Page 9 of The Millionaire's Baby

Would he be aware that capital from one of the funds had been used by the agency? Hardly likely. Such small beer would be beneath the notice of the powerful chief executive; the release would have been dealt with at a much lower level.

And he wouldn't connect her surname with the name of the barely ex-schoolgirl he had seduced and abandoned two years ago. Farr was a fairly common name. He probably couldn't remember Katie's name in any case.

In any case, had he leaped to the conclusion that because her surname was Farr she had to be connected to Katie, then surely he would have mentioned it by now? She was, she assured herself staunchly, getting away with it!

So it was just idle conversation and her cover wasn't blown. She picked up her as yet untouched glass of wine and twirled it slowly round by the stem.

'How should I know? It gets a good press. I only signed on with them recently.' It was a blessing she wasn't Pinocchio or by now her nose would have reached right over the table, probably poking holes in the crisp white shirt that covered those mightily im­pressive shoulders.

'I see. How long have you been working as a nanny?' Finn leant back in his chair, watching the film of colour rise beneath her skin. He didn't need that, or the way she suddenly buried her nose in her wine glass, to tell him she was hiding something. Telling lies to cover the truth.

Which was? His narrowed eyes lingered on the at­tenuated line of her throat as she tipped her glass, drinking deeply. That she had no idea he knew who she was and had already guessed she'd turned her hand to nannying to bring in desperately needed extra funds.

She and her partner, the pleasant, capable-seeming middle-aged woman who'd interviewed him initially, wouldn't want it known that their high-flying agency had taken a nose-dive.

'Not long.' She answered his question when her glass was empty and she could no longer find an ex­cuse to keep silent. But at least it was the truth. Less than twenty-four hours, in fact. A sudden urge to gig­gle had her wondering if swallowing that wine had been one of the best ideas she'd ever had.

So she wasn't going to come clean. He could wait. Finn refilled her glass from the bottle of Moselle he'd ordered. She barely knew him, after all. She would hardly take him into her confidence so soon, and he was reluctant to force it out of her by telling her he knew she was the other half—the driving half—of the partnership.

He wanted her to trust him enough to share her problems with him, and so allow him to help her get to grips with them. He wanted those problems, and the subterfuge, out of the way. And he knew the per­fect way to hasten that happy event. He had already made up his mind. To gain her trust he needed a more intimate atmosphere than an impersonal hotel suite could provide.

'I'd like you to pack for you and Sophie first thing in the morning.' Her attention was back on him again, her eyes wide and golden, completely without artifice, mildly questioning. Beautiful. He held them, his voice soft as he told her, 'We're moving to the country. A cottage just big enough for the three of us. Secluded, peaceful, a good place to draw breath.' His eyes were drawn without his say-so to her mouth. A soft mouth, the colour of crushed strawberries and probably just as sweet.

Or sweeter. And open now. The parted, berry-sweet lips held him fascinated as he said in a voice he barely recognised as his own, 'You'd like that?'

CHAPTER FOUR

'Not a lot!' The words were snapped out before Caro could stop them.

A secluded country cottage, just the three of them—and a fifteen-month-old toddler hardly counted as a chaperon—sounded definitely something to avoid, given his despicable womanising inclinations. It wasn't what he had actually said but the way he had said it that had set alarm bells ringing. But to keep the nanny pretence up and running she should have acceded to whatever her employer had suggested with a calm 'Of course, whatever you say, sir'.

Too late now, though. She presented him with a face as blank as she could possibly make it while she waited to discover what he'd make of this further in­subordination and noted that, impossibly, he appeared to be smothering laughter.

'So you're a city girl.' He noticed her taut features. In all probability that was a natural reaction to a child­hood spent in rural Hertfordshire, physically isolated by the vastness of the family estate, mentally domi­nated by that scratchy old matriarch, Elinor Farr. It made sense, and at least she'd been up front about that. It was a start.

'Come with me.' He left the table and her eyes raked suspiciously over the lean length of him. He looked great. Nature had given him the perfect male physique, added a few barrowloads of laid-back charm and topped off the recipe with more simmering sex appeal than was good for him or womankind.

Swallowing some sort of obstruction that was annoyingly clogging her throat, Caro reluctantly fol­lowed him to the sofa and sank down on the empty space beside him which he was patting invitingly.

Evening sunlight was streaming through the win­dows, touching his skin with gold, glancing off the coppery highlights in his thick dark hair. Caro swal­lowed another lump and forced her eyes away, fas­tening them on the sheaf of estate agents particulars he was extracting from a glossy folder.

She didn't want to find anything about him ap­pealing; it would be a type of betrayal, both to herself and her darling little sister. She would remind herself of that every time she found herself watching him, inadvertently admiring the way he looked.

'I'm house-hunting, as you know, and I've got the details of three properties in Bedfordshire here, any one of which could fit the bill, but obviously I need to view.' Long, blunt-ended fingers flicked through the glossy pages. 'A friend of mine has a weekend cottage in the area as it happens. He offered me the use of it while he and his family are holidaying abroad, and I think we could find ways to make good use of it, don't you?'

He leaned back, angling wide, hard shoulders into the corner of the sofa, his eyes holding hers with an intimacy that was shocking, his smile pure wicked­ness as he drawled softly, 'The idea must appeal, surely?'

Not in the least. In fact it gave her the shivers be­cause Finn Helliar was surely flirting with her; what he had said about finding ways of making good use of a secluded country cottage had been loaded with suggestions she didn't want to even contemplate.

Wisely, though, she held her tongue, and was glad she had when he elaborated, apparently quite harm­lessly, 'It will make a handy base for viewing all three properties and it will do us all good to get some fresh clean air into our lungs. And I can't wait to see what Sophie makes of fields with cows in them and trees with apples growing on them instead of coming in paper bags from the greengrocer's.'

Waxing lyrical now, was he? Caro gave him a with­ering look, excused herself, and went to bed.

Caro woke to a room filled with summer morning sunshine, baby-babble, and the insistent rattling of the bars of the cot.

'Hi there, poppet!' Caro rolled off the mattress, tugged down the hem of the worn old T-shirt she wore to bed and lifted the small bundle of vivacious energy out from the

cot. And spent the next hour playing with her charge.

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