Читать книгу The Tycoon's Instant Daughter - Christine Rimmer - Страница 10

Cord looked down, to collect his scattered wits.

Her feet were bare. They were very nice feet. Pale and long, with pretty toes.

No polish. Uh-uh. No polish for Ms. Miller.

He couldn’t resist. He let his gaze wander upward, taking in the white nightgown—white cotton, yes. Exactly. With the lamp behind her, he could see the outline of her ankles and the lower swell of a pair of surprisingly strong-looking calves.

But no more.

She hadn’t followed his fantasy—correction, erotic image—to the letter, after all. She also wore a robe. A green one, of some indeterminate light fabric, over the white gown.

He imagined stepping forward and removing that robe.

But he didn’t. He stayed right where he was—on the playroom side of her bedroom door.

Hannah clutched her nightgown at the neck and looked up into her employer’s handsome face. “What is it, Mr. Stockwell?”

He cleared his throat. “Ms. Miller, we haven’t discussed how much I’ll be paying you.”

She didn’t understand his expression. It was a bewildered kind of look. And it didn’t fit at all with the arrogant, take-charge kind of man she knew him to be.

“Um,” she said, and swallowed. “Are you all right?”

His dark brows crunched up over that nose that belonged on a Roman coin. “All right? Of course, I’m all right. What do you mean?”

Now he looked angry. Oh, she did not like this. Something was happening here, and she didn’t know what. “Well, it’s just that you look so—”

“What?” He practically barked the word.

She backed up a step. “Nothing. Never mind.” In an instinctive attempt at self-protection, she started to push the door shut.

He stuck out his right hand and stopped it. “I told you. I want to talk about your salary.”

She looked at his outstretched arm, at his big hand gripping the door, and then she looked back at him. “Right now?”

“Why not?”

“It’s eleven at night.”

He lifted his free hand and glanced at the fancy watch on his wrist. “Ten forty-two.”

“Will you please let go of the door?”

He did. She considered shutting it in his face. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. She kept thinking how lost he’d looked a moment ago, and, well, feeling just a tiny bit sympathetic toward him.

Which was crazy. Cord Stockwell did not require her sympathy.

But still, she didn’t shut the door on him. She only stood there, her fingers nervously stroking the small lace ruffle at the neck of her nightgown.

All right, she thought. He wants to talk money. We’ll talk money. We can do that quickly. And then he can go. “Well, um. As I told you before, I’m on vacation anyway. So it isn’t really necessary for you to—”

He swore. “Don’t give me that. I hired you to do a job. You will be paid for it.”

“It’s only for a few—”

“Just name a price.”

“Okay. Fine. How about a daily rate?”

“Good. Whatever.” He kept staring at her neck, where her hand fiddled with the lace. She made herself lower that hand, and then felt too exposed to simply drop it to her side. So she wrapped both arms around her middle and came up with a figure.

“I’d pay more,” he said.

“You said to name a price. I did. Accept it.”

“Well. If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure. We can settle up when I leave.”

“All right, then,” he said with finality.

But then he just stood there.

And so did she.

After what seemed like a year, he asked, “So. You’re all right? Comfortable? Got everything you need?”

“Yes. The room is very nice. I have no complaints at all.”

“Good.”

More silence. She found herself studying the strong line of his jaw, noticing, in the wash of light from the floor lamp behind her, that there were strands of silver in his dark hair—only a little, at the temples. It gave him a rather distinguished look. He was wearing the same dress shirt he’d worn that afternoon, a beautiful blue one. It had a lovely rich luster. He also wore dark slacks.

The clothes fit him perfectly. He probably had a tailor who made them especially for him. He would require custom fitting, for those wide shoulders and powerful arms—and that deep, strong chest that tapered down to a tight, hard waist.

They were staring at each other. And they’d been doing it for too long.

He seemed to shake himself. “It just occurred to me…”

“Yes?”

“Feel free to use my sitting room across the hall for the interviews.”

“Thank you.” Her own voice pleased her mightily right then. She sounded so self-possessed. “I will use the room, if we need a place to sit down and talk.”

“Good then,” he said. And was quiet again.

Suddenly he seemed to realize that he couldn’t just stand there, staring at her for the rest of the night, waiting for some other piece of information to occur to him.

“Well. I suppose I should let you get back to…whatever it was you were doing,” he said.

She couldn’t help grinning. He actually was rather appealing like this, kind of confused and strangely dear. She heard herself volunteer, “I was just pacing the floor, thinking up my list of qualifications for the new nanny. I’m going to put an ad in the paper and try a few of the best employment agencies. So far, I’ve come up with, ‘Dependable, loving and live-in…’ Any suggestions?”

He smiled back at her. Oh, the man could smile. No wonder he had women dropping like flies. “How about ‘Experienced?”’

“Good one.”

“And ‘References Required.”’

“Oh, absolutely. I got that. I did. And I wanted to ask you, what about salary? And maybe I should know a little more about the benefits package you offer.”

He quoted a very generous figure. “As to benefits—full medical, and we have a dental plan. And an optical plan, as well. All the major holidays—or time and a half if she agrees to work a holiday. And two weeks vacation a year.”

Hannah could see that she’d have no trouble at all filling this job—good money, fine benefits and the chance to watch Becky take her first step, sound out her first word, learn to ride a bike…

What more could any woman ask for? If she didn’t watch herself, she’d end up pea-green with envy of the woman she was planning to hire.

“Anything else?” he asked. He looked kind of hopeful. And for some reason that made her want to try to think up more questions.

But how wise would that be?

“Um. No. I think that’s everything. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He kept smiling that killer smile.

But after a minute it faded.

He finally said, “All right. Good night.”

“Yes. Good—”

They both heard the cry at the same time—well, it was more of a whine, really. A small, fussy, tender little sound. They stared at each other. Hannah was holding her breath.

And she knew that he was, too.

Another whine. And then a louder one. And then an outright cry.

Hannah told him ruefully, “Someone is calling me.” She moved forward a fraction, and then hesitated. “Excuse me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He stepped back, out of the doorway.

She brushed past him.

Cord just stood there, staring after her as her bare feet whispered across the playroom floor, the bit of snowy-white nightgown that showed beneath her robe seeming to glow in the darkness as she retreated. When she disappeared through the door to the baby’s bedroom, he bestirred himself and followed.

She was lifting Becky from the crib as he reached her side.

“She might be wet. And she’s probably hungry. I usually feed her around eleven. And she’s a good girl.” She cooed something appreciative into Becky’s tiny ear, then added, over the baby’s shoulder, “After this, she’ll most likely sleep through the rest of the night.”

She turned for the white bureau nearby, the one with the changing pad on top. He had a feeling what was coming. And it was.

She laid the squalling baby on her back, then slid a finger down her diaper. “Yep. Time for a change.”

He considered backing up until he was out the door. But unfortunately, she spoke before he could get his legs to move.

“Come on.” She flicked on the little carousel wall lamp next to the bureau. “You need to learn how to do this. And it won’t be so tough. It’s only wet this time.” She had the nerve to grin at him.

“Maybe I should wait,” he suggested, wincing as his little girl squalled, flailing her arms and kicking her fat little legs. “I’ll give it a try sometime when she’s not squirming so much.”

“Mr. Stockwell, babies who need changing most generally are going to squirm.”

“See. There you have it.”

“Have what?”

Becky, who didn’t look nearly as cute right then as she had when she was sound asleep, kept on yowling and waving her arms and legs around. She was wearing some little yellow T-shirt thing with snaps all over the front of it.

Ms. Miller made more cooing sounds as she peeled away tabs.

“You should do it,” he said. “You’re good at it.”

“And you should learn. Come on over here.”

Hell.

He took the few steps to stand by the changing pad with her. She already had the diaper off. She pressed a lever with her foot, and tossed it into the white bin beside the bureau. Next, she reached over and pulled a couple of white squares out of a plastic container.

She held out the squares. “Here. These are baby wipes. Take them.”

He should have known better, but he did what she told him. The damn things were wet, for the love of Mike. His disgust must have shown on his face.

Ms. Miller let out a loud hoot of laughter.

Surprised the hell out of him—and Becky, too. His little girl stopped yowling to stare at the woman standing over her.

Ms. Miller had the grace to shut her mouth. “Oops,” she said. “Sorry.” She looked away—to control herself, presumably. He heard one more snicker and then she turned back to him with a straight face.

He was still holding the wet squares from the plastic container.

Ms. Miller said, “Wipe her bottom. Very gently.”

He said nothing, only shook his head and stepped closer and did what she said that he had to do.

Once that was accomplished, she had him throw away the used wipes. Then she handed him the diaper rash ointment and told him to gently rub it on. And then, she showed him how to fold a diaper into the slots on the pair of plastic pants. Finally she had him take Becky’s little feet and lift up her bottom and slide the diaper and plastic pants underneath her.

After that, it was pretty simple. He folded the sides up and pressed the Velcro tapes together.

“Now,” she said, “we’ll wrap her back up nice and cozy in this light blanket and you can hold her for a few minutes. I’ll stick a bottle in warm water. Be back in a flash.”

She was gone before he could order her to stay. A dim light went on somewhere in the playroom.

How long did it take to warm up a bottle?

Too long, more than likely.

Becky looked like she might just start crying again. So he picked her up very carefully and put her on his shoulder the way Ms. Miller had shown him before. And then he stood there, feeling like ten kinds of oafish idiot, patting her little back and listening to Ms. Miller in the other room, bustling around in there, doing whatever had to be done to get Becky’s nighttime snack ready.

Becky made a little, experimental sort of fussy sound.

He did not want her starting to yowl in his ear. Maybe if he rocked her…

Yes. That would be good. Babies liked rocking. Didn’t they?

He carried her to the rocker and carefully lowered the two of them into it. He rocked very gently, thinking that would be more soothing, though he felt just frantic enough to keep having to remind himself not to pick up speed.

Becky whined. And then she cried. She also burped. He felt that. It was a wet burp and it made a warm, soggy spot on his shirt. That was when he remembered that he should have put a diaper on his shoulder before holding a baby there.

He went on rocking.

Becky went on crying.

And finally, Ms. Miller reappeared with a bottle.

He didn’t know whether to hug her or yell at her.

She went to the rows of shelves over the changing area and got the diaper that he’d forgotten to use. And then, finally, she padded over to him on her pretty white feet. She set the bottle on the little table by the rocker.

“Here,” she said, calm and competence personified. Gently she peeled Becky off his shoulder.

He looked up at her. “What now?”

“Now you can feed her.”

He started to argue, just on principle. But then he thought that feeding her might not be near as bad as rocking her while she wailed. She’d have a bottle in her mouth, right? And that meant she’d be quiet.

So he allowed Ms. Miller to lay his daughter in his arms, then to hand him the bottle. The rest was easy. He touched the nipple to Becky’s mouth and she latched on and started sucking away.

Piece of cake.

He grinned down at her, pleased with himself, pleased with Becky—and also pleased, though he probably shouldn’t have allowed himself to be, with Ms. Miller.

“You’ve got drool on that nice blue shirt,” Ms. Miller said softly.

He smiled down at his gorgeous, hungry daughter. “Breaks of the game.”

“Here.” She bent close. She smelled warm and sweet, of woman and baby lotion and some faint, light perfume. She smoothed the diaper on his shoulder. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped rocking until she pulled away and he lost the scent of her. Slowly, cautiously, he started the chair moving back and forth again.

“When she’s done, burp her—you remember how to do that?”

He didn’t look up. It seemed safer that way.

She continued, “Then put her in the crib again. On her back. Tuck her in nice and cozy. You think you can handle that?”

He wanted to say, “Maybe not. Maybe you’d better stay…” But where the hell would that get them? She was a smart-mouthed, well-meaning social services worker from Anywhere, Oklahoma. The kind who married, settled down with one guy forever and raised a passel of kids. And he was a man with no interest in anything that had settling down in it—let alone forever.

All right. He’d admit it. She held a certain…attraction for him. He didn’t understand it, because he never dated the homey, settling-down type. Not ever. And he never went after the help. It was a cardinal rule with him.

He didn’t understand it.

But did he even need to understand it?

He realized he didn’t, since he knew it would pass. His interest in any one woman always did. It would be the same with Ms. Miller—except that, in her case, he would never lay a hand on her. She’d teach him the things he needed to know about taking care of his little girl. And she’d find her own replacement, someone steady and dependable, someone minus the leaf-green eyes and the chestnut hair, the shapely feet and the virginal but see-through white nightgown.

“Mr. Stockwell, can you handle it?”

He looked up at her then. “Where were you born, Ms. Miller?”

She hesitated, but then she did tell him. “Oologah. That’s in—”

“I know where Oologah is. Birthplace of Will Rogers. Have I got it right?” She nodded. He asked, “What did your daddy do?”

Another hesitation. Then a sigh. “He ran a gas station. I was pretty little, but I still remember those gasoline trucks pulling into our station to fill up the tanks. They had your name on the side of them. Stockwell Oil.”

“Your folks still live there, in Oologah?”

Something happened in her face, a barrier descending behind those green eyes. “No, Mr. Stockwell. They do not. And you haven’t answered my question. Do you think you can put Becky to bed by yourself?”

“Yes, Ms. Miller. I believe that I can.”

“The monitor’s on the windowsill. I’ve got the receiver in my room. Just speak up if you need me.”

He held her gaze for much longer than necessary before he answered, “Thanks. But I’m sure I can manage just fine on my own.”

She turned for the door. He glanced down at Becky. Looking at his daughter kept him from watching the bit of white gown that fell below the hem of her robe, and the outline of Ms. Miller’s calves beneath it, not to mention the unconscious invitation in her gently swaying hips as she walked away from him.