The Millionaire's Baby

by Diana Hamilton

  She could understand Mary's alarm. Had the situ­ation been reversed she would have strenuously ve­toed the idea. 'Please don't worry,' she offered gently.

  'Now why would I do that?' the older woman coun­tered dryly. 'But seriously, though, you must under­stand that the position of a nanny is subservient. You are used to being the boss, or one of them, and for the next two months you will have to do as you are told, spend practically all of your time with a de­manding child. I hope, for both our sakes, that you can handle it. And another thing; had I been able to place the nanny of my choice with Mr Helliar, I would have looked for someone far less young and beauti­ful—someone middle-aged and preferably plain.'

  'Don't be silly!' Caroline pulled a sheet of paper towards her and began to make hurried notes of what she wanted Honor to attend to during her absence.

  Mary grunted, 'Don't pretend to be stupid. Finn Helliar's a staggeringly attractive man. Living under the same roof, a beautiful young woman in a subser­vient position to—'

  'I get the picture,' Caroline inserted tightly. She'd got more than that—the information that Mary had instinctively known that Helliar was the type of man who'd make a play for any presentable woman, the little matter of having a wife no deterrent at all.

  * * *

  Finn settled Sophie down for her afternoon nap, his gaze lingering lovingly on her cherubic face, the huge brown eyes closed in sleep. 'A nanny to play with tomorrow, my pet,' he whispered softly, more to him­self than to the child. 'Won't that be fun?'

  He walked quietly from the room, leaving the door ajar so he could hear her when she woke. And fun it would be—intriguing to find out exactly why Caroline Fair had decided to work as a nanny, out of her own agency.

  At one point he had considered asking her, had fully intended to. But after she'd given him that spiel about knitting and fairy cakes he'd known he wouldn't get a straight answer.

  It had quickly become obvious that she was un­aware that he knew who she was—the go-getting half of the Grandes Families partnership.

  Her grandmother, Elinor Farr, had never tired of boasting of her favourite grandchild's intelligence, de­termination and spirit. She had even, on one of the rare occasions when he'd visited Farr Place—that al­most laughably Gothic pile in one of the most se­cluded parts of Hertfordshire—brought out the family photograph album and pointed out the woman he was already beginning to regard as a pain in the neck.

  'Caroline's the only one left fit to carry the Farr name,' the formidable old matriarch had stated. 'Her mother's a simpering fool and as for her sister—well, Katie wouldn't say boo to a fly—let alone a goose!'

  Dragooned into staying on for the old lady's eighti­eth birthday party, with which his visit had unfortu­nately coincided, he had felt sorry for the inhabitants of the lodge—Elinor's browbeaten daughter-in-law and younger grandchild, Katie. It must be galling to be watched over with such fierce contempt by the old lady who held the purse-strings so tightly in her bony, heavily be-ringed hands, to be compared so unfa­vourably with the do-no-wrong Caroline. He had been glad that a dose of flu had prevented her turning up.

  Sorry, in another kind of way, for Elinor herself. The daughter of a general, she had joined her consid­erable private fortune to that of Ambrose Fair on their marriage. A marriage which had produced only one child. She must have been devastated when her son was killed on the hunting field when Caroline was a mere five years old, the baby, Katie, not quite one.

  The death of Ambrose, her husband, a few months later would have been another shattering blow. But she had recovered, ruled what remained of her family with a rod of iron and, with the advice of his father, then chairman of the family-owned merchant bank, had tied everything up in trust funds.

  Since his father's death he had taken his place as Elinor Farr's financial advisor, for the sake of the link of friendship between his father and the deceased Ambrose. Not, on the whole, an onerous task, his con­tact with the old lady being rare, his personal visits rarer.

  His London office had dealt with the transfer of monies from one of the funds to provide the capital to buy Caroline Farr into partnership, and the last time he'd spoken to Elinor she'd been full of how well the agency was doing now that Caroline was running the business side of things.

  But was it doing well? Or was the agency in trouble? Why else should one of the partners, sketchily trained, or, more likely, not trained at all, leave her executive persona behind, put on a stiff and starchy nanny uniform and sally forth to change other peo­ple's babies' nappies if the outfit wasn't desperately in need of the extra funds?

  He picked up a pile of glossy estate agents' bro­chures and grinned. One way or another, he'd find out why she'd been driven to look for temporary, extra­curricular employment. And it would be no hardship, no hardship at all. Even in that smothering grey suit and awful hat she'd been lovely to look at, and he'd glimpsed an impish sense of humour when she'd listed her so-called hobbies.

  He could live with that. For a few weeks. He'd given himself three months' leave to settle perma­nently back in England, find the sort of home where Sophie could spend a happy childhood, so he'd be on hand at all times to oversee closely the new nanny's

  doings.

  And there was no danger he'd find himself in the same tricky situation he'd been plunged into with her sister, Katie.

  Caroline was different. Older by five years, a ma­ture woman, sophisticated, street-wise. She wouldn't give him any trouble.

  Not that kind of trouble.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Caroline hadn't been in her new employment for more than five minutes before she was seething. Absolutely seething! The beastly man was at it again!

  Quickly, Caroline scooped the baby up into her arms and held her close and felt the little face press into her neck, blowing bubbles. She cradled the back of the golden head with a gentle hand, keeping it safely where it was, regardless of tickling bubbles, blown raspberries and baby-type giggles. She would do anything to prevent the innocent little scrap from seeing her father coming on to a woman who was not her mother!

  When she'd arrived at ten that morning Finn had shown her to her quarters, a suite within a suite. A large sunny bedroom holding all the usual furniture, plus a cot complete with teddy bear. En suite bath­room, nicely luxurious, with a baby bath on a stand. Plus a small sitting room, the carpet lavishly littered with toys, comfortable armchairs, TV and writing desk. And Sophie, clad only in a disposable nappy, crawling around the furniture as if going for some kind of land-speed record.

  'I'll leave you to settle in.' He'd smiled, his eyes warm with discomfiting male appreciation as they'd languorously swept her slender figure. 'Like the dress. Pretty. It suits you far better than that dark thing you were wearing yesterday.'

  Oh, did it? It was floral cotton, years old, did he but know it. She hadn't dressed to please him, or only inasmuch as he'd stipulated mufti, so he needn't think it! Amber scorn had glinted at him between tangled dark lashes but had been rapidly veiled as she'd caught the devilish silver mockery of his eyes.

  Her breath had tugged, stuck in her chest and hurt, but he'd turned away, saying to his daughter, 'Come and say hello to Caro, poppet. It's time you were dressed.' And he'd then said, obviously to her—al­though she hadn't looked at him, kept her eyes glued to the bottoms of his lightweight fawn trousers where they touched the top of his bare feet. Bare feet?—'Do say if it goes against all your training, but I thought Caro more infant-friendly than the formal title of Nanny. And Caroline's a bit of a mouthful.' And, when she' d failed to answer because she was too busy wondering about the odd inflexion when he'd men­tioned 'all your training', he'd imparted lightly, 'She'll probably need her nappy changing, but leave it. I'll be back in a couple of minutes and you can let me in on your theories on toilet training later.'

  Caroline had gulped. She knew of no theories. She'd have to make them up as she went along. But at least he'd left, walking out of the room into the main l
iving area, although leaving the door to her quarters wide open, she noted now suspiciously.

  As if he intended to watch her, check up on what she was doing, even though he' d told her he' d be back in no time.

  It simply wasn't on. Having him watch her fum­bling attempts to dress his child was a bad idea.

  Having him watch her, in any capacity, was a worse one. The very thought of it made her feel overheated.

  She walked to the door to close it, the soft skirts of her dress brushing against the long, silky lines of her legs. And stopped in the open doorway, appalled.

  Finn had admitted a woman into the main suite. A very polished, beautiful woman. Not his wife. This one had short dark hair, cut in a modern, sophisticated style. Very sharp. Pale skin, scarlet lips, dark blue silk dress with a bloused top and cleavage. And what a cleavage!

  The moment he'd pushed the door to behind his guest, Finn slipped an arm around the slender waist, pulling her to him, then bent to drop a kiss on the invitingly upturned, poutily scarlet lips.

  It couldn't have been much of a kiss because none of the red had come off on his mouth, Caro noted, brows beetling as they walked further into the body of the room as if permanently joined at the hip. But even so...

  She decided to use her authority as nanny to tell him, at a suitable moment, of course, that she wouldn't permit such carryings-on in front of her charge. She wouldn't mention Fleur—naturally she wouldn't; their marriage wasn't any of her business. But she could justly claim that the baby was.

  Seeing her in the open doorway, the baby held pro­tectively in her arms, Finn grinned broadly. 'The two of you make a pretty picture. Nice.' Which probably accounted for the way the newcomer raised perfectly arched brows above the suddenly icy blue eyes that swept dismissively over the softly faded cotton dress to drift up again to meet amber scorn with a chilling sneer.

  'So you found a suitable minder.' The woman was obviously bored, but sounded far more interested in her next pronouncement. 'With Mrs Helliar being away you've been so tied down. You can get yourself a life now. Have fun.'

  'This is Sandra,' Finn introduced. 'My personal secretary from the London office.' Perhaps something about the unconcealed disapproval in Caroline's eyes got through to him because he moved sideways, put­ting a distance of an inch or two between him and the curvy, silk-clad body as he dropped his arm from her waist. 'I've taken a few weeks' leave to go house­ hunting, get settled back in England, but I still like to know what's going on. Sandra keeps me posted.'

  And Sandra had moved back in, close to his big body, joining them at the hip again. Sandra was not willing to be deprived of what she wanted, Caroline noted, her hackles rising when the other woman smiled winningly up into her employer's face and cooed, 'Did you get the particulars from the estate agents? I emphasised you needed them at once.' And, not waiting for an answer, she added, 'Perhaps thingy—the nanny—could make coffee. We could go through the particulars while we drink it.'

  'That is a job for a secretary, not the nanny,' 'thingy' responded tartly, and closed the door on the pair of them, muttering.

  He certainly believed in spreading himself around! He didn't go for a particular type, either. Secretary Sandra could look out for herself, no problem. She would be only too willing to play games in the absence of his wife, and wouldn't be too demanding, or make a nuisance of herself. A fat bonus in her pay packet would suffice, and she'd be happy to put in a bit of discreet 'overtime' when his wife returned.

  Katie had been different. Katie had completely bro­ken down after Finn Helliar had seduced her, prom­ised her the earth, then promptly married another woman, the one who was expecting his child.

  And he hadn't married Fleur because he loved her; he wouldn't have seduced Katie if he had. The brute was obviously incapable of committing himself to one woman. But he'd been caught in the age-old trap and he was clearly not averse to having a child. Much as she disliked admitting it, so far she couldn't fault the way he was with his baby daughter.

  The pregnancy wouldn't have been deliberate, but Finn had been relaxed enough about the prospect of fatherhood to marry the mother and drop poor be­witched Katie flat. Plus half a dozen others, in all probability.

  Was that why Fleur was conspicuous by her ab­sence? Had she discovered, after marriage, that her husband was constitutionally unfitted for monogamy? Was that why she was, presumably, re-launching her career?

  She set the now squirming baby down on her feet. 'Come on, poppet, time to get dressed.' She looked down into the happy little face and felt a great pang of protectiveness engulf her. It was a similar feeling to the one she had whenever her gran had a go at her mum and Katie.

  Poor little scrap. With a father like Finn Helliar she was to be pitied, because unless her mother was remarkably forbearing she'd end up as yet another bro­ken home statistic.

  'Room Service will be delivering lunch in five minutes,' Finn said. Caroline glared at him, bristling with dislike. He had got rid of Sandra in next to no time, invaded the nanny suite, hovering over her while she'd bathed and dressed his daughter, just as if he didn't trust her to do anything properly. He was still hovering and, right at this moment, his child was in­vestigating her new nanny's luggage and trying to strangle herself with one of Caro's bras—the one with pink rosebuds and lacy bits.

  'Five minutes,' he reiterated, unwinding the bra from his daughter's chubby hands and neck, scooping her into the crook of his arm, his obvious but silent amusement alarming as he eyed the scrap of lacy ma­terial for a few tense fizzing moments then swept his gaze over her now fluttering bosom for even longer.

  This time he closed the door behind him and that gave her a little breathing space, but nowhere near enough.

  The dreadful man was getting to her, no doubt about it. The way he'd looked at her had been an insult, making her flesh tingle, and her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would choke her.

  His sex appeal was awe-inspiring. And he knew it.

  She brushed her hair, transforming the baby-rumpled mess into its usual glossy bob, deliberately not allowing her eyes to wander lower than her neck or higher than her chin. The caressing, lingering stroke of those come-to-bed eyes had done alarming things to her physiognomy.

  The first, unguarded glance in the mirror had given her an image of glittering golden eyes and lips that looked softer, fuller than usual, parted in mindless an­ticipation.

  Anticipation, pray, of what? She demanded of her­self, hating the way her breasts were pushing at the soft cotton of her dress, refusing to let her eyes wan­der and witness that piece of humilation.

  If his technique was good enough to make level­headed, no one-tangles-with-me Caroline Fair re­spond to it, albeit unwillingly, what chance had poor Katie had?

  No chance at all.

  This observation thankfully counteracted the effect of those seemingly endless moments of sizzling sex­ual appraisal and sent her into the bathroom to run cold water over her wrists. It also enabled her to march sturdily out into the main living area to endure the horror of having to share a meal with him. But the experience wasn't as distasteful as she'd expected it to be—not to begin with.

  For one thing his attention was entirely on his daughter, on the small tasks of fastening her into the high chair, tying her bib, serving her with vegetables, pouring cheese sauce over the small helping of cau­liflower and mashing it all together with the back of his fork.

  Caro, feeling redundant, said, 'I'll take Sophie for a walk in the park this afternoon.' It would get her out of here for an hour or two. She was beginning to feel decidedly trapped.

  'Sophie has a nap in the afternoons.'

  Was there condemnation in the tone, as if he was telling her, in a roundabout way, that she didn't know anything? Well, he'd be right.

  To cover herself, she remarked repressively, 'Natu­rally she does, Mr Helliar. I merely decided she would benefit from taking that nap while out in the fresh air of the park.' She had noted a foldi
ng pushchair in the small entrance lobby of the suite and that was what nannies did, wasn't it—push their charges endlessly round in the fresh air?

  She felt, watching him gently wrap Sophie's small fingers round the full plastic teaspoon, that she had put herself in a position of control. She had 'decided', had neatly sidestepped his suspicions about her abil­ity—had he had any—and put herself firmly in charge.

  Until he said, 'Fine; we'll go together.'

  Her stomach lurched. She put the forkful of grilled Dover sole back down on her plate. She had suggested the outing to escape his company, not get more of it!

  She needed the time and space; heaven knew she did. So far she had not had a single moment to herself to even begin to work out how to pay him back for what he had done to Katie.

  'That won't be necessary, Mr Helliar.' Said sweetly and, she thought, reasonably, but he glanced across the table at her, his silver eyes probing, and not prob­ing gently, either.

  'The name's Finn. And I decide what's necessary.'

  That figured. She regrouped and began another at­tack, cloaked in common sense.

  'You employed me to look after Baby, Mr—Finn. Presumably to free you up to do other things.' Hadn't the sultry Sandra gloated that at last he could get himself a life? Caro was frankly surprised he wasn't doing just that right now, given his track record. 'If you question my ability to look after my charge more than adequately...'

  She left the implication hanging in the air, marvel­ling at her own temerity. He had been standing over her while she'd been dressing Sophie so he had to have noticed the way she'd put the baby's nappy on. She'd pulled the sticky tape thing too far on one side, leaving the other side barely connected, and the whole bunchy, lopsided bundle was held in place only by the intelligent choice of minute emerald-green shorts for nether-region wear. So he'd know that 'adequate' didn't get a look in when applied to her non-existent child-care abilities.