Baby Of Convenience

Baby Of Convenience Diana Whitney Marriage–For Baby's SakeWhen Laura Michaels tracked her wayward cat to millionaire Royce Burton's estate, she never dreamed her kitty would save her son. For Laura needed a powerful husband to keep custody of her baby–and Royce needed a wife. So the elusive entrepreneur and the down-on-her-luck lady struck a marriage deal–which would remain strictly business, of course.Except the newlyweds soon found their "hands-off" union did not account for the blossoming feelings developing between them. But Royce had no use for sugary sentiment and gooey emotions! Still, the lovely woman's haunting smile triggered an unfamiliar emotion in Royce–a burgeoning love? Laura held her breath, part of her hoping that he’d enter her bedroom… while another, more cowardly part of her feared that was exactly what he’d do. She wasn’t prepared for the stabbing disappointment she felt as his footsteps faded away. She cracked the door just wide enough to see him enter Jamie’s room. From her vantage point, she watched him touching the sleeping child with such reverence, such wonder and awe, that it raised a lump in her throat. To see a man gaze upon her child with such tenderness cracked away the final vestige of her inner restraint. This was a prince among men, Laura decided. This was the man she’d waited for her entire life. Then she heard Royce’s footsteps descending the stairs, and she followed him as if beckoned by an invisible hand. She didn’t know what she would do, or what she would say. All she knew was that she had to be with him, and damn the consequences. Dear Reader, As the air begins to chill outside, curl up under a warm blanket with a mug of hot chocolate and these six fabulous Special Edition novels.… First up is bestselling author Lindsay McKenna’s A Man Alone, part of her compelling and highly emotional MORGAN’S MERCENARIES: MAVERICK HEARTS series. Meet Captain Thane Hamilton, a wounded Marine who’d closed off his heart long ago, and Paige Black, a woman whose tender loving care may be just what the doctor ordered. Two new miniseries are launching this month and you’re not going to want to miss either one! Look for The Rancher Next Door, the first of rising star Susan Mallery’s brand-new miniseries, LONE STAR CANYON. Not even a long-standing family feud can prevent love from happening! Also, veteran author Penny Richards pens a juicy and scandalous love story with Sophie’s Scandal, the first of her wonderful new trilogy— RUMOR HAS IT…that two high school sweethearts are about to recapture the love they once shared.… Next, Jennifer Mikels delivers a wonderfully heartwarming romance between a runaway heiress and a local sheriff with The Bridal Quest, the second book in the HERE COME THE BRIDES series. And Diana Whitney brings back her popular STORK EXPRESS series. Could a Baby of Convenience be just the thing to bring two unlikely people together? And last, but not least, please welcome newcomer Tori Carrington to the line. Just Eight Months Old… and she’d stolen the hearts of two independent bounty hunters—who just might make the perfect family! Enjoy these delightful tales, and come back next month for more emotional stories about life, love and family! Best, Karen Taylor Richman Senior Editor Baby of Convenience Diana Whitney www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) To Constance Martynow, a wonderful sister-in-law and devoted fan, who welcomed me into the family and has offered constant support over the years. You are deeply loved, gratefully appreciated. Thank you. Books by Diana Whitney Silhouette Special Edition Cast a Tall Shadow #508 Yesterday’s Child #559 One Lost Winter #644 Child of the Storm #702 The Secret #874 * (#litres_trial_promo)The Adventurer #934 * (#litres_trial_promo)The Avenger #984 * (#litres_trial_promo)The Reformer #1019 † (#litres_trial_promo)Daddy of the House #1052 † (#litres_trial_promo)Barefoot Bride #1073 † (#litres_trial_promo)A Hero’s Child #1090 ‡ (#litres_trial_promo)Baby on His Doorstep #1165 ‡ (#litres_trial_promo)Baby in His Cradle #1176 †† (#litres_trial_promo)I Now Pronounce You Mom & Dad #1261 †† (#litres_trial_promo)The Fatherhood Factor #1276 ‡ (#litres_trial_promo)Baby of Convenience #1361 Silhouette Romance O’Brian’s Daughter #673 A Liberated Man #703 Scout’s Honor #745 The Last Bachelor #874 One Man’s Vow #940 One Man’s Promise #1307 †† (#litres_trial_promo)A Dad of His Own #1392 Silhouette Intimate Moments Still Married #491 Midnight Stranger #530 Scarlet Whispers #603 Silhouette Shadows The Raven Master #31 Silhouette Books 36 Hours Ooh Baby, Baby DIANA WHITNEY is a three-time Romance Writers of America RITA Award finalist, Romantic Times Magazine Reviewers’ Choice Award nominee and finalist for Colorado Romance Writers’ Award of Excellence. Diana has published more than two dozen romance and suspense novels since her first Silhouette title in 1989. A popular speaker, Diana has conducted writing workshops and has published several articles on the craft of fiction writing for various trade magazines and newsletters. She is a member of Authors Guild, Novelists, Inc., Published Authors Network and Romance Writers of America. She and her husband live in rural Northern California with a beloved menagerie of furred creatures, domestic and wild. She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her c/o Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10017. Contents Chapter One (#ue51b9287-3b9d-536c-aace-906e0600249f) Chapter Two (#u4bf02e52-4266-5eaf-a1ad-459799f2e2c9) Chapter Three (#uaefee79d-0181-53fb-8985-2e756b8cba35) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One Bright eyes, taunting and haughty, peered from behind the gnarled trunk of a stately black oak. With an irked blink at those who so relentlessly followed, the eyes turned away, and their owner slipped into the meadow, gliding lithely through the purple profusion of wild lupine toward the one place no one dared to follow. “Maggie, don’t be a tease.” A croak of desperation broke the command into a whining supplication. “Don’t hide from us, precious, we only want to help. You know how much we love you.” Unmoved by the poignant plea, Maggie ducked into a neatly trimmed hedgerow at the far side of the meadow, and disappeared. “Me firsty.” “Shh, sweetums, I know you’re thirsty.” Laura Michaels shifted the baby in her arms, wiped a smudge of tree sap from his wind-chafed cheek. As she peeked through the pruned thicket, her heart sank at the expanse of manicured lawns and lush, formal garden leading up to an architectural marvel that could only be described as a mansion. “We have to be real quiet for a few minutes, okay? Then we can go home, and Mama will get you a big glass of juice.” Jamie rubbed his eyes, popped a thumb in his mouth and laid his head on his mother’s shoulder as she carefully eased through the shrubbery, ever watchful lest her presence on these hallowed grounds be detected. Rich people lived here. Rather, one rich person in particular. Laura had never met Royce Burton. She hadn’t even seen him beyond an across-the-street glimpse of tailored cashmere as he’d whisked from the corporate office of Burton Technologies into a gleaming Mercedes with tinted windows. Everyone in Mill Creek knew about Burton, the elusive entrepreneur who’d created an industrial complex that had turned an area in upstate New York on the brink of financial ruin into a thriving boomtown. Mill Creek citizens worshiped him. Not surprising, since he signed the majority of their paychecks. Laura remained cynical, although she hadn’t been immune to the monetary temptation that had seduced most of her friends and neighbors. She also coveted a job at Burton Technologies. Desperate means for desperate measures, she supposed, although she understood people like Royce Burton all too well. Experience had taught her that wealthy folks were a breed unto themselves. Contemptuous, self-indulgent. Cruel. Maggie couldn’t have chosen a worse spot to isolate herself from the world. Laura could not have been more determined to rescue her beloved Maggie from making a horrific mistake in judgment. “Hold on, sweetums,” she murmured to the fussing baby in her arms. “Just a few more minutes, okay?” A flash of movement caught Laura’s eye. A blooming daylily at the south wing of the huge home rustled. She gave another wary glance around the lush grounds. Then, cradling her sleepy child in her arms, she crept forward. Ducking beneath a cantilevered bay window, she slipped to the rear of the house just in time to see the final vibration of foliage in front of an open basement window. “Oh, criminey.” So much for the hope that Maggie had found refuge in a separate toolshed, or some other structure from which she could be quietly extricated without disturbing the mansion’s owner. She swallowed hard. “Hold on to your diapers, Jamie. Looks like we’re about to have ourselves an up-close-and-personal introduction to the richest, most powerful and most frightening man in the entire town.” The woman’s eyes were ice blue, cool to the point of frigid. Strands of gray muted the reddish hue of hair faded by time and twisted into a bun as tight as her jawline. She eyed Laura, her gaze lingering on the squirming child long enough to reflect a hint of disdain. “Is Mr. Burton expecting you?” “No.” Shifting as Jamie gave a sideways lurch, Laura tightened her grip on her fidgeting son and struggled to maintain her composure. She’d met women like this before. Too many of them, actually. Household terrors who ruled the inner workings of their employer’s homes as if they’d been blessed by royal decree. “It’s urgent that I speak with him at once.” “Impossible. Mr. Burton is in conference.” “But it’s Sunday.” Desperate, Laura turned her attention toward a masculine voice filtering from somewhere beyond the gleaming marble foyer. “I won’t take much of his time.” Unmoved, the woman, who appeared to be in her midfifties, squared her shoulders, took a sideways step as she prepared to close the massive carved door. “I suggest you call his office in the morning. His personal assistant will either set up an appointment—” cool blue eyes once again settled on the baby in Laura’s arms “—or refer you to his personal attorney.” Shocked by the implication, Laura bristled. “Mr. Burton must have quite a morals deficit for you to presume every visiting child is the issue of a tawdry affair.” The moment the angry words rumbled off her tongue, she regretted them. An unrestrained temper was not usually one of Laura’s flaws, except where her son was concerned. An insult to Jamie was intolerable, even if it meant alienating her only means of locating the elusive Mr. Burton—and the even more elusive Maggie. “How dare the likes of you insult a man of Mr. Burton’s impeccable standards?” A crimson flush stained the furious woman’s crepey throat, and a flash of embarrassed fury narrowed her eyes. Had it not been for the fortuitous diversion of a booming masculine voice, Laura had no doubt the massive doors would have been instantly slammed in her face. “Marta!” The distracted woman spun around, gazing like an anxious lapdog in the direction from which brusque footsteps echoed. “Get Robinson at the Brussels office on the line. Also, call Dave Henderson. Have him call a finance committee meeting for this afternoon.” Taking advantage of the tight-jawed door sentry’s inattention, Laura decided it was now or never. Tucking Jamie tightly against her shoulder, she stepped inside before the startled Marta could stop her. A blur of movement caught Laura’s eye as a dark-haired man in a tailored suit strode out of a room where a magnificent wall lined with leather-bound books was visible through an arched doorway. He moved with purpose and determination, although his gaze was riveted on a sheaf of documents he held in one hand. A cellular phone was clasped in the other. “Tell Henderson to bring the updated revenue projections and cash-flow statements, along with the revised production estimates—” He glanced up, did a double take when he saw Laura. He didn’t jerk to a stop, exactly. Rather, he slowed with a fluid grace, a man whose every movement was clearly practiced and precise. A questioning glance at the older woman was met with an apologetic tone that was a striking contrast to the haughty demeanor she’d displayed a moment earlier. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Burton, I tried to tell this…woman…that you weren’t receiving—” Laura interrupted. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Burton, but it’s urgent that I speak with you immediately.” He hiked an eyebrow, allowed his gaze to slip unobtrusively along the length of her body before settling with unnerving intensity on her face. “And who might you be?” She moistened her lips, oddly intimidated. He was only a man, after all, albeit a man whose mere presence filled a room, demanding immediate recognition. “My name is Laura Michaels.” Marta stepped forward, hands clasped tightly enough to whiten her veined knuckles. “Shall I call Security?” “Not at the moment.” There was no trace of a smile on Royce’s surprisingly youthful face, no hint of humor in his eyes. He slipped the cell phone into his coat pocket, tucked the sheaf of documents under his arm. “Ms. Michaels has one minute to convey this matter of urgency.” Jamie squirmed in Laura’s arms, extracting his thumb with a pitiful whine. “Firsty, Mama.” “Shh, I know you are, sweetie. Just a few more minutes.” Royce regarded the child without visible emotion, although his eyes appeared to warm for a moment. A very brief moment. “You have fifty-five seconds remaining, Ms. Michaels. I suggest you make the most of them.” Taking a deep breath, Laura filled her lungs, emptied them slowly and managed to meet his unwavering stare without trembling. “I have reason to believe that your basement is being occupied without your knowledge or consent.” Whatever he’d expected to hear, that clearly was not it. A muscle twitched along a jaw that was firmer and stronger than Laura had expected. No other expression of surprise was allowed, although she noticed him blink twice, a revealing gesture she doubted he meant to display. “On what do you base that interesting speculation?” “I followed her here.” “I see.” Laura was fascinated by the practiced ease with which he conducted himself. Every muscle in his face impassive, his eyes carefully steadied to reveal nothing beyond that which he wished to reveal. There was no twist of fingers, no absentminded straightening of cuffs or brushing of invisible lint. This was a man used to being in control, in control of himself, of others, and of any situation, no matter how unexpected or startling. Laura moistened her lips. “I believe she entered through the basement window.” Still no change in expression, no gleam of interest in eyes so dark a woman could get lost in them. “Is this individual a fugitive of some kind?” Feeling profoundly silly all of a sudden, Laura was annoyed by an irksome dryness in her mouth. “I wouldn’t exactly call her a fugitive.” “So we are in no danger?” She allowed herself the luxury of a smile. “That rather depends, I suppose—” He glanced at his watch. “Your minute is up, Ms. Michaels. Thank you for the information. We’ll certainly look into the matter.” At the signal, the annoying Marta person spun to grasp Laura’s elbow, no doubt preparing to shuffle her out the door. “No, wait, you don’t understand.” Wriggling out of the older woman’s grasp, Laura blurted, “There’s more.” Again he hiked that well-formed brow in what Laura decided was a deliberate gesture designed to demean those toward whom it was so purposefully aimed. “I’ve assured you that the matter will be investigated.” Ego trips by powerful men brought out the devil in Laura. She could have simply told him what he needed to know, but she found that damnable arched eyebrow irksome. Lifting her chin, she narrowed her eyes, cooled her voice. “If you choose to investigate without my presence, Mr. Burton, I can assure you that your question of Maggie’s ability to do harm will be answered in a manner that will definitely not be to your liking.” He studied her with the bold, unblinking stare that strong men use against those who would challenge them. When he spoke, however, his voice had softened in tone, if not in authority. “Marta, continue arrangements for the finance committee meeting as I requested. You may hold off placing the Brussels call until I return.” Marta was clearly flabbergasted. “Return from where?” “Why, from escorting Ms. Michaels to the basement.” He laid the documents on a nearby sideboard before cupping Laura’s elbow with a gentleness that was surprising and guiding her to an enameled doorway in the base of a curving staircase off the foyer. “Actually,” he whispered when out of the frantic Marta’s hearing range, “we wealthy elitists prefer to call it a wine cellar. That sounds much more privileged, don’t you agree?” An embarrassed heat slithered up Laura’s throat at the realization that her disdain for his lifestyle had been so obvious. Royce Burton was apparently a man who let little slip by his perception. Still, there was no excuse for rudeness. She regretted her own pomposity in daring to judge him for the sin of having more than he needed while others never had enough. She cleared her throat. “I apologize if I’ve offended you, Mr. Burton.” The vaguest trace of amusement softened his reply. “I’m not easily offended, Ms. Michaels, although you are certainly welcome to make the attempt.” As he opened the cellar door, she chanced a glance upward. That’s when she saw it, the upward tilt of sculpted lips, the soft gleam transforming ordinary brown eyes into glowing amber. He was smiling. The effect was devastating. Oh, Maggie, she thought as her heart gave a palpable thump of longing. What have you gotten us into this time? Soft lights lined the cellar, illuminating rich oak wine racks filled with dusty bottles, presumably containing the most extravagant and rarest of vintages. A split-oak tasting table posed in the center of the room, upon which a silver corkscrew and several pieces of crystal stemware had been placed. Wooden crates were stacked in a corner. Thin curls of straw packing material were strewn over the hardwood floor, and at the apex of the cinder-block wall a thin slice of daylight sprayed from the narrow opening beneath a basement window that had been painted black. Beside her, Royce glanced around with mild curiosity. “Everything seems to be in order.” “Not everything,” Laura murmured. Her gaze was riveted on a pair of golden eyes gleaming in a pool of shadow beyond one of the massive wine racks. Tightening her grasp on her weary son, she glided forward, murmuring softly. “So there you are, precious. Shame on you for worrying me half to death.” The golden eyes blinked. Laura felt Royce move behind her. “What on earth…?” A warning hiss moved him back a step. He straightened, his practiced impassivity melting into obvious astonishment. “My God.” “Don’t frighten her,” Laura said. “She’s not fond of strangers.” On cue, Maggie issued a low growl, then turned with a swish and slunk into the shadowy corner. Moving quietly, Laura followed, knelt down and saw what she had feared. There was her beloved Maggie, nested in an empty wine crate softened with supple straw packing, settling down to nurse her brood of newborn kittens. “Oh, dear,” Laura murmured. “Five of them. I never counted on so many.” Jamie suddenly yanked his thumb out of his mouth, squealing with delight. “Kitty, kitty!” He lurched forward, fat arms outstretched toward his beloved pet. Laura reeled him back a moment before he squirted out of her grasp. “No, no, honey, Maggie doesn’t want to be petted right now. She’s feeding her babies.” “Babies?” Royce’s voice changed from quizzical to horrified in the space of a heartbeat. “Babies?” A pleasant warmth on her back confirmed that he’d ventured forth to observe for himself. “It is a cat,” he said finally. Laura smiled. “Indeed.” “I detest cats.” Her smile faded. “I’m sorry to hear that.” A draft chilled her spine as he stepped aside, perhaps for a better view of the feline family, perhaps simply to put an extra foot of distance between them. “This is totally unacceptable.” Heaving a sad sigh, Laura struggled to contain the gleeful toddler while hoisting herself to her feet. “I was afraid that it would be.” “How could this happen?” he demanded. “Well, Maggie is a girl cat, you see, and she met this perfectly charming boy cat, whereupon they did what little girl cats and little boy cats have been doing for ever so long—” “Very amusing.” That same traitorous muscle twitched along his jaw. “I’m familiar with the biological process of feline reproduction. What bewilders me is the process by which this particular feline chose to complete the process—” his voice rose, startling Jamie “—in my basement.” “Wine cellar,” Laura corrected him, then turned her attention to comforting her son, whose lip was quivering. “There, there, sweetie, it’s okay.” Tears gleamed in the baby’s wide brown eyes. He hiccuped, gulped and emitted a thin wail of distress. Laura hugged him, coaxed a damp strand of sable hair from his moist baby forehead. “Shh, Mama is here, everything is all right.” Royce frowned. “Is the child ill?” “No. Loud voices frighten him.” Clearly stunned, Royce rocked back a step, regarding the trembling toddler with unabashed shock. “I caused the child’s distress?” “Not deliberately, of course. Jamie just…” She allowed the words to dissipate, unwilling to divulge details of the experiences that had led her beloved child to quake with fear at the sound of a booming male voice. “I’m so sorry.” Genuine remorse cracked his dispassionate demeanor, a tiny flaw of humanity that surprised her. Before she could study it more intently, he rearranged his features, focused on the baby and spoke with exaggerated gentleness. “Please forgive me, young man. It was not my intention to upset you.” A moist streak stained the child’s pink cheek. Jamie eyed the impeccably groomed stranger who had paused several feet away as if fearing to step any closer. “Me firsty,” the toddler whined. “Are you now? That is something we can certainly rectify.” With that tantalizing hint of a smile, Royce strode to a wall by the curving wrought-iron staircase and flipped an intercom switch. A moment later, a taut, familiar female voice replied. “Yes, Mr. Burton?” “Marta, please bring a pitcher of orange juice to the cellar.” “Orange juice?” came the bewildered reply. “Hold on a moment.” He glanced at Laura. “Would you or the child prefer something else? I can offer an assortment of fruit juices. Also, coffee, iced tea, your choice of carbonated beverage or wine, if you’d like.” “No, thank you. Orange juice would be lovely.” “Something to eat, perhaps? Is the child hungry?” “That’s kind of you, but it’s nearly his lunchtime. A snack would spoil his appetite.” “Very well.” He turned back toward the intercom. “That will be all, Marta. Thank you.” After clicking off the speaker switch, Royce pursed his lips thoughtfully, casting first a quick look at Laura and Jamie, then glancing over his shoulder to the cozy nest where a purring, contented Maggie was in the process of bathing a mewing ball of orange-and-white fluff. Laura followed his gaze. “My best guess is that the kittens are about one week old. Maggie disappeared for several days, and when she finally returned, it was obvious that she was no longer pregnant. I’ve been following her for days to find her birthing nest.” “I see.” He studied the mother cat’s methodical grooming of her brood for a moment. “I’m certainly no expert on feline behavior, but I was under the impression that most animals chose a location in which they feel safe and comfortable for such an, er, auspicious event.” “Yes, well, I’m afraid poor Maggie feels neither safe nor comfortable in our temporary living quarters. You see, we had to…I mean, we chose to move from an apartment in the downtown district to share a mobile home with a friend.” Chose to move. A clever euphemism for eviction, which didn’t escape the astute Royce Burton’s notice if the knowing gleam in his eye was any clue. “At any rate, the accommodations are rather cramped, and my friend has two older children who didn’t mean to torment Maggie, although she understandably had little tolerance for them, given her delicate condition.” He nodded politely. “These temporary living quarters, might they be included in the mobile home park to the south of the grounds?” Presuming he was referring to his own expansive property when he used the word grounds, Laura nodded. “It’s just temporary,” she repeated lamely. “Until we can find something that suits our needs.” Something that was basically free, since she was currently unemployed. She’d had the audacity to slap the roving hand of her supervisor, and had been summarily dismissed from her job as a discount store clerk. At the time she’d worn her termination as a badge of honor. Now she saw it only as having sawed off her own breathing appendage. It wasn’t as if she had the luxury of pride now. She had a child to consider, a child whose mother was unemployed and teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. Royce regarded her. “Sharing such modest living accommodations with another family must be difficult for you and your husband.” “I’m divorced.” Laura’s reply was issued with more firmness than intended. Instantly Royce’s eyes cooled in disapproval. “I see. And your friend, is he also divorced?” “As a matter of fact, she—” Laura stressed the gender-specific pronoun and was satisfied by his guilty cringe “—is happily married, although her husband is on a temporary work assignment out of town.” He issued a curt, apologetic nod. “Forgive the errant presumption.” “As I said, the living arrangements are purely temporary. Unfortunately, there is hardly enough room for the people, let alone six animals.” “May I presume that you are financially unable to secure alternative living quarters?” That was an understatement. “The truth is that even if I found a job tomorrow it would be months before I could save up enough money to make a deposit on a larger place.” Laura couldn’t fathom why she was telling him this, but the words nonetheless streamed out as if this powerful and put-upon individual was actually interested in the life story of a virtual stranger. A thin laugh slipped from her lips, high-pitched and embarrassingly desperate. “I know this isn’t your problem. You can’t possibly care about my little trials and tribulations. It’s just that I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do about Maggie and her babies.” “Aren’t there shelters for this kind of occurrence?” Laura was horrified. “I could never put Maggie’s babies in an animal shelter.” “Why not? That’s what they are there for.” “They are there to take pets that nobody wants, and if they can’t find homes for them, to put them humanely out of their misery.” From the corner of her eye she saw Royce stiffen, and was relieved to note that he didn’t detest cats enough to be immune to the horror of euthanizing healthy animals because nobody wants them. Laura pressed her advantage. “There’s no way to find good homes for the kittens until they’re old enough to leave their mother. I mean, their little eyes aren’t even open yet.” She paused, swallowed hard. “Meanwhile, I clearly have a bit of a problem.” “Clearly,” Royce agreed. As Laura was mentally formulating what to say next, Marta descended the stairs carrying a frosty crystal pitcher of orange juice. Obviously unhappy, the woman thumped the pitcher on the table, then glanced toward the corner and spotted the feline family. “Oh, Mother of God!” she shrieked. “What are those creatures doing here?” Royce favored her with a bland stare. “At the moment, they are having lunch.” “Box them up at once,” Marta sputtered. “Get them out of here before their hairy filth spreads into the rest of the house.” “Oh, I don’t think that will be much of a problem,” Royce said pleasantly. “The animals will be confined to the cellar. Ms. Michaels will, of course, be allowed access at any time she deems necessary to feed them and care for their needs.” It took a moment for Laura to decipher the significance of what had just been said. Marta, however, reacted instantaneously. “It’s unconscionable to permit these vile creatures to remain inside your living quarters. They may be diseased, infested with parasites. It’s an abomination.” “I suspect we’ll manage to muddle through this crisis without creating a global plague.” Royce stepped to the oak tasting table and poured two glasses of juice, handing one to Jamie, who snatched it with such excited haste that the sticky liquid sloshed on Laura’s clothing. “What of my duties?” Marta asked. “I cannot perform my work efficiently if I am constantly interrupted.” A covert glance confirmed the older woman’s obvious revulsion as juice ran down the toddler’s chin to soak into his tiny striped T-shirt. Obviously this was not a woman who tolerated untidiness in any form. Royce didn’t seem particularly perturbed either by the messy process of quenching a toddler’s thirst or the potential interruption in Marta’s duties. “Then I suggest,” he told her mildly, “that you supply Ms. Michaels with a key so she may come and go without disturbing you.” Marta went absolutely white. “You can’t be serious.” He gave her a quiet look that rocked her back a step. “Have you known me to joke?” Deflated, the woman merely shook her head. “Excellent.” He turned to Laura, regarding her with a casual dispassion that didn’t quite match the probing intensity of his eyes. “I trust the arrangements meet your approval, Ms. Michaels?” It took a moment to locate her voice, a moment during which Laura steadied the toddler’s grasp as he greedily gulped his juice. “Your offer is exceptionally generous,” she said finally. “I’m deeply grateful.” “Then it’s settled.” With a brusque nod, he spun on his heel, ascended the curving stairs and disappeared with the incensed Marta right on his heels. Laura could hardly believe her good fortune. A man who supposedly abhorred cats had just offered her not only the unfettered use of his wine cellar as a feline nursery, but was also allowing her free access to provide the care Maggie and her kittens would require. Spirits soaring, Laura was convinced that the spate of bad luck that had so relentlessly plagued her was finally at an end. In truth, it was just beginning. The group of tailored financiers gathered in the leather-bound study, droning on about cash-flow projections and capital investment forecasts. Royce tried to concentrate on the figures. Decisions made here would affect lives, thousands of lives. Despite outward success, the market share of Burton Technologies was slipping. Research and development was stagnant. They desperately needed an infusion of cash. Investment capital. Lots of it. This was a business discussion of tremendous importance. And all he could think about was the color of Laura Michaels’s eyes. They were green. Not loden, not olive, not even the hue of warm grass in springtime. Rather, they were a multihued tapestry of every verdant tint and tone that nature could supply. In the bright foyer light they had seemed almost transparent, the pale shade of cymbidium orchid leaves brightened with sparkling emerald. In the amber illumination of the cellar, they’d taken on the golden glow of a summer pond at sunset. More than the color of those haunting eyes, Royce had been affected by their clarity. The lush young woman with the haunting smile had hidden nothing, exposed all. He was fairly certain she was unaware that her emotions were so blatantly revealed. He also doubted she realized that her habit of scraping her lower lip with her teeth while trying to construct an evasively truthful reply was quite revealing to a man who’d created a career out discerning information that others wished to hide. The child was interesting, too. Obviously well-loved and carefully nurtured, judging by his bright-eyed curiosity. Dark eyes, too. Deep brown, coffee-colored, closer to Royce’s own eye color than to that of his mother’s. The boy’s fear of loud voices was telling as well. He wondered about it, didn’t care for the speculation crowding his thoughts. His own father had been a controlled man, neither outgoing nor withdrawn. He’d been brilliant, of course. Royce had loved him, admired him, had been desperate to please him. He’d never succeeded in pleasing him, but might have done so eventually if he hadn’t died so young, leaving Royce’s mother to work herself into an early grave trying to support herself and her son. Having found himself alone at a relatively early age, he’d learned to rely on self-approval for motivation. For the most part that had been enough. A familiar voice broke into his thoughts. “What is that abominable sound?” Dave Henderson was asking. “You’d better have a service call on the air-conditioning, Royce. It sounds as if one of the unit bearings has blown.” Blinking, Royce considered the sound in question, a series of thin squeaks emanating from the air ducts. Mewing kittens, he decided, and was besieged by fresh annoyance at the intrusion. He couldn’t fathom why he’d allowed the irksome animals to stay. It was foolish, and Royce Burton was not a man who accepted foolishness, not even from himself. “The presentation needs work,” Royce announced, anxious to redirect attention back to the problem at hand. “You’ve shown how the infusion of investment capital will assist our expansion efforts without offering a reciprocal incentive.” Henderson blinked, swallowed, touched his tie. “I know. That’s rather a problem, since there doesn’t appear to be any. We need them. They don’t need us.” Royce understood that Henderson was referring to the Belgian directors of Marchandt Limited, the most prestigious investment firm in Europe. “Then we’ll have to develop a reason for them to need us.” “There is one option.…” Henderson’s voice trailed off as he feigned flipping through a thick document, spiral-bound and bristling with sticky yellow notes. “We could, ah, offer to transfer our research and development division to Brussels. Economic incentive to their personal turf, so to speak.” The suggestion came as no surprise to Royce. He doubted any of his staff could conceive of an option he hadn’t already considered, and discarded. “We’d lose thousands of local jobs.” “An unfortunate side effect,” Henderson agreed. Steepling his fingers, Royce spoke quietly. “Mill Creek is a small town. An economic blow like that could destroy its economy.” “There would be a significant economic effect, to be sure. However, Mill Creek existed before Burton Technologies chose it to be the homesite, and would still exist if we moved the entire complex somewhere else.” Henderson sighed, rubbed his forehead. “Hell, I don’t like the idea, either, but if there’s any other option I haven’t thought of it.” Neither had Royce. “Then keep thinking.” “But—” “That option is unacceptable. Come up with another.” Royce stood. Six stiff-suited executives lurched to their feet in unison. “We have six weeks before the Marchandt directors arrive. I expect all the loose ends to be tied up before then and a suitable quid pro quo available for negotiation. Marta will show you out.” With that, the executives filed out of the study, talking quietly among themselves. Only Henderson stayed behind, which wasn’t unusual since he was a trusted friend as well as Royce’s right-hand man. “About those loose ends,” Dave said as Royce poured aged Scotch into a pair of cut-crystal glasses. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” Royce handed his friend one glass, took a sip from his own and studied a thin line of moisture forming across his finance director’s upper lip. Dave took a healthy gulp, wheezed, coughed, then twirled the glass between his palms. “You know, Europeans are not always a liberal bunch, particularly when it comes to business. They have strictly conservative views about money, and about—” he sucked a breath, took another swallow “—family.” Royce waited. Dave cleared his throat. “Marchandt himself is Old World, comes from generations of wealth and power. He can list his ancestors back to the time of the Crusades. He inherited the company from his father, as did his father before him, and already has his sons in the business ready to carry on the family tradition.” Puffing his cheeks, he blew out a breath, meeting Royce’s gaze directly. “Do you remember that magazine article that came out a while back?” “That silly ‘Bachelor of the Year’ thing in Finance and World Reports?” Royce snorted. He remembered the article well. He had fired the marketing executive who’d insisted he give the interview in the first place. “Idiotic piece of tabloid trash. I canceled my subscription in protest.” “Yes, well, to you it’s tabloid trash, to Western Europe it’s considered the pinnacle of financial trade information. When I went to Brussels last month, Marchandt himself had a copy of that issue on the corner of his desk.” That got Royce’s attention. He leaned forward, ignored the telltale jitter of a muscle stress-twitching just below his ear. “You’re just getting around to mentioning this to me?” Dave shrugged. “I’d already handled the situation.” “How?” “I told him the article was basically a publicity stunt by a rogue marketing executive who was no longer employed by our firm.” “Good.” “I told him there was nothing to the allegations of wild parties, beautiful starlets on each arm and the speculation that you were the real father of Madonna’s love child.” “Good.” #8220;I told him you were committed to your, er, family.” Royce narrowed his gaze. “I don’t have a family.” “Well, boss, you’ve got six weeks to hunt one up. I told him you were a doting husband and father.” Dave drained his glass, set it on a polished mahogany desk by the study window and heaved the long-suffering sigh of a man ascending a gallows. “Am I fired?” “No.” Setting his own glass aside, Royce brushed his palms lightly and pushed away from the plush burgundy recliner against which his hip had been propped. “The formality of employment termination isn’t required for a dead man.” Dave paled visibly. Muttering, Royce spun away. There were cats in the cellar. The company was going to hell in a European handbasket. His entire life was in chaos. And all he could think about was the color of Laura Michaels’s eyes. Chapter Two “Oh, my God. Not again.” The slamming screen door shook the mobile home to its foundation. Wendy Wyatt stomped inside, her furious gaze riveted on the legal documents in Laura’s hand. “What is it this time, another harassment suit claiming you’ve ruined the family name by divorcing that rotten, good-for-nothing son of theirs? A demand for punitive damages because their grandchild once puked on an heirloom quilt? A request to return the antique wedding ring you had to hock to pay the attorney fees for their last round of lawsuits?” A response would be pointless, since Laura knew her dear friend wouldn’t stop venting long enough to listen, anyway. She simply handed over the document in question, crossed into the cramped kitchen and poured herself a glass of water while Wendy read the newest Summons and Complaint, which had been presented to Laura upon her return from Royce Burton’s extravagant home. Behind her, paper crinkled. Her roommate issued a stunned gasp. “That’s impossible. How can your ex-laws demand full custody of your son? I mean, that sort of thing just doesn’t happen…does it?” It took Laura a moment to steady trembling hands and mop up the water she’d spilled on the counter. With a deep breath, a feigned calm, she faced Wendy with what she hoped was a poised and thoughtful expression. “Apparently it does happen, according to that duly recorded hunk of mumbo jumbo.” Wendy’s face crumpled as if tears were imminent. “How can they do this? I mean, first that lying piece of dog drool they sired humiliates you by humping every female that crosses his line of sight, then when you finally divorce the obnoxious cur, he signs over his assets to his parents and runs off to Europe to avoid paying child support for his own kid. What kind of people are these, anyway?” “Rich people.” Heaving a sigh, Laura wiped the wet counter, tossed the dishrag over the faucet and swallowed a surge of anger so bitter it nearly choked her. “Money talks. If you have enough of it, ethics don’t matter. You can buy your own morality.” This was the third lawsuit the Michaelses had filed against Laura since she’d had the audacity to leave their son, a spoiled young man whose once-endearing boyish alacrity soon disintegrated into adolescent immaturity, and whose taste for extravagance was legend despite the pesky fact that he’d never worked a day in his life. The Michaelses’ first lawsuit had demanded a visitation schedule so onerous it would have required Laura to spend thousands of dollars a year shuttling Jamie hundreds of miles back and forth to his grandparents’ Connecticut home, and would have resulted in the baby spending more time with his grandparents than with his own mother. When the court awarded only minimal visitation and required the Michaelses to pay transportation costs, their desire to see their grandson dissipated. They’d never made the visitation arrangements and hadn’t seen Jamie since he was an infant. He was now twenty-six months old. The next lawsuit had demanded punitive damages, maintaining that the divorce had supposedly damaged her ex-husband’s psyche so badly that he’d been forced to leave the country to heal his broken heart, thereby depriving his parents of his companionship. Fortunately, the court pointed out that since the senior Michaelses were financing their son’s European lifestyle, they could avail themselves of his companionship by simply cutting off his living allowance. Laura had thought that would be the end of the legal harassment. She’d obviously underestimated them. Again. “Why are they doing this?” Wendy whispered. Biting her lip, Laura stared into the stack of sticky cereal bowls and used juice glasses. Panic was a mortal enemy, one she’d fought most of her life. This time, it was winning. “They’ve learned that I lost my job,” she whispered. “The custody petition claims I’m financially unable to care for my son.” The dirty dishes blurred beneath a film of tears. “They might win this one, Wendy. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Jamie. I just don’t know what I’d do….” “Oh, hon.” Tossing the legal papers on a sofa cluttered with toy cars and comic books, Wendy rushed into the kitchen, wrapped Laura in a fierce hug. “I wish there was something I could do. My supervisor would hire you in a heartbeat if there was an opening.” Wendy, like so many residents of Mill Creek, worked for Burton Technologies. “The only positions available are professional or scientific, requiring university degrees and extensive experience.” That came as no news to Laura, who’d been pounding the pavement all over town. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find something.” Stifling a sniff, Laura forced a brave smile and a cheery tone. “I’ve got an appointment tomorrow morning with the assistant manager of Quick ’n’ Good Food Mart. They need cashiers for the night shift.” “Night shift?” “Yes, that would be perfect, wouldn’t it? Since I’d be home during the day, you wouldn’t have to pay for after-school care for Tim and Danny.” “Uh-huh.” Wendy narrowed her gaze. “And you plan to sleep…when?” “Whenever.” Issuing a laugh that sounded only slightly maniacal, Laura returned to washing dishes with an almost desperate vengeance. “The most important thing right now is providing emotional and financial security for my son. One way or the other, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” “Of course it is.” Wendy retrieved a dripping glass from the dish drainer and spoke as she dried it. “The Michaelses won’t win this, Laura. Your lawyer will have this thing thrown out of court before you can blink twice.” A tremor shifted from shoulder to spine, tightening Laura’s stomach and nearly buckling her knees. She was thirty-one-years old, and her life was in shambles. “I don’t have a lawyer anymore. He’s suing me, too.” Wendy stiffened, set the glass aside with cautious deliberation. “What?” Avoiding her friend’s incredulous stare, Laura turned away, busying herself by piling breakfast dishes in the sink. Only when she felt Wendy’s fingers curl into the flesh of her upper arm did she offer further explanation. “I haven’t been able to make payments on his bill.” She turned on the faucet and blasted a squirt of liquid detergent into an explosion of white foam. “He’s turned me over to a collection agency.” The pressure on Laura’s arm eased as Wendy released her grip and exhaled all at once, issuing a peculiar hiss that lifted the fine hairs on the back of Laura’s neck. Her skin cooled as her roommate turned away. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “You have your own problems.” Grabbing a bowl, Laura washed it, rinsed it and set it into the drainer without so much as a second glance. “And I’m one of them.” “You’re not a problem. You know I love having you here.” Laura smiled over her shoulder. “You’re such a sweet liar.” With a sheepish shrug and a twinkle of humor, Wendy dragged a dish towel from the door handle of the refrigerator. “All right, all right, so a friend in need is a damned nuisance—” “Mom!” The screen door blasted open, and a tow-headed nine-year-old screeched into the small living room, nearly knocking over the rickety knickknack table that held a small television set. “Danny’s hogging the bike! It’s my turn to ride it, and he won’t let me.” “Work it out,” Wendy muttered. “You know the rules.” “But it’s my turn!” The boy’s wail of frustration was joined by a cranky cry from the rear of the mobile home. Exasperated, Wendy jammed her hands on her hips, scowling at her eldest son. “You woke up the baby.” “That’s all right,” Laura said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Nap time is almost over, anyway.” Actually, she’d hoped Jamie would sleep for at least another half hour, but realized such luxury was a futile dream in a chaotically crowded environment where quiet was a precious commodity and privacy was nonexistent. As she hurried through the small living room to one of the two diminutive bedrooms at the rear of the mobile home, Laura tuned out the sounds of scolding and wailing behind her to focus on the cries of her waking baby. She slipped into the darkened room from which the two young Wyatt boys had been evicted. Knowing that Wendy’s children had been relegated to the sofa only increased Laura’s guilt at the terrible imposition her presence imposed on her friend. “There, there,” she crooned, ducking her head to sit on the lower bunk where Jamie sobbed pitifully. The upper bunk was where Laura slept. “Mama’s here, sweet boy.” She gathered the baby in her arms, smoothing his damp hair, kissing his moist little cheek. “Mama will always be here, my precious. Always.” One way or another, it was a promise she was determined to keep. Royce glanced up as Henderson rubbed his eyelids with the heels of his hands, and stifled a yawn. “Big night?” “Yeah.” Henderson stretched, then scooped the annotated draft contract from the edge of the expansive mahogany desk in Royce’s home study. “My daughter didn’t get home from her date until 2:00 a.m., my wife screamed at her until 3:00 a.m., the baby is teething, and I’ve been popping antacids since dawn.” “I see. And this is the life of married bliss you’ve been nagging me to emulate?” “Only if you expect old man Marchandt to ante up the capital we need to stay in business.” Henderson stuffed the documents into his briefcase. “You’re thirty-six-years old. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” “If I require a wife and child, I’ll simply borrow yours.” Henderson smiled. “Oddly enough, I’m not willing to lend them. Despite all my whining about the chaos and frustration married life heaps upon my pitifully inadequate shoulders, I wouldn’t trade my family for all the world’s riches.” Snapping the briefcase shut, he rose, his smile widening into a grin. “Now, season tickets for the Mets I might consider.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” Royce stood, then escorted his valued friend and associate to the study door. “Meanwhile, put out the feelers on another capital investment firm in case Marchandt pulls the plug on our deal. The company can’t afford to be caught in the lurch on this one.” Henderson’s grin faded, his eyes instantly reflecting the seriousness of their financial situation. “I know.” He opened the study door and stepped into the spacious hallway that opened into the foyer. “Thing is, I’ve already contacted every reputable firm in the—” His gaze fell on a curly-haired toddler happily dancing circles on the gleaming marble floor. “Well, what have we here?” The baby, clad in a spotless corduroy jumper and tiny striped T-shirt, instantly spun around, jammed his fingers in his mouth and drooled all over his hand. He giggled up at Royce. “Daddy!” Henderson blinked, rocked back on his heels. “You’ve been holding out on me.” Royce groaned. “The child is mistaken, of course.” “Of course,” Henderson agreed with only the slightest trace of a smile. “Looks just like you, too. Brown eyes, dark, curly hair. Talk about a baby of convenience. Marchandt will love him.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Royce cleared his throat and spoke to the bright-eyed youngster. “I am not your father, young man.” “Uh-huh.” The baby giggled again, a high-pitched, childish chuckle that sent a peculiar warmth down Royce’s spine. It was an infectious laugh, one issued with such unabashed joy that Royce felt his own lips curve in response. “Kitty has babies,” the toddler announced. “Indeed.” A quick glance confirmed that the basement door was open, evidence that the attractive Ms. Michaels was currently tending the mewling brood. Beside him, Henderson’s slumped shoulders had squared, and eyes that had moments ago been sluggish with fatigue now sparkled with interest. “Kittens? Pets and a child? This is perfect, absolutely perfect. Now all you need is a…” His voice trailed off as a beautiful blonde emerged from the basement, her frantic gaze darting around the immaculate room. “Ask and ye shall receive,” Henderson mumbled reverently. Laura Michaels’s head snapped around. She blinked at the two men, saw her son and issued a pained sigh. “There you are.” She hurried over and scooped the baby into her arms, apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Burton. I just turned my back for a moment, but you know how children are.” “No, as a matter of fact I don’t.” Royce was fascinated by a peculiar dimple at the corner of her mouth that twitched when she spoke. It was oddly attractive, providing a focal point beside lips that were fuller than average, and exceedingly shapely. When her tongue darted out to moisten them, an unexpected throb tightened his belly. He yanked his gaze to her eyes, which were riveted on him with cloudy confusion. Since he hadn’t heard the doorbell, he presumed she’d used the key Marta had reluctantly provided. Royce cleared his throat again, clasped his hands behind his back. “The, er, animals… They are doing well?” “Yes, thank you.” She shifted the child in her arms, used her free hand to twist a honey-colored strand of hair behind her ear. The nervous gesture was one of habit, he suspected, as was the manner in which she scraped her lower lip with her teeth. Assessing body language was a handy talent in Royce’s business. Quirks, expressions, the smallest facial tics provided a wealth of information. The lovely Ms. Michaels was still dressed in the casual tank top and denim shorts she’d been wearing this morning when she’d first appeared on his porch searching for her wayward cat. She’d worn no makeup then, nor had she applied any for her late-afternoon visit. Clearly she’d made no attempt to attract his attention. Not that additional effort would have been necessary. This was a naturally beautiful woman, one who needed no complement of cosmetics for enhancement. That wouldn’t have been particularly telling, except that most women in Royce’s world wouldn’t have ventured from their boudoirs until they’d been properly painted, coiffed and bedecked in the finest designer fashions. Caution was always prudent for a man in Royce’s position. It wasn’t arrogance that kept him on guard, merely the discretion born of unpleasant experience. He’d learned the hard way that it wasn’t unusual for unmarried men of substantial means to be approached by females longing for a rich prince to whisk them away from laborious lives into a Cinderella castle gleaming with luxurious opulence. There were usually clues, of course. A too-bright smile, eyes that were both hungry and hopeful, a sensual sway of a body too close to be appropriate, the constant touch of fingers brushing his wrist, his arm, his hand, probing for a response, for a hint of encouragement. Laura Michaels revealed none of these traits. After retrieving her son, she’d stepped back, widening the space between them. Her gaze was now guarded, her shoulders stiff and wary. She avoided eye contact, preferring a nervous sideways glance, after which her pale complexion tinted a delightful rosy pink at the cheekbones, and that funny dimple jittered like a bug on hot concrete. This was not a woman trying to attract attention to herself. On the one hand, Royce was relieved by that. On the other, he was oddly deflated. “I left the cats’ food and water bowl behind some crates, where they’ll hopefully be out of your way. I, ah—” she paused to skim a wary glance at Dave Henderson, who was grinning at her as if a gift bow had sprouted atop her head “—can’t tell you how much Maggie and I appreciate your generosity.” Henderson’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Maggie? How many women do you have stuffed in the basement, anyway?” The pink tint along Laura’s cheekbones brightened to a vivid fuchsia. “Maggie is my c-cat,” she whispered with an embarrassed stutter. “She stubbornly transformed Mr. Burton’s basement into a maternity ward, and he has been kind enough to allow me to tend the litter there until the kittens are old enough to leave their mother.” More annoyed by the unintended insult to Ms. Michaels than by his friend’s thin attempt at humor, Royce cut him with a look that would have frozen most men to the bone. Unmoved, Henderson merely smiled and thrust a beefy hand at the startled woman. “Dave Henderson, vice president and chief financial officer of Burton Technologies, Ms….?” The woman licked her lips again, her gaze darting as if seeking escape. “Michaels,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. Juggling the baby to the crook of her left arm, she accepted Henderson’s handshake. “Laura Michaels.” “Pleased to meet you. I hope you’re finding the hospitality around this gleaming mausoleum to be adequate.” Clearly uncomfortable, she edged a longing look toward the open basement door. “Mr. Burton has been very kind.” “Has he now?” Grinning broadly, Henderson angled a smug glance, the meaning of which did not escape Royce’s notice. “Tell me about yourself, Ms. Michaels. Have you lived in Mill Creek long? What is your profession? How old is your son? Is your husband the jealous type?” Her jaw dropped in shock. “I beg your pardon?” “Excuse us, Mr. Henderson was just leaving.” Furious, Royce grabbed Henderson’s elbow and hauled him toward the front door. “She’s perfect,” Henderson whispered a moment before Royce shoved him onto the front porch. “I’ll do some checking into her family’s background, and see what kind of financial arrangements—” Royce closed the door in his face. Hovering at the massive carved entry for several seconds, he took a deep breath and tried to formulate an apology that he never had the opportunity to issue. When he turned around, the foyer was empty. Laura Michaels was gone. “Feel how soft he is,” she murmured, palming the warm ball of white fluff. “Look, she’s trying to open her little eyes.” Jamie widened his eyes, curled his small mouth into an O as he reached a flat, stiff baby hand out to pat the kitten’s fluffy head. “Tickles,” he announced, snatching his hand back. He giggled, then thrust out both hands. “Me hold.” “Let Mama hold the kitten until he gets bigger, sweetie. He’s very fragile right now.” Thwarted, Jamie scowled and turned his attention toward the wriggling, mewing mass of adorable kittenhood in the straw nest Maggie had chosen for her brood. “Me want him,” the baby announced, pointing to a mottled orange-and-white tabby whose coloring most resembled his mother’s. “Him Sam.” “Sam, is it? A fine name.” She laid the white kitten with the soft, angoralike fur back into the nest. “What about this one, sweetie? What shall we name her?” Laura had no idea if the tiny animal was male or female, since pronouncing the gender of such tiny kittens was difficult even for experts. Still, there was a definitive feminine aura about the precious ball of fluff. “She feels like a fuzzy little bunny rabbit, doesn’t she?” Jamie nodded so hard he nearly fell over. “Bunny,” he chirped. “Bunny-Cat.” “All right then, Bunny-Cat it is.” Smiling, she felt a nudge under her elbow. She absently stroked Maggie, who had finished her supper and wandered over to purr proudly. “Yes, you’ve done a wonderful job,” Laura told the blinking mama cat. “A lovely family indeed.” Maggie licked her paw and proceeded to wash her face while Laura and Jamie continued to admire the kittens. Along with Sam and Bunny-Cat there was a particularly vocal gray-and-white kitten that Laura dubbed Rascal, a black kitten with a white, tuxedolike bib that she called Cary Grant, and the runt of the litter, a diminutive calico with a quiltlike coat that begged the name Patches. Jamie was enthralled with each and every one of them. “Bunny-Cat,” he murmured, snatching the white kitten before Laura could stop him. The kitten squeaked a protest as Jamie smacked a juicy kiss on its little head. “Careful, sweetheart. They are too tiny to be handled much right now.” The baby giggled happily, issuing no protest as she retrieved the squirming kitten from his grasp, and returned it to the nest. Despite her caution about handling them, she couldn’t keep herself from stroking each of the adorable animals, brushing a tiny ear with her knuckle, lifting a miniature paw with her fingertip. Laura had always loved animals. She’d never had pets as a child. Her struggling single mom had barely been able to support Laura and her two sisters, let alone keep hungry animals well-fed and cared-for. “Animals are like children in fur suits,” she’d once told a sobbing Laura, who’d brought home a puppy she wanted desperately to keep. “They are a big responsibility. Yes, they make us happy. But unless we can make them happy as well, it’s not fair of us to keep them from a good home where they’ll have enough to eat and a big yard to play in.” Laura had understood. Kind of. But she’d never forgotten the agony of carrying that sweet, warm bundle from house to house until a kindly older woman took the puppy in, promising to give him a good home. It had been the first time Laura had experienced the exquisite pain of a broken heart. It had not been the last. As she slid a gentle finger down Cary Grant’s sleek black fur, a peculiar tingle warmed her spine. Beside her, Jamie issued a gleeful squeak, followed by a tickled laugh. She knew before she turned what she would see at the top of the stairs. She wasn’t disappointed. He was standing there, magnificently silhouetted by the spray of daylight from the upstairs foyer. Outlined, the perfection of his form was even more evident. The strength of his shoulders, the taper of hips that were obviously slender beneath the concealing shape of his expertly tailored suit. Perhaps it was the angle of her gaze focused upward that made him seem taller than she’d realized, with the top of his head appearing to be only inches below the crest of the doorway. But it wasn’t what she saw that affected her so deeply. It was what she felt, a radiating heat that she instinctively knew was emanating from his gaze. The aura was as tangible as a touch, and just as stirring. She didn’t have to see his eyes to know that they were focused on her with an intensity that seemed to penetrate every molecule in her body. She was frozen in place, unable to move, to speak, to tear her gaze away. From what seemed a great distance, she was aware of sounds in the room. Her son’s laughter. Maggie’s proud purr. Mingling mews from the nest of kittens. All were overshadowed by the pounding of her own heartbeat, the frantic swish of her own pulse. Something pulled on the strap of her tank top. An insistent tug, then another. “Mama, Mama!” Jamie’s voice broke the spell, releasing her from the mesmerizing presence at the top of the stairs. With some difficulty, she turned toward the toddler whose eyes were huge with exuberance. “Daddy’s home!” Her heart seemed to wedge itself at the base of her throat, nearly choking her. The child was so desperate for a father that he consistently claimed any man who looked at him with kindness. “No, sweetie, that’s not your daddy.” “Uh-huh,” he insisted with a smug grin, his glowing gaze riveted upward. “My daddy.” A coolness swept her shoulders, as if a draft had slipped down the stairway. When she looked back, the doorway was empty. Royce Burton was gone, leaving nothing in his wake but her son’s sparkling grin, and a residual tingle along her own spine. It was happening all over again, she realized. And it terrified her. Chapter Three Laura arrived at the Burton home later than usual, dressed in a mortifying serving uniform and armed with a fresh bag of kitty kibble. Embarrassed by the silly attire required by her new job at a fast-food restaurant across town, she was relieved that Marta didn’t respond to her knock at the back door. Too bad the job at Quick ’n’ Good Food Mart didn’t work out. It was bad enough she had to board a public bus looking like a barn-dance escapee. The last thing she needed today was another run-in with a prune-faced shrew who treated Laura with veiled contempt at best, open hostility on her bad days. And any day Marta laid eyes on Laura was a bad day. Presuming the grumpy housekeeper was preoccupied elsewhere, Laura used her key to let herself into the immaculate kitchen. Over the past few weeks, her life had disintegrated from merely chaotic to a crowded pressure pot of panic. Wendy’s tiny mobile home seethed with noise, with frustration, with the stress of too many humans crowded into too little space. Jamie, who’d always been a happy, cheerful child, had become cranky from lack of sleep, since his nap times were routinely interrupted by the shrieks of his boisterous roommates, and the cacophony of a blaring television through paper-thin walls. These twice-daily trips to care for Maggie’s increasingly active brood served only to stir the melee, disturbing Laura on more than one level. Maggie’s enigmatic landlord, for example. Laura had yet to figure the guy out. He was a thoroughly unpredictable sort whose myriad moods both perplexed and fascinated her. On the one hand, Royce Burton segued quite nicely into her perception of the rich and privileged with an aloof arrogance she recognized from having lived among the elitist Michaels clan. On the other hand, he seemed oddly concerned about the health and well-being of not only Laura and Jamie, but the animals he professed to despise as well. He complained about the kittens’ incessant mewing, yet had carpeted the entire basement to protect the tiny animals from the dampness of an increasing autumn chill. He seemed mightily irked by Jamie’s insistence on calling him “Daddy,” yet inevitably appeared in the study doorway to watch the child play with the shiny new toys that appeared like magic in the otherwise sterile mansion. He scowled at Laura as if her presence presented the world’s biggest annoyance. Yet he made certain a veritable buffet of refreshments was available during her visits, despite his housekeeper’s obvious distress at the additional effort required. Apparently much of his business was conducted from his study, so he was frequently at home during the kitty-care visits Laura had managed to sandwich between employment interviews, child-care duties for Wendy’s two boys and her own frantic quest to find a lawyer who didn’t care about pesky details. Like being paid, for example. The meager salary from the second-shift serving job she’d finally landed was a mere pittance compared to her debt. Sighing, Laura juggled the five-pound bag of cat food under her arm, vaguely aware of a peculiar warm-wood scent that reminded her of the old lumberyard down the street. A glance around the spotless food preparation area revealed that the oven wasn’t in use, nor was anything bubbling on the cookstove. A peculiar whirring sound also caught her attention, along with a series of shuddering scrapes, thumps and other ominous noise emanating from deep within the house. She had no time for idle curiosity or speculation. She had less than fifteen minutes in which to feed the cats, head to the corner and catch her bus. As she reached the foyer, the floor began to vibrate, and the strange whirring sound grew louder. The high-pitched hum was penetrated by a male voice shouting over the din. There was tension in that voice, and an unnerving sense of alarm. And all the disquieting noise was coming from the cellar. Instantly alarmed, Laura rushed forward to the open doorway just as a shadow from the stairway exploded into human form, blocking her view. Marta’s eyes were huge, frantic. “You see what you’ve done?” Laura could see nothing beyond Marta’s horrified expression and the frenzied fling of her arms. “Everything is ruined, completely ruined!” A metallic shriek like a buzzsaw chewing steel horrified her. Marta jumped as if shot, then jittered around to shake her finger in Laura’s face. “This is all your doing!” Stunned, Laura could only press a palm to her chest and stammer, “Mine? How…why…?” “Trouble, that’s what you are. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on you.” Her face contorted more with fear than fury, Marta bit her lower lip. Casting a woeful glance down at the pandemonium below, Marta pressed her knuckle against her quavering mouth. Her chin crumpled like crushed paper. Stifling a sob, she pushed past Laura and rushed toward the kitchen. For the space of a heartbeat, Laura was frozen in shock. Then a male shout, sharp with tension and edged by fear, penetrated the chaotic noise. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. “Maggie,” Laura whispered. Shifting the kibble bag, she hurried down the winding stairs. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight that greeted her. The basement looked as if it had been bombed. Sawdust was everywhere. Loose bottles of wine, some of which were probably worth more than Laura’s ancient automobile, had been haphazardly piled or rolled into a corner of the basement. Pieces from one of the expensive oak wine racks had been tossed around the carpeted floor like kindling. A frantic shout from across the room redirected Laura’s attention. “Is it loose yet?” Two male figures were hunkered in the corner where the straw-padded kitten bed had once been. One of the male figures, a beefy block of a man wielding a whirring circular saw, squatted on denim-clad haunches that were partially obscured by a belt of lumpy leather pouches bristling with tools. The other was bent at the waist, his upper torso in shadows, although Laura could see the outline of a shoulder, along with a flash of forearm exposed by the rolled-up shirt-sleeve. Maggie paced beside the two men, tail flicking, eyes focused intently on the activity. The beefy workman flipped off the whirring saw and sat back on his heels. It took a moment for Laura’s ears to adjust to the near silence. A peculiar muffled whine caught her attention a moment before the workman spoke. “This here rack is bolted to the floor, just like the last one.” “Rip it out,” said the man in the shadows. The voice clearly belonged to Royce Burton, which was somewhat shocking to Laura since she’d never seen the immaculately tailored executive without a suit coat, let alone tieless, rumpled and with rolled-up shirtsleeves. The workman shrugged. “Seems a shame. Might be able to punch a hole in the back of the rack instead of tearing out the sides of it.” “Too dangerous. We can’t be certain exactly where it is.” Again Laura heard the peculiar muffled whine, which evoked an instant reaction in Maggie. The mama cat emitted a comforting trill and tried to poke her head into one of the openings of the rack from which the wine bottles had already been removed. In the space of a heartbeat, Laura’s blood ran cold as she recognized the muted sound as the desperate mew of a trapped kitten. More tiny cries emanated from a wooden barrel in the corner, a barrel over which a rumpled, yet recognizably expensive suit coat had been tossed. A thick coat of sawdust covered the ruined garment. The workman shifted on his haunches, heaving a regretful sigh. “There oughta be some way to get that thing out without tearing up a thousand dollars’ worth of custom-built racking.” “Just tear the damned thing out,” Royce snapped. “And be quick about it.” Although Royce’s face was still concealed behind the edge of the wine rack, his voice brooked no argument, and the workman offered none. The burly guy grunted, shrugged and fired up the circular saw. A moment later the blade chewed mercilessly into the hard oak, spewing sawdust into a choking cloud. Laura just stood by the stairs, frozen in shock, fear and dismay. Every drop of moisture evaporated from her mouth as she sized up the situation and grasped the seriousness of it. One of Maggie’s precious kittens was trapped behind that massive wine rack. A single slip of the saw blade could prove disastrous. The kitten had apparently managed to wriggle into the narrow space between the rack and the wall, and had somehow become stuck there. Royce was directing that the side of the rack be destroyed to gain access to that airspace without risking injury to the tiny creature that was trapped there. Maggie was clearly perturbed by her baby’s predicament. The poor animal paced frantically, flicking her tail, her mouth opening repeatedly in what could be presumed to be a frenzied vocalization at the kitten’s plight, although any sound the mama cat made was being drowned out by the din of the whirring blade. A cloud of sawdust sent Laura into a convulsive coughing fit, which was also drowned out by the din. Neither Royce nor the busy workman had noticed her presence. As Laura caught her breath and wiped her stinging eyes, Royce suddenly stepped out of the corner long enough to scoop up Maggie into his arms. He stroked the distressed feline with obvious fondness and appeared to be speaking to her. Whatever he said seemed to soothe Maggie. She immediately rubbed her forehead against Royce’s chin and nestled comfortably against his chest, with her huge cat eyes focused on the busy workman. Before Laura could digest this unexpected and decidedly peculiar development between her beloved Maggie and a man who had only a few short weeks ago confessed to having despised cats, the workman flipped off the saw and stood, rubbing the small of his back. “That oughta do it,” he grumbled. Instantly Royce returned Maggie to the floor. He grabbed hold of a loosened sideboard. Nails bent with a screech as he ripped the board out and tossed it into the growing pile of chewed oak. Then he dropped to his knees, his upper torso hidden from view. A grunt emanated from the corner behind the partially disassembled wine rack. “That’s it…come on, little guy…just another inch… Ow! Damned splinters.” The workman scratched himself. “Want me to try and tip the rack forward?” “No, it’s too heavy” came the muffled reply. “If you lose your grip, the kitten will be crushed.” Laura’s stomach lurched at the thought. She pressed her knuckles against her mouth to keep from screaming out loud. The kittens were only a few weeks old, so tiny and helpless. They’d barely begun to totter out of the crate bed to explore their new surroundings. It hadn’t occurred to her that there might be dangers lurking for curious baby kittens, just as there were for curious baby humans. She’d certainly understood the need to childproof Jamie’s surroundings, and had done so even before he’d learned to crawl on his own. Why on earth hadn’t she checked the basement for hazards? This was all her fault. If anything horrible happened to one of Maggie’s babies, Laura would never forgive herself. “Damn, he’s really wedged in there,” Royce muttered. “I can feel fur, but I can’t get a grip— Wait a minute. He’s wiggling toward me… Gotcha!” He crawled backward and flopped into a sitting position, grinning broadly at the mewing, gray-and-white kitten in his hand. It was Rascal, of course. Tiny Mr. Trouble-with-a-tail himself. Laura should have known that if there was a single enticing hole within reach, Rascal would be the one to investigate. Now the terrified kitten clung to Royce’s shirt and frantically mewed in his face as if relaying every detail of his frightening ordeal. Royce chuckled, seeming utterly unconcerned by the tiny claws shredding his expensive garment, or the ragged gash in the knee of his suit pants. “I imagine you are pleased to be out,” he told the kitten. “I don’t like tight, dark places myself.” Rascal emitted a sound halfway between a pleasant trill and an emphatic yowl. “You’re very welcome.” Royce sat back on the filthy floor, allowing Maggie to crawl onto his lap and groom the face of her rescued kitten. “But the next time you notice an enticing crack between a cabinet and a wall, do us all a favor and ignore it.” The air Laura had been holding in her lungs escaped with a massive whoosh, alerting Royce to her presence. His head snapped up, his eyes widened. He stood immediately, unceremoniously dumping Maggie onto the floor while the kitten still hung from his shredded shirt. Royce’s brows crashed together in a frown that was supposed to be ominous, Laura presumed, but seemed more like embarrassment to her. “Your animals have wreaked havoc on my life,” he announced. Startled by his strident tone, she annoyed herself by stammering. “I know… I’m so sorry.” He huffed a “harrumph,” peeled the frightened kitten from his shirt and carried it to the coat-covered barrel. With deliberate care, he lifted the garment in a manner that forced the sawdust to float harmlessly to the floor before placing Rascal inside with his litter mates. “I can’t believe it,” Laura murmured, realizing that the barrel was tall enough to keep the kittens from escaping, yet posed no obstacle to the agile Maggie, who immediately leapt inside to tend her brood. “You sacrificed your coat so the kittens would be protected from breathing the sawdust.” Royce straightened, shifted, then turned his attention to the workman. “Repair what you can and clean up the debris.” The workman rubbed his chin, slipping a shrewd glance from Royce to Laura then back again. “I charge double for after-hours work.” Laura’s heart sank. She was clearly responsible for the workman’s bill, however outrageous it ended up being. How she’d pay for that and the extensive damage the rescue effort had caused was beyond comprehension. With some effort she squared her shoulders and spoke with more confidence than she felt. “Please forward the bill directly to me,” she told the workman, then turned toward Royce. “I will, of course, pay all costs for repairing your wine racks as well and for restoring the cellar to its original condition.” Royce skimmed a glance in her direction, then re-focused on the workman as if he hadn’t even heard her. “Leave your invoice with Marta on the way out.” The workman’s grin broadened. “Plus expenses, of course.” Royce’s eyes narrowed. “What expenses?” “Dulled a perfectly good saw blade cutting them bolts. And it’s past suppertime. Union rules say I gotta have me a meal ticket if I work past suppertime.” “Fine,” Royce snapped, then strode across the room, cupped a firm hand around Laura’s elbow and ushered her up the basement stairs. When they’d reached the foyer, he glanced at the toys stacked neatly in the corner. “Where is the child?” “My roommate watches Jamie while I’m at work.” “You have a job?” The surprise in his voice annoyed her. “Most people do.” “Is that why you’re wearing that disgusting ensemble?” Peeved by his pompous expression, she hiked her chin as if she actually enjoyed flouncing around town in a fire-red miniskirt, fringed thigh-boots and an insultingly low-cut peasant blouse with a garish cartoon chicken embroidered on the bodice. “Actually, I thought it was a rather smashing fashion statement.” He squinted at the logo on her chest with obvious disdain, tipping his head forward to display flecks of sawdust in his mussed hair. “The Cluck House?” She’d never seen Royce Burton when he hadn’t been perfectly tailored and immaculately groomed. There was a peculiar appeal to his current untidy condition, a vaguely arousing image of how he might look having rolled out of bed, tousled and sated from a night of lovemaking. The startling perception heated her skin, tumbled her stomach. She cleared her throat, pretended she couldn’t feel the embarrassed flush crawling along her cheekbones. “It’s a perfectly respectable restaurant and a perfectly respectable job. Not everyone is born rich and lucky, you know.” Something softened his eyes, just for a moment. “Yes,” he murmured. “I know.” He blinked, frowned, clasped his hands behind his back in the manner she’d come to recognize as one he used when enforcing his control over a given situation, even while wearing a stained shirt with claw marks and a pair of ripped slacks. Again she was struck by the odd appeal of his disheveled appearance, a flawed vulnerability that seemed strangely revealing. “Respectable or not,” he said, “a woman who majored in constitutional law should not be costumed like a dance-hall floozy while serving fried poultry parts to the gastronomically challenged. It’s beneath you.” “You are hardly in a position to tell me what kind of work I should or should not be doing. The hours are flexible, the pay is adequate and—” She frowned as the context of his statement sank in. “Wait just a darned minute. How do you know what my college major was?” His gaze was insufferably smug. “I’m not in the habit of handing out keys to my home to people about whom I know nothing.” “You had me investigated?” “Of course.” He rolled the admission off his tongue with a startled blink, as if the question itself had been ridiculous. “I presume this, er, employment opportunity presented itself quite recently.” Very recently, since she’d had only a brief and haphazard training session yesterday afternoon. Tonight would be her first shift. Still, she stubbornly refused to give him the satisfaction of validating what he apparently already knew. “I have to leave now. Please be assured, however, that this discussion of clandestine background investigations is not over. Not by a long shot.” Mustering as much dignity as possible while festooned like a Halloween pi?ata, Laura spun on her spiky fringed boot heels and took two strides before Royce’s soft voice stopped her. “I believe you’ve already missed your bus.” A voice in her brain warned her not to ask. She ignored it, flung an astonished glance over her shoulder. “How do you know what bus I’m taking?” She turned around, planted her hands on her hips. “In fact, how do you know that I’m taking a bus at all? I do own a car, you know.” He shrugged. “Since that vehicle’s transmission went out last week and it’s currently lodged in the impound lot until the towing charges are paid, the presumption that you must rely upon public transportation isn’t much of a stretch.” Alerted by a draft on her tongue, Laura closed her mouth and stared at him. Apparently unaware of or unconcerned by her astonishment at the extent of his knowledge about her private life, Royce made a production of brushing dust from his palms. “You realize, of course, that a minimum-wage job can’t possibly make a dent in the debt you now owe, nor allow you to save enough money to move into your own apartment before your roommate’s husband returns from Alaska in December.” The room seemed to tilt, and Laura felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath. She touched the wall to steady herself, waiting for her breathing to slow so she could speak. She hadn’t told Royce where Wendy’s husband was working, only that he was on a temporary assignment out of the state. Nor had she told him or anyone else when Daniel Wyatt would be returning, since she hadn’t known that information herself. She lifted her chin, making a production of glancing around, as if sizing up her financial obligation rather than mustering a modicum of dignity. “Since you clearly know a great deal about me that is quite frankly none of your business, you must also be aware that I have no other options at the moment.” “Oh, but you do.” He paused, frowning at his stained palms for a moment, although Laura suspected that he wasn’t even seeing them, simply using the gesture to gather his thoughts. “Fortunately, I’m able to offer you a position that will allow you to use your talents and experience to their fullest advantage.” Her heart leapt, then pounded with increased intensity. This was, after all, a man who controlled the largest industry and highest number of available jobs in the entire town, if not the entire county. Not only was Burton Technologies renowned for offering above-market salaries and generous benefits, but for job security as well. Employees considered themselves to be part of the Burton family. Most expected to spend their entire careers there, and since the company prided itself on having never laid off a single worker in its twelve-year existence, the expectation of a long, bright future for those who were a part of the said family seemed a realistic one. Which is why job openings were as rare as hens’ teeth, and coveted like gold. Laura’s application for employment had been placed on a waiting list along with a hundred other hopefuls. She replied cautiously but couldn’t prevent a touch of breathless anxiety. “If there is a position in your company for which I qualify, I’d be most pleased to consider any offer.” “At my company?” Frowning, he shook his head. “Staffing matters are handled by the personnel department. I don’t bother myself with those details.” Hope crashed, dragging the walls of her stomach down with it. “I misunderstood. I thought you had a position available.” “I do. Are you interested?” Now she was thoroughly confused, and more than a little suspicious. “That depends. Exactly what does this job require, and what do you expect of my job performance?” “The job requires you to marry me. The duties would be—” he looked her straight in the eye with only the trace of a smile “—wifely.” “What a pig.” Tucking a hank of stick-straight brown hair behind her ear, Wendy kicked a rock beside the park bench. “Honestly, Laura, I can’t figure out why you are such a magnet for egomaniacal lunatics with swollen checkbooks and heads to match. It must be that Cinderella complex of yours. You keep looking for your prince.” “I do not.” “Sure you do.” A screech from the playground across the lush grounds caught Wendy’s attention. “Danny, quit hogging the slide!” The youngest Wyatt, a mischievous six-year-old whose greatest joy in life was tormenting his older brother, grinned amiably, then slid down the slick curving loop, freeing it for use by his frustrated sibling, along with the impatient line of youngsters queued behind him. At the same moment, Jamie tugged on Laura’s hand. “Me wanna swing.” Grunting madly, he pointed to the apparatus in question, as if unsure his doddering mother could recall what a swing looked like. His tiny forehead furrowed with such intensity that Laura couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, sweetums, but all the swings are full now. You’ll have to wait your turn.” Jamie pushed out his lower lip, appeared to be considering the wisdom of a full-size tantrum when something even more exciting than the playground swing set caught his eye. “Mewwy-go-round! Wanna go on the mewwy-go-round, Mama!” The equipment to which he referred was not a colorful, musical carousel on which delighted youngsters straddled brilliantly carved animals. Rather, it was a flat steel pancake on which grinning children sat while indulgent parents used the tubular handholds to spin their offspring into a state of gill-green nausea. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait for a swing? I’m sure one will be available soon.” “Mewwy-go-round,” the toddler chortled, clinging to her with both of his chubby hands and heaving himself backward until his small body was perpendicular to the ground. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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