Читать книгу The Billionaire Daddy - Renee Roszel - Страница 10

LAUREN was out of her element when it came to taking care of an infant. Fortunately Braga, the cook, had received the baby’s food menu and schedule early, and the baby’s formula was ready when Tina woke from her nap. The menu included “solid” food, so when Braga asked which “solid food” did Nanny prefer, Lauren had a momentary panic attack, and blurted that she was of the school of thought that a baby should have only a bottle at midafternoon.

Braga, a rotund, bulldog of a woman in her mid-fifties, didn’t even blink at Lauren’s stiff-lipped pronouncement, and indifferently handed over the warmed bottle. With a tiny sigh, Lauren thanked providence for the small reprieve. Her Solid Food Ordeal would be put off until sometime tonight. Right now, her main problem was mastering The Bottle.

She decided to take her niece out onto the acres of redwood deck that surrounded the ocean side of the house. Not necessarily because the day was balmy, but because she thought she would have more privacy to make any blunders in feeding a baby.

The sun shone pleasantly, not overly warm, but Lauren decided a tiny person’s skin might be pretty sensitive, so she settled with Tina in a shaded, cushioned lounge chair. To Lauren’s surprise and pleasure, the chair rocked.

She managed to get Tina to take the bottle without much problem. Luckily Tina seemed to be a good eater. Relieved, Lauren breathed deeply of the ocean-scented air. How pleasant it was there, with a picture-book view and gentle breeze. The only sounds were the distant sough of the ocean, and the cry of gulls as they swooped and soared.

In such vast, idyllic privacy, Lauren decided to try out a lullaby. After all, she was a music appreciation teacher. She should know lullabies. She began to sing and rock as Tina contentedly took her bottle. After Lauren sang the only verse she knew of “Rock-a-bye Baby” twelve times, she began to get a little sick of it. Besides, who in her right mind would rock a baby in a treetop!

She began to hum one of her favorite compositions by Debussy. Lauren had never considered herself much of a singer, but she could carry a tune. She figured at just under six months of age Tina wouldn’t be too picky.

The baby appeared fascinated by Lauren’s face and the sound of her voice. Lauren grinned. Something about the sight of those big blue eyes, so wide and rapt, sparked a creative bent in her soul, and she started ad-libbing lyrics. “Oh—Oh, no—not a tree! We don’t want to be hauled up in a tree! We’re tired of falling—out of treeeeeeees.”

“I didn’t realize Clair de lune had words.”

Lauren jerked around to see Mr. Delacourte framed in the open door to the living room. He’d changed into blue shorts, deck shoes and a white polo shirt. He was marvelous looking, breathtakingly so, from a great pair of legs to his masterfully chiseled face. A smile lurked in dazzling smoky-gray eyes. Once again he was laughing at her.

She hid her embarrassment at being caught spouting such an inane song, and returned her gaze to Tina. She was surprised that he recognized Clair de lune. But since it was a sensual melody, she supposed he’d used it for a few seductions in his time. “I—I made up the words.”

“Really?” The smile spread to his voice. “Sounds like some of my college roommate’s stuff.”

“Thank you.” She had a feeling his remark wasn’t a wholehearted compliment, but she didn’t intend to let him know. “Your roommate was a musical genius, I gather.”

He grinned. “My roommate thought so.”

She peered his way, telling herself his dimpled smile had no effect on her. “Actually there’s a school of thought—that babies should hear the classics early and often.” She didn’t know if there was such a school, but if there wasn’t, there should be.

She stroked Tina’s downy hair as the baby sucked out the last of her formula. Lifting the empty bottle away, Lauren placed it on a small, glass-topped table beside her chair. “Tina’s encouraging expression got the better of me,” she added honestly. “I felt the urge to combat any negative suggestions that she allow herself to be—”

“Dropped from a tree?”

Lauren eyed him again, exasperated by his obvious mirth. “Well, if you ask me, it’s a stupid lullaby.”

“It always seemed stupid to me.” He moved to the railing and gazed out to sea. Lauren’s glance trailed over him. Being a pragmatic woman, she told herself Dade Delacourte looked exactly like any other man in his mid-thirties. Well, perhaps any other really good-looking man in his mid-thirties.

His dark hair fluttered in the breeze, shiny-clean and soft. It was only hair, she reminded herself. And he was only a man, like billions of others. Broader around the shoulders, squarer of jaw and appealingly tall, a wayward imp in her brain taunted. With to-diefor legs and drool-worthy dimples. Not to mention, he’s richer than practically any man in the country! She shook her head to squelch the disturbing imp.

Mr. Delacourte didn’t look like a heartless womanizer. Maybe that was the problem with heartless womanizers. They didn’t wear warning signs, and their claws didn’t show. All one actually saw was the pleasant manly trappings.

Much later than she should have, Lauren tugged her attention away from his broad back. It was a shame she couldn’t see his claws, even sadder that there were no outward signs of his negligent heart.

How unfair!

Lauren frowned as she lifted Tina to her shoulder and began to pat. She knew this was how one burped a baby. A person couldn’t make it into her mid-twenties without at least seeing a baby being burped. “Okay, Tina. Do it for Aun—” She cut herself off. How could she have started to say Auntie Lauren, with Dade Delacourte right there! Was she going noodley in the head? She coughed to cover her mistake. “…for Quinn.”

She patted and patted. After a minute, a very un-ladylike trumpet bellowed out of the infant. The deep belch took Lauren so by surprise, she burst out laughing.

Dade turned, looking puzzled. “What’s funny?”

Lauren pursed her lips and shook her head. No nanny worth her salt would laugh at a burp, no matter how much it sounded like an off-key toot of a French horn. “Nothing.” She swallowed a giggle, making sure her features registered businesslike reserve. “Her burp—is quite—musical.”

“Is that what you’d call it?” He flashed a grin and her pulse grew fitful. He shifted around to face her, and leaned against the rail. “Are you saying she has talent, Miss Quinn?”

“I’d give that burp an A-plus—for volume, anyway.” Lauren batted down an urge to smile at him, reminding herself why she was here and exactly who and what this man was. “Does she get her burping talent from you?”

His amusement vanished. For an instant his gaze rested on the child, his features vaguely troubled; then he turned away.

His reaction startled Lauren. “Uh, I didn’t mean to offend you.” Good grief, didn’t the man have a sense of humor? Apparently he could laugh at her, but woe be it to anybody who dared joke about him!

“Did you find everything satisfactory in your rooms, Quinn?” he asked, his voice low and controlled.

She absently patted Tina’s back, watching him. Evidently there were rules about nanniness she needed to commit to memory. Like, “Don’t kid with your employer.” Well, that was fine with her. The less casual chatting between them, the better. “The rooms are fine, sir.”

“Good.” He didn’t turn.

Beeeerrrrrtttthhhh!

Tina’s second showy belch made Lauren jump. She experienced another titter of laughter, but hid it under a manufactured coughing fit. She repositioned Tina into the crook of her arm, smiled at the baby and began to rock. “Where did you learn your manners, sweetie?” she whispered.

Something flitted into Lauren’s peripheral vision. Even before she registered what she saw, her adrenaline surged. She snapped her gaze up to fasten on the flitting thing. A wasp! Her sister, Millie, was terribly allergic to wasp stings, and at four-years-old had almost died from a sting. What if Tina had inherited the same allergic reaction?

The wasp swooped too near the baby. Lauren bent forward to protect Tina with her body. “No!” She swatted at the insect. “Get out of here you devil!”

“Excuse me?”

Lauren didn’t have the time to concern herself with Mr. Delacourte’s sensibilities. Let him think she’d called him a devil. It wasn’t as though the thought had never crossed her mind. She crouched over Tina, peeking around to see where the wasp was. She whacked at it, but missed again. “Get away!”

The winged pest dived out of her range of vision, but a second later she knew where it went from the stinging at her nape. “Ouch!”

“Damn!”

Lauren hardly had time to register the growled curse. She found herself relieved of the baby and tugged from the chair. A large hand gripped her upper arm. “Are you allergic, Quinn?”

“No—not particularly—it just stings.” Once she had her bearings, she realized Dade held the baby against his chest with one arm and hauled her with the other. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “Just make sure Tina’s safe.”

“That wasp won’t bother anybody now.”

Once inside, Dade led Lauren to the kitchen and coaxed her to sit at the breakfast table. “Take the baby.” He handed Tina back and strode toward a cabinet.

Lauren winced at the stinging in her neck, but regained enough of her wits to glance around. Besides Dade, the baby and her, the kitchen was empty. Yet the place was redolent with the rich scent of roasting beef. Tentatively she touched the smarting bump, and winced. “Where’s the cook?” she asked.

“Shopping for tomorrow’s meals.” Dade retrieved a box of baking soda from a cabinet and poured some into a cup, then added a little water.

“What’s that?”

“It should take the sting out.”

She stared. “You know a remedy for wasp stings?” She wouldn’t have thought he was the type to know such homespun tidbits. She figured a man like Dade Delacourte would be more likely to know the gross national product of Uruguay rather than a balm for insect stings.

“I spent summers on my grandparents’ farm in Vermont.” He glanced her way, his brows knit. “When they died, they left the place to me. I moved the barn here and turned it into my house.” He dropped the spoon into the sink and returned to her.

“Really?” Lauren murmured. Sentiment? She supposed even womanizers could have fond memories of grandparents. But this sentimental side of him surprised her. If that’s what it was. Maybe his reasons were purely narcissistic or, just as likely, some kind of tax write-off. Who knew? “It’s—very nice,” she said, meaning it. No matter why he’d moved the barn all this way to create his rustic haven, it had turned out wonderfully.

“Thanks.” He scooped some of the white goo onto his fingertips. “Lean forward.”

With great reluctance, she did as he commanded. Though she wasn’t as allergic to wasp stings as Millie, they stung like crazy and made a good-size welt.

Earlier that afternoon, while Tina napped, Lauren had swept her hair up off her neck with a big clip. Now she regretted the action for two reasons. First, it had made it easier for a wasp to sting her neck, which brought on the second, and most troubling regret—Dade Delacourte’s fingers gently brushed sensitive skin as he smoothed warm paste on the wound.

Dade’s touch sent shivers of appreciation along Lauren’s spine. She supposed playboys had to cultivate a seductive touch or they wouldn’t be successful at—playing. She recognized the sad irony, but wasn’t in the mood for ironic life lessons at the moment. She chewed her lower lip, her emotions in conflict. She wanted his hand off her, but a niggling part of her brain wouldn’t allow her to jerk away.