The Billionaire's Christmas Baby. Marion LennoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
night, doubled, plus the same amount to Miss Raye personally.’ He looked uncertainly back at the pram but forged on, plan in place. ‘This could suit.’
‘Suit who?’ Sunny muttered.
‘Suit me,’ Max said smoothly. This obviously wasn’t a man who let objections trouble his path. ‘I can’t believe money wouldn’t be useful at this time of the year.’
Was he kidding? Of course it would. It’d be glorious.
And the alternative? By the time she got home it’d be midnight and she was due to start work again at eight. Gran and Pa wouldn’t even realise she hadn’t come home.
‘The insurance...’ Brent bleated but it was a weak bleat. He looked almost hopeful.
‘I’ll sign a waiver,’ Max told him. ‘Miss Raye might not have childcare credentials but I’ve seen enough to know I want her.’
‘You’re on duty again tomorrow?’ Brent demanded.
‘Yes, sir, at eight.’
He nodded. ‘Then it seems satisfactory.’ The fact that she’d just done a double shift, that she could well be up all night with a newborn and she had to work tomorrow seemed to worry neither of them. But then she thought...double money. A double shift today, payment for a double shift tonight and then tomorrow’s shift... She could almost pay for Tom’s tooth to be capped with that. Tom was working all summer to pay his uni fees but the money wouldn’t stretch to dentistry.
And baby Phoebe was asleep. With luck, it’d be just a couple of quick feeds during the night.
So... She had her back to the wall but she also had Max Grayland at her mercy.
She could try.
So she tilted her chin and met his gaze square-on.
‘I agree,’ she told him. ‘On one more condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘I need the biggest, fanciest box of cherry liqueur chocolates that money can buy, gift-wrapped and delivered here before I leave work tomorrow. If you can find me those, we have a deal.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Max said, astounded.
‘Miss Raye...’ A hissed warning from Brent.
But she ignored him. Tomorrow night would be crazy. Christmas Eve would be in full swing before she got home. She’d have cooking, gift-wrapping, hugging, greeting, chaos... And Gran was expecting her chocolates.
‘That or nothing,’ she told him and Max met her look. A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. For a moment she even saw a twinkle. Laughter?
‘They’re that important?’
‘That or nothing,’ she repeated and the twitch turned into a smile.
It transformed his face. She’d thought he seemed harsh, autocratic, bleak, but suddenly he was laughing at her...no, with her, she thought, because his smile seemed almost kind. His gaze was still on hers, holding her, blocking out the rest of the world.
Oh, my... It was enough to take a girl’s breath away.
Actually, it had taken her breath away. She needed to find herself a nice, quiet place and remember how to get it back.
But Max had moved on. He turned to Brent. ‘Mr Cottee? Cherry liqueur chocolates?’
‘I’m sure Miss Raye doesn’t mean it,’ Brent said.
Sunny opened her mouth to retort but she didn’t need to. Max got in before her.
‘Miss Raye doesn’t have to explain,’ Max said smoothly. ‘It’s me who requires it. The biggest, fanciest box of cherry liqueur chocolates money can buy, delivered to this suite before Miss Raye finishes work tomorrow.’
At least this was easy. This hotel seemingly had links to every service industry in town. The cost would be high but Brent knew enough not to quibble. ‘Yes, sir. We can do that.’
‘And a qualified child carer to take over from Miss Raye in the morning.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brent said and maybe Max heard the uncertainty in Brent’s voice or maybe he didn’t. Sunny did, but she wasn’t saying anything. Tomorrow’s worries were for Max, not for her.
‘Then that’s settled,’ Max said smoothly. He glanced at his watch. ‘I have a conference call coming in from New York in five minutes. I’ll work from my bedroom. Miss Raye, you can use the separate bathroom out here, the kitchenette and anything you need from room service. Mr Cottee will no doubt organise it. I’ll see you in the morning.’
So that was it. A child, dumped...
No.
‘Say goodnight to her,’ she managed.
‘What?’
‘You heard. Say goodnight to your sister.’
‘She’s asleep.’
‘Yes, and you’re family. Who knows what she can hear or not hear, but it seems to me you’re all the family she’s got. Say goodnight to her.’
‘Miss Raye...’ Brent sounded outraged but she was past caring. Once again she met Max’s gaze full-on, defiant, and memories were all around.
Her childish voice from the past. ‘She’s your baby. You should feed her...’ And her mother slapping her hard and slamming the door as she left.
This man wasn’t in a position to slap her. She could still walk away. This was her only chance—maybe baby Phoebe’s only chance—to find herself someone who cared.
And once again something twisted on Max Grayland’s face. He gave her a look she didn’t understand, then wheeled and walked back to the pram.
‘Goodnight,’ he muttered.
‘Properly,’ she hissed. ‘Touch her. Say it properly.’
‘Miss Raye!’ Brent was practically exploding but she wasn’t backing down.
‘Do it.’
And Max sent her a look that was almost afraid. There was a long silence. He knew what she was demanding, she thought, and he was afraid of it.
But finally he turned back to the pram. He gazed down for a long moment at the sleeping baby—a newborn, who was his half-sister.
And his expression changed yet again. He put a finger down and stroked the tiny face, a feather touch, a blessing.
‘Goodnight,’ he said again and then looked back at Sunny. ‘Satisfied?’
‘That’ll do for now,’ she said smugly and smiled.
The look he sent her was pure bafflement. But then his phone rang. He snagged it from his pocket, glanced at the screen and swore. ‘My conference call...’
‘We’ll take care of everything, sir,’ Brent said smoothly. ‘Take your call. Goodnight.’
‘Thank you,’ he said formally and, with a last uncertain glance at Sunny, he turned, walked into his grand bedroom and closed the door behind him.
WHAT HAD WOKEN HIM? Probably nothing, he conceded. His body was still on New York time, even if in reality his body was lying in a king-sized bed in a suite overlooking Sydney Harbour.
Four a.m.
Today was the day he’d bury his father.
Nothing less important than this would have dragged him half a world from New York for Christmas. His usual method of coping with the festive season was to have his housekeeper fill his apartment with food, set himself up with the company’s