Loe raamatut: «Cinderella's Tycoon»

One

The telephone was ringing.

Head down, arms braced against the slick white shower tile, Sterling Churchill tensed at the shrill sound, the muscles in his back tightening reflexively beneath the pounding spray.

Why the hell doesn’t Maxine get that? he wondered irritably a second before he remembered he was alone in the house. His return from Obersbourg earlier than planned had sent his housekeeper rushing off to the grocery store, muttering crossly under her breath about a certain person’s lack of consideration.

Sterling snorted. After ten years in his employ, Max damn well ought to know he would have called if it had been feasible. As it was, he was just glad to be home, in one piece, the mission successfully completed. To the relief of everyone involved, Princess Anna and young William were now here safely in Royal, Texas.

He yawned. While the first part of the rescue had mostly involved a lot of time-consuming research and planning, once they’d put their plan into motion, things had happened fast. As a consequence, for the past week he’d operated on too little sleep and too much adrenaline, and it was finally taking its toll. As he’d unsuccessfully tried to tell Maxine when he’d gotten in that morning, he didn’t care about food. All he wanted was a long hot shower and sleep.

Not that he was complaining. Lately his life had seemed increasingly empty, and he’d welcomed the break in his routine. He wasn’t sure what it said about his character, but he’d relished the challenge of getting the princess out of Obersbourg, the small, elite country in Europe that was her homeland. And he had to admit that, despite the potential danger, he’d also enjoyed the adrenaline rush of eluding the Palace Guard as their small group—he, Greg Hunt and Forrest Cunningham, the princess and her little boy—made their way to the small, private airfield where their plane had been waiting.

Of course, the point was they had gotten away, he acknowledged with a grim smile. And it was a damn good thing. He didn’t have a doubt that their involvement would have sparked an international incident had they been intercepted. Or that Prince Ivan of Asterland—the man determined to marry Princess Anna—would have pressed to see them jailed and prosecuted. It was just too bad for Ivan that they’d succeeded...

The phone continued to ring. Five, six, seven times—

Abruptly out of patience, Sterling straightened, turned off the water and shoved open the door. His feet barely touched the thick white throw rug as he launched himself across the marble floor. Snatching a burgundy bath sheet off the heated rack, he wrapped it around his waist and stormed into his oversize bedroom, stopping before the inlaid table next to the bed. He snatched up the receiver. “What?”

Dead silence was his answer. Thoroughly disgusted, he began to hang up, only to hesitate as a voice suddenly squawked, “Hello? Mr. Churchill?”

He brought the receiver back to his ear. “That’s right. Who’s this?”

“It’s Mike Tarlick. Margaret’s son?”

Some of his tension drained away. Margaret Tarlick had worked as a secretary in Sterling’s main office at Churchill Enterprises until a car accident had left her seriously injured two years earlier. Tempering his voice, he said a trace more cordially, “Of course. Hey, Mike. How’s your mother?”

“She’s doing fine. She loves the new job, and it sounds as if she’s even going to get a promotion.”

Sterling stifled a yawn and glanced longingly at the vast expanse of his king-size bed. “That’s great.”

“We really can’t thank you enough. If you hadn’t continued to pay her salary and kept up her insurance and found her this new position—”

“It was no big deal,” Sterling said uncomfortably. If there was one thing he hated, it was being thanked for doing the right thing. “Your mama’s a real nice lady and a real hard worker. I just gave her a little head start. What can I do for you?”

“Actually it’s what I can do for you, Mr. Churchill. I’m working as a tech at the Buddy Clinic these days, and I overheard something I think you ought to know.”

Sterling scowled, his mood instantly deteriorating. The Buddy Clinic was local lingo for the Buddy Williams’ Clinic for Reproductive Technology. Ever since Sterling’s marriage had gone bust, he’d done his level best to put the fertility clinic’s existence out of his mind, associating it as he did with his most bitter personal failure.

“You understand, I could lose my job if Mrs. Richey ever finds out I called you,” Mike went on, his voice growing anxious as he mentioned the clinic’s director. “But I just thought...after what you did for Mom... this is something you have a right to know.”

Sterling seriously doubted there was anything Margaret’s son could tell him that he didn’t already know. He and Teresa had undergone every test known to mankind, and the clinic still had been unable to come up with a reason why they couldn’t conceive. Nevertheless... “You’ve got my word that I won’t tell anyone I talked to you.” Despite his level tone, he had a hard time stifling his impatience. After the past few weeks, he’d had all the intrigue he could handle.

“Good.” Mike’s relief was audible. “Because the thing is, I’m breaking all the rules of confidentiality...”

“Just tell me,” Sterling said tiredly.

Mike took a deep breath. “Okay. I overheard two of the nurses talking. It seems there was a mix-up. A patient came in to be artificially inseminated and somehow the lab misread the code on the storage vial. The donor specimen that was used was...yours.”

“What?” Sterling’s head snapped up; his exhaustion suddenly forgotten.

“I don’t know what happened, Mr. Churchill, honest. Everyone here is always so careful. Normally everything is checked and double-checked, but that day the regular lab manager was out sick and they had some temporary help filling in and—” he took a deep breath “—I I wouldn’t have bothered you, except that I pulled the chart and the test came back positive and I thought you ought to know.”

Sterling forced himself to concentrate as he tried to sort through the avalanche of information. Finally he said carefully, “What test came back positive?”

“The pregnancy test,” the young man said matter-of-factly.

For a second Sterling couldn’t seem to breathe. “The woman is pregnant?”

“Yeah. That’s why I thought you ought to know. I mean, I’m sure Mrs. Richey intends to tell you, but first she’ll want to meet with the lawyers and—”

“Mike?” Damn. Dammit all to hell. Some stranger was going to have his baby? And he wasn’t even supposed to know? Sterling took a deep breath, deliberately loosened the death grip he had on the phone and tried to sound calm. “What’s the pregnant woman’s name, Mike?”

“Oh, I don’t think...that is, I’m sure Mrs. Richey will want to be the one to tell you...”

Sterling squeezed his eyes shut. “Please. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

There was another silence, the longest so far, and then Mike Tarlick said with obvious reluctance, “I really shouldn’t do this, but I guess...I mean, I suppose you have the right to know. It’s Wilkins. Susan Wilkins.”

The name seemed vaguely familiar. Sterling struggled to put a face with it. For a moment nothing surfaced, and then it came to him. Susan Wilkins was that nondescript little redhead who worked at the library, the one who was a friend of Callie Langley’s.

“Mr. Churchill? Are you there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course I am. I appreciate the call, Mike. I won’t forget it. Thanks.”

“You’re wel—”

Sterling dropped the receiver into the cradle, uncaring that he’d cut the young man off. Ripping the towel free of his waist, he strode toward the huge walk-in closet, his mind whirling.

Like it or not, sleep would have to wait. Not only did he have a call to make at the fertility clinic, but—more important—he had urgent business with a certain redheaded librarian.

Susan Wilkins strolled slowly along the sidewalk.

Stopping briefly before Cachet, the most exclusive of the many chic boutiques that lined Royal’s Main Street, she took a moment to admire a sleek, pricey lilac-colored sheath on display in the window.

It was going on six o’clock. And despite a sluggish breeze that halfheartedly rattled the leaves on the big oak tree that stood sentinel down the street by Claire’s, the town’s best French restaurant, it was hot. The heat seemed to rise right off the concrete, burning through the soles of her worn leather flats and causing a trickle of perspiration to roll down her back. She could hardly wait to get home, take off her shoes, strip off her panty hose and exchange her work clothes for a pair of loose shorts and a T-shirt.

Yet she didn’t hurry. And not because of the heat or her aching feet, which were courtesy of the two hours of overtime she’d put in at the Royal Public Library. Nor even because of the bone-deep exhaustion that seemed to weigh at her like an invisible anchor. And certainly not because of the dress. As pretty as it was, she had far more important things to spend her hard-earned money on.

Instead she stayed where she was a little longer simply to savor the day. She admired the dress and basked in the brightness of the vast blue sky overhead. She drank in the sounds of the people coming and going around her and inhaled the faint scent of freshly cut grass coming from Royalty Park a few blocks away.

When she finally did resume walking, she couldn’t help smiling a little at her uncharacteristic dreaminess. Or reflecting that lately she seemed to be floating on a secret sea of happiness. She’d felt this way for the past three weeks, ever since her pregnancy test had turned out to be positive. Finally, finally, her dream was coming true. She was going to have a baby.

She didn’t kid herself that it was going to be easy. Money would be tight, and although the library allowed for an adequate maternity leave, she already dreaded the thought of leaving her child when the time came to go back to work. Still, it would be all right. Money wasn’t everything, and she was rich in what mattered most: She had an abundance of love to share.

Besides, it wasn’t as if this was a decision she’d come to lightly. She’d been considering it for years. And, as she’d told Mrs. Richey at the clinic, not only wasn’t there a man in her life, but at twenty-eight, she wasn’t getting any younger. Now that she’d finally been promoted to assistant head librarian, paid off the last of her college loans and managed to put aside a modest nest egg, the timing seemed right.

Thinking of Mrs. Richey made her remember that she’d forgotten to return the woman’s phone call. It had come right at closing, when she’d been busy checking out last-minute patrons, and had simply gone right out of her head. She couldn’t contain a smile. So far, a tendency toward forgetfulness and this constant exhaustion seemed to be the chief symptoms of her condition. Telling herself it could be worse—at least she didn’t have morning sickness—she made a note to call the clinic director first thing in the morning.

Catching sight of her tiny rental house, she finally picked up her pace, only to falter as she caught sight of the man planted on her small front stoop.

Her stomach did a flip-flop. It was Sterling Churchill. Although she didn’t know him personally—she didn’t exactly move in the same social circles as powerful, self-made millionaires and men like him didn’t patronize the public library—she knew who he was. How could she not? Not only was he a civic leader and a member of the prestigious Texas Cattleman’s Club, like her friend Callie’s new husband, Hank, but in a town the size of Royal, he was hard to overlook. She knew that he was in his mid-thirties, that as the CEO of Churchill Enterprises he had holdings in everything from cattle futures to oil wells, that he’d been married and was now divorced.

She also knew that he was big, dark and...compelling.

A wave of heat that had nothing to do with the weather rolled through her. She recalled the questionnaire she’d been required to fill out for the clinic, listing the qualities she wanted in her baby’s father. The personality part had been the most important, of course. On it she’d stated that she wanted somebody kind, gentle and honorable, like her own father.

But there’d also been a section for physical attributes. She shifted uncomfortably on the hot pavement as she acknowledged that when she’d requested someone tall, lean and imposing, with dark hair, light eyes, chiseled features and a graceful way of moving, she might have been describing Sterling.

Yet there was no way he could know about that. Could he? No, of course not. Nobody but the people at the clinic even knew she was expecting. And though she’d told Callie what she’d done, she trusted her friend to have kept her secret.

So what could he possibly want?

Before she had time to venture a guess he turned and caught sight of her. His gaze flicked over her, and something in his expression made her self-conscious. She glanced down at her mauve jumper, acknowledging that perhaps the calf-length hem and voluminous skirt weren’t the most fashionable, and that the color might not have been the wisest choice for someone with her pale skin and auburn hair. And it probably didn’t help that the hair in question was escaping its careful coil. Raising a hand, she wasn’t surprised to find that the slippery mass was listing sharply to one side, while wisps snaked down her neck and tickled her temples and ears.

Still, that was hardly a reason for her visitor’s jaw to suddenly bunch the way it did. Nor did it explain the decidedly cool note coloring his Texas drawl—so much more melodic than her own Northern diction—as he said gruffly, “Ms. Wilkins?”

As so often happened, shyness stole her tongue. Embarrassed, she ducked her head, and tried desperately to relax. After all, in roughly seven months she was going to be somebody’s mother. How could she hope to take care of a child, if she couldn’t handle a simple conversation?

Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “Hello, Mr. Churchill. May I help you?” Oh, brilliant, Susan. You sound like the order taker at a fast-food restaurant.

“We need to talk.”

“We do?”

He gave her a don’t-waste-my-time look. “We do.”

Biting her lip, she crossed the sun-burned lawn and stopped before the single step to look up at him. Casually dressed in boots, jeans, a navy polo shirt and the Stetson that Susan sometimes thought was required dress for every man in Texas, he had an innate elegance that made her more aware than ever of her own woeful state. Clearing her throat, she said, “Is this about Callie and Hank? Are they okay?”

He stared at her blankly, then gave an impatient shrug. “As far as I know. Last I heard, they were still on their honeymoon.”

“Thank goodness.” She gave a sigh of relief and tried to explain the reason for her question. “I just thought, since we both know them, that you must be here because something had happened.”

“It has. But not to them.” He motioned toward the door with an abrupt jerk of his head. “Why don’t we go inside?”

It was more an order than a request. Yet staring up into his cool gray eyes, she couldn’t find the nerve to refuse. “All right.” Glad for an excuse to look away, she fumbled in her purse for her house key.

She stepped up onto the stoop, sidled past him and unlocked her door. He was so close she could smell him, and the unfamiliar combination of aftershave, freshly laundered clothes and something else that was uniquely male made her hand tremble on the doorknob.

She walked gratefully into her dim little living room. It felt reassuringly familiar, not to mention refreshingly cool after the outside heat. Setting her purse on the small table next to the couch, she turned to face her guest, taking a surprised step back as she found he was standing right behind her, hat in hand. She sent him a tremulous smile. “Can I—can I get you something to drink?”

He didn’t smile back. “No.”

Suddenly desperate for a glass of water—her throat was so dry it was hard to swallow, and she really could use a moment to herself—she backed toward the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind if I get something for myself—”

“I understand you’re not married,” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“Do you have a boyfriend? Someone you care about?”

She. stopped in her tracks and gawked at him. “I hardly think that’s your concern,” she said faintly.

“It is if you’re having a baby. Are you?” He spoke as if he had every right to ask such a question.

“Mr. Churchill. Really!”

He took a step toward her. “Are you?”

Although she cautiously took a step back, his very intensity compelled her to answer. “Yes. Yes, I am. But how did you...that is where did you...” How could he possibly know? After all, Mrs. Richey had assured her of the clinic’s strict rules of confidentiality, unless—oh! The phone call! That must be it. There must have been some sort of security breach and—

“It’s mine.”

She stared at him, certain she hadn’t heard right. “What?”

“The baby. It’s mine,” he said flatly.

For half a second the room seemed to constrict, and then her common sense kicked in. She shook her head. “No. It most certainly is not. You—you—you’re—” Crazy.

Of course! She felt overwhelming relief, followed by a rush of compassion and a smidgen of regret as the harmless romantic fantasy she’d woven about him completely unraveled. Nevertheless, his being “confused” was the only rational explanation. Drawing a deep breath to steady herself, she said gently but firmly, “You’re mistaken, Mr. Churchill. I don’t know where you got this idea, but I assure you you’re wrong.”

“You’re not pregnant?”

“Well, yes, I am, but—”

“Then it’s mine.”

“No,” she said more sharply than she intended. “I mean—how could it be? I’ve never... And you and I most certainly have never...” Out of the blue, her imagination served up a brief but steamy vision of the two of them creating a baby the old-fashioned way. Mortified, she felt a betraying flush of heat rise in her cheeks. “That is, we’ve never even spoken before today,” she said hastily.

“There was a mix-up at the clinic. My semen was used in your procedure.”

She shook her head. “No—”

“Yes,” he contradicted, his voice suddenly harsh. “How the hell do you think I know about this? About you?”

His vehemence silenced her. The truth was there, not only in what he said but in his grim face. “Oh, dear. Oh, my. It can’t be. There must be a mistake. This is my baby. Mine...”

“Not anymore. Now it’s ours.”

Whether it was the shock, the heat or his alarming words, she suddenly felt faint. Black spots danced before her eyes and the room began to whirl around her. She must have swayed, because the next thing she knew he was at her side. Ignoring her cry of protest, he slid one big muscular arm around her back, slipped the other under her knees and lifted her into his arms.

If Susan hadn’t already felt faint, his sudden proximity would have done it. Cradled against his broad chest, she was bombarded by foreign sensations. There was his warmth, the steely strength of his body, the solid beat of his heart against her breast. She squeezed her eyes shut, awash in contradictory feelings. Part of her wanted him to put her down this instant. But another part, shameless and unfamiliar, had an awful desire to snuggle closer. Confused, she gave a grateful sigh as he leaned over and she felt the nubby surface of her couch against the backs of her legs.

Without a word, he sat beside her and forced her head toward her knees. “Breathe,” he ordered.

She nodded, doing as he said until the world quit spinning. “I’m sorry,” she murmured finally, shrugging off his hand and sitting upright. “I’m not usually a fainter. It’s just... I can’t seem to take it in...” Swallowing, she turned to look at him. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Positive. I just spent an hour with Margaret Richey. There’s no question. The child you’re carrying is mine.”

A dozen questions immediately popped into her mind. Like, why had the clinic told him before they’d told her? Wasn’t there some sort of rule that she had to be notified first? As far as that went, shouldn’t Mrs. Richey have come in person to tell her, instead of allowing Sterling to deliver the news?

Yet those things could all be answered later. Right now, the only question that mattered was the one she was most terrified to have answered. “Why—” she had to stop and clear her throat “—why are you here? What do you want?”

“I told you. We need to talk.”

As an answer, that was hardly illuminating. She considered him, trying to read his emotions and drawing a blank. Whatever he felt, he didn’t let it show on his face. He simply looked...remote. And very formidable. “I—I won’t make any claim on you,” she said slowly, wondering if that was at the heart of his reserve. “I mean, I know you have money, but this doesn’t really have anything to do with you. It was entirely my decision and I’m more than prepared to take full responsibility—”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, no. Biologically this child is half mine. Not only do I expect to take my share of the responsibility, but—” for the first time he hesitated, if only for a second “—I’m willing to take all the responsibility.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you’ll give me the child, I’ll see to it that it has everything it could possibly need.”

She could feel her eyes widen as his meaning sank in. She jumped to her feet. “No!” Agitation stripped away the last trace of her normal reserve. “I could never do that. This is my baby! I’ve waited and planned and dreamed about having it, and I’m not giving it up. Not to you or anybody!”

He stared stonily at her, then leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms. “All right. We’ll get married.”

“What?”

“We’ll get married,” he repeated. “It’s probably better, anyway. Kids ought to have two parents.”

She’d been right earlier. He was crazy. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know you!”

He climbed to his feet, once again towering over her. “Then it’s time you start. And what you’d better understand is, that’s my kid you’re carrying, most likely my son, and I’m not going to stand on the sidelines, with no say in his upbringing, while he spends most of his life either alone or with a baby-sitter while you struggle to support him. So you can either marry me—or I’ll sue you for custody. Your choice. Although—” he took a pointed look around, his gray eyes unreadable as he examined her minuscule living room with its worn furnishings “—I think it’s only fair to point out that you’d have a mighty slim chance of winning.”

Susan stared at him. It was clear from his implacable expression that he meant every word he said. Still, the whole idea was crazy. Marriage was meant to be the kind of loving, trusting relationship her parents had enjoyed, not an alternative to being sued, for heaven’s sake.

Still, he was right about one thing. In the best of all possible worlds, a child should have two parents to love it. Not that she agreed with his crazy proposal. She couldn’t possibly marry him. The whole idea was preposterous.

Yet his expression made it clear that he expected her to acquiesce. “I—I’ll need some time to think about it,” she hedged instead, trying to buy herself some time until she could come up with a better solution.

His eyes narrowed. “No. Nothing is going to change, and I don’t want people counting on their fingers when our child is born. It’s going to be touch and go as it is.”

“But what if something happens? It’s still early in the pregnancy yet. Something could go wrong...”

“We’ll deal with that if it happens.”

“Oh, but—”

“Look, I’m not exactly wild about this myself.” For half a second, a bleak look came over his face. Then his expression hardened. “But it is the best solution. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I’m not some sort of wife beater or anything. I promise I’ll take good care of you and the baby. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but still...”

“Yes or no?” he said intractably.

“I...”

“Choose.”

Oh! What should she do? Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to envision marriage to Sterling—and failed. She had no trouble, however, picturing the two of them in court. In her mind, she could see him surrounded by high-priced lawyers as some faceless judge banged a gavel down and awarded him custody of her baby. “I...I—yes,” she whispered.

“Good.” He was suddenly brusque. “How does tomorrow sound to you?”

Her eyes popped open. “For what?”

“The ceremony. Judge Lester’s a friend of mine. I’m sure he’ll be glad to do it.”

“But I have to work!”

“Call in and tell them you quit,” he commanded. “I’ve got more than enough money for the both of us, and in your condition you shouldn’t be on your feet anyway.”

She gazed at him in shock, stunned by how casually he was rearranging her entire life. “But—but—I can’t!”