His Baby

Cordie had a horrible feeling that she understood what Killian meant, but she had to be sure. “You said you didn’t want to reconcile.”

“That’s right,” he told her.

She folded her arms so he wouldn’t see her hands tremble. “You’ll keep me until the birth, then take the baby away from me?”

“We’ll work out a deal.”

Without thinking twice, she struck him hard on the shoulder. “You don’t deal over a baby.” To herself she added, This isn’t part of the plan. You’re supposed to invite me back into your life! “I’m not giving up my claim to the baby,” Killian said unequivocally.

“It’s mine!”

“It’s ours. And trying to pretend I don’t figure in his life isn’t going to work.”

She was suddenly aware that her plot had a serious pitfall. Killian was going to fight her for the baby. And he had an army of lawyers. “You’re hateful,” she said in a heartfelt whisper.

He gave her a brief nod, as though it was of no consequence. “I gathered you felt that way when you slept with Brian.”

Dear Reader,

The Hamptons on Long Island, New York, have always held a fascination for me. My only experience with the area is what I’ve seen at the movies or in decorating magazines. I love the notion of a sprawling, beachy house decorated in shabby chic and fronted by lawn and sea grass that meanders to the ocean. I can visualize Japanese lanterns, smell clam boils and barbecues, and hear music and laughter.

Of course, my writer’s mind has to populate this place. I decided upon three brothers who’ve inherited the family wealth and business, but still bear guilt over a little sister who went missing twenty-five years earlier.

In my imagination, this sunny upscale place became Losthampton, and I created Killian, Sawyer and Campbell Abbott to live there with various members of their household and staff. Over the course of this series they will attract three strong, wise women who help them heal, and make their lives more interesting—and surprising—along the way.

Thank you for wanting to know them.

Best wishes!

Muriel

P.O. Box 1168

Astoria, Oregon 97103

Books by Muriel Jensen

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

866—FATHER FOUND

882—DADDY TO BE DETERMINED

953—JACKPOT BABY *

965—THAT SUMMER IN MAINE

His Baby

Muriel Jensen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE ABBOTTS—A GENEALOGY

THOMAS and ABIGAIL ABBOTT (arrived on the Mayflower; raised sheep outside of Plymouth)

WILLIAM and DEBORAH ABBOTT (built a woolenmill in the early nineteenth century)

JACOB and BEATRICE ABBOTT (ran the mill and fell behind the competition when they failed to modernize)

JAMES and ELIZA ABBOTT (Jacob’s eldest son and grandfather of Killian, Sawyer and Campbell; married a cotton heiress from Virginia)

NATHAN and SUSANNAH STEWART ABBOTT (parents of Killian and Sawyer; Nathan diversified to boost the business and married Susannah, the daughter of a Texas oilman who owned Bluebonnet Knoll)

NATHAN ABBOTT and CHLOE MARCEAU (parents of Campbell and Abigail; renamed Bluebonnet Knoll and made it Shepherd’s Knoll)

KILLIAN ABBOTT is married to CORDELIA MAGNOLIA HYATT

His brothers are SAWYER and CAMPBELL

His sister, ABIGAIL, is still missing

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Killian Abbott strode to the small bar behind his desk while Jack Eagan went on with his report. Jack was new, but proving to be the most competent human resources director Abbott Mills, Inc., had ever employed, so Killian listened with only one ear while he poured coffee and wondered what to do about the small chain of Florida clothing stores—Florida Shops—his stepmother wanted him to buy.

The investment wasn’t a big one, just a couple of million dollars, but the acquisition would make Chloe happy because the owner was a friend of hers. Still, the purchase was a distraction he’d prefer not to deal with right now with a divorce in the works and the November Corporation always looking for a break in the wall to attempt a takeover of Abbott Mills.

“Productivity is up eleven percent in the mills, and sales are up more than twenty percent in the stores. We think the new gyms are responsible for some of that. Morale’s up, injuries and accidents are down, and—” Jack, who’d stood when Killian had, stopped talking as Killian handed him a mug of coffee. “Mr. Abbott,” he said with an air of distress. He was older and conscientious and had come to Abbott Mills with a long history of managing household staffs in England. “I wish you wouldn’t wait on me, sir. It makes me nervous.”

Killian pointed him back into his chair and sat on the edge of his desk with his own cup. “It makes me nervous when you stand every time I do. I’m not titled gentry, Jack, just your employer. And you don’t have to call me ‘sir.”’

“Yes, sir.” At Killian’s frown, Jack closed his eyes and groaned. “Even after two years at Southern Massachusetts University, studying business and psychology, I’m having trouble getting the drift of American ways.”

“Just relax.”

“Yes, sir.”

Letting that issue drop for now, Killian indicated the file from which Jack read. “Go on. Productivity and morale are up. Good.” Adding an exercise room to every Abbott Mills store and all other factories the corporation owned had been a good idea. “Injuries and absenteeism are down. I like that.”

Jack held his cup uncomfortably and searched for his place in his notes with his index finger. “Mrs. Hamilton reports that the new cleaning firm we hired for the Dartmouth store is working out very well, as is the new buyer for women’s wear, who came on board last month.”

“All good news,” Killian observed with a smile. “There now, that wasn’t so bad.”

Jack smiled with relief. Killian liked reports given in person rather than dry written reports read at board meetings, and this was Jack’s first. Tall and thickly built, the man had the posture of a marine at fifty-six. When Killian had interviewed him, wanting the right man for the job, he’d asked him why he’d left England after almost a lifetime.

Jack had replied that he’d been widowed, and his only son had died in his teens in a riding accident. “I felt old and aimless,” he’d admitted candidly, “and thought I needed new surroundings.

“I’m here to stay,” he’d said. “You’ll notice on my references that I was with the duke of Burrage for twelve years, until he lost the house to taxes. Then I spent twenty-two years in the service of Lord Dunnsford. I like to put down roots.”

Killian had hired him. He, too, favored roots.

That had been almost three months ago, and he now considered it the smartest move he’d ever made as CEO of Abbott Mills.

Except for Jack’s tendency to treat him like royalty.

The coffee was good—a Zimbabwe blend his secretary, Barbara Garrett, had bought at a little coffee roaster’s on the ground floor of the Abbott Building. The personnel report was good—one more thing he wouldn’t have to worry about in the next few months. And the sun warming his back through his midtown Manhattan window was good, reminding him how nice getting home this weekend, maybe logging some time on the beach, would be.

Jack sighed, obviously pleased. “I’m glad that’s over, sir. Mr. Abbott.”

“But you have to stop thinking of coming to this office as an appearance before the throne. We’re a pretty democratic company.

“Here we all work together in the service of our customers, so to speak. You’ll relax after you’ve spent time with everyone at our annual meeting.”

Jack looked doubtful. “I was told it’s at your home on Long Island this year. Is that true?”

“Yes. We usually get together at a big hotel to meet new members of the staff, look over Abbott Mills’s new products and plan strategy for next year. Last year was great for Abbott Mills and I want everyone to know how much I appreciate the hard work. You’ll give your report to the corporate staff and I think you’ll have a good time.”

“I will?” Jack’s voice went up an octave.

“You will. You did this very well. You’ll be fine. Everyone will stay for the weekend, enjoy the grounds and the beach. It’s a painless way to get things done.”

“Yes. Mr. Abbott.”

Killian took the copy of Jack’s report and perused it. “Anything else I should know about?”

“I don’t think so, sir. The written report has a little more detail, but it all relates to the highlights I’ve already given you. The personnel picture is very good.”

Killian nodded, flipping through the pages. He stopped when he came to the profile of the new employee in women’s wear. She’d been a lucky find, so Jack had told him when he’d hired her as a buyer. She had an MBA and considerable experience in the fashion business. Jack had been enthusiastic about her people skills and her knowledge of—Oh, God!

Killian’s hands froze on the report when his eyes ran over her previous experience. Buyer for Bloomford’s department stores. Three years as marketing manager for Hyatt Furniture in Newport News, Virginia.

Hyatt Furniture!

Three years modeling for…André McGinty!

Dread rising in him, he reread the vital identifying information.

Name: Cordelia Hyatt.

Killian surged to his feet and said a few words Jack had probably not heard among the English gentry, judging by his sudden blanching. Killian slapped the report on his desk and turned to confront Jack, unable to believe the man had done this to him. He was not surprised to find that Jack, too, had gotten to his feet.

“What, sir?” Jack asked in a calm voice. “What is it? Whatever it is, I can fix it.”

“You damn well better, Jack,” Killian replied, temper barely held in check. “You just hired my wife!”

Jack stared at him for a confused moment. “You mean…the one you’re…divorcing?”

“Yes, the one I’m divorcing!” Killian shouted. Then, remembering that he never shouted, he drew a breath and counted ten beats of his heart. That didn’t take long; it was thumping. “How many wives do I have?” he asked reasonably. “Cordelia Hyatt is my wife.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I didn’t know that.” Jack spoke quietly, though he appeared distressed. “When I was first hired, I’d heard rumors of your divorce after only three months, but I didn’t know…I mean…I’d heard your wife was in Scotland. Brokenhearted, everyone said.”

Brokenhearted. Killian glared at him. She had not been brokenhearted. She was just used to having things her way and she’d wanted him very badly. Losing him had simply been a disappointment. One she should have anticipated when she slept with Brian Girard, marketing manager of the November Corporation and son of Corbin Girard, its CEO.

The Girards and the Abbotts had been in serious competition for the upscale ready-to-wear market for years, and Killian’s father and Corbin Girard had hated each other. Killian and Brian had always felt obliged to suspect each other because of that situation. That the press and society put them in opposite corners of the business ring contributed to their contentiousness.

The Girards had been threatening a takeover of Abbott Mills for several years now, and though Killian felt confident that the corporation was too secure for that to happen, the weight of responsibility for a business that had been in his family for over two hundred years made him worry anyway.

Jack squared his shoulders under Killian’s stare. “That’s what they said,” he insisted. “How was I to suspect she’d be back wanting employment? And you must admit that this trend among American women to retain their maiden name contributes to this kind of confusion.”

Killian had to grant him that. He went to the bar behind his desk, ignored the coffeepot and poured himself a shot of bourbon. “She did take my name,” he said, gulping it down. It burned a trail down to his stomach but failed to provide the warming comfort he waited for. He had to acknowledge that it probably wasn’t coming. And he had a meeting with his advertising rep in half an hour; he couldn’t have a second drink. “I’m sure she took advantage of the fact that you were new to the company and wouldn’t recognize her if she used her maiden name.”

Jack asked quietly, “What do you want me to do, sir?”

There was only one answer to that question. “I want you to terminate her.”

Jack stared at him a moment, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Abbott, but you sounded a little like Tony Soprano there. Please define terminate.”

Killian looked into the man’s eyes, wondering if he really doubted what he meant or if he was trying to inject a little humor into a tense situation. “Don’t kill her, Jack,” he replied gravely. “Just fire her.”

“On what grounds, sir? I understand she’s already struck a rapport with her staff and everyone they work with. She’s booked at all the shows for the fall season. Trilby says there’s a renewed dedication among the—”

Killian stopped him with a shake of his head. Trilby Brown was Jack’s assistant and had been with Abbott Mills for seven of her twenty-seven years. She and Cordie had mutual friends and had known each other before Killian had met Cordie. “Trilby knows she was my wife,” he accused. “And she didn’t tell you?”

Jack shook his head and firmed his jaw. “She didn’t, sir. In her defense I can only guess she thought you knew and approved of the hire.”

Killian gave him a pitying look. “Tell me you don’t really believe that.”

Jack sighed. “I’m not sure, sir. There seems to be a cunning charm among American women that’s outside my sheltered experience.”

“Yeah.” Killian put an arm around Jack’s shoulders and led him toward the door. “Mine, too. On second thought, it isn’t fair to ask you to handle this. I’ll take care of it myself.”

“But, it’s my responsi—”

“No.” Killian cut him off firmly. “Cordie is my responsibility. I’ll handle her.”

Now Jack gave him a pitying look.

CORDELIA MAGNOLIA HYATT Abbott wielded the nozzle of a clothing steamer in the back room of the women’s wear department of the Abbott chain’s flagship store on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, just a few blocks from the Abbott Building. She was surrounded by tops and pants in tangerine, limeade, sunshine and summer blue. The playful garments in cotton-candy colors had been shipped tightly packed and now required touching up before they could be put out on the sales floor.

This was her last chore in what had been a long day of unpacking and tagging new stock, and she couldn’t wait to get home to her apartment and put her feet up. She should stop by the gym first and fit in a workout, but she wasn’t up to it today. A wedge of sausage lasagna, raw veggies and dip from Rocco’s Deli were much more appealing. Fattening, but appealing.

Perspiring from the steamer, she reached into the pocket of her protective smock for a tissue, then dabbed at her forehead and around her half glasses. With the one hand, she finished work on the last blue shirt.

Then she heard sounds of arrival beyond the curtain that separated the stockroom from the sales floor.

“Hi, Mr. Abbott!” That voice belonged to twenty-year-old Candy in the junior department, who thought their boss was a “major babe.”

“Mr. Abbott! Hello!” Eleanor, in formal wear and now an assistant manager. She’d been with the company since Killian’s father, Nathan Abbott, had run it, and she considered Killian “a dear.”

“Hey, Mr. Abbott. How’s it going?” Hunter, who’d been union shop steward at her previous job, had admitted to Cordie that she’d been disappointed to learn that Abbott Mills didn’t have a union. Until she’d been around long enough to realize the company didn’t need one. But she felt the need to watch out for any infractions of a labor-management nature. She thought Killian was “a model of modern administration.”

To Cordie, he was all those things, as well as the beat of her heart, the breath in her lungs and the absolute love of her life. Unfortunately, he had issues that also made him a complete doofus where she was concerned. She’d let him drive her away three months ago, but she’d had time to rethink her reaction and plan strategy in the seven weeks she’d spent in her father’s hunting lodge in Scotland.

So when Killian swept the curtain aside and invaded the stockroom, she faced him with a new resolve, born of her realization that even though he was completely wrong about her in every way possible, she loved him utterly and she was not going to let him ruin their lives as he was determined to do.

Actually, she was convinced it was his own life he was bent on destroying, but since hers was so woven into his, it would be ruined, too.

“Killy.” She glanced at him with a friendly smile as she went on with her steaming. Secretly, she wished she weren’t perspiring and wearing a messy smock. She’d wanted to be wearing a ball gown at a party when he saw her again, and looking gorgeous. But that had been a silly, self-indulgent thought. “What a nice surprise. What brings you to Abbott’s West?”

She had to keep steaming, keep pretending that her heartbeat wasn’t choking her and her hands weren’t shaking. This plot to get him back had to work.

She’d hoped to find that the time spent without her had changed him. She was sad and a little hurt to see that it hadn’t. He didn’t appear tired or depressed, and there was no evidence of regret in the Paul Newman–blue of his eyes. Annoyance was clearly visible there, not regret.

His wavy light brown hair was brushed away from a high forehead in the same old way, strands of blond springing up despite the designer gel she’d bought him to try to keep his hair in order.

His features were also the same: a slash of eyebrows darker than his hair over those dramatic eyes; a strong, straight nose; square teeth in a mouth that at the moment was thin-lipped and tight, but that she knew could be warm and clever; a nicely shaped chin in a square jaw that matched the line of his broad, square shoulders.

He was very tall and very fit, and if she stepped up to him her cheek would rest against his chin.

But he’d hate that right now, and she’d had all the rejection she could stand for a while. That she’d applied for and charmed her way into this job meant she was willing to open herself up to rejection again—but not this minute.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Killian demanded as he took several steps into the room. He wore one of the dozen Armani suits that filled his wardrobe, this one gray and quietly elegant.

She pretended surprise at the question and held up the steamer nozzle. “Working,” she replied. “You require that of employees, as I recall.”

He yanked the nozzle out of her hand and leaned down to turn off the machine before draping the hose over it. When he straightened, the last puff of steam lingered between them like mist in the last scene of a love story. But she guessed their story wasn’t going to have a happy ending. At least not yet.

“I don’t want you working for me,” he said, folding his arms as he frowned down at her. “I can’t believe you had the nerve to do this.”

She, too, folded her arms, and regarded him with the same disdain he focused on her. “Well, you should have thought of that before you hired me.”

“I didn’t! A new employee who didn’t know we’d been involved hired you.”

She arched an eyebrow, proud of her cool demeanor. “Involved? We were married, Killian. That goes a step further than involvement.”

He leaned his weight on one hip and mimicked her raised eyebrow. “Really. But not far enough to prevent you from sleeping with another man while you were supposed to be on a business trip. And not just any man, but a lifelong business rival.”

She struggled for an even tone. This was the point where she could lose it. “I didn’t sleep with him.”

“You were in bed and he was leaning over you. You have a history.”

“I told you…”

“That he’d let himself in. I remember. But you were in his room.”

“I explained that, as well.”

“Yes. Your room didn’t lock and his did. You’d returned from a late dinner with others who’d come to Paris for the show, and you couldn’t make the desk clerk understand the problem. So Brian switched rooms with you. That’s lame enough to sound like damning evidence to me.”

She drew a breath, prepared to advance the plan to save her marriage. Getting down and dirty. “That’s because you want to believe the worst of me,” she said, inclining her upper body toward his to make her point. “You were happy with me, Killian, and on some level I don’t understand and you probably don’t, either, happy doesn’t work for you. You’ve chosen against it. You work night and day and offer up on the altar of your sister’s disappearance whatever part of you might once have been fun.”

He took a step toward her, his eyes darkening. “Don’t speculate on what you don’t understand,” he threatened.

“Then tell me about it so I do understand!” she pleaded. “Explain to me what the kidnap of little Abigail did to you. Let me close enough to help you!”

“I don’t need you to do that,” he said with alarming sincerity. “You’re always trying to root around inside me and clean things up with your terminal good cheer. Well, you were like a…an aberration for me! I’m attracted to serious, stable women, not impulsive ingenues who laugh and party all the time as though life were just one big high.”

Hearing herself described as an aberration hurt, but she stood her ground and swallowed the pain. “You fell in love with me,” she said unequivocally.

He denied that with a shake of his head. “At a difficult period in my life, I fell in love with the idea of escaping through you.”

She scoffed at that notion inelegantly by blowing air between her lips. “Escaping it, my aunt Fanny! You thrive on the crunch, Abbott! You love facing down the enemy and making him flinch. The November Corporation is never going to launch a successful takeover and you know it. Abbott Mills is too strong. Brian probably set up that whole hotel-room scenario to rattle you, and you fell for it because you wanted a reason to send me away. I was helping you forget business once in a while and that terrified you because it meant you had to be a real human being instead of a hard drive, a digital modem and a collection of sophisticated circuitry.”

Apparently unimpressed with her assessment of his personal makeup, he put a hand to his chest and asked calmly, “Well, if you’re so offended by this machine, why did you apply for and accept a job here?”

“Because while I am offended by what you’ve turned yourself into,” she replied candidly, “I know the man you really are inside. And I want that man back.”

He stared at her for a moment in silent disbelief. Then his gaze hardened. “I’m divorcing you,” he said finally.

“I have to sign the papers,” she reminded him.

He accepted that with a nod. “If you refuse, that won’t hold it up forever. Eventually, the divorce will be allowed, and that’ll be that.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But until that happens, I can live in hope that you’ll wake up one morning and remember what life was like when you let yourself be happy. What it was like when we were together.”