Читать книгу The Tycoon's Instant Daughter - Christine Rimmer - Страница 8

Through a sheer effort of will, Hannah Waynette Miller kept her mouth from dropping wide-open.

She was stunned. Yep. That was the word for it. Stunned. Astonished. Astounded and amazed.

By Mr. Cord Stockwell, of all people.

He wanted her to be Becky’s nanny?

She’d been sure the man disliked her. And she had told herself she didn’t care. After all, she understood his kind. He was a rich man with a rich man’s ingrained belief that the rest of the world existed for his comfort and convenience.

Well, Hannah Miller cared no more for what a man like that believed than she did for what he thought of her. Since that first day she had called him to tell him about Becky, she had never once put forth the slightest effort to make things comfortable for him—let alone convenient. For Becky’s sake, she had stood her ground against him. She had been determined to make sure that Becky got a real home, a home with love and attention and patience and hope in it. Of course, she always tried to make sure of those things for all of the children assigned to her care.

But she’d tried even harder with Becky. Too hard, maybe…

She hated to admit it, but the man had been right on that one little point.

She was much too attached to Becky, all out of proportion really, and she knew that. Hannah also knew she had to let go of the adorable blue-eyed darling and get on with her life. She had planned to do just that: to make certain Cord Stockwell found a loving nanny, one who would provide the intangibles that all his money could not buy. And then Hannah Miller had meant to be on her way—to return only if the paternity test she’d insisted he take proved he wasn’t Becky’s father, after all.

Cord Stockwell was waiting for an answer, standing there so tall and commanding on the other side of the beautifully appointed room, holding his glass of fine whiskey and looking at her with an amused expression on his too-handsome face.

Hannah knew what that answer should be: Thank you, but no. As much as she might wish it to be otherwise, as much as she had longed in the past seven lonely years for another chance, Becky was not her baby girl.

On the other hand, Hannah had no doubt that Becky did need her.

Cord Stockwell might be sexy as sin itself—he stood over six feet tall and he was possessed of lean hips, shoulders that went on for days and truly arresting deep blue eyes. An aura of excitement surrounded him. Even Hannah, who certainly ought to know better, couldn’t help but feel the power of his presence every time she was forced to deal with him. And on top of the sex appeal and the charisma, he did have pots of money, money he was willing to lavish on Becky.

But did he know how to love and raise a sweet little girl? Hannah seriously doubted it.

Cord Stockwell sipped from his drink again. “Well?”

Right then, the telephone on one of the inlaid side tables buzzed.

Cord set his drink on the liquor cart. “Excuse me.”

He strode to the phone, noting before he got there that it was his father’s private line that had rung. He punched in the line and picked up. “What is it?”

“Mr. Stockwell, I’m sorry to bother you.” It was a male voice with a slight Scandinavian accent, the voice of one of the nurses who attended his father round-the-clock—the big blond one named Gunderson. “But, sir, your father is insisting…”

In the background, Cord could hear the hoarse commands. “Get him in here. Get my boy in here. Now!”

The nurse reported the obvious. “He demands to see you, sir.”

The cracked, rough voice shouted louder, “Now, I said. Are you deaf? Tell him to get in here on the double.”

“I’m so sorry, sir.” Nurse Gunderson made excuses in Cord’s ear. “But right now, our problem is that he refuses to take his medication until you—”

“Get me Cord now!” the old man shouted.

A woman’s voice—the other nurse—spoke up then.

“No. Please put that down, Mr. Stock—”

Whatever it was, Caine must have thrown it. Cord heard what sounded like breaking glass.

The nurse on the other end of the line released a sigh. “Sir, maybe you should—”

“Try to keep him from hurting himself,” Cord said. “I’ll be right there.” Cord set the phone back in its cradle and started for the door. “Something’s come up.” He said as he strode past the wing chair where the social worker sat staring at him. “I’m afraid I have to deal with it now. I won’t be long. You can think about my offer.”

The door closed behind him before Hannah could say a word.

Cord could hear his father barking orders as he entered the old man’s private sitting room.

“I don’t need you poking me with needles. I can still swallow a damn pill if I need one. And right now, I don’t need one. Not till I talk to my son, you hear me?”

One of the maids had joined Cord in the central hallway and followed him into the room. She carried a broom and a long-handled dustpan—probably under orders to clean up whatever mess Caine had created in his rage. The maid cringed when she heard the old man shouting.

“Don’t worry,” Cord said. “He’s not yelling at you.”

“Cord?” Cancer might be eating Caine Stockwell alive, but his hearing remained as acute as ever. “Cord, that you?”

Cord stepped through the wide arch that framed his father’s oppressively opulent bedchamber—a replica, Caine always claimed, of Napoleon I’s bedroom at the Château de Fontainebleau, the magnificent hunting lodge of sixteen and seventeenth century French royalty. The room, like the antechamber through which Cord had entered, boasted gilt medallions in classical motifs adorning the walls, a massive crystal and gold chandelier overhead and gilded furniture upholstered in carmine-and-green brocade. The huge velvet-draped bed, shipped from France a decade ago, was the room’s crowning glory. And it stood empty. Caine would no longer trust the body that had betrayed him not to soil the dazzling stamped velvet bed coverings.

The room, in spite of its overbearing beauty, smelled musty and strangely sweet. Like sickness. Like encroaching death. The velvet curtains had been drawn closed against the hot Texas sun outside.

“Here. Here to me.” Caine, who lay in a hospital bed in the center of the room, hit the mattress with one claw-like clenched fist, a gesture reminiscent of one summoning a dog.

Though Cord had always been his father’s favored son, there had been a time when such a gesture would have had him turning on his heel and striding from the room, Caine’s curses echoing in his ears. But that time had passed. In recent months, Cord had learned what pity was—and learning that had made it possible for him to put his considerable pride aside.

He approached the bed. Gunderson and the other nurse, a statuesque redhead, fell back to lurk near the rim of equipment—an oxygen tank, footed metal trays on wheels, an IV drip and the like—that waited several feet beyond where Caine Stockwell lay. The maid dropped to her knees and began picking up the pieces of a shattered antique vase, as well as a number of long-stemmed blood-red roses, which lay scattered across the gold-embroidered rug.

“Everyone out,” Caine commanded. “You two.” He flung out an emaciated arm at the nurses. “And you!” he shouted at the cowering maid.

Cord nodded at the others and instructed quietly, “Go ahead. I’ll buzz you in a few minutes.”

Caine’s bed had been adjusted to a semisitting position. He lurched forward, as if he intended to leap upright and chase the others from the room. But then he only fell back with a groan. “Just get them out. Get them out now.”

The three required no further encouragement. The maid jumped to her feet and scurried off, not even pausing to pick up her broom and dustpan, which lay where she’d dropped them, among the roses and broken china on the gold-embellished hand-stitched rug. The two nurses followed right behind.

Caine waited until he heard the outer door close. Then he patted the bed again, this time more gently. “Here,” he said, his voice now a low rasp. “Here.”

Cord did what his father wanted, taking a minute to lower the metal rail so there would be room for him.

“Have to tell you…” Caine coughed, a spongy, rheumy sound. “No more drugs. Until I tell you…” Caine coughed again. This time the cough brought on wheezing.

“Got to tell…” He wheezed some more. “Have to say…”

Cord got up, but only to pour a glass of water. He brought it back to the bed, sat again and helped his father to drink, sliding a hand gently behind his head, feeling the heat and the dryness, the thin, wild wisps of hair. All white now, what was left of it. Once it had been the same deep almost-black color as Cord’s hair was now. Dark, dark brown, and thick, with the same touch of gray at the temples.

But no more.

Caine’s red-rimmed blue eyes glittered, sliding out of focus, vacant suddenly, shining—but empty. Cord carefully lowered the old man’s head back to the pillow. Caine’s eyelids drifted shut over those empty eyes. A ragged sigh escaped him, and a thread of saliva gleamed at the corner of his mouth.

Cord waited. In a minute, he’d rise, set the glass aside and sit in one of the ridiculously beautiful gilded chairs to wait a little longer. Soon it would be time to ring for the nurses again.

Caine moaned. Cord sat still as a held breath, staring at the wasted specter that had once been his father. The old man had grown so weak the past few weeks. The skin of his face looked too tight, stretched thin across the bones. At his neck, though, it hung in dry wattles.

Cord glanced at his Rolex: 2:22. He’d give it five minutes and then—

His father’s skeletal hand closed over his wrist, the grip surprising in its strength. “You listening?” The blue eyes blinked open. “You hear?”

Gently Cord peeled the bony fingers away. “I’m listening. Talk.”

“More water.”

Cord helped him to drink again. This time Caine drained the glass.

“Enough?”

“That’s all.”

Cord rose once more to put the glass on one of the metal trays. He came back to the bed and sat for the third time.

Dark brows, grown long and grizzled now, drew together across the bridge of the hawklike nose. “I lie here,” Caine whispered, his voice like old paper, tearing. “Sleeping. Puking. Messing myself. I hate it. You know that?”

Cord said nothing. What was there to say?

“Sure, you know. You understand me.” Caine laughed, a crackling sound, like twigs rubbing together in a sudden harsh wind. “You and me, cut from the same piece of high-quality rawhide…” The eyes drifted shut again and Caine coughed some more.

Then he lay still—but not for long. After a moment, he began tossing his head on the pillow, like a man trying to wake from a very bad dream. “I think about that baby,” he muttered. “Lying here. Sick unto death. That baby haunts me.”

Cord frowned. He must mean Becky.

For the last five or six years, Caine had taken to accusing his children, collectively and individually, of failing to do their part to extend the family line. So Cord had mentioned Becky to Caine about a week before, thinking it might ease the mind of the old tyrant to know he had at least one grandchild, after all. At the time, his father had only shrugged.

“You sure this baby is yours?” Caine had demanded. And when Cord had nodded, Caine had said, “Then it’s a Stockwell. Bring it home. And raise it up right.” And that had been the end of that conversation.

Apparently, though, Becky had stuck in Caine’s confused mind. Maybe he wanted reassurance that Cord had done what needed doing.

“The baby’s fine,” Cord said. “She’s here, right now. In her crib in the new nursery.”

Caine sat bolt upright. “Here? She’s here. A girl. It was a girl?”

“Yes,” Cord said soothingly, guiding his father back down to the pillow. “A girl. Remember, I told you all about her? She’s three months old. Her name is—”

“Three months! Do you think I’m an idiot? You think the cancer has left me no wits at all?” Caine sputtered and coughed. “It’s almost thirty years now, since they left, that mealymouthed witch your mother and my turn-coat twin. That baby’s no baby anymore. It would be grown now. All grown up.”

Cord suppressed a weary sigh. The red-rimmed blue eyes were looking into the past now, through a very dark glass. Sometimes lately, the old man’s mind rearranged the facts. Caine would imagine that his wife, Madelyn Johnson Stockwell, hadn’t died in a boating accident on Stockwell Pond with Caine’s twin, Brandon, after all. Caine would swear the two had run off together instead.

But this about the baby was new.

Caine fisted the sheets, his bony knuckles going white as the linen they crushed. Then he struck out, wildly, hitting Cord a glancing blow. The old man wore no rings. His fingers had shrunk too much; a ring would slide right off. But his yellowed nails needed trimming. One of them sliced a thin, stinging line along Cord’s jaw. Cord pulled back sharply and touched the tiny wound. His finger came away dotted with crimson.

“It was mine,” Caine ranted, his eyes closed now, the lids quivering, his head whipping back and forth against the pillow. “I tried. Tried to take care of it. Is it my fault she never would take the money?”

None of it made any sense to Cord. His mother and his uncle were long dead. And the only baby he knew about lay in a crib in another wing of the mansion, dreaming whatever a baby might dream of.

A baby.

His daughter.

The irony struck him. Someday, would he be the one ranting in a hospital bed, while his grown daughter sat patiently at his side?

It seemed impossible, that such a tiny, helpless creature as his baby girl would ever sit upright beside her father and watch as he died.

And why? Why would she perform such a grim duty anyway?

For love?

Cord almost smiled. He did not think it was love that he felt for his father. It was something darker, something more complex. Something with anger in it, and hurt—and maybe just a touch of reluctant respect.

No, he did not love Caine. But he did feel a duty to him, and he pitied him, pitied the bitter, half-crazed shadow of himself that Caine had become.

So he sat on the edge of his father’s bed and let the old man flail his withered arms at him, striking him repeatedly, shouting more addled nonsense about Cord’s long-dead mother and his uncle Brandon and a baby that Caine didn’t seem to realize had never existed.

“Whatever your mother did, that baby was a Stockwell. Remember. We are Stockwells. We take care of our own. And I know her. She had a thousand reasons to hate me. But still, no matter what I said, I knew…deep down, I knew she was true to me. That baby…that baby was mine.”

Cord took another series of sharp blows, to the shoulder, across the neck, to the center of his chest. By then, he decided it was time to buzz for the nurses.

His father needed calming. And Cord himself had to get back to his own quarters and finish up his negotiations with Becky’s nanny-to-be.

After Cord left her, Hannah sat very still for several long moments.

What to do? How to answer?

Her heart’s desire—to stay with Becky.

Her mind’s wise instruction—to let Becky go. Now, though it would break her heart in two to do it.

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.”