probably not.

She was far more comfortable in a suit sitting in a boardroom debating business practices than she was in a nightgown waiting for a man…

She had a few hours, according to what he’d said, but instead of attempting another bath when the memory of her last attempt was so fresh in her mind, she unpinned her hair and took a short, steaming shower and tried not to think about the fact that the slate-tiled enclosure was certainly roomy enough for two.

When she got out, she wrapped her wet hair in one of the plentiful plush terry towels, slathered lotion on her arms and legs—just like she did every time she showered, she justified—pulled on the jersey and bikini pants, and, feeling like a thief in the night, crept her way through the villa to the nearest kitchen. There was, indeed, a wide assortment of foods already available.

She selected a crusty roll and a handful of green grapes and turned to go back to the bedroom. But the chilled bottle of wine that had already been opened caught her eye, and she grabbed that, too, as well as one of the wineglasses that hung from beneath one of the whitewashed cupboards. Feeling even more thieflike, she stole back to the bedroom, carefully skirting around the office.

But her footsteps dragged to a halt when the low murmur of Rourke’s voice through the partially closed door shaped into distinguishable words. “Call the publisher,” he was saying. “Tell him if he doesn’t squash the story, I’ll personally call on every corporate advertiser they’ve got and he won’t like the results.”

One of the grapes rolled out of Lisa’s hand and she silently darted after it, catching it just before it rolled down one of the steps.

She looked back and saw Rourke watching her, his phone still at his ear.

She flushed a little. “I was hungry after all.”

His gaze settled on the wine bottle, looking amused. “And thirsty?”

“This is France. And the bottle was already opened.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself to me.” He abruptly turned his attention back to the phone. “You’re damn right I’m serious.” His voice was sharp, obviously intended for his caller. “If you can’t accomplish this, I’ll hire someone who can.” He went back into the office, closing the door behind him.

Lisa scurried down the steps to the bedroom feeling a little sorry for whomever was on the other end of that call.

She quickly demolished the bread and grapes even before she finished half a glass of wine. She pulled out her own cell phone and started to dial Sara Beth twice.

But she didn’t want to burden her friend with foolishly panicked calls. Aside from Rourke’s insistence that nobody know the true details of their agreement, Sara Beth’s new husband was Rourke’s friend and Lisa was loath to put her problems between them. Particularly when Lisa suspected that Sara Beth was already concerned.

So she put the phone away.

She paced around the bed, avoiding it as if it was poisonous, until finally, annoyed with herself, she yanked back the creamy silk bedspread and bunched up a few of the bed pillows behind her back. She pulled out the suspense novel that she’d brought with her, but reading it now was just as big a pretense as it had been on the plane, and she finally tossed it aside.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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