The Millionaire's Virgin (Mills & Boon By Request)

by Susan Stephens

  ‘I just got the call. Mrs McKinnon passed away this morning. I believe it was a blessed relief.’

  ‘Oh, that’s still so sad. Please pass on my deepest sympathy.’ Maggie paused, then went on to explain her current situation.

  ‘I’ll come and get you,’ Maisie said immediately. ‘Just tell me where and stay put in your doctor’s rooms.’

  When Maggie ended the call, she looked around and discovered she was in the wrong corridor.

  She turned back just as a little boy, looking gleefully over his shoulder at his mother who was in hot pursuit, raced towards her.

  They collided.

  The child fell over, but bounced up. Maggie, robbed of her usual agility, toppled over with one ankle twisted beneath her. She fell on her back and hit her head on the floor. She passed out like a light.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE swam up slowly out of a deep, dreamless sleep. She opened her eyes a couple of times, but it was too much of an effort to keep them open. The third time she did it, though, she moved her head slightly and something swam into her line of vision that caused her to keep them open—a crib.

  She froze as jumbled, painful memories tumbled through her mind, some memories of labour and the enormous effort and concentration it had required, memories of all sorts of people attending to her and X-raying her, but no memories of a birth.

  She clutched her stomach and found it flat but floppy rather than hard and round. She froze again and realized her deep sleep since then must have been sedative-assisted because someone had put her into a fresh nightgown and a crisply made bed in a strange room she’d never seen before. And someone had put a crib beside the bed.

  She moved convulsively but found her lower limbs wouldn’t move at all.. and Jack said quietly, ‘Take it easy, Maggie.’

  Her astonished gaze fell on him, sitting on a chair beside the crib. ‘Jack!’

  ‘Yes. How do you feel?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ She blinked rapidly. ‘Is this—us?’

  He looked briefly amused. ‘A good way to put it. Uh—it says on the crib—Trent stroke McKinnon—so I guess it must be.’ He tilted the crib so Maggie could see into it.

  There was a baby fast asleep in it.

  ‘So it’s all right? It’s… all right?’ she asked urgently.

  ‘Fine. Quite perfect, in fact, so they tell me.’

  Maggie fell back against the pillows with a gasp of relief. ‘Girl or boy?’

  ‘Boy. He’s a little premature and he’s spent a bit of time in a humidicrib but they reckon he’s coping very well on his own.’

  She studied the baby, not that she could see much more than the curve of a cheek, one tiny fist and a fuzz of brown hair. Then he moved and more of his features came into view—and Maggie held her breath. But with great seriousness, the infant Trent stroke McKinnon yawned, opened his hand, then slept on.

  ‘He seems to be… very composed,’ Maggie said in some confusion.

  ‘Yeah.’ Jack shoved a hand through his hair, then rubbed his unshaven jaw. ‘A lot more composed than I feel.’

  ‘How can that be so?’ she queried seriously. ‘After what he’s been through?’

  ‘You were the one who went through the worst.’

  ‘I don’t seem to remember a lot about it,’ she confessed. ‘Well, some parts of it, but it’s all confused and fuzzy.’

  ‘Just as well and not surprising—you had concussion on top of everything else.’

  Jack paused, then reached for her hand. ‘What happened was, you sprained your ankle when you fell, you have a bump on your head and they think you may have slipped a disc or done something to your back. Then you went into labour. Fortunately, Maisie arrived not long after it all happened and she was able to identify you and get your own doctor—they’d called out another doctor who has consulting rooms in the same building.’

  ‘Why can’t I move my legs?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ve had a couple of epidurals. The birth itself was quite straightforward so they chose not to intervene—seems this young man had decided not to muck around!’ He smiled at her. ‘But you were in a lot of pain from your back as well as your ankle so it was for your sake and it may take a while to wear off.’

  She blinked dazedly. ‘How long ago did this all happen?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘About eight hours ago. I got here just after he was born.’ He smiled again and released her hand to stroke her hair for a moment. ‘I’ve had my first cuddle.’

  Maggie closed her eyes. ‘Can I?’ she said with absolute longing in her voice.

  ‘Sure. Your parents are also here, incidentally. They went to have a cup of coffee.’

  Maggie’s lashes swept up. ‘You—you and my father have met?’

  He nodded. ‘No fireworks, no hard words. We’re all too concerned about you. And too taken with the baby.’

  Maggie breathed very deeply. ‘That’s—I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.’

  He said nothing, just stroked her hair again.

  ‘And my back?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘They’re not sure. What with everything else going on—’ he gestured ruefully ‘—they haven’t been able to assess it properly. But they have taken X-rays. We’re waiting on the results now. Your ankle just needs time.’

  ‘Will you please give me my baby, Jack?’ she begged. ‘You see, I’ve been talking to it, to him,’ she corrected herself, ‘for weeks and weeks and I’m sure he can’t understand why he hasn’t heard my voice since he was born.’

  ‘Of course.’ He got up and picked Trent stroke McKinnon up gingerly. In the moment before he placed the bundle in Maggie’s arms, he looked down at the child in a way that made Maggie catch her breath—with sheer pride and tenderness.

  It shot through her mind that even if she never achieved a breakthrough to the real Jack McKinnon, this child would.

  Then she accepted the bundle and her own attachment began. Her breasts tightened and she put a finger into her son’s open palm and his tiny hand closed around it.

  ‘Well, well, honey-child,’ she breathed, ‘we get to meet at last. How do you do? Oh, look,’ she said to Jack, ‘I think he’s got your nose!’

  Jack grimaced and felt his nose. ‘If there’s anyone he looks like,’ he said ruefully, ‘it’s a Trent.’

  They laughed together—and that was how her parents found them.

  But when the injections wore off a couple of hours later, Maggie was once again in great pain, although at least the cause of it had been diagnosed. She’d broken a transverse process, a small bone running off the spine, in her lower back.

  It would heal, she was told, of its own accord, but many movements would be painful for her until it did so. All they could do was manage the pain for her until it became bearable, in about a week they estimated, but even then it would probably be quite a few weeks before she regained full mobility.

  Unfortunately, they told her, all this would interfere with her ability to breast-feed her baby.

  ‘No, it won’t,’ she said.

  ‘Maggie,’ her mother began.

  ‘Mum, there has to be a way. Dad—’ she turned her head to her father ‘—why don’t you take Jack out for a drink while we work this out? He looks as if he could do with it.’

  ‘Maggie,’ David Trent warned, ‘darling, it’s not the end of the world if you can’t breast-feed and it’s just as important for the baby for you to recover well and quickly.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised, ‘but I will also do this, somehow.’

  It occurred to her a moment later that she never, ever thought she’d see what she saw then—her father and Jack exchange identical helpless glances.

  Belle also saw it and she exchanged a laughing glance with Maggie before she shooed both men out. Then she sobered and turned back to her daughter. ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve read a lot about it and there’s great support for breast-feeding mums. What we need is an expert, but I don’t see why my
milk can’t be expressed for the next few days so I don’t lose it, until I come off the painkillers—and I intend to do that as soon as possible.’

  ‘But what about the baby?’

  ‘We need to find someone with loads of milk who wouldn’t mind suckling him so he gets the hang of it, and they will have to feed him a supplement. Mum, please help me here,’ Maggie said urgently, then looked exhausted. ‘I want to do this!’

  Belle eyed her daughter, then sighed. ‘All right. All right.’

  It was a traumatic and painful week for Maggie. Expressing breast milk might sound fine in theory, but in practice it could be excruciating. Transverse processes might be little bones, but they hurt like the devil when you broke them.

  On the plus side, however, Bev Janson, who’d had her third baby the same day as Maggie’s, had more milk than she knew what to do with and was grateful for the relief she gained from feeding another baby. Not only that, she and Maggie became firm friends.

  And Trent stroke McKinnon throve through it all.

  Then came the day when Maggie could sit up properly and she was given the go-ahead to feed her baby herself.

  Her sense of triumph was huge. So was her joy.

  ‘See?’ she said to Jack. ‘I knew there had to be a way.’

  ‘Maggie…’ He stopped, then shook his head at her. ‘You’re a bloody marvel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such guts.’

  ‘The doctor said I could probably go home in three or four days.’

  He hesitated. ‘Have you had any thoughts about that?’

  ‘No!’ She grimaced. ‘Too much on my mind.’

  ‘We have.’

  She eyed him. Apart from a couple of days when he’d gone south for his mother’s funeral, he’d spent time with her every day.

  He’d taken the nursing staff by storm.

  He’d brought her a DVD machine and lots of movies, including all the Harry Potter movies; he’d brought her books. He’d sent Bev a magnificent floral tribute and got friendly with her husband. On discovering the Jansons would dearly love to move into a bigger house than the one they were renting but couldn’t afford to, he’d organized one at the same rent for them on one of his estates.

  But he’d said nothing about marriage, although, when he was with her in her painful times, Maggie could have been forgiven for thinking he cared deeply about her.

  Now, it was a Sunday, he wore jeans, deck shoes and a white polo T-shirt. He looked casual, big and…

  Maggie paused in her summary of him. And what…?

  ‘We have?’ she repeated suspiciously. ‘Who are we?’

  ‘Your parents and I. We came to the conclusion it would be a good idea if you moved in with me.’

  ‘Jack—’

  ‘I have so much space and it’s all on one level whereas your house is double-storeyed—’

  ‘I know that!’

  He half smiled. ‘Then you’ll agree that since you’ll need a wheelchair for a while it makes sense not to have stairs to negotiate.’

  She was silent as she stared at him fixedly.

  ‘Your mother has offered to stay with us for as long as you need her,’ he went on. ‘There’s also a gymnasium in the building and a swimming pool. Your doctors have recommended a programme of exercise under a physiotherapist’s care to get your back and your ankle strong again.’

  ‘I see,’ she said at last.

  ‘What do you see, Maggie?’ he asked with his lips quirking.

  ‘Something I never thought I would live to see,’ she said. ‘You and my parents ganging up on me.’

  He opened his mouth to reply, but a nurse walked in with their baby in her arms. ‘Feed time! Now listen up, you two.’ She gave the baby to Maggie. ‘We, the nursing staff, have decided it’s about time this baby got a name. You can’t go on calling him Trent stroke McKinnon for the rest of his life!’

  ‘How about,’ Jack suggested, ‘Trent McKinnon?’

  ‘Trent McKinnon,’ Maggie said slowly. ‘Do you approve, sweetheart?’ she asked the baby.

  Their child wrinkled his face and began to wave his fists, a prelude, Maggie was coming to know well, to a very vocal infant conniption. ‘Call me what you like; just feed me!’ Maggie said rapidly and started to unbutton her nightgown.

  They all laughed.

  ‘Yes, I like that,’ she added, ‘but he needs a middle name—can be very helpful in certain circumstances, kiddo! So, let’s make it Trent Jack McKinnon.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Jack got up and kissed her briefly. ‘I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back this evening. Shall I set it all up?’

  Maggie looked up from her baby with a tinge of confusion, then she nodded helplessly and turned her concentration back to Trent Jack McKinnon.

  It all went according to plan.

  Maggie grew stronger and used the motorized wheelchair less and less, but it was still invaluable by the time Trent was two months old because it allowed her to do everything for him without placing the burden of his weight on her back and ankle.

  One of the bedrooms in the sub-penthouse had been converted to his nursery cum her bedroom and, with his flair for good design, Jack had had all the surfaces, change table and so on, made to a height Maggie could cope with sitting down.

  He’d also taken advantage of her mother’s presence to catch up with business trips he’d put on hold while Maggie had been in hospital. So they hadn’t seen a great deal of him—for which Maggie had been curiously grateful.

  She tried desperately to analyze not only her feelings, but the whole situation as her strength returned, but all she could come up with was the fact that she only seemed to be able to take each day as it came with a sense of what will be will be.

  Then her mother decided to go back to the cattle stations. She left the day Jack was due to return after a week in New Zealand.

  For some reason, although Maggie was perfectly confident with Trent now, although she experienced no pain now and wasn’t afraid to be left alone, the quiet, empty apartment acted as a catalyst for her.

  She started to think of the future. She started to question Jack’s feelings for her, and hers for him.

  There had been no repeat of what had taken place in the den a few nights before Trent was born, but that wasn’t so surprising in the circumstances, and she might have been partly responsible for it anyway. She had been preoccupied with her baby and getting herself fit again for him. Jack, apparently, had had a lot of work to catch up on. And her mother had been with them all the time.

  Yet, lately, little things about him had started to catch her unawares.

  She’d been talking to him over breakfast one morning when she’d found herself breaking off and watching the way he was drumming his fingers on the table. It was a habit she’d first noticed at Cape Gloucester and it suddenly reminded her of his fingers on her skin, exploring, tantalizing her until she was weak with desire…

  She’d had to get up without finishing what she was saying on the pretext of hearing Trent.

  He’d come back from one trip, but had only been able to spend half an hour with them before going off to a meeting. She’d unpacked his bag for him and she’d suddenly buried her face in one of his unlaundered shirts, feeling a little dizzy with longing for his tall, strong body on hers.

  So not a lot has changed there, she thought, while she waited for Jack to come back from New Zealand. I still don’t know where he stands, though, but I do know he’s been wonderful in every other way.

  She was sitting on her bed as she thought these thoughts, with Trent lying beside her obviously deeply interested in his teddy bear.

  She leant over and tickled him under the chin. He made a trilling little sound, then grabbed her hand and started to nuzzle it.

  ‘But in the end, honey-child,’ she said to him, ‘what it boils down to is this—if your mama thought only of herself in times gone by, that has to change. OK, I know! You’re hungry.’

  * * *

  Jack got home just af
ter Maggie had given Trent his six p.m. feed and was settling him.

  She was still in the nursery when she heard him arrive and called out to him. ‘In here, Jack!’

  He came through a few minutes later looking rather tired. He wore khaki trousers and a round-necked T-shirt under a tweed sports jacket.

  ‘A busy trip?’ she queried.

  ‘Yep.’ He stretched. ‘How’s my son and heir?’

  ‘He’s fine. He was talking to his teddy bear today. Jack.’ Maggie hesitated, then knew there was only one way to do what she had to do and that was to plunge right in. ‘This is a very proper baby.’

  Jack stared at his now-sleeping son for a long moment, then sat down on the end of her bed. ‘I never thought he was a porcelain doll.’

  ‘No. I mean, he’s very well organized. He does everything by the book.’

  Jack frowned. ‘He’s only eight weeks old. How can you say that?’

  Maggie was still sitting in her wheelchair, attractively dressed in slim white trousers and a floral seersucker jacket trimmed with green. Her dark gold hair was tied back with a scrunchie; her green eyes were clear and free of pain.

  ‘I’ll tell you. He adapted himself to a four-hourly schedule right from the start under extremely difficult circumstances. He burps beautifully and he mostly sleeps between feeds just as the book says he should. He has one wakeful period, after his two p.m. feed, where he’ll accept conversation and he quite appreciates being carried around for a bit. He now sleeps through the eight hours from ten p.m. to six a.m.’

  ‘Is there anything he doesn’t do by the book?’ Jack asked with a grin. ‘He sounds almost too good to be true.’

  Maggie considered. ‘He hates having his hair washed. He gets extremely upset, but even that isn’t going against the book exactly. They do warn that some babies hate it.’

  ‘Screams blue murder?’

  ‘Yes. Otherwise—’ she shrugged ‘—there’s nothing he doesn’t do very correctly.’

  ‘What are you worried about, then?’