by JJ Knight
“Somebody has to know she had this baby.”
“That somebody has to speak up.” My body shifts in the chair. Dell shrugs off his jacket and lays it across the back of the sofa. Almost instantly, the man who opened the door slips in to whisk it away.
“Is he watching everything you do?” I ask.
“He pays attention.”
“Who is he?”
“Bernard, my butler.” Dell sits on the black leather sofa, still scrolling through his phone.
I watch him for a moment. “Maybe you should have kept a spreadsheet,” I say.
“Would have come in handy,” he says absently.
I make a disgusted noise and turn back to the view. I’m not sure I can stand being in his presence another minute.
But the baby stirs, her body shuddering a little as she stretches. Her eyes open and she watches me quietly a moment before drifting back to sleep.
My sympathy surges again. What will happen to her? If Dell is her father, she’s doomed to a life of caregivers and boarding school. If he isn’t, she goes into foster care.
I reach into the bassinet and feel around. There is a pacifier, as Dell mentioned. Mouth plug indeed. He has to be an intelligent man. He should know these things, or at least figure them out. He must have been desperate to simply bring her downstairs. The image of how panicked his face must have been as he pushed the stroller to the elevator makes me laugh with a little snort.
“I’m glad you find my predicament amusing,” Dell says.
I straighten my expression, still feeling around the edges of the bassinet. There’s nothing else. Just the cushion and a cover, and the pink swaddle blanket.
I finger the soft cloth, looking for a tag. Interestingly, there is none. No indication of manufacturer, and no evidence of one being cut off. Maybe it is handmade.
I check the elaborate blanket draped across the top. It is festooned with an outrageous amount of bows and ruffles and frills. My fingers run along the edges. No tag here either.
I drop it on my lap. The baby still wears the Del Gato Child Spa bib, so I can’t examine her outfit without removing it. I roll the stroller out a little and bend down to sort through the side pockets. The mother left a bottle, a canister of formula, and a few disposable diapers. All of those could have been picked up at a store nearby.
Otherwise, the pockets only contain what I placed in them. No change of clothes. No note. Nothing for the child to keep or remember her mother by.
I shift the carriage back and the baby stirs again. This time, her forehead crumples. She’s about to cry. Rather than let that happen, I pick her up.
“Sweet baby girl,” I say, lifting her to my shoulder to pat her back.
She presses her head against my neck. This warmth flows through me, peaceful and calm. I close my eyes, relishing the feel of her, the weight of her body against my chest.
“I’ve narrowed it down to twenty-five,” Dell says, startling me.
“Twenty-five women?”
“Once we speak to a doctor, I bet I can get it into the teens.” Dell pockets his phone. “Do you know one who can see her?”
“Taylor has a list.”
“Could he administer the DNA test?”
“I don’t know about that,” I say. That’s one thing that hasn’t come up at the child spa. Paternity is established by the time they arrive at my door.
Dell stands and paces the room. “I’m not going to let her do this to me,” he says, his voice hard. “You can’t just dump something like this on a doorstep.”
“You should give her a name, at least for now,” I say. “Stop calling her it and this.”
“Sure. Fine. My grandmother was Grace. She was a good woman.”
“That’s lovely,” I say. The baby shifts and I bring her down to rest in my arms. “Hello, Grace. You are a precious baby girl.”
Her eyes are open again. She seems worldly and wise, looking into my gaze.
I know how important this position is, this eye contact. I won’t have her miss important developmental moments. Not if I have the choice.
Damn. I’m already involved. I can’t stop looking in the baby’s eyes. Will he do that? He didn’t even know how to hold her.
Although he did give her the bottle. The image of him with the baby in his arms is etched in my brain. When I think of it, another part of my body heats up.
And this feeling is definitely not the same as the other.
It’s uncomfortable and alarming that I have even the smallest soft spot for that womanizing jerk who got himself in this mess and can’t narrow the candidates below twenty without a doctor’s help.
So I do the only thing I can. I tell him exactly how I feel.
“I don’t trust you with her. Let’s call CPS now.”
Chapter 5: Dell
Jesus Christ. Did this curvy little spitfire really say she didn’t trust me?
I can feel the anger rising up. This is why I don’t keep cute little playthings around. They get not-so-cute really fast.
I tower over her and the baby in the armchair. “I’m entrusted with billions of dollars in capital and the viability of at least one hundred start-ups, so I think I can handle an infant.”
Arianna stands up at that. Her nose doesn’t even reach my chest, but her spine is as stiff as a board. Her palm pushes at my shoulder.
“Oh, really?” she says. “Then handle THIS.”
She presses the baby against my belly and I have to fumble to figure out how to fit her in my arms. The child’s eyes fly open and a terrible retching cry escapes her mouth.
When Arianna is sure I have a good grip, she backs away. “Let’s see how you do.”
I try to put the squirmy bundle up on my shoulder the way I saw her do before, but this only makes the baby cry louder.
My knees bend, and I straighten, down and up, trying to jiggle her enough to stop her noise. This works for a moment, so I do it more, and faster, trying to stay ahead of her breath. I feel like an idiot, a puppet tugged by a string, up-down-up-down, and spot Arianna hiding a laugh.
Then it inexplicably quits working, and the infant howls directly in my ear.
“How do you make it stop?” I ask Arianna.
She shrugs. “You could try the mouth plug again.” She holds up the brightly colored plastic knob. I can’t for the life of me remember what they are called.
I take it from her, shifting the baby into a lying position in my arms, like we did downstairs. Still, she howls.
The rubbery nub of the mouthpiece goes in and for a moment, the baby sucks contentedly on it. Her watery eyes look up at me.
“See, not so hard,” I tell her.
Then the thing falls out of her mouth, slides over my arm, and hits the floor.
Arianna bends over to retrieve it. I want to admire the healthy cleavage I spot on her way down, but this blasted infant won’t stop the noise.
“I’ll just go wash this,” she says saucily and disappears toward the kitchen.
Great. Just great.
I plunk down on the sofa. This joggles the infant and she starts crying again. “What is it?” I ask her red face. It’s most unattractive, nothing like the smiling babies on billboards.
She pauses a moment to take in a breath. In a fit of brilliance, I get the idea to place her own fist near her lips. This interests her, and she chews her gummy mouth against her own thumb. The silence is blissful.
“All right, then,” I say. “Now we can talk like rational people.” Her fist pops away, and I set it back before the howling can start up again.
“I don’t smell anything, and the fact that you want something in your mouth seems to indicate you are hungry.” I give her my best disapproving stare. “You just took a bottle before the nap on the way up. Are you going to eat me out of house and home?”
Arianna has been gone too long. Is she sterilizing the … damn. What IS that thing called?
It’s driving me mad, and the infant is calm, so I pull
out my phone with my free hand and type in “baby mouth plug.” I get an alarming set of links of children who were electrocuted. I switch to images and see many content babies with these plastic bits in their mouths, like horses.
But I get names. Binky. Pacifier. Yes. I let a long breath escape. I hate not knowing things.
The child’s eyes are drooping again. She sure does sleep a lot. I hope she isn’t ill.
I want to leap up with the realization. Of course. That’s why some errant ex deposited the child with me. It’s dying.
I examine her legs and arms. All seems normal. Ten fingers. She’s in a frilly dress that doesn’t seem all too practical or comfortable. Dainty socks with frills at the ankle cover her feet.
I glance around to ensure the room is still empty, and pull them off. Ten toes.
I don’t know how to tell if an infant isn’t well. I do hope this employee of Arianna’s comes up with a list of doctors. Perhaps I should phone my own physician.
The click of shoes can only be Arianna, as Bernard is silent as a mouse. She leans over the back of the sofa and hands me the pacifier. “She seems all right now,” she says.
“The young cannibal feasted on her own fist and drifted off to sleep again,” I say.
Arianna laughs, a low throaty sound I could definitely get used to. She comes around the sofa and sits beside me.
“Taylor has a work-in appointment with a pediatrician about six blocks down for this afternoon as well as three nanny prospects arriving this evening.”
My body sinks into the sofa a little more. “Thank you.”
“I’m not sure you have enough formula and diapers to last until tomorrow. I highly recommend someone on your staff picking up more.”
My blood chills. “You’re leaving?”
“I showed Bernard how to mix the formula. He said you would have the diaper duties, but I’m sure you can figure out what goes where.”
She stands up.
I pop up next to her. “You can’t go. I haven’t the least experience.”
“I have a business to run,” she says.
“I have many! And I’m here!”
The baby stirs, and I snatch the binky from where I left it on the sofa. This time, the baby takes it, thank God. I hold a finger on the handle to help keep it in place.
Arianna gives me a sympathetic smile. “See, you’re figuring it out. I stand corrected.” She takes a step for the door.
“I’m begging you,” I say, then bite my own tongue. I don’t beg. Not for anything.
But this gets her attention.
“Dell Brant is … begging?” A smile flirts on the edges of her lips.
I’ve never seen a single vision more critical to me than her. She’s beautiful. She’s luscious. And most importantly, she can save my ass right now.
“Think of the children,” I say, holding the baby out for a second. Baby Grace takes that very moment to make a very unsavory noise from her frilly little bottom.
Then, the stench.
“Ah, that’s why she was fussy,” Arianna says. “Gassy belly. She’ll need lots of burping after every meal. If it continues, you can try Mylicon drops.”
I want to pass her away, but I’m afraid to take my finger away from the binky in her mouth.
“I have no clue how to change a diaper,” I say.
Arianna continues to the door, and I follow her like a puppy.
“Surely you can spare a day,” I insist. “Just until we have a nanny.”
She turns around at that and looks me up and down. Her gaze takes in everything. My tie, scrunched under the baby, my shirt, totally wrinkled, my hand on the binky. Then she looks around the room.
She lets out a long sigh. “All right,” she says. “But only until you get a nanny in place.” She leans in to touch Grace on her fuzzy head.
“Great,” I say quickly. “I’m sure you can manage while I make a quick stop by my office.”
“Oh no,” she says. “I’m not your employee or your token female. If I stay, you stay. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”
Damn.
“All right,” I say. “Can you at least take her while I call? I had two huge meetings today and I’ll have to deal with the fallout of missing them.”
Her eyes narrow. She takes out her phone and sets a timer for five minutes. “You have exactly this much time before I leave here if you’re still conducting business.”
She’s bluffing, I can tell. But I nod and hand her the baby.
“Let’s get you changed again,” she says to Grace. She holds her differently than I do, more turned in. I make a mental note to adjust my positioning next time and quickly stride to my home office to make the call.
This will be a hard one to explain.
Chapter 6: Arianna
The nerve of this guy!
Just to spite him, I lay Grace out on the Italian leather sofa to change her diaper. When I’m done, I tape the disposable into a neat ball and set it smartly on the center of the coffee table.
I’ve just picked up the baby when I hear another soft “woof.” I decide to see this dog. If I think he’s a problem, I’ll get this baby out of here.
I never had the opportunity to have a pet growing up. Too much travel. We spent summers on the French Riviera, Christmas break in Aspen, and every three-day weekend in the Hamptons.
By “we” I generally mean me and my nanny, when I was small. My parents would be with us, of course, but they had grown-up things to do.
I remember well my various caregivers. Kind-faced Miss Lucille, who was dismissed when I became school aged. Terrifying Miss Beatrice.
My last one, Miss Camille, was soft-hearted and saw me through high school. She taught me how to wear mascara and French-braid my hair. I stay in touch with her even now.
But still, no dogs.
I peek into the kitchen where I showed Bernard the formula. Empty. It’s enormous, the size of an apartment by itself, steel gray and black. Everything gleams. On the kitchen island, the monotone is broken by a glass bowl filled with red apples. The formula canister is by a coffeemaker that looks like it could land aircraft.
“This is a lot of space,” I say to the baby.
Her eyes stay on the ceiling, taking in all the sights.
A noise off to my right makes me turn. There’s a breakfast area with a round table inlaid with stone. Beyond it, an atrium. That’s where I hear sound. Shuffling. Maybe a bit of a snort.
My steps click on the floor and I wish I’d taken off my heels. As I approach the door, a flash of gray jumps against the glass, and I leap backward, startled.
I clutch the baby to me. What sort of monstrous dog is in there? Is this a guard dog? Is he trained to attack? My fear flashes with a vision of the baby in those big jaws. This will not work!
I’m about to turn away, my heart hammering a million beats a minute, when the dog comes up to the glass door. This time he sits. His ears prick up and his warm eyes look into mine.
He’s beautiful. I pull my hand out from beneath the baby and press it against the glass. The greyhound approaches slowly and pushes his nose opposite my palm. He whines a little, as if sad we are separated by the door.
Despite his wild dash, he seems well trained. “Nice to meet you, Maximillion,” I say.
The hound dips his nose as if he’s acknowledging my greeting. Huh.
I head back to the living room to stand in front of the windows. I understand now how lonely being a mother can be. These long periods with a sleeping infant, just waiting for the next thing she needs.
Suddenly, the front door opens, and I’m startled to see a stout woman holding a caddy with cleaning supplies. “Oh!” she says. “Excuse me.” Then she spots the baby. “Who is this?”
I have no idea what Dell wants people to know about the child. “It’s Grace,” I say.
“Lovely sweet bairn,” the woman says. “I’ll just be on my way to the guest quarters.” She pauses. “Unless you are staying there. Mr. Bra
nt does not usually have guests overnight, but I reckon you’re here, so I thought I should ask.”
“I’m just here for a few hours,” I say.
She nods. “I’ll be on, then.”
My anxiety settles with the presence of this woman. At least not everyone here is so stiff. When I taught Bernard to warm a bottle, he acted as if I’d asked him to scoop poop.
I picture the staid, straight-backed man cleaning up after the dog, and it makes me smile.
Grace mimics my expression with a gurgling cooing sound. I squeeze her little chin. “Baby sounds,” I say. “Three months for sure. Maybe four?”
The idea that we don’t even know the poor baby’s age makes me frown. How could her mother leave her here with nothing to identify her? A birthday at least. A name.
I turn Grace to the window. “This is Central Park,” I tell her.
The light makes her seem translucent, like an angel. She really is a beautiful child.
Her face is too round, too baby-like, to be able to compare it to Dell’s strong masculine features. But something in her eyes makes me think of him. Maybe I’m trying too hard.
I tug at her little ears. They lay flat against her head. She smiles at that, her attention still on me. I make crazy expressions, then glance around the room. If Dell has a photo of himself anywhere, I can compare them more easily than trying to stare at the real him.
We walk the room, taking in the elegant fireplace and mantel. Above it looms an enormous painting in black and white with a dash of red. A heavy wood door must lead to an office. Dell went that way. I lean in, trying to catch his voice. Nothing. What’s he doing in there?
I picture him climbing out a window on a knotted length of bedsheets and laugh again.
Grace gurgles with glee. I glance down, finding her mimicking my expression. “I hope he gets a happy nanny,” I tell her. “Or you’ll never see another smile again! Not with those two!”
“I’m that serious, then?”
The rumbling voice is so close that I almost jump out of my shoes. The door is open.
His nearness makes my chest tight, so I step away. “I met your dog. He’s lovely.”