Читать книгу Baby Of Convenience - Diana Whitney - Страница 10

Bright eyes, taunting and haughty, peered from behind the gnarled trunk of a stately black oak. With an irked blink at those who so relentlessly followed, the eyes turned away, and their owner slipped into the meadow, gliding lithely through the purple profusion of wild lupine toward the one place no one dared to follow.

“Maggie, don’t be a tease.” A croak of desperation broke the command into a whining supplication. “Don’t hide from us, precious, we only want to help. You know how much we love you.”

Unmoved by the poignant plea, Maggie ducked into a neatly trimmed hedgerow at the far side of the meadow, and disappeared.

“Me firsty.”

“Shh, sweetums, I know you’re thirsty.” Laura Michaels shifted the baby in her arms, wiped a smudge of tree sap from his wind-chafed cheek. As she peeked through the pruned thicket, her heart sank at the expanse of manicured lawns and lush, formal garden leading up to an architectural marvel that could only be described as a mansion. “We have to be real quiet for a few minutes, okay? Then we can go home, and Mama will get you a big glass of juice.”

Jamie rubbed his eyes, popped a thumb in his mouth and laid his head on his mother’s shoulder as she carefully eased through the shrubbery, ever watchful lest her presence on these hallowed grounds be detected. Rich people lived here. Rather, one rich person in particular.

Laura had never met Royce Burton. She hadn’t even seen him beyond an across-the-street glimpse of tailored cashmere as he’d whisked from the corporate office of Burton Technologies into a gleaming Mercedes with tinted windows. Everyone in Mill Creek knew about Burton, the elusive entrepreneur who’d created an industrial complex that had turned an area in upstate New York on the brink of financial ruin into a thriving boomtown. Mill Creek citizens worshiped him. Not surprising, since he signed the majority of their paychecks.

Laura remained cynical, although she hadn’t been immune to the monetary temptation that had seduced most of her friends and neighbors. She also coveted a job at Burton Technologies. Desperate means for desperate measures, she supposed, although she understood people like Royce Burton all too well. Experience had taught her that wealthy folks were a breed unto themselves. Contemptuous, self-indulgent. Cruel.

Maggie couldn’t have chosen a worse spot to isolate herself from the world. Laura could not have been more determined to rescue her beloved Maggie from making a horrific mistake in judgment. “Hold on, sweetums,” she murmured to the fussing baby in her arms. “Just a few more minutes, okay?”

A flash of movement caught Laura’s eye. A blooming daylily at the south wing of the huge home rustled. She gave another wary glance around the lush grounds. Then, cradling her sleepy child in her arms, she crept forward.

Ducking beneath a cantilevered bay window, she slipped to the rear of the house just in time to see the final vibration of foliage in front of an open basement window.

“Oh, criminey.” So much for the hope that Maggie had found refuge in a separate toolshed, or some other structure from which she could be quietly extricated without disturbing the mansion’s owner.

She swallowed hard. “Hold on to your diapers, Jamie. Looks like we’re about to have ourselves an up-close-and-personal introduction to the richest, most powerful and most frightening man in the entire town.”

The woman’s eyes were ice blue, cool to the point of frigid. Strands of gray muted the reddish hue of hair faded by time and twisted into a bun as tight as her jawline.

She eyed Laura, her gaze lingering on the squirming child long enough to reflect a hint of disdain. “Is Mr. Burton expecting you?”

“No.” Shifting as Jamie gave a sideways lurch, Laura tightened her grip on her fidgeting son and struggled to maintain her composure. She’d met women like this before. Too many of them, actually. Household terrors who ruled the inner workings of their employer’s homes as if they’d been blessed by royal decree. “It’s urgent that I speak with him at once.”

“Impossible. Mr. Burton is in conference.”

“But it’s Sunday.” Desperate, Laura turned her attention toward a masculine voice filtering from somewhere beyond the gleaming marble foyer. “I won’t take much of his time.”

Unmoved, the woman, who appeared to be in her midfifties, squared her shoulders, took a sideways step as she prepared to close the massive carved door. “I suggest you call his office in the morning. His personal assistant will either set up an appointment—” cool blue eyes once again settled on the baby in Laura’s arms “—or refer you to his personal attorney.”

Shocked by the implication, Laura bristled. “Mr. Burton must have quite a morals deficit for you to presume every visiting child is the issue of a tawdry affair.”

The moment the angry words rumbled off her tongue, she regretted them. An unrestrained temper was not usually one of Laura’s flaws, except where her son was concerned. An insult to Jamie was intolerable, even if it meant alienating her only means of locating the elusive Mr. Burton—and the even more elusive Maggie.

“How dare the likes of you insult a man of Mr. Burton’s impeccable standards?” A crimson flush stained the furious woman’s crepey throat, and a flash of embarrassed fury narrowed her eyes. Had it not been for the fortuitous diversion of a booming masculine voice, Laura had no doubt the massive doors would have been instantly slammed in her face.

“Marta!”

The distracted woman spun around, gazing like an anxious lapdog in the direction from which brusque footsteps echoed. “Get Robinson at the Brussels office on the line. Also, call Dave Henderson. Have him call a finance committee meeting for this afternoon.”

Taking advantage of the tight-jawed door sentry’s inattention, Laura decided it was now or never. Tucking Jamie tightly against her shoulder, she stepped inside before the startled Marta could stop her.

A blur of movement caught Laura’s eye as a dark-haired man in a tailored suit strode out of a room where a magnificent wall lined with leather-bound books was visible through an arched doorway.

He moved with purpose and determination, although his gaze was riveted on a sheaf of documents he held in one hand. A cellular phone was clasped in the other. “Tell Henderson to bring the updated revenue projections and cash-flow statements, along with the revised production estimates—”

He glanced up, did a double take when he saw Laura. He didn’t jerk to a stop, exactly. Rather, he slowed with a fluid grace, a man whose every movement was clearly practiced and precise.

A questioning glance at the older woman was met with an apologetic tone that was a striking contrast to the haughty demeanor she’d displayed a moment earlier. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Burton, I tried to tell this…woman…that you weren’t receiving—”

Laura interrupted. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Burton, but it’s urgent that I speak with you immediately.”

He hiked an eyebrow, allowed his gaze to slip unobtrusively along the length of her body before settling with unnerving intensity on her face. “And who might you be?”

She moistened her lips, oddly intimidated. He was only a man, after all, albeit a man whose mere presence filled a room, demanding immediate recognition. “My name is Laura Michaels.”

Marta stepped forward, hands clasped tightly enough to whiten her veined knuckles. “Shall I call Security?”

“Not at the moment.” There was no trace of a smile on Royce’s surprisingly youthful face, no hint of humor in his eyes. He slipped the cell phone into his coat pocket, tucked the sheaf of documents under his arm. “Ms. Michaels has one minute to convey this matter of urgency.”

Jamie squirmed in Laura’s arms, extracting his thumb with a pitiful whine. “Firsty, Mama.”

“Shh, I know you are, sweetie. Just a few more minutes.”

Royce regarded the child without visible emotion, although his eyes appeared to warm for a moment. A very brief moment. “You have fifty-five seconds remaining, Ms. Michaels. I suggest you make the most of them.”

Taking a deep breath, Laura filled her lungs, emptied them slowly and managed to meet his unwavering stare without trembling. “I have reason to believe that your basement is being occupied without your knowledge or consent.”

Whatever he’d expected to hear, that clearly was not it. A muscle twitched along a jaw that was firmer and stronger than Laura had expected. No other expression of surprise was allowed, although she noticed him blink twice, a revealing gesture she doubted he meant to display. “On what do you base that interesting speculation?”

“I followed her here.”

“I see.”

Laura was fascinated by the practiced ease with which he conducted himself. Every muscle in his face impassive, his eyes carefully steadied to reveal nothing beyond that which he wished to reveal. There was no twist of fingers, no absentminded straightening of cuffs or brushing of invisible lint. This was a man used to being in control, in control of himself, of others, and of any situation, no matter how unexpected or startling.

Laura moistened her lips. “I believe she entered through the basement window.”

Still no change in expression, no gleam of interest in eyes so dark a woman could get lost in them. “Is this individual a fugitive of some kind?”

Feeling profoundly silly all of a sudden, Laura was annoyed by an irksome dryness in her mouth. “I wouldn’t exactly call her a fugitive.”

“So we are in no danger?”

She allowed herself the luxury of a smile. “That rather depends, I suppose—”

He glanced at his watch. “Your minute is up, Ms. Michaels. Thank you for the information. We’ll certainly look into the matter.”

At the signal, the annoying Marta person spun to grasp Laura’s elbow, no doubt preparing to shuffle her out the door. “No, wait, you don’t understand.” Wriggling out of the older woman’s grasp, Laura blurted, “There’s more.”

Again he hiked that well-formed brow in what Laura decided was a deliberate gesture designed to demean those toward whom it was so purposefully aimed. “I’ve assured you that the matter will be investigated.”

Ego trips by powerful men brought out the devil in Laura. She could have simply told him what he needed to know, but she found that damnable arched eyebrow irksome.

Lifting her chin, she narrowed her eyes, cooled her voice. “If you choose to investigate without my presence, Mr. Burton, I can assure you that your question of Maggie’s ability to do harm will be answered in a manner that will definitely not be to your liking.”

He studied her with the bold, unblinking stare that strong men use against those who would challenge them. When he spoke, however, his voice had softened in tone, if not in authority. “Marta, continue arrangements for the finance committee meeting as I requested. You may hold off placing the Brussels call until I return.”

Marta was clearly flabbergasted. “Return from where?”

“Why, from escorting Ms. Michaels to the basement.” He laid the documents on a nearby sideboard before cupping Laura’s elbow with a gentleness that was surprising and guiding her to an enameled doorway in the base of a curving staircase off the foyer.

“Actually,” he whispered when out of the frantic Marta’s hearing range, “we wealthy elitists prefer to call it a wine cellar. That sounds much more privileged, don’t you agree?”

An embarrassed heat slithered up Laura’s throat at the realization that her disdain for his lifestyle had been so obvious. Royce Burton was apparently a man who let little slip by his perception.

Still, there was no excuse for rudeness. She regretted her own pomposity in daring to judge him for the sin of having more than he needed while others never had enough.

She cleared her throat. “I apologize if I’ve offended you, Mr. Burton.”

The vaguest trace of amusement softened his reply. “I’m not easily offended, Ms. Michaels, although you are certainly welcome to make the attempt.”

As he opened the cellar door, she chanced a glance upward. That’s when she saw it, the upward tilt of sculpted lips, the soft gleam transforming ordinary brown eyes into glowing amber. He was smiling.

The effect was devastating. Oh, Maggie, she thought as her heart gave a palpable thump of longing. What have you gotten us into this time?

Soft lights lined the cellar, illuminating rich oak wine racks filled with dusty bottles, presumably containing the most extravagant and rarest of vintages. A split-oak tasting table posed in the center of the room, upon which a silver corkscrew and several pieces of crystal stemware had been placed. Wooden crates were stacked in a corner. Thin curls of straw packing material were strewn over the hardwood floor, and at the apex of the cinder-block wall a thin slice of daylight sprayed from the narrow opening beneath a basement window that had been painted black.

Beside her, Royce glanced around with mild curiosity. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“Not everything,” Laura murmured. Her gaze was riveted on a pair of golden eyes gleaming in a pool of shadow beyond one of the massive wine racks. Tightening her grasp on her weary son, she glided forward, murmuring softly. “So there you are, precious. Shame on you for worrying me half to death.”

The golden eyes blinked.

Laura felt Royce move behind her. “What on earth…?” A warning hiss moved him back a step. He straightened, his practiced impassivity melting into obvious astonishment. “My God.”

“Don’t frighten her,” Laura said. “She’s not fond of strangers.”

On cue, Maggie issued a low growl, then turned with a swish and slunk into the shadowy corner.

Moving quietly, Laura followed, knelt down and saw what she had feared. There was her beloved Maggie, nested in an empty wine crate softened with supple straw packing, settling down to nurse her brood of newborn kittens. “Oh, dear,” Laura murmured. “Five of them. I never counted on so many.”

Jamie suddenly yanked his thumb out of his mouth, squealing with delight. “Kitty, kitty!” He lurched forward, fat arms outstretched toward his beloved pet.

Laura reeled him back a moment before he squirted out of her grasp. “No, no, honey, Maggie doesn’t want to be petted right now. She’s feeding her babies.”

“Babies?” Royce’s voice changed from quizzical to horrified in the space of a heartbeat. “Babies?”

A pleasant warmth on her back confirmed that he’d ventured forth to observe for himself.

“It is a cat,” he said finally.

Laura smiled. “Indeed.”

“I detest cats.”

Her smile faded. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

A draft chilled her spine as he stepped aside, perhaps for a better view of the feline family, perhaps simply to put an extra foot of distance between them. “This is totally unacceptable.”

Heaving a sad sigh, Laura struggled to contain the gleeful toddler while hoisting herself to her feet. “I was afraid that it would be.”

“How could this happen?” he demanded.

“Well, Maggie is a girl cat, you see, and she met this perfectly charming boy cat, whereupon they did what little girl cats and little boy cats have been doing for ever so long—”

“Very amusing.” That same traitorous muscle twitched along his jaw. “I’m familiar with the biological process of feline reproduction. What bewilders me is the process by which this particular feline chose to complete the process—” his voice rose, startling Jamie “—in my basement.”

“Wine cellar,” Laura corrected him, then turned her attention to comforting her son, whose lip was quivering. “There, there, sweetie, it’s okay.” Tears gleamed in the baby’s wide brown eyes. He hiccuped, gulped and emitted a thin wail of distress. Laura hugged him, coaxed a damp strand of sable hair from his moist baby forehead. “Shh, Mama is here, everything is all right.”

Royce frowned. “Is the child ill?”

“No. Loud voices frighten him.”

Clearly stunned, Royce rocked back a step, regarding the trembling toddler with unabashed shock. “I caused the child’s distress?”

“Not deliberately, of course. Jamie just…” She allowed the words to dissipate, unwilling to divulge details of the experiences that had led her beloved child to quake with fear at the sound of a booming male voice.

“I’m so sorry.”

Genuine remorse cracked his dispassionate demeanor, a tiny flaw of humanity that surprised her.

Before she could study it more intently, he rearranged his features, focused on the baby and spoke with exaggerated gentleness. “Please forgive me, young man. It was not my intention to upset you.”

A moist streak stained the child’s pink cheek. Jamie eyed the impeccably groomed stranger who had paused several feet away as if fearing to step any closer. “Me firsty,” the toddler whined.

“Are you now? That is something we can certainly rectify.” With that tantalizing hint of a smile, Royce strode to a wall by the curving wrought-iron staircase and flipped an intercom switch.

A moment later, a taut, familiar female voice replied. “Yes, Mr. Burton?”

“Marta, please bring a pitcher of orange juice to the cellar.”

“Orange juice?” came the bewildered reply.

“Hold on a moment.” He glanced at Laura. “Would you or the child prefer something else? I can offer an assortment of fruit juices. Also, coffee, iced tea, your choice of carbonated beverage or wine, if you’d like.”

“No, thank you. Orange juice would be lovely.”

“Something to eat, perhaps? Is the child hungry?”

“That’s kind of you, but it’s nearly his lunchtime. A snack would spoil his appetite.”

“Very well.” He turned back toward the intercom. “That will be all, Marta. Thank you.”

After clicking off the speaker switch, Royce pursed his lips thoughtfully, casting first a quick look at Laura and Jamie, then glancing over his shoulder to the cozy nest where a purring, contented Maggie was in the process of bathing a mewing ball of orange-and-white fluff.

Laura followed his gaze. “My best guess is that the kittens are about one week old. Maggie disappeared for several days, and when she finally returned, it was obvious that she was no longer pregnant. I’ve been following her for days to find her birthing nest.”

“I see.” He studied the mother cat’s methodical grooming of her brood for a moment. “I’m certainly no expert on feline behavior, but I was under the impression that most animals chose a location in which they feel safe and comfortable for such an, er, auspicious event.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid poor Maggie feels neither safe nor comfortable in our temporary living quarters. You see, we had to…I mean, we chose to move from an apartment in the downtown district to share a mobile home with a friend.”

Chose to move. A clever euphemism for eviction, which didn’t escape the astute Royce Burton’s notice if the knowing gleam in his eye was any clue.

“At any rate, the accommodations are rather cramped, and my friend has two older children who didn’t mean to torment Maggie, although she understandably had little tolerance for them, given her delicate condition.”

He nodded politely. “These temporary living quarters, might they be included in the mobile home park to the south of the grounds?”

Presuming he was referring to his own expansive property when he used the word grounds, Laura nodded. “It’s just temporary,” she repeated lamely. “Until we can find something that suits our needs.”

Something that was basically free, since she was currently unemployed. She’d had the audacity to slap the roving hand of her supervisor, and had been summarily dismissed from her job as a discount store clerk. At the time she’d worn her termination as a badge of honor. Now she saw it only as having sawed off her own breathing appendage. It wasn’t as if she had the luxury of pride now. She had a child to consider, a child whose mother was unemployed and teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.

Royce regarded her. “Sharing such modest living accommodations with another family must be difficult for you and your husband.”

“I’m divorced.” Laura’s reply was issued with more firmness than intended.

Instantly Royce’s eyes cooled in disapproval. “I see. And your friend, is he also divorced?”

“As a matter of fact, she—” Laura stressed the gender-specific pronoun and was satisfied by his guilty cringe “—is happily married, although her husband is on a temporary work assignment out of town.”

He issued a curt, apologetic nod. “Forgive the errant presumption.”

“As I said, the living arrangements are purely temporary. Unfortunately, there is hardly enough room for the people, let alone six animals.”

“May I presume that you are financially unable to secure alternative living quarters?”

That was an understatement. “The truth is that even if I found a job tomorrow it would be months before I could save up enough money to make a deposit on a larger place.”

Laura couldn’t fathom why she was telling him this, but the words nonetheless streamed out as if this powerful and put-upon individual was actually interested in the life story of a virtual stranger.

A thin laugh slipped from her lips, high-pitched and embarrassingly desperate. “I know this isn’t your problem. You can’t possibly care about my little trials and tribulations. It’s just that I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do about Maggie and her babies.”

“Aren’t there shelters for this kind of occurrence?”

Laura was horrified. “I could never put Maggie’s babies in an animal shelter.”

“Why not? That’s what they are there for.”

“They are there to take pets that nobody wants, and if they can’t find homes for them, to put them humanely out of their misery.”

From the corner of her eye she saw Royce stiffen, and was relieved to note that he didn’t detest cats enough to be immune to the horror of euthanizing healthy animals because nobody wants them.

Laura pressed her advantage. “There’s no way to find good homes for the kittens until they’re old enough to leave their mother. I mean, their little eyes aren’t even open yet.” She paused, swallowed hard. “Meanwhile, I clearly have a bit of a problem.”

“Clearly,” Royce agreed.

As Laura was mentally formulating what to say next, Marta descended the stairs carrying a frosty crystal pitcher of orange juice.

Obviously unhappy, the woman thumped the pitcher on the table, then glanced toward the corner and spotted the feline family. “Oh, Mother of God!” she shrieked. “What are those creatures doing here?”

Royce favored her with a bland stare. “At the moment, they are having lunch.”

“Box them up at once,” Marta sputtered. “Get them out of here before their hairy filth spreads into the rest of the house.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be much of a problem,” Royce said pleasantly. “The animals will be confined to the cellar. Ms. Michaels will, of course, be allowed access at any time she deems necessary to feed them and care for their needs.”

It took a moment for Laura to decipher the significance of what had just been said.

Marta, however, reacted instantaneously. “It’s unconscionable to permit these vile creatures to remain inside your living quarters. They may be diseased, infested with parasites. It’s an abomination.”

“I suspect we’ll manage to muddle through this crisis without creating a global plague.” Royce stepped to the oak tasting table and poured two glasses of juice, handing one to Jamie, who snatched it with such excited haste that the sticky liquid sloshed on Laura’s clothing.

“What of my duties?” Marta asked. “I cannot perform my work efficiently if I am constantly interrupted.”

A covert glance confirmed the older woman’s obvious revulsion as juice ran down the toddler’s chin to soak into his tiny striped T-shirt. Obviously this was not a woman who tolerated untidiness in any form.

Royce didn’t seem particularly perturbed either by the messy process of quenching a toddler’s thirst or the potential interruption in Marta’s duties. “Then I suggest,” he told her mildly, “that you supply Ms. Michaels with a key so she may come and go without disturbing you.”

Marta went absolutely white. “You can’t be serious.”

He gave her a quiet look that rocked her back a step. “Have you known me to joke?”

Deflated, the woman merely shook her head.

“Excellent.” He turned to Laura, regarding her with a casual dispassion that didn’t quite match the probing intensity of his eyes. “I trust the arrangements meet your approval, Ms. Michaels?”

It took a moment to locate her voice, a moment during which Laura steadied the toddler’s grasp as he greedily gulped his juice. “Your offer is exceptionally generous,” she said finally. “I’m deeply grateful.”

“Then it’s settled.” With a brusque nod, he spun on his heel, ascended the curving stairs and disappeared with the incensed Marta right on his heels.

Laura could hardly believe her good fortune. A man who supposedly abhorred cats had just offered her not only the unfettered use of his wine cellar as a feline nursery, but was also allowing her free access to provide the care Maggie and her kittens would require.

Spirits soaring, Laura was convinced that the spate of bad luck that had so relentlessly plagued her was finally at an end.

In truth, it was just beginning.

The group of tailored financiers gathered in the leather-bound study, droning on about cash-flow projections and capital investment forecasts.

Royce tried to concentrate on the figures. Decisions made here would affect lives, thousands of lives.

Despite outward success, the market share of Burton Technologies was slipping. Research and development was stagnant. They desperately needed an infusion of cash. Investment capital. Lots of it.

This was a business discussion of tremendous importance. And all he could think about was the color of Laura Michaels’s eyes.

They were green. Not loden, not olive, not even the hue of warm grass in springtime. Rather, they were a multihued tapestry of every verdant tint and tone that nature could supply.

In the bright foyer light they had seemed almost transparent, the pale shade of cymbidium orchid leaves brightened with sparkling emerald. In the amber illumination of the cellar, they’d taken on the golden glow of a summer pond at sunset.

More than the color of those haunting eyes, Royce had been affected by their clarity. The lush young woman with the haunting smile had hidden nothing, exposed all.

He was fairly certain she was unaware that her emotions were so blatantly revealed. He also doubted she realized that her habit of scraping her lower lip with her teeth while trying to construct an evasively truthful reply was quite revealing to a man who’d created a career out discerning information that others wished to hide.

The child was interesting, too. Obviously well-loved and carefully nurtured, judging by his bright-eyed curiosity. Dark eyes, too. Deep brown, coffee-colored, closer to Royce’s own eye color than to that of his mother’s.

The boy’s fear of loud voices was telling as well. He wondered about it, didn’t care for the speculation crowding his thoughts. His own father had been a controlled man, neither outgoing nor withdrawn. He’d been brilliant, of course. Royce had loved him, admired him, had been desperate to please him.

He’d never succeeded in pleasing him, but might have done so eventually if he hadn’t died so young, leaving Royce’s mother to work herself into an early grave trying to support herself and her son. Having found himself alone at a relatively early age, he’d learned to rely on self-approval for motivation.

For the most part that had been enough.

A familiar voice broke into his thoughts. “What is that abominable sound?” Dave Henderson was asking. “You’d better have a service call on the air-conditioning, Royce. It sounds as if one of the unit bearings has blown.”

Blinking, Royce considered the sound in question, a series of thin squeaks emanating from the air ducts.

Mewing kittens, he decided, and was besieged by fresh annoyance at the intrusion.

He couldn’t fathom why he’d allowed the irksome animals to stay. It was foolish, and Royce Burton was not a man who accepted foolishness, not even from himself.

“The presentation needs work,” Royce announced, anxious to redirect attention back to the problem at hand. “You’ve shown how the infusion of investment capital will assist our expansion efforts without offering a reciprocal incentive.”

Henderson blinked, swallowed, touched his tie. “I know. That’s rather a problem, since there doesn’t appear to be any. We need them. They don’t need us.”

Royce understood that Henderson was referring to the Belgian directors of Marchandt Limited, the most prestigious investment firm in Europe. “Then we’ll have to develop a reason for them to need us.”

“There is one option.…” Henderson’s voice trailed off as he feigned flipping through a thick document, spiral-bound and bristling with sticky yellow notes. “We could, ah, offer to transfer our research and development division to Brussels. Economic incentive to their personal turf, so to speak.”

The suggestion came as no surprise to Royce. He doubted any of his staff could conceive of an option he hadn’t already considered, and discarded. “We’d lose thousands of local jobs.”

“An unfortunate side effect,” Henderson agreed.

Steepling his fingers, Royce spoke quietly. “Mill Creek is a small town. An economic blow like that could destroy its economy.”

“There would be a significant economic effect, to be sure. However, Mill Creek existed before Burton Technologies chose it to be the homesite, and would still exist if we moved the entire complex somewhere else.” Henderson sighed, rubbed his forehead. “Hell, I don’t like the idea, either, but if there’s any other option I haven’t thought of it.”

Neither had Royce. “Then keep thinking.”

“But—”

“That option is unacceptable. Come up with another.” Royce stood. Six stiff-suited executives lurched to their feet in unison. “We have six weeks before the Marchandt directors arrive. I expect all the loose ends to be tied up before then and a suitable quid pro quo available for negotiation. Marta will show you out.”

With that, the executives filed out of the study, talking quietly among themselves. Only Henderson stayed behind, which wasn’t unusual since he was a trusted friend as well as Royce’s right-hand man.

“About those loose ends,” Dave said as Royce poured aged Scotch into a pair of cut-crystal glasses. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

Royce handed his friend one glass, took a sip from his own and studied a thin line of moisture forming across his finance director’s upper lip.

Dave took a healthy gulp, wheezed, coughed, then twirled the glass between his palms. “You know, Europeans are not always a liberal bunch, particularly when it comes to business. They have strictly conservative views about money, and about—” he sucked a breath, took another swallow “—family.”

Royce waited.

Dave cleared his throat. “Marchandt himself is Old World, comes from generations of wealth and power. He can list his ancestors back to the time of the Crusades. He inherited the company from his father, as did his father before him, and already has his sons in the business ready to carry on the family tradition.” Puffing his cheeks, he blew out a breath, meeting Royce’s gaze directly. “Do you remember that magazine article that came out a while back?”

“That silly ‘Bachelor of the Year’ thing in Finance and World Reports?” Royce snorted. He remembered the article well. He had fired the marketing executive who’d insisted he give the interview in the first place. “Idiotic piece of tabloid trash. I canceled my subscription in protest.”

“Yes, well, to you it’s tabloid trash, to Western Europe it’s considered the pinnacle of financial trade information. When I went to Brussels last month, Marchandt himself had a copy of that issue on the corner of his desk.”

That got Royce’s attention. He leaned forward, ignored the telltale jitter of a muscle stress-twitching just below his ear. “You’re just getting around to mentioning this to me?”

Dave shrugged. “I’d already handled the situation.”

“How?”

“I told him the article was basically a publicity stunt by a rogue marketing executive who was no longer employed by our firm.”

“Good.”

“I told him there was nothing to the allegations of wild parties, beautiful starlets on each arm and the speculation that you were the real father of Madonna’s love child.”

“Good.”

#8220;I told him you were committed to your, er, family.”

Royce narrowed his gaze. “I don’t have a family.”

“Well, boss, you’ve got six weeks to hunt one up. I told him you were a doting husband and father.” Dave drained his glass, set it on a polished mahogany desk by the study window and heaved the long-suffering sigh of a man ascending a gallows. “Am I fired?”

“No.” Setting his own glass aside, Royce brushed his palms lightly and pushed away from the plush burgundy recliner against which his hip had been propped. “The formality of employment termination isn’t required for a dead man.”

Dave paled visibly.

Muttering, Royce spun away. There were cats in the cellar. The company was going to hell in a European handbasket. His entire life was in chaos.

And all he could think about was the color of Laura Michaels’s eyes.