Baby Of Convenience

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.