The Billionaire’s Baby Plan

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  She drew in a shuddering breath, excruciatingly aware of every solid, male inch pressed against her from breast to toe. “Then w-we didn’t.”

  He lowered his head until his lips were a hairsbreadth from hers. “We did not,” he said softly. Slowly.

  She swallowed and a soft sound rose in her throat that was either acknowledgment or relief or despair. She wasn’t sure and, at that moment, wasn’t sure that she cared.

  He ran his other hand down the side of her head, threading through the tangles in her hair. “And when we do, it’s not going to be because you’re down half a bottle of wine just so you can face being in my bed.”

  “There wasn’t even enough left in that bottle for two glasses.”

  “And you have no head for even one,” he pointed out softly. “I saw that the first day at Fare. But you’re clearheaded now, aren’t you.” His lips slowly settled against hers; not exactly a kiss, not exactly not a kiss.

  Whatever it was, it made her forget the dull throb behind her eyes.

  It left her heart charging inside her chest.

  It had her fingers curling and uncurling against the sand.

  “It’s broad daylight.” Her lips moved against his, her whisper barely audible. “Anyone could see us.”

  He angled his head finally, moving until his lips tickled the lobe of her ear. “Private beach. Nobody’s watching.” His hand left her hair and slid over her throat, working the lapels of the terry cloth robe out from between them.

  “But Sylvie. Marta.”

  “Know better than to look,” he assured her. “And if they do, what will they see?” His hands slid beneath the jersey, drawing it up her hip and stealing her breath. “A husband and wife on their honeymoon.”

  She sank her teeth into her tongue when his fingers grazed the flat of her stomach, but a sound still escaped. And then he was moving again, his weight leaving her, only she was still pinned against the sand by the ungodly pleasure of his mouth pressing against her navel.

  “Wait,” she gasped, wrenching her wrists free from his grip to press her hands against his shoulders.

  He barely lifted his head. His gleaming eyes looked at her. “For what?” Watching her steadily, he pressed his lips against her abdomen.

  Her muscles jumped. She sucked in a breath. “I—” She had no answer. What were they waiting for?

  Her nerve?

  His lips inched higher. Pressed another kiss. Still he watched her.

  His gaze was equally as disturbing as the feel of his lips, warm and surprisingly soft, particularly compared to the tingling abrasion of his unshaven jaw against her belly.

  He nudged the jersey fabric higher, followed by another kiss.

  Nudged again, nearly over her breasts. She felt the breath of balmy air against skin that had never directly felt it. “I don’t do this,” she said faintly. “Roll around naked on the beach like in some movie scene.”

  “You’re not really naked,” he murmured. With excruciating slowness, he dragged the jersey against her agonizingly tight nipples until they sprang free. “Not yet.”

  Her lips parted, searching for breath that wouldn’t come. Her heart raced dizzily. His gaze finally left hers to survey what he’d revealed.

  His fingers balled the fabric in his fist. “Beautiful.” His voice was low. Rough.

  His head dipped again to taste, and her back bowed off the sand at the feel of his mouth capturing first one hard, tight peak, then the other. She felt drenched in fire. “Rourke—” She couldn’t take it. “Please.”

  “That’s the plan. Please you.” He kissed his way up the slope of her breast. “Please me.”

  “No.” She was shaking her head, even as he was pulling the oversize jersey over it. “I can’t. Not like this.” But her heels were dragging into the sand while her knees lifted and her traitorous thighs hugged his.

  “Can’t, or won’t?” He braced himself on his arms, keeping from crushing her, but the dark swirl of hair on his chest was a crisp tickle against her breasts. His narrowed eyes searched hers.

  She could feel him hard and heavy and waiting. The only things separating them were a loosely draped towel and her panties, both of which could be so easily disposed of.

  And heaven help her, but she wanted those barriers gone. She felt hollow and achingly wet and he was the means to heal her.

  She’d never wanted anyone like this. She’d known it ever since that single, unforgettable turn around the dance floor with him at the Founder’s Ball, even while he’d been making caustic comments about the fancy party that test-tube babies had paid for.

  But none of that came to her lips as she stared mutely into his eyes.

  She felt the push of his chest in the deep breath he drew. Her lips felt swollen and tingled when his gaze dropped to them. He ran his palm along her jaw, moved his thumb over her lower lip.

  A small part of her brain warned her that she was only imagining a tenderness in his touch. A larger part of her body wanted to just sink into it.

  His gaze lifted again and caught hers. “What are you afraid of?”

  It was the last thing she expected from him. Cool irritation. Arrogant demand. Not this unexpected, unwanted softly voiced insight.

  “Tell me.” His voice dropped even lower.

  “Everything.” The admission was nearly as much a release as the one her body was aching for him to give her. Hot tears suddenly leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I’m afraid of everything,” she whispered again. “Everything’s out of control.”

  “Everything?”

  “You,” she amended huskily. “You make me feel out of control.”

  He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat.

  And it was more dangerous than if he had, because that she could have shored up her defenses against.

  Instead, he simply asked softly, “What’s safer than losing control in the arms of your husband?”

  She couldn’t bear the gentle probing in his eyes and closed hers. “Nothing if we were an ordinary couple. Which we’re anything but.”

  He was silent for a moment. A moment filled with the lap of water, the whisper of a breeze, and the weight of this man whose words did nothing to allay the desire still holding her in its grip. “Control’s important to you.”

  She let out a careful breath. “Isn’t it to you?”

  “I’m a man.”

  Her eyes flew open. She stared, then laughed brokenly. “Right. And for a man—particularly a man like you—your need to stay in control is acceptable and expected. But because I’m a woman—” She broke off, shaking her head.

  He nudged her chin with his thumb until she was looking at him again. “I know the reasons why I control the things I do. To achieve the things I want.”

  “And what you want now is a child. Which is the only reason you want me.”

  He shook his head slightly and smoothed his thumbs down the tracks of her tears. “That’s not the only reason. I wanted you long before it occurred to me that we could help each other.”

  And it scared the living wits right out of her. Men like Rourke didn’t want women like Lisa. They wanted beautiful, sexy, accomplished women. Women who were as comfortable in their bedrooms as they were in their offices.

  “I told you it’s all going to be all right.” His mesmerizing gaze held hers even when he pressed his mouth against hers in a slow, drugging kiss that had her bones melting all over again.

  And just when she was on the verge of collapsing into it, to twine her arms around his broad, broad shoulders, and pull him down onto her, into her, he suddenly jackknifed off her and grabbed her hands in his, hauling her up to her feet. “Come on.”

  She very nearly stumbled, taking a few steadying steps in the sand as he leaned down again to scoop up her jersey and his towel that had slipped free, giving her another heart-stopping view. He dropped the jersey back over her shoulders, slung the towel around his waist again, and shook the sand out of her robe before handing it to her.

/>   Bemused, she took it and followed, unresisting, when he took her hand and led her back up the short stretch of sand to the stairs leading up to their bedroom terrace. Expecting him to lead her right to that big bed that they’d shared but hadn’t “shared,” confusion joined the miasma of emotions swirling inside her when he just let go of her hand once they were inside, and headed to the dressing room.

  She looked from his departing backside to the bed that Sylvie must have finished making after Lisa had gone down to the beach, and back again. But Rourke didn’t return and a moment later she heard the sound of the shower.

  She shoved her hands through her hair, fingers catching in the tangles, as she pressed her palms against her head.

  She did not understand the man she’d married at all.

  Before she realized it, her feet had carried her into the spa-like bathroom where steam was already forming against the clear glass shower walls. The steam had not, unfortunately, begun to cloud the mirrors and before she could demand to know what game he was playing now, she caught a glimpse of her reflection.

  She cringed, nearly groaning right out loud.

  She looked like something the cat had dragged in. Hair sticking out at all angles. Day-old mascara smudging shadows around her eyes.

  Ignoring the distraction of Rourke’s movements behind the cloudy shower glass, she snatched open her cosmetic bag. She washed her face. Brushed her teeth. And was just beginning to attack the snarls in her hair when Rourke shut off the shower and stepped out, again displaying that singularly unselfconscious demeanor as he stopped behind her, heedlessly dripping water everywhere as he slipped the comb out of her nerveless fingers.

  She couldn’t pretend that her face wasn’t blushing fiery red, but she could ignore it. “The tangles will get worse if I don’t get them out.”

  “Then sit.” Rourke closed his hand over her shoulder when she stood there staring at him in the reflection of the mirror, and he nudged her toward the padded stool tucked beside the vanity.

  Looking too surprised to protest, she sat and looked even more bemused when he stood behind her and lifted up the ends of her hair to start working the tangles free with the comb. “It’s longer than I expected,” he admitted.

  Her brown eyes widened. “You thought about…my hair?” She sounded so disbelieving that he almost laughed.

  At himself.

  He’d thought about a lot more than her hair. And now she was his wife and he was no closer to having her than he’d ever been, because he’d realized that he couldn’t force himself to force her to want him in return. “You always have it pulled up,” he said.

  She’d curled her hands together in her lap. Tightly. And was watching him in the mirror as if he were crazy. “What are you doing?”

  Maybe he was crazy. His hands kept working, patiently making his way from the ends of her hair to the scalp. “Keeping you from ripping so much of your hair out that you’re left half bald.”

  “Why?”

  He nudged her head forward with a finger. “Because I want to. Blame it on my controlling nature.”

  She gave an exasperated humph. “Where’d you learn to comb out tangles?”

  “My sisters are all younger than me,” he reminded her. “Someone had to help my mother with them.”

  Her gaze caught his in the mirror and damned if he felt able to look away.

  “I can’t figure you out,” she said softly.

  She wasn’t the only one. “I’m just a man.” He finally, deliberately lowered his gaze back to her head. “I can ditch the towel if you need reminding.”

  She huffed softly again. “You could probably buy and sell small countries but you insisted on marrying me to keep your mother happy.”

  Not just his mother. He moved on to another satiny hank of tangled hair, not commenting.

  “And here you are combing out my hair.”

  “That sounds more like an accusation than an observation.” He draped the tangle-free length over her shoulder and moved to the next section. Her head tilted slightly, revealing that tantalizing little freckle.

  His mouth felt dry. Here he was. Surrounded by the ocean of her while thirst was slowly, but surely killing him off.

  “You’re close to your sisters.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She was an observant woman and it wasn’t something he’d tried to hide.

  “They all have children. Are you just trying to keep up with them?”

  His lips twisted. Not with amusement. “I want kids. Not so unusual. Haven’t you thought about having them?”

  “Not until you forced me to think about it,” she returned. “Now, I feel constantly confronted by it.”

  He didn’t reply to that. He merely stroked the comb one last time through her waving hair that was now free of knots, and then handed it to her. “Get dressed. We’ll go into town for lunch.”

  He left the bathroom and Lisa turned on her stool to watch him go to one of the armoires in the bedroom and pull out a lightweight shirt and pants. He was nearly fully dressed and she was still sitting there, trying to understand the odd progression of the day.

  Trying to understand this man to whom she was now married.

  Finally, he stopped in the middle of the bedroom. His white linen shirt was untucked over beige pants. With his black hair still damp and tousled and his unshaven jaw shadowed, he looked expensively casual—and seriously sexy.

  And a large part of her was demanding to know why she’d had to go and ruin what had started on the beach.

  “I don’t understand you at all,” she admitted, beyond caring at that point what sort of edge she was probably allowing him.

  “What’s to understand? I’m hungry.” He pushed his feet into leather loafers, missing the face she made.

  “I wasn’t talking about the lunch plans.” Which she knew he was well aware even before he straightened again with the faint smile back on his face.

  “You need to stop thinking so much,” he said.

  “If I could stop thinking, we’d have been having sex down there on the beach.” She flushed all over again.

  His eyebrows lifted a little. He gestured toward the opened doors leading to the terrace. “Then we’ll go back down there. We can always have lunch later—”

  “No.” She quickly pushed to her feet. She was afraid he was playing with her, but that didn’t mean she trusted him not to put words to action.

  She knew that the time would come—sooner rather than later—when she’d have to live up to her end of the bargain. He’d bought his way into her uterus, in exchange for saving that which mattered most to her. The institute.

  But that didn’t mean she was ready yet to face the fact that in the process, she’d also sold him a place in her bed.

  “I have sand on my legs,” she said, reaching for the door between them. “I need a shower before I dress.” Before he could comment, she closed the door.

  It wasn’t a significant exercise of control, but it was better than nothing.

  And when it came to Rourke, she needed every speck she could hoard.

  Chapter Eight

  Once Lisa was showered and dressed in a strapless yellow sundress with her hair pulled back again in its customary— and safely familiar—knot, they drove down to the village and left the car parked in a picturesque cobblestone alleyway bordered by ageless stone buildings graced with iron railings and colorful flowerboxes and walked to the nearby open-air market. Rourke seemed very familiar with the merchants that they passed, smiling and laughing off comments with ease that her long-ago high-school French couldn’t hope to keep up with.

  She found she didn’t much care, though, because she was too busy taking in the incredible sights that the tiny seaside town had to offer and then Rourke was guiding her to a collection of unoccupied tables situated next to a small building. As soon as she’d taken the sun-bleached chair that he held out for her, a wizened old man came out of the building, his arms outstretched in greeting. “Rourke,” he called
, smiling broadly. “Who iz zis beautiful woman you bring to me?”

  Rourke closed his hand over her shoulder. “Tyrus, this is my wife, Lisa. We married a few days ago.”

  “Marriage?” Tyrus’s wiry eyebrows shot up over his buttonlike eyes and then he grabbed up Lisa’s hand, bowing low over it. “Très belle.”

  Too aware of the warm hand that felt wholly possessive on her bare shoulder, Lisa barely noticed the kiss that Tyrus bestowed on the back of her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she managed when the diminutive man had straightened again.

  “Oui, oui.” He was nodding over and over again. “I bring you wine,” he announced suddenly, turning on his heel to hurry back to the building. “We celebrate!”

  Rourke pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. Their knees brushed beneath the little round iron table and though her instinct was to shift her legs, she resisted, mostly because of the gleam in his eyes that told her that was exactly what he expected her to do. “Obviously people know you in the village, too,” she said.

  “I’ve been coming here for a lot of years.” Looking idle, he threaded his fingers through hers and his platinum wedding band gleamed in the sunlight.

  For some reason, she found herself feeling mesmerized by the sight and deliberately blinked, focusing instead on the prolific red blooms of the lush bougainvillea that grew against the whitewashed walls of the building next to their table.

  “Something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “What brought you here in the first place?”

  “An old friend.”

  “The same friend who owns the villa?”

  “Yes.”

  Her teeth worried the inside of her upper lip. “A woman?”

  His thumb slid in slow circles over hers. “I think you do have a jealous streak.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” she lied coolly.

  “Here we are,” Tyrus reappeared, holding a bottle and several glasses aloft.

  “We need some lunch, too,” Rourke advised, sitting back in his chair. “I figured we’d see Grif and Nora here already.”