Baby Of Convenience

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.

Unmoved, Henderson merely smiled and thrust a beefy hand at the startled woman. “Dave Henderson, vice president and chief financial officer of Burton Technologies, Ms….?”

The woman licked her lips again, her gaze darting as if seeking escape. “Michaels,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. Juggling the baby to the crook of her left arm, she accepted Henderson’s handshake. “Laura Michaels.”

“Pleased to meet you. I hope you’re finding the hospitality around this gleaming mausoleum to be adequate.”

Clearly uncomfortable, she edged a longing look toward the open basement door. “Mr. Burton has been very kind.”

“Has he now?” Grinning broadly, Henderson angled a smug glance, the meaning of which did not escape Royce’s notice. “Tell me about yourself, Ms. Michaels. Have you lived in Mill Creek long? What is your profession? How old is your son? Is your husband the jealous type?”

Her jaw dropped in shock. “I beg your pardon?”

“Excuse us, Mr. Henderson was just leaving.” Furious, Royce grabbed Henderson’s elbow and hauled him toward the front door.

“She’s perfect,” Henderson whispered a moment before Royce shoved him onto the front porch. “I’ll do some checking into her family’s background, and see what kind of financial arrangements—”

Royce closed the door in his face.

Hovering at the massive carved entry for several seconds, he took a deep breath and tried to formulate an apology that he never had the opportunity to issue.

When he turned around, the foyer was empty. Laura Michaels was gone.

“Feel how soft he is,” she murmured, palming the warm ball of white fluff. “Look, she’s trying to open her little eyes.”

Jamie widened his eyes, curled his small mouth into an O as he reached a flat, stiff baby hand out to pat the kitten’s fluffy head. “Tickles,” he announced, snatching his hand back. He giggled, then thrust out both hands. “Me hold.”

“Let Mama hold the kitten until he gets bigger, sweetie. He’s very fragile right now.”

Thwarted, Jamie scowled and turned his attention toward the wriggling, mewing mass of adorable kittenhood in the straw nest Maggie had chosen for her brood.

“Me want him,” the baby announced, pointing to a mottled orange-and-white tabby whose coloring most resembled his mother’s. “Him Sam.”

“Sam, is it? A fine name.” She laid the white kitten with the soft, angoralike fur back into the nest. “What about this one, sweetie? What shall we name her?”

Laura had no idea if the tiny animal was male or female, since pronouncing the gender of such tiny kittens was difficult even for experts. Still, there was a definitive feminine aura about the precious ball of fluff. “She feels like a fuzzy little bunny rabbit, doesn’t she?”

Jamie nodded so hard he nearly fell over. “Bunny,” he chirped. “Bunny-Cat.”

“All right then, Bunny-Cat it is.” Smiling, she felt a nudge under her elbow. She absently stroked Maggie, who had finished her supper and wandered over to purr proudly. “Yes, you’ve done a wonderful job,” Laura told the blinking mama cat. “A lovely family indeed.”

Maggie licked her paw and proceeded to wash her face while Laura and Jamie continued to admire the kittens.

Along with Sam and Bunny-Cat there was a particularly vocal gray-and-white kitten that Laura dubbed Rascal, a black kitten with a white, tuxedolike bib that she called Cary Grant, and the runt of the litter, a diminutive calico with a quiltlike coat that begged the name Patches.

Jamie was enthralled with each and every one of them. “Bunny-Cat,” he murmured, snatching the white kitten before Laura could stop him. The kitten squeaked a protest as Jamie smacked a juicy kiss on its little head.

“Careful, sweetheart. They are too tiny to be handled much right now.”

The baby giggled happily, issuing no protest as she retrieved the squirming kitten from his grasp, and returned it to the nest. Despite her caution about handling them, she couldn’t keep herself from stroking each of the adorable animals, brushing a tiny ear with her knuckle, lifting a miniature paw with her fingertip.

Laura had always loved animals. She’d never had pets as a child. Her struggling single mom had barely been able to support Laura and her two sisters, let alone keep hungry animals well-fed and cared-for.

“Animals are like children in fur suits,” she’d once told a sobbing Laura, who’d brought home a puppy she wanted desperately to keep. “They are a big responsibility. Yes, they make us happy. But unless we can make them happy as well, it’s not fair of us to keep them from a good home where they’ll have enough to eat and a big yard to play in.”

Laura had understood. Kind of. But she’d never forgotten the agony of carrying that sweet, warm bundle from house to house until a kindly older woman took the puppy in, promising to give him a good home.

It had been the first time Laura had experienced the exquisite pain of a broken heart. It had not been the last.

As she slid a gentle finger down Cary Grant’s sleek black fur, a peculiar tingle warmed her spine. Beside her, Jamie issued a gleeful squeak, followed by a tickled laugh. She knew before she turned what she would see at the top of the stairs.

She wasn’t disappointed.

He was standing there, magnificently silhouetted by the spray of daylight from the upstairs foyer. Outlined, the perfection of his form was even more evident. The strength of his shoulders, the taper of hips that were obviously slender beneath the concealing shape of his expertly tailored suit.

Perhaps it was the angle of her gaze focused upward that made him seem taller than she’d realized, with the top of his head appearing to be only inches below the crest of the doorway.

But it wasn’t what she saw that affected her so deeply. It was what she felt, a radiating heat that she instinctively knew was emanating from his gaze. The aura was as tangible as a touch, and just as stirring. She didn’t have to see his eyes to know that they were focused on her with an intensity that seemed to penetrate every molecule in her body.

She was frozen in place, unable to move, to speak, to tear her gaze away. From what seemed a great distance, she was aware of sounds in the room. Her son’s laughter. Maggie’s proud purr. Mingling mews from the nest of kittens. All were overshadowed by the pounding of her own heartbeat, the frantic swish of her own pulse.

Something pulled on the strap of her tank top. An insistent tug, then another. “Mama, Mama!” Jamie’s voice broke the spell, releasing her from the mesmerizing presence at the top of the stairs. With some difficulty, she turned toward the toddler whose eyes were huge with exuberance. “Daddy’s home!”

Her heart seemed to wedge itself at the base of her throat, nearly choking her. The child was so desperate for a father that he consistently claimed any man who looked at him with kindness. “No, sweetie, that’s not your daddy.”

“Uh-huh,” he insisted with a smug grin, his glowing gaze riveted upward. “My daddy.”

A coolness swept her shoulders, as if a draft had slipped down the stairway. When she looked back, the doorway was empty. Royce Burton was gone, leaving nothing in his wake but her son’s sparkling grin, and a residual tingle along her own spine.

It was happening all over again, she realized. And it terrified her.

Chapter Three

Laura arrived at the Burton home later than usual, dressed in a mortifying serving uniform and armed with a fresh bag of kitty kibble.

Embarrassed by the silly attire required by her new job at a fast-food restaurant across town, she was relieved that Marta didn’t respond to her knock at the back door. Too bad the job at Quick ’n’ Good Food Mart didn’t work out. It was bad enough she had to board a public bus looking like a barn-dance escapee. The last thing she needed today was another run-in with a prune-faced shrew who treated Laura with veiled contempt at best, open hostility on her bad days.

And any day Marta laid eyes on Laura was a bad day.

Presuming the grumpy housekeeper was preoccupied elsewhere, Laura used her key to let herself into the immaculate kitchen.

Over the past few weeks, her life had disintegrated from merely chaotic to a crowded pressure pot of panic. Wendy’s tiny mobile home seethed with noise, with frustration, with the stress of too many humans crowded into too little space. Jamie, who’d always been a happy, cheerful child, had become cranky from lack of sleep, since his nap times were routinely interrupted by the shrieks of his boisterous roommates, and the cacophony of a blaring television through paper-thin walls.

These twice-daily trips to care for Maggie’s increasingly active brood served only to stir the melee, disturbing Laura on more than one level. Maggie’s enigmatic landlord, for example. Laura had yet to figure the guy out. He was a thoroughly unpredictable sort whose myriad moods both perplexed and fascinated her.

On the one hand, Royce Burton segued quite nicely into her perception of the rich and privileged with an aloof arrogance she recognized from having lived among the elitist Michaels clan.

On the other hand, he seemed oddly concerned about the health and well-being of not only Laura and Jamie, but the animals he professed to despise as well.

He complained about the kittens’ incessant mewing, yet had carpeted the entire basement to protect the tiny animals from the dampness of an increasing autumn chill. He seemed mightily irked by Jamie’s insistence on calling him “Daddy,” yet inevitably appeared in the study doorway to watch the child play with the shiny new toys that appeared like magic in the otherwise sterile mansion. He scowled at Laura as if her presence presented the world’s biggest annoyance. Yet he made certain a veritable buffet of refreshments was available during her visits, despite his housekeeper’s obvious distress at the additional effort required.

Apparently much of his business was conducted from his study, so he was frequently at home during the kitty-care visits Laura had managed to sandwich between employment interviews, child-care duties for Wendy’s two boys and her own frantic quest to find a lawyer who didn’t care about pesky details. Like being paid, for example.

The meager salary from the second-shift serving job she’d finally landed was a mere pittance compared to her debt.

Sighing, Laura juggled the five-pound bag of cat food under her arm, vaguely aware of a peculiar warm-wood scent that reminded her of the old lumberyard down the street. A glance around the spotless food preparation area revealed that the oven wasn’t in use, nor was anything bubbling on the cookstove.

A peculiar whirring sound also caught her attention, along with a series of shuddering scrapes, thumps and other ominous noise emanating from deep within the house. She had no time for idle curiosity or speculation. She had less than fifteen minutes in which to feed the cats, head to the corner and catch her bus.

As she reached the foyer, the floor began to vibrate, and the strange whirring sound grew louder. The high-pitched hum was penetrated by a male voice shouting over the din. There was tension in that voice, and an unnerving sense of alarm.

And all the disquieting noise was coming from the cellar.

Instantly alarmed, Laura rushed forward to the open doorway just as a shadow from the stairway exploded into human form, blocking her view.

Marta’s eyes were huge, frantic. “You see what you’ve done?”

Laura could see nothing beyond Marta’s horrified expression and the frenzied fling of her arms.

“Everything is ruined, completely ruined!” A metallic shriek like a buzzsaw chewing steel horrified her. Marta jumped as if shot, then jittered around to shake her finger in Laura’s face. “This is all your doing!”

Stunned, Laura could only press a palm to her chest and stammer, “Mine? How…why…?”

“Trouble, that’s what you are. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on you.” Her face contorted more with fear than fury, Marta bit her lower lip. Casting a woeful glance down at the pandemonium below, Marta pressed her knuckle against her quavering mouth. Her chin crumpled like crushed paper. Stifling a sob, she pushed past Laura and rushed toward the kitchen.

For the space of a heartbeat, Laura was frozen in shock. Then a male shout, sharp with tension and edged by fear, penetrated the chaotic noise. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Maggie,” Laura whispered.

Shifting the kibble bag, she hurried down the winding stairs. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight that greeted her.

The basement looked as if it had been bombed. Sawdust was everywhere. Loose bottles of wine, some of which were probably worth more than Laura’s ancient automobile, had been haphazardly piled or rolled into a corner of the basement. Pieces from one of the expensive oak wine racks had been tossed around the carpeted floor like kindling.

A frantic shout from across the room redirected Laura’s attention. “Is it loose yet?”

Two male figures were hunkered in the corner where the straw-padded kitten bed had once been.

One of the male figures, a beefy block of a man wielding a whirring circular saw, squatted on denim-clad haunches that were partially obscured by a belt of lumpy leather pouches bristling with tools. The other was bent at the waist, his upper torso in shadows, although Laura could see the outline of a shoulder, along with a flash of forearm exposed by the rolled-up shirt-sleeve.

Maggie paced beside the two men, tail flicking, eyes focused intently on the activity.

The beefy workman flipped off the whirring saw and sat back on his heels. It took a moment for Laura’s ears to adjust to the near silence.

A peculiar muffled whine caught her attention a moment before the workman spoke. “This here rack is bolted to the floor, just like the last one.”

“Rip it out,” said the man in the shadows. The voice clearly belonged to Royce Burton, which was somewhat shocking to Laura since she’d never seen the immaculately tailored executive without a suit coat, let alone tieless, rumpled and with rolled-up shirtsleeves.

The workman shrugged. “Seems a shame. Might be able to punch a hole in the back of the rack instead of tearing out the sides of it.”

“Too dangerous. We can’t be certain exactly where it is.”

Again Laura heard the peculiar muffled whine, which evoked an instant reaction in Maggie. The mama cat emitted a comforting trill and tried to poke her head into one of the openings of the rack from which the wine bottles had already been removed.

In the space of a heartbeat, Laura’s blood ran cold as she recognized the muted sound as the desperate mew of a trapped kitten.

More tiny cries emanated from a wooden barrel in the corner, a barrel over which a rumpled, yet recognizably expensive suit coat had been tossed. A thick coat of sawdust covered the ruined garment.

The workman shifted on his haunches, heaving a regretful sigh. “There oughta be some way to get that thing out without tearing up a thousand dollars’ worth of custom-built racking.”

“Just tear the damned thing out,” Royce snapped. “And be quick about it.”

Although Royce’s face was still concealed behind the edge of the wine rack, his voice brooked no argument, and the workman offered none. The burly guy grunted, shrugged and fired up the circular saw. A moment later the blade chewed mercilessly into the hard oak, spewing sawdust into a choking cloud.

Laura just stood by the stairs, frozen in shock, fear and dismay. Every drop of moisture evaporated from her mouth as she sized up the situation and grasped the seriousness of it. One of Maggie’s precious kittens was trapped behind that massive wine rack.

A single slip of the saw blade could prove disastrous. The kitten had apparently managed to wriggle into the narrow space between the rack and the wall, and had somehow become stuck there. Royce was directing that the side of the rack be destroyed to gain access to that airspace without risking injury to the tiny creature that was trapped there.

Maggie was clearly perturbed by her baby’s predicament. The poor animal paced frantically, flicking her tail, her mouth opening repeatedly in what could be presumed to be a frenzied vocalization at the kitten’s plight, although any sound the mama cat made was being drowned out by the din of the whirring blade.

A cloud of sawdust sent Laura into a convulsive coughing fit, which was also drowned out by the din. Neither Royce nor the busy workman had noticed her presence.