The Billionaire Daddy

“This is your room,” he said

Lauren tried to appear unmoved, as though the suite was nothing more nor less than she was accustomed to on a day-to-day basis. The place was wonderful!

“It seems…adequate.” She made herself turn his way, and frowned. The intensity of his gaze had a surprising seductive quality. She dropped her gaze to Tina.

Her heart swelled, and she marveled at her good fortune to have stumbled into such an extraordinary opportunity—the chance to be with her niece, and to unmask Mr. Delacourte as utterly unfit to raise an innocent child.

“Come. I’ll show you the baby’s room.” He glanced back, and with the quirk of a brow, added, “And you can show me how to change a diaper.”

Her boss’s suggestion finally penetrated. “Show you how to what?”

“Change a diaper. Is there a problem?”

Yes, there’s a problem. I can’t change a diaper! she cried mentally.

He crossed his arms and lounged against the wall, eyeing her with a furrowed brow. “If I am to raise this child, there are things I should know how to do….”

Dear Reader,

Back by popular request is our deliciously delightful series—Baby Boom. We’ve asked some of your favorite authors in Harlequin Romance® to bring you a few more special deliveries—of the baby kind!

Baby Boom is all about the true labor of love—parenthood and how to survive it! The Billionaire Daddy by Renee Roszel is this month’s new arrival….

When two’s company and three (or four…or five) is a family!

To Norman V. Roszel

and

Randall Albert Roszel

You are much missed

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PROLOGUE

DADE DELACOURTE scowled at the tiny infant wrapped in pink. As the nurse wheeled the bassinet to the viewing window for his inspection, the baby slept on, innocently oblivious to his anger and shock. Dade’s narrowed gaze moved to a card, taped to the newborn’s bed. Baby Girl Delacourte was boldly printed there for all of New York City to see.

He peered at the tiny bundle, then glanced at the picture he’d been handed. His image smiled up at him from the glossy print. Wrapped in his possessive embrace was a beautiful, smiling blonde.

Flipping the picture over, he read the scribbled writing. “Dade and Millie. It’s love!” Below that declaration was the date, March 15 of last year. The baby had been born yesterday, December 15. Nine months to the day…

He flicked his glance to the child. Sometime during the night, the newborn’s mother had slipped unnoticed from the hospital. Before her disappearance, however, she’d listed Dade Delacourte as the child’s father on the birth certificate. Her coup de grâce had been this picture she’d left behind, a telling testament to Dade’s paternity.

The situation was all very cut-and-dried. The mother, Millicent “Smith” had abandoned her child. Dade, the father of record, would necessarily take custody.

There was only one small hitch in the scenario. Dade had never seen this woman before in his life.

But saying so would repair nothing, either legally or morally. He eyed the fidgety hospital administrator and gave a curt nod. “Naturally I’ll pay the bill.” He crumpled the photo in his fist. “The child is mine.”

CHAPTER ONE

Nearly six months later

LAUREN SMITH knew she was crazy. A sane woman wouldn’t burst into the lobby of a swanky Manhattan high rise, all marble and crystal and gold. Not a sane woman wearing a bargain basement shift and carrying a battered canvas suitcase. Yet, even as deranged as she was, she realized she was a far cry from the type who belonged in these surroundings.

Since her sanity was no longer a consideration, she might as well forge on, figure out a way to dredge up the nerve to force a confrontation with the rich and powerful scoundrel who occupied the penthouse.

“You will go up to that fancy doorman and demand entry.” She stiff-armed the revolving door. The uniformed sentry eyed her with mistrust. She swallowed. “Don’t let him see your fear,” she muttered. “Tell him you’ll chain yourself to—to…” She gave the cavernous, glittering lobby a panicked examination. “To what? With what?”

Plan B.

She yanked back her shoulders and marched toward the scowling watchdog in his fancy epaulets and frippery. “Make him understand this is a matter of life and death,” she muttered under her breath. She eyed the man with bloodthirsty resolve. “His!”

The guard opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I must see Mr. Dade Delacourte immediately, on a matter of—”

“It’s about time!” He grasped her elbow and whirled her toward a bank of gilded elevators. “Get up there, girl!” He turned a key in a slot above the buttons marking the building’s eighty floors. “Mr. Delacourte is roaring like a wounded lion.”

Before she could demand or threaten or even breathe, Lauren found herself shooting upward. She grabbed the rail to avoid staggering to her knees, no longer curious about how it felt to be blasted into space. Dazed, she watched the floors zoom by—35-48-67…After soaring past eighty, the elevator kept going, though the space where the numbers had been displayed went ominously blank. “Where does this guy live?” She strangled the handrail, suddenly panicked. “Pluto?”

The rocketing conveyance came to a stop so smooth Lauren decided the engineering required for such a soft landing could be afforded only by the filthy rich. She had been so tense in her attempt to keep from crashing through the roof, she nearly fell backward from overcompensation. Lauren shook her head, working to focus on a world no longer falling away at the speed of light. The elevator doors whooshed open.

She stilled, hardly breathing, to take in the unknown—this alien, celestial region called “a penthouse.”

A spacious foyer appeared before her, with lush carpeting and white marble walls, luxurious yet austere. On either side of a set of double doors gray stone pedestals supported imposing earthenware urns, no doubt exhumed from some primal civilization. Lauren would bet her teacher’s pension they were priceless.

She heard a sound and shifted in time to see a woman in starched gray push open the double doors and rush toward her. “Hurry, hurry!” She beckoned, her gestures nervous, impatient. “He’s waiting.”

Lauren tentatively stepped out of the elevator. The heels of her pumps burrowed into the thick carpet, and she swayed precariously. In the process of righting herself, she realized she still held her suitcase. She hadn’t even had time to find a hotel, having rushed immediately to the Delacourte building.

She wondered if she should leave the bag by the elevator. Her quandary was cut short when it was snatched away. “I’ll get this into the limo,” the woman whispered. “Just go!” Before Lauren could get steady on her feet, she felt a hand at her back, then a brisk shove. “It’s the second door on your left, after you leave the foyer.”

Her equilibrium returning, Lauren twisted to ask what in heaven’s name the woman was talking about, and what was behind the second door to the left after the foyer. “But—” She cut herself off, dismayed to see the maid disappear behind the closing elevator doors.

Lauren would have been relieved by such a frenzied reception, except for the fact that nobody knew she was coming. She wanted nothing more than to have Mr. Delacourte relinquish her baby niece with speed and enthusiasm. Unfortunately he had no idea Lauren Smith existed. He didn’t know her little sister had been the woman who had given birth to his child.

Even if he didn’t want the baby—which she was sure he didn’t, having left Millie alone and pregnant—he could have no idea who Lauren was or the reason she’d come to New York City. So, why had she been rushed up to his penthouse as though she were a fireman and the place was a blazing inferno?

Nervously she peered beyond open double doors, twenty feet straight ahead. She saw a long hallway that opened into what no doubt was the living room. Eyeing the second door on the left in the hall, she chewed her lower lip. Assuming the “he” the maid mentioned was Dade Delacourte, she should stomp right in and state her business.

She would have her chance to explain who she was, and make it clear she had no intention of allowing him to be burdened with a baby he didn’t want. She had come to take little Christina Lauren Delacourte off his depraved hands.

She fought a shiver of loathing. No! Don’t call him depraved! She must be civil. Just because he’d lied to Millie, and told her he could get her into movies, seduced her, then dumped her was no reason to be nasty. Just because his little fling had left Millie pregnant, with no place to go but home to Oklahoma and Lauren, was no excuse to walk in and kick him in the shins. Though the idea had a certain merit. He probably wanted to get rid of the baby as much as she wanted custody. They could handle this in a rational, adult manner.

Lauren heard a click and glanced up in time to see a tall man wearing beige slacks and a navy knit shirt. As he exited the second doorway to the left, he raked a hand through hair, dark as midnight. “Dammit,” he growled, making her flinch. “Where is that nanny? She was supposed to be on her way up…” He turned. His gaze clashed with hers. “You!” The word sounded like an accusation, and Lauren took an unsteady step backward. “You’re the nanny the agency sent.”

His narrowed glare cut off her ability to breathe.

Muscles bunched in his jaw. “Don’t dawdle, woman!” He flicked a hand in a gesture that she follow him. “Come see to the child. We were supposed to leave for the Hamptons over an hour ago.”

With a quick snap of broad shoulders he pivoted away. She stared, struck by a purposeful, stalking grace to his movements, a man clearly in control of his world. Lauren realized instantly who this growling scoundrel was. She’d done research on him once the private detective she’d hired finally discovered where Millie had run off to, just before the baby was due.

It had taken the investigator nearly six months, but yesterday he’d called with news. Millie—bitter and bent on revenge—had hitchhiked to New York City, where she’d given birth to a baby girl, Christina Lauren Delacourte, listing Dade Delacourte on the birth certificate as the father. Her retaliation for being abandoned by him, had been to abandon her child to him, to raise, alone.

For a woman like Millie, selfish to the core, forcing Mr. Delacourte into years and years of parental responsibility was the perfect payback. Then she’d silently slipped away, no doubt back in Hollywood, using some stage name as she followed her single-minded dream to become a movie star.

As Lauren stared after Mr. Delacourte, she gritted her teeth, telling herself sternly that he was not all that handsome. Yet, even as she struggled to believe that, she took a step in his direction, then another, some part of her responding without the authorization of her brain.

You’re the nanny the agency sent.

Come see to the child.

The jumble of words echoed in her dazed brain. You’re the nanny the agency sent. Come see to the child. As the fog of panic and confusion began to clear, she went over those two sentences again, with more understanding. You’re the nanny the agency sent! Come see to the child!

He thought she was a nanny? Did he think he’d hired her to take care of his baby? Her niece? Her own little namesake? She blinked, focusing on his broad back as she absorbed this turn of events.

He reached another door and shifted to look back. His brows dipped ominously when he saw she hadn’t ventured beyond the foyer. “Miss Quinn, if you’re having second thoughts about this job, say so. I don’t have time to read your mind.”

His admonition jarred her out of her stupor. Miss Quinn? So that was the nanny’s name. Hadn’t he said he was planning to leave for the Hamptons? An hour ago! No doubt he needed a nanny to keep the “little nuisance” out of his way while he hosted wild parties on his private beach.

A stab of renewed disgust made her recoil. Oh, no, she vowed, little Christina Lauren won’t be tainted by the immoral lifestyle of this beast—not if she had her way!

The words of the lawyer she’d consulted came back, cracking like a whip in her brain. “Miss Smith, if Mr. Delacourte is not inclined to give over custody, no court in the land is likely to take his child away from him. He’s the CEO of the multibillion dollar Delacourte Industries, a highly respected man. The only way you could get custodianship of your niece would be to uncover damning evidence against him. Prove he is an unfit parent.”

Icy dread twisted in her stomach. What if he said no to her request, and tossed her out on her ear! She couldn’t stand the thought, couldn’t bear to go back to Oklahoma without Christina. Just imagining it shattered her.

On the other hand, there was no question that Dade Delacourte was a lecher. Poor Millie was a living example of his reckless lust. All Lauren would need to get proof of his utter lack of suitability to bring up an innocent little girl was to spend a few days in close proximity with the man. That would provide her with all the proof she would need. But how—

The two sentences he’d shouted at her came roaring back. You’re the nanny the agency sent. Come see to the child.

Her brain exploded with a profound insight. A nanny would spend time in close proximity with him—under the same roof! Here was her chance! Providence had dropped it right in her lap! Did she dare refuse?

“Well?” he growled, and she jumped.

“I—I’m coming—sir.” If proof of Mr. Delacourte’s unfitness is what it will take to get my niece, then I’ll get it, or my name isn’t Lauren Smith! Which, ironically, right now it wasn’t. Since she planned to make every effort to insure that Mr. Delacourte believed she was Miss Something Quinn.

Trying not to think about how foolhardy this slap-dash scheme might be, Lauren put one foot in front of the other, increasing her pace, scurrying down the long hallway toward the man she most despised in the world.

She sent up a prayer that Miss Quinn wouldn’t show up now to blow her cover. Since the woman was this late, and since Mr. Delacourte didn’t exactly live in an out-of-the-way hovel, it seemed that for whatever reason, Miss Quinn—the thoughtful, marvelous no-show Miss Quinn—wasn’t coming.

Mr. Delacourte turned the knob and looked inside. “Opal, Miss Quinn is here. Once she sees to the child’s last-minute needs, show them to the car.”

When Lauren joined Mr. Delacourte at the nursery entrance, he faced her. “Most of the baby’s things are already in the limo, and she’s been fed.”

Before Lauren could respond, he was striding away. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

He disappeared behind another door, but Lauren continued to gape after him. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she muttered, her hostility for the egotistical tyrant bubbling to the surface.

“Miss?”

The female voice startled Lauren, and she spun around. The nursery, furnished with a crib, built-ins and a changing table, held all the whimsy of a hospital room. Everything was white, except the inside of the crib. Its head and footboards were painted in a vivid palate of pastels. A mobile of dangling miniature teddy bears hung above the mattress, its sheets adorned with cartoon characters. The crib was a colorful oasis amid a scrubbed wilderness of white.

A rosy-cheeked woman in gray smiled when Lauren’s glance met hers. The middle-aged maid cuddled a frilly, pink bundle to her breast. One tiny hand reached up and grasped the woman’s chin, causing her to chuckle. “Tina, sugar-baby, meet your new nanny.”

Lauren’s heart did a flip-flop. Tina! Her niece was right there in the same room, not ten feet away! It was a miracle. This morning she’d stepped off the plane from Tulsa, and gone directly to Delacourte Industry headquarters. She’d been refused an appointment, stiffly informed the CEO would be away for a month. Her hopes had plummeted into the black depths of gloom. This rash cab ride to his Manhattan apartment had been an act of desperation. She’d had no idea—not even the flicker of a dream—that…

She shook herself. Why was she standing there like a frozen fish stick? With a fledgling smile she fairly floated across the room to gaze down at her niece. Lauren’s parents were dead and Millie had disappeared into the world of wanna-be movie stars. So, it was imperative to Lauren not to lose Christina.

As she stared at the tiny face, the tingle of threatening tears made her blink. “Such an angel,” she murmured. Her joy so overwhelmed her, it took monumental effort to keep from sobbing.

“She’s so sweet.” The maid handed Lauren the swaddled child. “Hardly ever cries. Sally, the other nanny, said caring for this sugar-baby was the most enjoyable job she’s ever had. But you know hormones.”

Lauren only half listened, her heart spilling over with a love that was almost maternal. She gently held Tina in her arms, taking in every detail, from the pale, blond wisps of her hair to her precious, heart-shaped mouth. Something in the maid’s chatter caught her attention and she looked up. “Hormones?”

Opal tittered. “No matter how much Sally loved and doted on little Tina, her hormones won out. She ran off with the night doorman sometime before dawn this morning. Said in her note she couldn’t bear to be separated from the guy for a whole month.” Opal shook her head, smoothing a strand of graying hair into her chignon. “Why do so many women turn into drooling idiots when it comes to a smooth-talking man?”

Lauren found the statement ironic. Opal was talking about the night doorman, but she could have been referring to Mr. Delacourte’s effect on Millie. “Whatever the reason, there’s a lot of that going around,” Lauren said with a sad shake of her head.

Opal laughed and nodded. “Ain’t it the truth! Ain’t it the truth.” She gave Tina a pat on her chubby cheek. “You have yourself a great time out there on the beach, little one.” Looking at Lauren, she waved toward a stuffed, leather bag. “I think I’ve got everything in there she’ll need for the trip—bottles, diapers and such. You’d best check her to see if she needs changing before you go.”

She lay a hand on the crib headboard, drawing Lauren’s gaze to it again. Upon closer inspection she noticed the painting was more than mere swirls of color, but seemed truly like art. “Who painted the crib?” she asked, surprised to hear herself speaking aloud.

Opal gave the crib a quick glance, then looked back at Lauren. “Oh, Benny did that while Tina was still sleeping in her bassinet. Benny’s Cook’s assistant, and quite a budding artist.” She laughed. “The whole staff’s so crazy about Tina. Poor dear child hardly gets any time to sleep, with somebody wanting to rock her and cuddle her all the time.” She checked her wristwatch. “Oh, goodness. Time’s flying. Yell out when you’re ready. I’ll be down the hall.”

After Opal left, Lauren stood for a long minute, gazing at her precious niece. “No problem,” she finally murmured, but it came out sounding dubious. The full weight of what she’d done was settling in.

She would be living with a man she hated—spying on him—and even more disturbing than that, the well-being of an infant, not quite six months old, was in her hands!

Hysteria welled up inside her. What had she done? Being a high school music teacher hadn’t exactly qualified her for digging up incriminating evidence on wild living playboys. Not to mention one other tiny detail. Though Lauren had done plenty of babysitting, and loved children, she’d never cared for actual babies! “Oh, Lauren,” she mumbled, “what have you gotten yourself into?”

Dade and his new nanny sped along the highway toward the Hamptons in his luxurious silver limousine. As he spoke on his cell phone to his secretary, leaving last-minute instructions, he glanced at his new employee. She sat stiffly in the forward seating area, which faced the back seat where he was positioned. The arrangement accommodated more comfortable conversation. He half grinned at the thought, since his new nanny had not only said nothing, she hadn’t even made eye contact. It seemed she had no interest in anything or anyone but the baby.

What was her name, again? Miss Something Quinn. Was it Nelda or Gilda Quinn? He couldn’t recall what the agency told him. He’d been in a foul mood at the time, so her given name had hardly been his main concern.

His business calls finally concluded, Dade slipped the phone into his slacks pocket. He surveyed the nanny as she gazed at Tina, secured in her car seat. The nanny had the strangest expression on her face. It looked like adoration. He lounged back, straightening his legs and crossing them at the ankles. His shoes almost touched her, but she paid him absolutely no heed, just kept gazing at Tina.

He supposed nannies—at least the really good ones—adored children. He’d certainly had good luck with the other nanny—until this morning. He cleared his throat to get his new nanny’s attention.

Nothing.

It irritated him that she ignored him so completely. She hadn’t even acknowledged him with a glance when Goodberry helped her into the car. Such total lack of notice didn’t happen to him. People came to attention in his presence, skittering around, catering to his every whim. Wealth and power had that effect on people. Especially people whose livelihoods depended on his approval.

In the eleven years since he’d taken over his father’s electronics business, he’d turned it into a multibillion dollar corporation, no small part of that success due to several of his own patents. He’d learned to take for granted that his vice presidents would snap to attention when he cleared his throat. So why couldn’t this wisp of a woman oblige him by at least glancing to see if he was choking to death.

She made a cooing sound and stuck a finger against the baby’s palm. When Tina grasped it, Miss Quinn smiled. Dade dipped his head slightly to get a better look. Were her eyes swimming with tears? He frowned. Tears? Perhaps the woman had allergies, or was in the weepy part of her cycle. She couldn’t be that overcome by having a baby grasp her finger. Or maybe she could. Nannies were most likely a very sentimental breed when it came to their charges.

He cleared his throat again. Seconds ticked by while he felt the ignominy of being scorned. He counseled with himself, Dade, buddy, I hope you haven’t become a pompous ass, expecting the world to revolve around you.

Her lack of attentiveness irked him. After all, the woman worked for him. She owed him the courtesy of acknowledging that he existed on the face of the earth! He scanned her from head to toe. She was pleasant looking, in a sensible-shoes way. Her brown hair was cropped to just above shoulder length in a straight, no-nonsense style. Her eyes were a no-nonsense olive-drab, and her lips had spent most of their time in his presence pressed together in a no-nonsense grimace.