The Tycoon's Instant Daughter. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
in his own way. He liked women. Plural. Well, not several at once. But a lot of them, one at a time. And while he was liking them, he’d always been damn careful not to get one of them pregnant. But apparently, with Marnie Lott—whose face, he felt a little ashamed to admit, he could hardly remember—he hadn’t been quite careful enough.
And now there was Becky.
The more he got used to her, the more he looked at her and burped her and held her in his arms, the more he thought that having her was just fine.
Perfect, really.
He’d done his bit toward perpetuating the family line. And he hadn’t had to get married and ruin some poor woman’s life to do it.
Becky made a small, cooing sound. But she didn’t wake. She cooed again, and rubbed her tiny lips together, then turned her head with a sigh toward the wall.
Cord stayed very still. He didn’t want to wake her, really. She might start crying and then Ms. Miller would come flying in here, shooting him narrow-eyed looks—and then probably deciding it was time he learned to do more than burping. He’d end up changing a diaper or something equally unsettling. He knew that woman. And he understood the kinds of things she was going to start expecting him to do.
But Becky’s eyes stayed shut. He watched the gentle rising and falling of her tiny chest and realized she wasn’t going to wake up, after all.
He was just about to tiptoe out when he heard a faint sound—the creaking of a chair, perhaps, or the squeak of a floorboard. He looked up, through the open door to the playroom and beyond.
A sliver of golden light shown beneath the closed door to the nanny’s room.
Ms. Miller was still awake.
Should that surprise him? It was only ten-thirty. No real reason she should necessarily have been sleeping.
Except, maybe, that he pictured her as someone who went to bed at twilight and rose before dawn.
He pictured her in a white cotton nightgown, with little bits of lace in small ruffled rows, at the cuffs and around the neck. The kind of nightgown a young girl would wear, so modest, covering everything—unless she just happened to stand in front of a lamp.
And then a man would be able to see it all: soft, secret curves sweetly outlined, and a tempting dark shadow in the V where her thighs joined…
Cord shook his head—hard.
What the hell? Was it possible he’d just had a sexual fantasy concerning Ms. Miller?
No. Not a fantasy. An erotic image, that was all. A quick flash on the screen of his overactive imagination, more proof of the unflagging persistence of his libido.
It meant nothing. He started to turn again.
But then he noticed the shadows. He could see them, moving across the floor. She was walking around in there.
Why?
Oh, for pity’s sake, Stockwell, he thought in disgust. It’s her room. She has a damn right to walk around in it whenever she wants.
But was she all right? Was something disturbing her? Was there something she needed, something he’d forgotten to make certain that she had?
She was his guest, after all, until she found her own replacement. At least, he supposed he should consider her a guest, since they’d never actually agreed on what he would pay her.
Now that he thought about it, what he would pay her was something they needed to agree on. He wouldn’t take advantage of her. She didn’t make a lot of money in the first place. She was also giving up her own vacation time to take care of his little girl and interview nannies for him. She deserved to be paid for it, and he intended to make certain she got what she deserved.
In several long strides, he covered the distance between his daughter’s crib and the nanny’s door. Leaving himself no opportunity to pause and reconsider, he knocked quickly, three sharp raps.
For a moment, after he knocked, there was silence. A thoroughly nerve-racking dead quiet. And then, at last, she pulled open the door.
Almost, he groaned.
He could not believe what his eyes were showing him.
Chapter Four
Cord looked down, to collect his scattered wits.
Her feet were bare. They were very nice feet. Pale and long, with pretty toes.
No polish. Uh-uh. No polish for Ms. Miller.
He couldn’t resist. He let his gaze wander upward, taking in the white nightgown—white cotton, yes. Exactly. With the lamp behind her, he could see the outline of her ankles and the lower swell of a pair of surprisingly strong-looking calves.
But no more.
She hadn’t followed his fantasy—correction, erotic image—to the letter, after all. She also wore a robe. A green one, of some indeterminate light fabric, over the white gown.
He imagined stepping forward and removing that robe.
But he didn’t. He stayed right where he was—on the playroom side of her bedroom door.
Hannah clutched her nightgown at the neck and looked up into her employer’s handsome face. “What is it, Mr. Stockwell?”
He cleared his throat. “Ms. Miller, we haven’t discussed how much I’ll be paying you.”
She didn’t understand his expression. It was a bewildered kind of look. And it didn’t fit at all with the arrogant, take-charge kind of man she knew him to be.
“Um,” she said, and swallowed. “Are you all right?”
His dark brows crunched up over that nose that belonged on a Roman coin. “All right? Of course, I’m all right. What do you mean?”
Now he looked angry. Oh, she did not like this. Something was happening here, and she didn’t know what. “Well, it’s just that you look so—”
“What?” He practically barked the word.
She backed up a step. “Nothing. Never mind.” In an instinctive attempt at self-protection, she started to push the door shut.
He stuck out his right hand and stopped it. “I told you. I want to talk about your salary.”
She looked at his outstretched arm, at his big hand gripping the door, and then she looked back at him. “Right now?”
“Why not?”
“It’s eleven at night.”
He lifted his free hand and glanced at the fancy watch on his wrist. “Ten forty-two.”
“Will you please let go of the door?”
He did. She considered shutting it in his face. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. She kept thinking how lost he’d looked a moment ago, and, well, feeling just a tiny bit sympathetic toward him.
Which was crazy. Cord Stockwell did not require her sympathy.
But still, she didn’t shut the door on him. She only stood there, her fingers nervously stroking the small lace ruffle at the neck of her nightgown.
All right, she thought. He wants to talk money. We’ll talk money. We can do that quickly. And then he can go. “Well, um. As I told you before, I’m on vacation anyway. So it isn’t really necessary for you to—”
He swore. “Don’t give me that. I hired you to do a job. You will be paid for it.”
“It’s only for a few—”
“Just name a price.”
“Okay. Fine. How about a daily rate?”
“Good. Whatever.” He kept staring at her neck, where her hand