THE BILLIONAIRE’S

BABY PLAN

ALLISON LEIGH

MARRYING THE

NORTHBRIDGE

NANNY

VICTORIA PADE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE BILLIONAIRE’S

BABY PLAN

ALLISON LEIGH

Dear Reader,

I’ve said more than once how much I enjoy participating in multiauthor continuities. I have the chance to work with—and learn from—authors whose work I admire, and sometimes work again with authors I’ve had such fun with on previous projects. The Baby Chase has been no exception. It has also given me a chance to work again with editor extraordinaire Susan Litman who somehow manages to keep tabs on a mountain of details (a mammoth-size task that would send me around the bend) and does it with such amazing humor and grace.

So welcome, again, to the Armstrong Fertility Institute, where families are made and where the Armstrong family, in particular, learns just how much of a family they really can be.

I hope you enjoy the chase!

Allison Leigh

About the Author

ALLISON LEIGH started early by writing a Halloween play that her grade school class performed. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.

She has been a finalist for a RITA® Award and a Holt Medallion. But the true highlight of her day as a writer is when she receives word from a reader that they laughed, cried or lost a night of sleep while reading one of her books.

Born in Southern California, Allison has lived in several different cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighborhood church. She currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

For my husband.

Prologue

“Good news.” Lisa Armstrong sailed into the living room of her brother Paul’s Beacon Hill town house, waving a newspaper over her head like a flag. “All of that sweet-talking to the features editor I’ve been doing the past few months are finally paying off. The paper’s going to do a twelve-week series on families seeking alternative methods of conceiving, and the Armstrong Fertility Institute is going to be prominently featured.” She felt her brilliant smile wilt a little when she finally focused on her brother’s unsmiling expression. “This is good news,” she reminded him. Her gaze switched to Ramona Tate’s pretty face. “All human interest and all good press for the clinic. Nothing for you to have to spin into something more palatable.”

But Ramona did not look overjoyed, and as the institute’s public-relations magician—not to mention her brother’s fiancée—she ought to have, particularly considering the tap-dancing she’d been having to do for too long now.

Lisa slowly lowered the paper and tossed it onto the coffee table. She’d been a little late to the sudden gathering her brother had called, and his spacious living room suddenly felt as if it was closing in on her.

Thoughts that her brother and Ramona had called the get-together to announce that they’d finally set a date for their wedding fizzled. There wasn’t a speck of joy on the faces of any of the handful of people gathered there.

She looked back at Paul. “What’s happened?”

“Derek has resigned his position as CFO of the institute.” Paul’s voice was even, but oddly flat.

“What? Why?”

“The financial audit that Harvey Nordinger conducted turned up serious discrepancies.”

“Which, as CFO, our silver-tongued brother should be dealing with,” she countered readily. She already knew the audit that Paul had instigated had shown less than satisfactory results.

Paul’s lips twisted. “I told Derek to resign, Lis.”

She felt the air leave her lungs in a whoosh. She sank down onto the arm of the couch, staring. “But he’s part of this family.” And the family was the institute. It had been since their obstetrician father, Gerald, had established it more than two decades earlier, expanding it from its roots as an innovative fertility clinic into one of the world’s premier biotech firms in the areas of infertility and genetic testing.

Paul, the eldest, was chief of staff. Derek, Paul’s twin, served as the CFO and Lisa, the youngest, was the administrator. Only Olivia, their other sibling, remained uninvolved in the day-to-day operations of the clinic.

Paul let out a rough sigh and raked his fingers through his hair. He shared a look with Ramona. “If Derek weren’t family, we’d be prosecuting him.”

Lisa blinked. “Excuse me?”

“He’s been embezzling from the institute. Harvey’s proved it.”

She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Harvey’s wrong. I know you trust him implicitly, Paul, but he’s wrong.” She looked around the room, from face to face. Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios, the shining duo that Paul had lured away from San Francisco to head up their research operation. Sara Beth, who was not only the institute’s head nurse, but also Lisa’s best friend and Ted’s bride. They all, along with Ramona, were eyeing Lisa with something akin to pity. “He has to be,” she insisted. Derek might be Paul’s twin, but she was the one who felt closest to him.

And everyone there knew it.

Unease was blooming in her throat. Derek had his faults, certainly. But they all did. And most of those faults were centered on their unswerving commitment to the institute. “Derek wouldn’t steal from his own family.”

“I’m sorry, Lisa. He—” Paul broke off, his jaw clenching. Ramona slid her slender hand over his shoulder and his jaw slowly eased. His hand covered Ramona’s. “He admitted it,” he finished gruffly.

His words fell like stones.

Lisa’s throat slowly tightened and her nose started to burn.

She wanted to argue.

To convince him that, somehow, it was a terrible mistake.

But how could she? The truth was written on his face.

He cleared his throat. “The reason why I wanted everyone to meet here, instead of at the institute, is because I want to make certain none of this gets out. Not to any of the staff or the patients, but especially not the media or—”

“Daddy,” she finished, her voice going hoarse. Until his declining health had forced his retirement, the Armstrong Fertility Institute had been Gerald Armstrong’s life. “He can’t find out. It’ll kill him.”

“Which brings us to the next point of all of this.” Lisa didn’t see how it was possible, but Paul looked even grimmer. “Finances. We barely have enough operating capital left to keep our doors open through the quarter. As it is, we’ll have to cut our budgets to the bone. If we lay off—”

“No.” Lisa shoved off the couch like a shot, wrapping her arms around her waist. “The second anyone gets wind of layoffs, the reporters will be back on us like sharks.” She shook her head. “Only this time they’ll have real blood to find. There has to be other ways for us to cut expenses. I don’t know about everyone else, but I’ll stop taking a salary—”

“Lisa—”

She ignored him. “—and we’ll get together a prospectus. We’ll get a loan.”

“No bank is going to touch us in the condition we’re in and we wouldn’t be able to keep Dad out of it.”

“Then private investors,” Lisa countered, feeling more than a little desperate. She may have missed out on the medical brilliance gene that Gerald had passed on to Paul, but she considered herself a decent administrator. It was the only thing about her that she felt certain her father was proud of. It was her one part in ensuring that her father’s life’s work lived on.

Yet she hadn’t known what Derek was doing.

“We’ve never had investors before,” Paul said.

“Pardon me for saying so, but you’ve never needed investors before,” Ted inserted quietly. He let go of Sarah Beth’s hand, which he’d been holding, and stood up. “However, it does give me an idea…”

Chapter One

Lisa stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk, staring at the narrow entrance of Fare, complete with uniformed doorman, ahead of her.

Why a restaurant?

Not for the first time since she’d flown from Boston to New York City was she still puzzling over the choice. Even though the meeting had been arranged by Ted Bonner, its purpose was business. Not social.

Thank heavens.

She realized the doorman was staring at her, and with a confidence that she didn’t feel, smiled at the man and strode across the sidewalk, unfastening the single button on the front of her black-and-white houndstooth jacket when he ushered her into the softly lit restaurant before silently departing.

The shadowy hostess station was unattended and she waited in the hushed silence. There was a faint strain of music, but it was subtle and nonintrusive.

Waiting to be shown to the table was okay with her. She didn’t want to be there anyway. But she’d promised Paul.

She swallowed.

This is just another meeting with a potential funder.

Investor.

Her mind debated the term.

She was used to meeting with funders. Usually representatives of a philanthropic or scientific foundation to discuss research grants that the institute was seeking.

This…this was another kettle of fish, entirely. And even though it had been her idea to use investors to solve their current dilemma, she’d never in her wildest imaginings thought she’d be meeting this particular one.

She smoothed her hand over the wide belt of her highwaisted slacks and buttoned her jacket again. Switched her slender, leather briefcase from one hand to the other.

The meeting that Paul had called earlier that week replayed in her mind. She’d never seen her ever-confident, ever-capable big brother actually question whether or not the institute could survive at all and that—as much as the reason why—still had her deeply shaken.

“The gentleman is waiting for you.”

Lisa blinked herself to the present where an exotically beautiful girl dressed in a narrow black sheath was smiling patiently, her hand extended slightly to one side.

She undid the button again, gripped the handle of her briefcase more tightly in her moist hand and stepped forward.

She spotted him immediately.

The “gentleman” whom Lisa would never have termed as such.

Rourke Devlin.

Billionaire venture capitalist. A man who never had to worry about finding funding for his own work because he was the fund. He was Ted Bonner’s friend. And even though she could appreciate that fact, could appreciate the generosity he’d shown to Ted and Sara Beth during their trip to newly wedded bliss, she couldn’t envision anything productive coming out of this encounter.

He was dark. Powerful. Arrogant. Rich as Midas.

And as frightening as the devil himself.

Rourke didn’t even rise as she approached his small round table situated in the center of the exclusive, small restaurant. But his black gaze followed her every step of the way.

She felt like a lamb sent to slaughter and damned Derek all over again.

She might have promised Paul that she’d do her best on this meeting despite her personal reservations, but it was because of Derek that this meeting—or any of the other half dozen that she’d frenetically set up for the following week—was necessary in the first place.

A black-clothed waiter had appeared out of nowhere to pull out the second chair at the table for her.

She thanked him quietly and took her seat, tucking the briefcase on the floor next to her. There were plenty of tables surrounding them, but none was occupied. Only Rourke’s, sitting here, center stage like king of the castle. “I’ve read reviews of Fare,” she greeted him. “The food is supposed to be magnificent.”

“It is.”

Hardly a conversational treasure trove. She hoped it wasn’t an indicator of how the rest of the meeting would go, but feared it probably was. Despite Ted’s insistence that Rourke was open to meeting with her, she couldn’t help but remember her encounter with him months earlier at their Founder’s Ball— and the single dance they’d shared—as well as his seeming disapproval at the time of the institute in general. “The view is lovely.”

He didn’t turn his head to glance at the bank of windows overlooking a pond surrounded by trees that were just now beginning to show the first hint of coming autumn. “Yes.”

In her lap, her hands curled into fists beneath the protection of the white linen draping the table. All right. Forget pleasantries. She’d just get to the point. “I appreciate you meeting with me.”

He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Do you?”

She studied him, wondering not for the first time exactly what it was about the man that seemed to place him on a different plane than others.

There were plenty of men as powerfully built. Plenty of men who possessed strikingly carved features and well-cut, thick black hair. All it took was money to buy the fine white silk shirt he wore with such casual ease. There was a single button undone at his tanned throat; a charcoal-gray suit coat discarded over the back of his chair.

He exuded confidence. Power. And he looked at her—just as he had on the other few occasions they’d been in one another’s company—as if he knew things about her that she might not even know herself.

Which mostly left her feeling as if she were playing some game in which she didn’t know the rules.

She moistened her lips, realizing as she did that it was an indicator of her nervousness, particularly when his gaze rested on her mouth for a moment. “I know your time is valuable.”

The waiter had returned and was silently, ceremoniously presenting, then opening a bottle of wine. The cork presented and approved, the first taste mulled over, the crystal glasses partially filled. Lisa had been part of the production hundreds of times and wondered silently what any of them would say if she told them she would have preferred a fresh glass of iced tea. Wine always went straight to her head.

And it didn’t take her MBA to know that she needed all of her faculties in prime working order when it came to dealing with Rourke Devlin, who hadn’t volunteered even a polite disclaimer about the value of his time.

But she said nothing. Merely smiled and picked up the glass, sipping at the crisp, cool Chardonnay. It was delicious. Something she might have chosen for herself if she were in the mood for wine. But she would have pegged Rourke as a red wine sort of man. To go along with the raw red meat those strong white teeth could probably tear apart.

“I told the chef we’d have his recommendation,” Rourke said. “Raoul never disappoints.”

“How nice.” She really, really wished they were meeting in his office. This just seemed far too intimate. Additional diners around them would have helped dispel that impression. “Isn’t Fare usually open for lunch?” It was well past noon. And the reviews she’d read about the place had indicated it took months to get a reservation.

“Usually.”

Which explained so much. She lifted the wineglass again and thought she saw the faintest glimmer of amusement hovering around his mobile lips. And it suddenly dawned on her why they were in a restaurant and not his office.

Because he’d known it would set her on edge.

She wasn’t sure why that certainty was so suddenly clear. But it was. She knew it right down in her bones. And the glint in his eyes as he watched her while he lifted his own wineglass seemed to confirm it.

She set down her glass and reached down to pull a narrow file out of her briefcase. “Ted gave you some indication why we wanted to meet with you.” It wasn’t a question. She knew that Ted Bonner had primed the pump, so to speak, with his old buddy, when he’d arranged the meeting once Paul had jumped on the bandwagon of approval. “This prospectus will outline the advantages and opportunities of investing in the Armstrong Fertility Institute.” She started to hand the file over to Rourke, only to stop midway, when he lifted a few fingers, as if to wave off the presentation that they’d pulled together at the institute in record time.

Not that he could know that.

Ted wouldn’t have told the man just how desperate things had become. Friendship or not, Dr. Bonner was now a firmly entrenched part of the Armstrong Institute team. And nobody on that team wanted word to get out about the reason underlying their unusual foray into seeking investors. Their reputation would never recover. Not after the string of bad press they’d already endured. Their patients wouldn’t want their names—some very well-known—associated with the institute. And without patients, there wouldn’t just be layoffs. The institute would simply have to close its doors.

Damn you, Derek.

She lowered the prospectus and set it on the linen cloth next to the fancy little bread basket that the waiter delivered, along with a selection of spreads.

“Put it away,” Rourke said. “I prefer not to discuss business while I’m eating.”

“Then why didn’t you schedule me for when you weren’t?” The question popped out and she wanted to kick herself. Instead, she lifted her chin a little and made herself meet his gaze, pretending as if she weren’t riddled with frustration.

He was toying with her. She didn’t have the slightest clue as to why he would even bother.

And she also left the folder right where it was. A glossy reminder of why they were meeting, even if he was determined to avoid it.

He pulled the wine bottle from the sterling ice bucket standing next to the table and refilled her glass even though she’d only consumed a small amount. “Have a roll,” he said. “Raoul’s wife, Gina, makes them fresh every day.”

“I don’t eat much bread,” she said bluntly. What was the point of pretending congeniality? “Are you interested in discussing an investment in the institute or not?” If he wasn’t—which was what she’d tried to tell Paul and the others—then she was wasting her time that would be better spent in preparation for meeting with investors who were.

“More bread would look good on you,” he said. His gaze traveled over her, seeming to pick apart everything from the customary chignon in her hair to the single silver ring she wore on her right thumb. “You’ve lost weight since I last saw you.”

There was no way to mistake the accusation as a compliment and her lips parted. She stared, letting the offense ripple through her until she could settle it somewhere out of the way. “Women can never be too thin,” she reminded him coolly, and picked up the wineglass again. Might as well partake of the excellent vintage since it was apparent that he wasn’t taking their meeting seriously, anyway.

No doubt he’d agreed simply to get Ted off his back.

“A ridiculous assumption made by women for women,” Rourke returned. “Most men prefer curves and softness against them over jutting bones.”

“Well.” She swallowed more wine. “That’s something you and I won’t have to worry about.”

He looked amused again and turned his head, glancing at the bank of windows. His profile was sharp, as defined—and cold—as a chiseled piece of granite. His black hair sprang sharply away from his forehead and the fine crow’s-feet arrowing out from the corner of his eyes were clearly illuminated.

Unfortunately, they didn’t detract from the total package.

“The view here is good,” he said. “I’m glad Raoul went with my suggestion on the location. Initially he was looking for a high-rise.”

She wanted to grind her teeth together, as annoyed with her own distraction where Rourke-the-man was concerned as she was with his unpredictability. “I didn’t know that restaurants were something you invested in. Techno-firm startups seemed to be more your speed. Aren’t restaurants notoriously chancy?” She lifted a hand, silently indicating the empty tables around them.

“Venture capitalism is about taking chances.” He selected a roll from the basket and broke it open, slathering one of the compound butters over half. “Calculated chances, of course. But as it happens, in the five years since Raoul opened the doors, I’ve never had cause to regret this particular chance.” He held out the roll. “Taste it.”

She could feel the wine wending its heady way through her veins. Breakfast had been hours ago. Wait. She’d skipped breakfast, in favor of a conference call.

Which meant drinking even the tiniest amount of wine was more foolish than usual.

Arguing seemed too much work, though, so she took the roll from him. Their fingers brushed.

She shoved the bread in her mouth, chomping down on it as viciously as she chomped down on the warmth that zipped through her hand.

“Good?”

Chewing, she nodded. The roll was good. Deliciously so.

It only annoyed her more.

She chased the yeasty heaven down with more wine and leaned closer to the table. “Obviously excellent bread and wine isn’t always enough to ensure success, or this place would be busting at the seams.”

“Raoul closed Fare until dinner for me.”

She blinked slowly and sat back. “Why?”

“Because I asked him to.”

“Again…why?”

“Because I wanted to be alone with you.”

A puff of air escaped her lips. “But you don’t even like me.”

Rourke picked up his wineglass and studied the disbelieving expression of the woman across from him. “Maybe not,” he allowed.

Lisa Armstrong had looked like an ice princess the first time he’d seen her more than six months ago in a crowded Cambridge pub called Shots where he’d been meeting with Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios.

He’d had no reason to change his opinion in the few times he’d seen her since.

“But I want you,” he continued smoothly, watching the sudden flare of her milk-chocolate eyes. “And you want me.” He’d known that since he’d maneuvered her into sharing a single, brief dance with him months earlier.

Her lips had parted. They were slightly thin, slightly wide for her narrow, angular face, and a shade of pale, delicate pink that he figured owed nothing to cosmetics.

And he hadn’t been able to get them out of his mind.

Obviously recovering, those lips pursed slightly. Her eyebrows—darker than the gold that covered her head—returned to their usual, level places. Her brown gaze was only fractionally less sharp than it had been when she’d first sat down across from him. But a strand of hair had worked loose of that perfect, smooth knot at the nape of her neck and had curled around her slender neck to tease the hollow at the base of her throat. “You have an incredible ego, Mr. Devlin.”

So he’d been told. By foes, friends and family alike. He pulled his gaze from that single, loose lock of hair that tickled the visible pulse he could see beneath her fair, fair skin. “I don’t think it’s egotism to recognize facts. And you might as well make it Rourke.”

“Why?” She didn’t seem to realize she’d reached for the other half of the roll he’d buttered and flicked a glance at it before dropping it back on the small bread plate. “Are we going to be doing business together after all?”

His inclination was to admit that they weren’t.

But he also had plenty of good reasons to want to ensure that Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios were able to continue their work without any more hitches. Investing in anything that Ted was involved in would be a good bet.

But through the Armstrong Fertility Institute?

Not even Ted knew why that particular idea was anathema to him.

Maybe it was small of him, but he wasn’t ready yet to release Lisa Armstrong from this particular hook. He was enjoying, too much, having the ice princess right where he wanted her.

He hid a dark bolt of amusement directed squarely at himself.

Nearly where he wanted her.

“Our salads,” he said instead, glancing at Tonio, their waiter and Raoul’s youngest son, as he approached with his tray.

He could see the ire creep back into Lisa’s eyes.

She controlled it well, though. Merely smiling coolly at Rourke as Tonio served them. He wondered if beneath that facade she would have preferred giving him a swift kick or if she really was that cool, all the way through.

It would be interesting to find out.

Interesting but complicated as hell.

He picked up his fork, his appetite whetted on more levels than he presently cared to admit. “Eat,” he said when she looked as if she weren’t even going to taste Raoul’s concoction. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d observed that she’d lost weight.

At the Founder’s Ball in her floaty gown of slippery brown and white that had hugged her narrow hips and left the entirety of her ivory back and shoulders distractingly bare, she’d felt slender and delicate in his arms.

Now, even with the thick weave of her jacket and the wide-cut legs of her slacks, he could tell she was even thinner.

She took her work to heart.

He could have told that for himself, even if Ted hadn’t mentioned it.

Often in the office before anyone else arrived. Often there later than anyone stayed.

For Ted to even notice something like that, beyond his Bunsen burners and beakers, was something. He’d said she was a workaholic.

Ironically, that gave her and Rourke something in common.

She was poking at the tomato salad and he was glad to see that some of it actually reached her mouth. His sister Tricia would take one look at her and want to fatten her up with plenty of pasta.

“How long have you and Dr. Bonner been friends?”

He had to give her points for adaptability. He’d expected to receive a mostly chilly silence for his autocratic refusal to discuss what they both knew she’d traveled to New York City to discuss. “Since we were boys.”

Her gaze flicked over him. “I find it hard to envision you as a boy. Were you schoolmates?”

He almost laughed.

Ted Bonner had grown up with wealth and privilege. Rourke and his three sisters might have had the same, if their father hadn’t walked out on them when they were young. Instead, the Devlin clan had gone from being comfortable to being…not.

They’d been locked out of their fine Boston home with no ceremony, no explanations.

He’d been twelve years old.

For a while, his mother had struggled to keep them in Boston. He and his sisters had switched from private to public schools. They’d moved into a basement apartment a lifestyle away from what they’d been used to. But in the end, within a handful of years, Nina Devlin had simply been forced to move them all back to New York where they’d moved into the cramped apartment above the home-style Italian restaurant his grandparents owned and operated.

And Rourke’s father? He’d landed in California with a surgically enhanced trophy wife who’d been fewer than ten years older than Rourke.

He’d seen them only once. When he’d been twenty-three and had raked in a cool million over his first real deal.

That was when Trophy Wife had indicated a considerable interest in Rourke’s bed and Dad had claimed Rourke was a chip off the old block.

He’d never seen either one of them again.

“Ted and I were in the same Boy Scout troop,” he told Lisa, fully expecting the surprise she couldn’t hide. Before they’d left Boston, his mother had chugged him across town to keep him involved in the troop that he’d been drafted into by his father, before he’d skipped. Rourke had hated it until he and Ted had struck up an unlikely friendship.

“You were a Boy Scout.”

“Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly—” He broke off the litany of Scout law when she snorted softly.

“Sorry,” she said, but aside from the bloom of pink over her sharp cheekbones, she didn’t particularly look it. “I just have a whole mental image of you wearing khaki shorts and merit badges.” The tip of her tongue appeared between her pearl-white teeth. Then she laughed softly, and shook her head. “A considerable change from your usual attire.”

He dragged his gaze away from the humorous stretch of her lips only to get caught in the sparkle of her eyes.

He tamped down on the heat shooting through him.

He hadn’t seen her smile, really smile, since that first glimpse of her at Shots when she’d been laughing over something with her friend Sara Beth.

Glancing at Tonio, who immediately cleared away their salads, Rourke picked up the prospectus. “The Armstrong Institute’s been plagued with bad press,” he said, breaking his own trumped-up rule of no business over lunch. “Questionable research protocols. Padded statistics.”

“Both allegations were proved false. By none other than your Scout buddy, Ted.”

“Yet the bad aftertaste of innuendo remains.”

The sparkle in her eyes died, leaving her expression looking hauntingly hollow. “That’s a little like blaming the victim, isn’t it? The Armstrong Institute has never operated with anything less than integrity. Nor has any of its staff. But we’re to be held accountable now for someone else’s shoddy reporting?”

“Integrity.” He mulled the word over, watching her while Tonio returned again with their main course of lobster risotto. “Interesting choice of words.”

Her gaze didn’t waver as she reached for her wineglass again. “I cannot imagine why.”

She would be a good poker player, he decided. Not everyone could baldly lie like that without so much as a blink. She was even better at it than his ex-wife had been.

But for the moment, he let the matter drop. “Eat the risotto. It’s nearly as good as my mother’s.”

She picked up her fork and took a small bite. Poked at the risotto as if moving the creamy rice around her plate would be an adequate substitute for actually eating. “Investment in the Armstrong Fertility Institute would be along the line of similar projects for Devlin Ventures. You’ve had great success in medically related firms.”

“None of which was family controlled,” he said flatly. “I don’t do family-owned businesses.”

“You invested in Fare.”

“I’m a partner in Fare.”

Lisa’s gaze finally fell, but not quickly enough to hide the defeat that filled it. She set down the fork with care. Dabbed the corner of her lips with her linen napkin before laying it on the table. “I believe I’ve wasted enough of your time. Clearly you agreed to this meeting only because of your friendship with Ted.” She pushed her chair back a few inches and picked up her briefcase as she rose. Her gaze flicked back to him for a moment. “Please assure Raoul that my departure is no reflection on his excellent meal.”

She turned away and started to leave the dining room.

“I’m surprised you would give up so quickly,” he said. “So easily. I would have thought you were all about duty to the institute.”

He saw her shoulders stiffen beneath the stylish jacket. She slowly turned, clasping the handle of her briefcase in both hands in front of her. “I am. And that duty dictates that my time is better served on prospective investors. Not dallying over amazing risotto and good wine with a man who has a different agenda. Whatever that may be.”

He had no agenda where the institute was concerned. With the single exception of his unwelcome attraction to her, anything to do with the Armstrong family put a vile taste in his mouth.

“The institute is on the brink of financial collapse,” he said evenly. “I’m not in the habit of throwing away good money.”

“The institute is experiencing some financial hiccups,” she returned coolly. “Nothing from which we cannot recover. And if you didn’t have some burr under your saddle that I still fail to understand, you’d be able to recognize that fact, too.”

“That’s what you really believe.” It was almost incomprehensible. The losses that the institute had incurred were nearly insurmountable.

Her chin angled slightly.

Too thin. Too tense.

But undeniably beautiful and certainly dutiful to her cause.

“Fine. We’ll meet in the morning.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Where? Your favorite breakfast shop?”

He very nearly smiled. The ice princess did have a claw or two. “My office. Nine o’clock.”

Her eyebrow lowered. Her eyes flared for a moment. She nodded. “Very well.”

“And don’t be late. I’ll be squeezing you into the day as it is.”

“I’m never late,” she assured him and, with a small smile, turned on her heel and strode out.

He watched her go, waiting to see if she’d glance back.

She did. But not until she was nearly out of sight. He still managed to hold her gaze for a second longer than was comfortable.

Her cheeks filled with color. This time when she turned to go, there was a lot more run in her stride.

How far would duty take her?

He picked up his wine, smiling faintly. It would be interesting finding out.

Chapter Two

“Of course he’s going to invest.” Sara Beth Bonner’s voice was bright and confident through the cell phone’s speaker. “Why else would he ask you to come to his office this morning?”

“I don’t know.” Lisa shook her head, glancing from the phone that was sitting on the vanity in her hotel room, to her reflection in the mirror. She’d already smudged her mascara once and had had to start over. She didn’t have time to mess up again, or—despite her falsely confident assurance to Rourke the day before—she would be late for their appointment that morning. “I know he’s an old friend of your brand-new husband, but the man’s a player. I don’t know what he wants.”

“Ted keeps saying Rourke is rock-solid.”

Lisa made a face at her reflection. The man was rock-solid—she’d found that out for herself when they’d danced together at the Founder’s Ball. But that, of course, wasn’t what Ted meant. “Just because Rourke was Boy Scout material once, doesn’t mean he still is.”

“What does Paul say?”

Lisa decided her mascara was finally acceptable and closed the tube with one hand while reaching for her lipstick with the other. “The same thing. That of course I can convince Devlin to jump on board.” She smoothed the subtle pink onto her lips. “Unfortunately, Paul doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that such blind faith only makes the pressure worse.”

“It’s not blind faith,” Sara Beth assured her. “It’s confidence. Come on, Lisa. Don’t start doubting yourself now. You can do this.”

“When did you trade in your nurse’s uniform for a cheerleader’s?”

“Hmm.” Laughter filled Sara Beth’s voice. “I wonder how Ted would feel about me in a short little skirt, waving pompoms around.”

Lisa groaned. “Newlyweds,” she returned. “Listen, I’ve gotta run. My flight gets in around three so I’ll probably see you at the institute before you get off. Shift, I mean.”

“Nice.”

“What are friends for?” She disconnected the phone, but she was finally smiling.

Thank goodness for Sara Beth. Her friend never failed to cheer her up.

She smoothed her hand once more over her pulled-back hair and pushed the phone into the pocket of her briefcase. She hadn’t come to New York the day before prepared for an overnight, which had necessitated a quick trip out to find something suitable to wear for today’s meeting because she refused to meet with Rourke again looking like day-old bread.

Since she’d already spent a small fortune on her Armani ensemble for the debacle of the day before, her personal budget was definitely taking a hit. But the black skirt she wore with the same black jersey tee from yesterday looked crisp and suitably “don’t mess with me” teamed with the new taupe blazer. She looked good and wasn’t going to pretend that it didn’t help bolster her confidence where the man was concerned.

She pushed her bare feet into her high-heeled black pumps, snatched up the briefcase and hurried out the door.

The morning air was brisk and breezy, tugging both at her chignon and her skirt as she waited for the cab that the doorman hailed for her.

The traffic was heavy—no surprise—and she wished that she hadn’t taken time to phone her mother that morning. It would have been one less item taking up time, and it wasn’t as if Emily Stanton Armstrong had had anything helpful or productive to say, anyway.

The only thing that Lisa had in common with her mother was a devotion to the man they had in common—Gerald. The great “Dr. G.” She’d given up, years ago, trying to understand what made her mother tick, much less trying to gain her approval. Emily already had the perfect daughter in Olivia, anyway. Olivia was the wife of a senator, for heaven’s sake. Jamison Mallory was the youngest member of the U.S. Senate and the eldest son of Boston’s most powerful family. He might as well be royalty. And he was probably headed for the White House. Olivia and Jamison had even recently adopted two children who’d lost their own parents, completing their picture of the perfect family. Rarely did a week pass when Lisa’s sister and brother-in-law weren’t featured in either the society section or the national news.

Not that Lisa was jealous of her older sister. Olivia looked better—happier—now than she had in years. Lisa just never felt as if they were quite on the same page. The things they wanted in life had always been so different.

She sighed a little, brushing her hands nervously over her skirt. She had to pull the institute out of the fire.

The cab finally pulled up in front of the towering building that housed Devlin Ventures. A glance at her chunky bangle watch told her she had nearly ten minutes to spare.

Perfect.

She quickly paid and tipped the driver and left the cab, weaving between the pedestrians on the sidewalk to enter the building. Gleaming marble, soaring windows, shops and an atrium filled with live trees greeted her. It was impressive, and if she’d had more time, she probably would have wandered around the first floor, just to explore. But since she didn’t, she aimed for the information desk that ran the length of one wall.

In minutes, she possessed a visitor’s pass that got her through the security door that wasn’t even visible from where she’d entered, and had bulleted dizzyingly to the top floor of the building in an elevator that went strictly to that floor, and that floor alone.

Devlin Ventures wasn’t merely an occupant of the building.

It was the owner.

She barely had time to smooth her hand over her hair and run her tongue discreetly over her teeth to remove any misplaced lipstick before the elevator doors opened and she stepped out onto a floor that was as calm and soothing as the first floor had been busy and vibrant.

For some reason, she hadn’t envisioned Rourke Devlin as a man to surround himself with such a Zen-like environment.

A curving desk in pale wood that matched the floor faced the elevator and she stopped in front of it. “Good morning,” she told the girl sitting there. “I’m Lisa Armstrong. I have an appointment with Mr. Devlin.”

The model-thin girl consulted something behind her desk, and seemed to find what she was looking for. “I’ll show you to his office.” She rose and swayed her way along a wide corridor. At the end, she turned, hip jutted, and lifted a languid hand. “Cynthia is Mr. Devlin’s assistant,” she said. “She’ll see to you now.”

Lisa found herself facing a woman who was as unattractive as the receptionist was attractive, right down to the heavy black-framed glasses that did little to disguise a hawkish nose. “Good morning.”

Rourke’s assistant gave her a short glance. “Mr. Devlin is unavoidably detained. I’m afraid he can’t see you as scheduled.”

Lisa felt her chest tighten. Dismay. Annoyance. Disappointment. They all clogged her system, jockeying for first place. “I’m happy to wait,” she assured her.

Cynthia gave her an unemotional stare that told her absolutely nothing. “If you wish.” Her gaze drifted to the collection of low, brown leather chairs situated near the windows.

Taking the cue, Lisa headed toward them. The view would have been spectacular if she had been in the mood to appreciate it.

Would Rourke stoop to blowing her off like this, without so much as meeting her face-to-face?

It didn’t seem to fit, but what did she know?

The man was impossibly unpredictable.

She set her briefcase on the floor beside one of the chairs that had a view of the important one—the entrance, so she wouldn’t miss spotting Rourke when he came in. If he came in.

The minutes dragged by and she tried not to fidget. She was used to being busy, not cooling her heels like this. But she sat. And she waited and she watched.

Several people came and went. She honestly couldn’t tell whether they were members of Rourke’s staff or visitors. Cynthia of the ugly glasses seemed to treat them all in the same way.

Nobody came to sit in one of the other chairs near Lisa, though. And after at least an hour of sitting there, she pulled out her BlackBerry. Answered a few dozen e-mails. Listened to even more voice mail messages. Her secretary, Ella, confirmed that she’d successfully rescheduled the appointments that she’d originally had on her calendar for that day.

The last message was from Derek.

As soon as she heard her brother’s voice, her teeth felt on edge. She skipped the message, neither listening to it, nor deleting it.

Her fingers tightened around the phone and she turned to stare out the windows.

How could her brother have stolen from the institute—from his own family—the way he had?

How could she not have realized? Suspected?

She should have just deleted the message. There was nothing Derek could have to say that she wanted to hear.

Not now.

Unfortunately, beneath the anger that bolstered her was a horrible, pained void that she couldn’t quite pretend didn’t exist.

“You waited.”

She jerked her head around to see Rourke standing less than a foot away. The phone slipped out of her hand, landing on the ivory-colored rug that sat beneath the arrangement of chairs. “We had an appointment.” Her voice was appallingly thick and she leaned forward quickly to retrieve her phone.

He beat her to it, though, and she froze, still leaning forward, her face disconcertingly close to his as he crouched there.

He slowly set the phone in her outstretched palm, but didn’t release it even when her fingers closed around it. His dark, dark gaze roved over her face.

She felt almost as if he’d stroked his fingers along her temple. Her cheek. Her jaw.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was low. As soft as that never-there touch.

Everything.

The word nearly slipped out and, realizing it, she quickly straightened. The phone slid free of his grasp; once again hers alone. She tucked it into her briefcase. “Other than enjoying the view for the past two hours? Not a thing.”

His expression hardened a little, making her realize—belatedly—that it had been softer after all. For a moment. Only a moment.

He straightened. “You should have rescheduled.”

Cynthia was at her desk, but that was a good thirty feet away. Still, Lisa kept her voice low. “And waste another morning?”

“For someone courting my financing, you’re sounding very waspish.”

The damnable thing was, he was right. And if he were anyone else, she would have sat there all day, happily, and still had a smile on her face when he finally got around to meeting with her.

“I’m sorry.” She rose. “It’s not you.” Not entirely, anyway. “And of course, if you would like me to reschedule, I’ll do so.”

He studied her for a moment. “I have to make a small trip today.”

Even prepared for it, she felt buffeted by more dismay.

But before she could formulate a suitable reply, he’d leaned over and picked up her briefcase. “Come on.”

He was heading for the elevator, not even stopping to speak to Cynthia along the way. Lisa had to skip to catch up with him and stepped onto the elevator when he held it open for her. “You don’t have to escort me from the building to make sure I leave,” she said when the doors closed on them. He held the briefcase away from her when she snatched at it.

“I’m sure you learned somewhere along the way that you get more flies with honey,” he observed.

“Fly strips work amazingly well, too,” she countered and folded her hands together. She was not going to play tug-of-war with the man where her own briefcase was concerned.

His lips twitched.

For some reason the descending elevator seemed to creep along, in direct contrast to the way it seemed to have shot her to his floor when she’d arrived. He turned and faced her, leaning back against the wall that was paneled in gleaming mahogany with narrow mirrored inserts. “You look nice today.”

Her lips parted. She blinked and looked up at the digital floor display above the door. Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. “Thank you.” He looked nice today, too. Mouth-watering nice.

Which was a direction her thoughts didn’t need to take.

“Did you sleep well?”

Even more disconcerted, she slid him a quick glance, then looked back up at the display. “Yes, thank you. My hotel was comfortable.” It was hardly The Plaza, but then she was on an expense account. Unlike her wardrobe, the cash-strapped institute would foot the bill for this little junket. As such, the room was moderately priced and not entirely conveniently located. She glanced at her watch. “My flight leaves this afternoon.”

Twenty-four. Twenty-three.

“Do you ever wear your hair down?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He pushed his hand in his trousers pocket, dislodging the excellent lay of his black suit coat. “It’s long, isn’t it?”

Eighteen. Seventeen.

“A bit,” she allowed, trying to figure out what angle he was coming from.

“I’ve never seen you wear it down.”

She huffed a little, exasperated not just with him, but with the eternal slowness of the elevator. “Since you’ve seen me only a handful of times, is that so surprising?” She didn’t like—or trust—the faint smile hovering around his lips. “If we’re going to be asking for personal information, then what was it that had you—” her voice dropped into a toneless imitation of Cynthia’s “—unavoidably detained?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“My mother was in the hospital last night.”

Stricken, her eyebrows lowered. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She looked more closely at him. He didn’t look unduly upset. His suit was as magazine-perfect as always, his eyes clear and sharp; he didn’t look as if he’d spent the night in some hospital waiting room. “She’s all right?”

“A sprained ankle that they thought might be broken.”

“Oh. That’s good then. Well. Not good that she has a sprain, of course. But—” She realized she was babbling and broke off.

Fortunately, the elevator finally rocked softly to a stop and the doors slid open. He waited for her to exit first but he still held her briefcase. And continued to do so, either oblivious to, or choosing to ignore, her awkward gestures of taking it back.

They were nearly to the main entrance and he was still in possession of it when he spoke again. “Your security pass.”

She’d completely forgotten it. She unclipped it from her lapel and dropped it off at the desk, then rejoined Rourke where he was waiting. “I didn’t realize you owned the building,” she said, holding out her hand for what seemed the tenth time. “It’s quite an impressive space.”

He glanced around. “It’ll do.” Then he took her hand, as if that was what she’d been waiting for, and tugged her through the doors.

Feeling as if she’d dropped through the looking glass, she couldn’t do anything but follow.

Outside, the breeze had picked up, but the sun had warmed, foretelling a perfectly lovely September day. She caught her skirt with her free hand before it could blow up around her knees. “I’ll contact your assistant to reschedule.”

“No need. Come with me.” He released her hand, and touched the small of her back, directing her inexorably toward a black limo that was parked at the curb.

She tried digging in her heels, but that was about as effective as holding down her skirt against the mischievous breeze, and before she knew it, she was ensconced in the rear of the spacious limousine.

With him.

And what should have felt spacious…didn’t. Not when his thigh was only six inches away from hers and she could smell the heady scent of him. Fresh. Clean. A little spicy.

“Mr. Devlin—”

“Rourke.”

A jolt of nervous excitement whisked through her. Maybe all wasn’t lost, after all.

On the other hand, maybe he was merely planning to drop her at her hotel.

The teeter-totter of possibilities was enough to make her dizzy and answers were the only thing that would solve that. So she obliged him. “Rourke.” Warmth bloomed in her cheeks at the feel of his name on her lips. “Where are you taking me?”

“Greenwich.”

“What? Why?” It would surely take an hour each way, and that was if the traffic didn’t get heavier.

But he just lifted his hand, putting her off as he put his vibrating cell phone to his ear.

She fell silent and sank deeper into the butter-soft leather seat, crossing her arms and kissing goodbye any chance she had of making her flight home on time.

He was still talking, so she reached for her briefcase—at last—and pulled out her own phone, sending a quick message to Ella that she’d need to move back her flight. Again.

Then, leaving that to her trusty assistant, she scrolled through her e-mails—two from Derek which she ignored as surely as she’d ignored his voice mail—and then dropped the phone back into her briefcase in favor of looking out the window.

She was even beyond trying to puzzle out what Rourke was up to, because she just ended up with a headache, anyway.

He stayed on the phone the entire drive—his voice low and steady as he discussed some upcoming media launch—and she found herself struggling against drowsiness. When the car finally turned up a long, winding drive bordered by immaculate lawns and massive shrubs, some still blooming, Rourke finally put away his phone.

They passed an island of tall, slender cypress trees bordering a flowing fountain, then a terraced swimming pool, and after rounding yet another curve in the drive, came to a stop in front of an immense Tudor mansion.

“It’s beautiful.” She couldn’t stop the exclamation when they stepped out of the car. “Who lives here?”

“My mom.” He didn’t head toward the grand entrance, fronted by a dozen wide, shallow stone steps, but instead to a smaller, more unobtrusive door well off to one side.

She hurried after him, her heels clacking against the pavement.

He stopped and waited until she caught up to him, and they went in through the door. “You grew up here?” Her voice echoed a little in the long, empty hall they found themselves in.

“Hell, no.” He reached back and grabbed her hand unerringly—sending a shuddering quake through her that she tried to ignore—then turned and left through another door that led outside onto a stone terrace.

She immediately heard the high-pitched squeal of children’s laughter and Rourke let go of her hand just in time to catch up the little girl who aimed for him with the speed and accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.

It was all Lisa could do not to gape as his face broke into a full-blown smile while he swung the blond-haired imp up in the air, earning another peal of squealing laughter from her. She caught his face between her starfish fingers and pressed a smacking kiss against his lips. “What’d you bring me?”

Rourke laughed outright and hitched the little girl on his shoulder, tickling her knees beneath the short hem of her miniature white tennis dress. “This,” he told Lisa, “greedy little one is my youngest niece, Tanya. Say hello to Ms. Armstrong, munchkin.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

Lisa nearly choked, particularly when Rourke sent her a sidelong look. “Does she look like she’s my girlfriend?”

The little girl’s eyes were just as dark as Rourke’s; a startling contrast considering the golden curls spilling around her head. And they focused on Lisa with an unnerving intensity. “Maybe,” she determined. “But I’m gonna marry Uncle Rourke, anyway. He’s mine.”

Lisa couldn’t help but smile. “I see.”

“I’m five, so I gotta wait a while. But you can still play with him,” Tanya said generously. Her hand patted Rourke’s head as if he was a particularly good pet. “I’m not very good yet.” She pointed toward the tennis court on the far side of yet another swimming pool. There were a half-dozen kids trotting around the court, batting tennis balls back and forth more like ammunition than in any semblance of a real tennis match.

Trying not to blush—because the second Tanya had said play, her uncle had given Lisa a look that left her feeling scorched—she caught at her blowing skirt again and focused anywhere other than on Rourke. “Are those your brothers and sisters?” She nodded toward the other children.

“They’re my cousins. I’m a lonely only,” Tanya said so pathetically that Lisa had to bite back a laugh.

“Lonely my foot,” Rourke chided, lifting her off his shoulder and flipping her heels over head before setting her on her feet. “Where’s your grandma?”

“Aunt Tricia said she hadda sit in the shade with her foot elevatored.” She gestured toward the lagoon-shaped swimming pool where several lounges and chairs were arranged around tables shaded by large beige market umbrellas. If it weren’t for the thick border of trees well off in the distance that were showing faint shades of fall, it would have seemed like the middle of summer.

“Run ahead and tell her I’m here with a guest.”

Tanya immediately turned on her little sneakered feet and raced across the stone courtyard, dashing down the terraced steps and across the lawn toward the pool.

Lisa caught at her drifting skirt again. A rerun of her trousers from the day before would have been smarter. “Rourke, you could have just said you wanted to check on your mother. I would have understood the need to reschedule our meeting.” If anything, his evident concern for his mother made him seem much more human than she’d previously suspected.

“Rescheduling isn’t necessary.”

The teeter-totter was back in full force. “Because.?” She trailed off warily.

“Because I already know what I need to know.” He lifted his hand in a wave when a petite woman appeared from beneath one of the umbrellas and started toward them. “That’s Tricia. Be prepared. She likes bossing everyone around.”

Her jaw tightened. He was being deliberately obscure. “Runs in the family, evidently,” she murmured.

But he just grabbed her wrist and strode off again, pulling her with him whether she wanted to go or not and not releasing her until he met his dark-haired sister and swept her into an unrestrained hug that surprised Lisa all over again.

Then he held out his arm toward Lisa, introducing them. “This is my sister Tricia McAllister. Trish, this is Lisa Armstrong.”

Feeling awkward, Lisa stuck out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Tricia had the same scrutinizing black eyes her brother possessed and they were clearly speculative as she looked from Lisa to Rourke and back again. “And you,” she returned, exchanging a quick handshake before addressing her brother again. “Cara and Lea are bringing lunch down any minute now. It’s so lovely out, I said we had to eat outside. So come say hello to Mother and then pull two more chairs over to her table.” She headed off.

Rourke caught Lisa’s eye. “See?”

“Is she the oldest?”

“Of my sisters, yes.”

Which, she assumed, meant he was older than they were. “Brothers?”

He shook his had. “Until Trish had her third kid—Trey—I was the only guy in the group, save a couple of brothers-in-law.” He wrapped his hand around her elbow, steering her toward the tables beyond which the pool shimmered like pale clouds floating in liquid silver. “Now smile and stop looking like you’re heading to your own execution.”

“I’m sorry. But I feel like I’m intruding here.”

“It’s just family.”

“Right. Your family.” The back of her neck itched. “I’m here on business but they probably think this is social.” At least that was what the speculation on Tricia’s face had indicated.

He lifted an eyebrow. “So?”

“So—” She broke off, her hands flapping uselessly. She’d left the briefcase—along with her means of contact with the outside world—in the limo. And with each step they took, her heels sinking into the still-lush lawn, she felt as if she was getting further away from that familiar world in favor of this resortlike home. “It’s…it’s not.”

“You’ll have your money. All of it. Now relax.” Completely disregarding the shock that had her legs nearly going out beneath her, his steps didn’t hesitate as he continued pulling her toward the others. “Think of us as one happy family.”

Chapter Three

All of it?

Lisa barely heard anything after those three little words. She supposed she must have functioned through the meal—carried from the house by Cara and Lea, who turned out to be Rourke’s other sisters. Rourke sat her across from his mother, Nina. She had one bandaged foot elevated on a second chair, a position that didn’t prevent her from busily working the colorful blanket she was crocheting. Like a general maneuvering her troops, Tricia called in all the children from the tennis courts, directing them around the two other tables even as she tossed out introductions that Lisa had no hope of following.

Not when all of it kept circling in her head, even trumping that ironic “happy family” comment.

He couldn’t have meant it literally. Could he?

Before she knew it, the meal was done, the oddly prosaic plastic plates and utensils disposed of and after being indulgently waved off by Nina Devlin, Lisa found herself walking through an honest-to-goodness hedge maze with Rourke while three of his nieces—Tanya in the lead—raced ahead of them.

“What exactly do you mean by all of it?” she finally asked.

They’d both left behind their jackets at the table. He’d rolled the cuffs of his white shirt up his forearms. Even his tie was gone. And at her abrupt question, he stopped and looked at her. The hedge was tall enough that it couldn’t be seen over, but not so high that it felt claustrophobic. She could hear the high-pitched little-girl voices ahead of them, and still feel the breeze tugging at her chignon and her skirt.

But when he focused his attention on her face just then, they might as well have been locked together, alone, in a four-by-four vault. “I mean all of it,“ he repeated as if she were witless.

Which was pretty much how she felt. Ultimately, the institute needed millions, and the most practical solution—if the least desirable—to that would have been from multiple sources. Not even Ted had really believed that Rourke would consider covering their entire need. “But—”

He lifted a hand, silencing her. “This isn’t up for discussion. I’m willing to invest as much as it takes, but I’ll be the only investor. No others.”

Her blood was zipping through her veins more quickly, excitement making her pulse pound. This was it, then. Truly it.

The answer to a prayer.

“Are you agreeing because of your friendship with Ted?”

“Does it matter?”

She slowly shook her head. “What matters is the institute.”

“Right.” His lips twisted a little. “As it happens, I do want to see Ted and Chance have every opportunity available to them. And Ted won’t leave the institute.”

Her shoes crunched on the smooth gravel of the path as she took two steps one way, then back again. “You asked him?”

His eyes glinted, reminding her needlessly that—indulgent uncle or not—he was a calculating businessman. “Of course.”

She swallowed. Paul had courted Ted and Chance away from San Francisco. With the institute in its currently precarious position, could she blame them if they were courted away from them?

“Ted flatly refused, though,” Rourke added. “Wouldn’t even consider any of the institutions I brought to his attention. Which is good. Because without Bonner and Demetrios I wouldn’t touch this with a ten-foot pole.” His eyes narrowed. “I know the numbers, Lisa. More importantly, I know why.”

He couldn’t possibly know that Derek was the cause. But she knew that before the t‘s were crossed and the i‘s dotted, he’d have a right to know the truth. For now, though, she chose to skirt it. “With such a level of financial commitment, are you expecting to be more hands-on in a functional capacity?”

He looked darkly amused. “Afraid I’m going to want to set up an office next to yours?” They turned another corner of the maze.

“Of course not,” she blithely lied. The Armstrongs ran the Armstrong Fertility Institute. If she had anything to say about it, that was the way it would continue. “Naturally, you’ll want some assurance that your investment is protected, so I—”

“It’ll be protected all right. Just not by my regular presence during your management meetings. I’m not interested in telling you what staff to hire and fire or what sort of patient load every physician should maintain or what research protocols should be followed. The institute already knows all that.”

Given the grim set of his mouth, she wasn’t certain if there was a compliment in there or not.

She was leaning toward not.

“Then what, exactly, do you mean by protection?” The institute had been in successful operation for more than two decades. With the exception of their run of bad press during the past year, the only instance of mismanagement was what they were dealing with now.

Of course that instance was a freaking whopper.

“I mean you.”

She frowned, trying—and failing—to decipher his meaning. “I have no intention of deserting the institute,” she assured him. She’d had plenty of offers in the past few years, offers she’d never taken seriously, because her heart was in Cambridge, firmly entrenched in her family’s calling. “I’ll be there as long as there’s a lightbulb burning.”

He shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

Which left her more confused than ever. But a clatter of gravel heralded the giggling trio as the girls ran past them on their way back out of the maze and Lisa waited until they were gone again before speaking. “We’re talking in circles, Rourke.”

But he didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he closed his hand over her elbow and led her around another corner.

They’d reached the center of the maze where four short benches sat on each side of a square, tiered fountain.

It was charming and very serene.

And without the presence of his nieces, very, very private.

Rourke let go of her elbow and faced her. “I want an heir.”

She did a credible job of hiding her astonishment. “And you want the institute to assist with that? We specialize in IVF but we also have an excellent history with surrogacy.” Or maybe he had a girlfriend that not even little Tanya knew about.

For some reason, her mouth tasted a little acid over that thought.

“I know.”

Relief coursed through her. At least now she felt as if she understood what he was aiming for. He’d said he wanted an heir. A child. They could help to make that come about. “Confidentiality is sacred at the Armstrong Fertility Institute, Rourke. You don’t have to worry about that. And honestly, my brother Paul might want to brain me for saying this, but you don’t have to agree to invest this heavily just to be assured of that. In comparison, those fees would be—” She broke off, shrugging. Because, truly, those fees would be less than minuscule to a man of his significant wealth. “As for the surrogate, if you have someone in mind, our attorney will walk through the entire process with both of you. And if you don’t have someone in mind, we have—”

“I do. You.”

It took her a minute to realize what he’d said.

She pressed her hand to her chest, a disbelieving laugh on her lips. “You want me to be your surrogate?”

“No,” he said evenly. “I want you to be my wife.”

She felt the blood drain out of her head. Disbelief morphed into anger.

Clearly he wasn’t serious. Nothing since she’d stepped into Fare for that farce of a meeting the day before had been serious.

Not to him.

Her hands curled at her sides. “I cannot believe I let myself take this seriously. When, obviously, this is all just a game to you. What is it, Rourke?” She spread her arms. “Do you have some particular ax to grind or are you just bored?”

He ignored her. “I figure a year, maybe two at the outside. That’s comfortable enough to have a child within that time. After which you can go your way and I’ll go mine. The child, of course, will be with me at least half the time. I’m not ignorant that two parents are better than one. If you choose to exercise that role, of course. If not—” He shrugged. “I’ll be just as happy to have him or her full-time. As you’ve seen for yourself there’s plenty of other family around.”

She gaped. “You plan to push this theoretical child off on your mother to care for, just so you can have yourself an heir?”

“Of course not.” He looked impatient. “My mother obviously adores her grandchildren, but I don’t expect her to raise them. My mother lives here, but this is my home.”

“But you have a penthouse in the city.” The glorious penthouse that Sara Beth had raved over nearly as much as she’d raved over Ted, who’d romantically swept her there while he’d been courting her.

“And a lakeside loft in Chicago and a cabin in Colorado and a house on an Oregon cliff. All of which are beside the point. In exchange for your…contribution…the institute will receive all the funds it needs to climb back out of its hole and stay there.”

“How generous.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “If you’re serious—and frankly, I’m having a hard time with swallowing that—what on God’s green earth would lead you to think that I’d be agreeable to this?”

“You told me yourself you’re dedicated to the institute.”

“Dedicated, yes. Insane, no.”

“Then when you get back home, you’d better tell everyone at the institute to polish up their resumes.”

“I’m sorry to bust your egotistical bubble, Mr. Devlin, but you are not the only player in the investment game. I’ll find new investors. Real ones.” Investors who weren’t out of their minds. “Nobody at the institute is going to have to lose their jobs. Nobody!”

“If you don’t agree, there’s not an investor in this country—or beyond—who’ll want to touch the Armstrong Fertility Institute when I’m finished.” His voice was low. Flat. “Every-one—and I mean everyone—will know how badly your own brother embezzled from the company. Derek couldn’t even stick to just draining from your operational funds. He had to take from the research grants, too. And he did it for years, right under your noses. You think you weathered tough times when the institute was accused of using unauthorized donor sperm and eggs? When you were accused of inflating the in vitro success ratios? That was a cakewalk. You don’t have only patients to lose. You’ve got the respect of every medical and scientific community to lose. Everything your father ever worked for.” His black gaze didn’t waver. “The institute won’t just disappear quietly into the night like a fine business that has seen a natural end of life. It’ll blow up and the toxic fumes will never fade. Not even your very capable PR fixer, Ramona Tate, will be able to spin you out of this.”

The chicken salad they’d had for lunch swirled nauseatingly inside her. “How did you know about Derek? From Ted?” She would have staked her reputation on Ted’s loyalty to the institute.

She had staked her reputation on it.

The look Rourke gave her was almost pitying. “Ted Bonner has never betrayed anyone or anything, least of all the Armstrong Institute.”

“Then how did you come across such privileged information?”

“There are some things that even the venerable Armstrong family can’t hide,” he said, leaning toward her. “Do you really think that I would consider investing in the institute without knowing exactly what I’d be getting into? I made it my business to know as soon as Ted called to set up a meeting with you. I didn’t get to where I am by being naive, Lisa.”

“Did you get there by resorting to blackmail to get what you want?” She was shaking and very much aware that he hadn’t answered her. “Or are we just special that way?”

His smile was cold. The wolf in full, ravenous mode, greeting Red Riding Hood right at the door. “Oh, princess, you are definitely special. And don’t consider it blackmail when we’re all getting something we want out of the deal.”

Fury bubbled inside her, vibrating through her voice. “You met me yesterday with no intention of investing.”

He didn’t deny it.

“So what happened between yesterday and today? Some angel visit you in your dreams and tell you it was time for an heir?” She struggled to keep her voice down.

His gaze drifted from her face, down her body, and back up again. “Something visited me in my dreams,” he allowed.

There was no mistaking his implication and she flushed so hard, she was practically seeing him through crimson.

Or else that was her fury.

She’d never been so close to losing control. She wanted to yell and pound her hands on something.

He would make a satisfying target.

She took a deep breath, waiting until her vocal cords didn’t feel as if they were strangling her. “I have no intention of being your broodmare, and even less intention of allowing you to ruin my institute!”

“You might want to think about it,” he suggested, when she turned on her heel and started walking away from the fountain. “I’ll give you until tomorrow afternoon. That’ll give my media director time to leak the…appropriate news.”

He’d been talking with his media director for much of their drive to Greenwich. She felt even sicker. She looked back at him. “Appropriate.”

“Don’t agree to my…proposal—”

“Proposal!” She snorted. “Insane proposition, maybe.”

He barely paused over her interruption. “—and it’ll be just as I’ve described. A hailstorm of disaster will come down on the institute by the time people tune into the evening news. But if you do agree, I’ll work equally hard at ensuring the world never knows what sort of thievery you have going on in your family. And the only thing in the news will be a human interest blip about our upcoming marriage.”

She hated, absolutely hated the fact that there was a stinging burn deep behind her eyes. There was no way she’d show any sort of weakness in front of this man. “Why should I trust you?”

He held up his hand. “Scout’s honor.”

She stared at him, her hands curling and uncurling at her sides. “I’ve never come as close to wanting to hit someone as I am now.”

“Your brother Derek would make a better target.” His voice was flat. “He’s the one who put you in this position.”

And how badly she wanted to be able to deny it.

But she couldn’t.

Derek. Her own brother. The one she’d always been able to turn to. He’d been the one to teach her to drive when her father was too busy to and her mother was disinclined to. He’d been the one to help her pass her high-school math classes, to whisk her away for a day of sailing when all the rest of her friends were primping for the prom that she’d never been asked to go to. She’d gone to the same university as he; he’d told her what teachers were good and which ones to avoid. He’d taken her out for her first legal beer.

And he’d been her biggest supporter when it came to convincing their father that she—youngest of the Armstrong siblings—had what it took to become the head administrator of the institute.

She hated him for what he’d done to all of them. Couldn’t understand how he could have done what he’d done.

And she wished like hell that she could cut off the memory of all that he’d meant to her.

“Come on, Lisa.” Rourke’s voice dropped gently; the predator sensing weakness. “It won’t be so bad. A handful of years at the outside is all you’ll be giving up. And in exchange, the institute will be set for the next fifty years when the next generation takes over. You can expand. Open another location on the west coast if you want. The sky will be the limit.”

She didn’t care about expansion. Or new sites. She cared about the site—the only site—they had. She cared about what it would do to her father if the institute fell from grace while it was under her watch. Gerald’s health had been declining for years. She wasn’t sure if he could survive such a mammoth, shocking disappointment.

She and Paul and the others at the institute had all agreed that it was best to keep Derek’s horrible misdeeds from their parents. It wouldn’t solve anything if they knew, and would only upset them.

She pressed her fingers to her temples.

But if Rourke was to be believed—if she didn’t go along with his plan—there was no way that her parents wouldn’t learn what Derek had done.

It was unbearable to even contemplate.

“My driver can take you back to your hotel,” Rourke said, and she decided she was losing her mind to think there was a hint of compassion in his voice. “You have some thinking to do.”

“According to you, there’s no thinking to be done. Agree or suffer the consequences.”

“The institute can’t hide its financial precariousness much longer. Even if I did nothing, the truth would come out.”

“But you’re prepared to help it along.” Her voice was thick. She looked at him, wishing she could understand what was ticking behind his impenetrable gaze. “And for what? What did we ever do to you?”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t like thieves.”

“I don’t like drivers who run red lights,” she exclaimed. “But I don’t take it so personally that I deliberately go hunting them down!”

“I didn’t hunt you down, sweetheart. You came to me. I’ve just come up with a solution that benefits us both.”

She shook her head. His gall was unbelievable. “You can whitewash it all you want, Rourke, but coercion is still coercion.”

He sighed faintly. “The more you keep thinking along those lines, the harder this all will be. My advice to you is to focus on the advantages.” His lips twisted a little. “That’s what I’m doing.”

She watched him.

The silence between them slowly ticked along, broken only by the soft gurgle of water spilling tranquilly over the edges of the fountain.

“I don’t see why we would have to marry,” she finally said. Maybe…maybe…she could tolerate being a surrogate mother for him. But that didn’t necessitate a pointless marriage.

A glint sparked in his eyes. The wolf scenting blood. “My child won’t be born a bastard.”

She looked up at the blue sky, then back at him. “Come out of the Dark Ages,” she said impatiently. “People hardly care about that anymore!”

“My mother still cares.” His expression was inflexible. “I care.”

So they’d all suffer through a sham of a marriage just so his heir wouldn’t be born out of wedlock?

“I suppose I should be grateful you don’t have some moral objection to divorce, too!”

“If I did, it went by the wayside well enough thanks to my ex-wife.”

She’d been aware that he was divorced, yet her furtive research when she’d first met him hadn’t managed to unearth any details about the woman. He’d been paired with dozens of women—from famous models to actresses to heiresses. But there’d definitely been no details of his former wife. “How long ago were you married?” Maybe he was nursing a broken heart and taking it out on her because she was female.

“A lifetime.”

“Right.” He wasn’t that old. Only four years older than she. “What happened?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“It does if I’m going to be putting your ring on my finger,” she returned. “Since I assume, to go along with your other antiquated notions, that you’ll be wanting me to wear one.”

“You think it’s old-fashioned for a couple to exchange rings along with their vows?”

She wanted to stomp her foot. Because she didn’t think it was old-fashioned. She thought it was right and it was true and it was what people in love did. People who were committing themselves to each other for the rest of their lives.

Like Sara Beth and Ted had done. Like Paul and Ramona were going to be doing.

Certainly not for Rourke and her.

The very idea of it struck her as blasphemous.

“There is just one more detail,” he added.

Her nerves tightened until they vibrated at a screaming pitch. “What?”

“The terms of our arrangement are to be kept private. As far as the rest of the world will know—including your family and your friends as well as mine—this will be a traditional marriage. Entered into for all of the traditional reasons.”

She let out a disbelieving laugh. “Like what? Love? Who’s going to believe that we’re in love?”

His gaze suddenly focused on her mouth. His voice dropped. “I think we can be convincing enough.”

She felt scorched and wanted badly to blame it on her temper. On the impossible position he was forcing her into.

But she was fresh out of strength to even maintain that simple of a lie to herself.

“What if I have a problem carrying the baby?” She tossed out the possibility with a hint of desperation. The fertilization itself wouldn’t be a problem. Obviously. In vitro fertilization—IVF—was just one of the specialties at the institute.

But carrying the baby to term once it was implanted?

Her sister, Olivia, was proof that not every pregnancy made it to term. Who was she to say that she might not have Olivia’s tendency toward miscarriage?

But even as she thought it, her common sense rejected it. Physically, Olivia was as delicate as an orchid. Her sister’s body simply wasn’t built to bear children. Lisa was about as delicate as an oak tree.

“You’re in excellent health,” he said. “There’s no reason to believe you would have difficulty.”

“How do you know I’m in excellent health?” Her jaw tightened. “Maybe I…maybe I have an STD!”

He laughed softly. “How long has it been since you’ve been with a man?”

She flushed. There was no earthly way that Rourke could know that she hadn’t been involved with anyone—that way—since she’d been in college. Years. Followed by more years. “None of your business.”

“It is when you’re going to be carrying my baby inside of you.”

Her knees felt weak. She moved around him—uncaring that he seemed to find amusement in the distance she kept between them—and sat down on one of the carved benches.

“It’s academic, anyway,” he commented. He plucked a leaf from the hedge nearest him and twirled it between his fingers.

A distant part of her brain envied him that ability to look so calm when everything was going to hell in a handbasket.

“It doesn’t matter how many lovers you’ve had,” he went on. “Or haven’t had. You had your annual physical last month just like you’ve done for years. You’re as healthy as a horse. You don’t even have a prescription for birth control pills.”

Her jaw dropped. “How do you know that?”

He just continued watching her. Leaving her with mad scenarios of stolen medical files running rampant through her head. But that would have taken forethought, wouldn’t it?

She eyed him, not certain of anything anymore. “You’ve thought of everything, I guess.”

“And now it’s time for you to do your thinking.”

But she just shook her head and looked away from him. “There is no choice.” And he knew it.

“You’ll do what it takes to save the institute?”

He let go of the leaf. Her eyes watched it swirl around in circles until it landed on the gravel between them.

“Yes.” She looked up at him. “You’ve got a deal.”

Chapter Four

Rourke watched the limousine bearing Lisa in the rear seat drive away from the house.

A part of him was elated.

An equal part of him was disgusted.

Not with Lisa. She’d done exactly what he’d expected her to do. His personal dealings with her might have been counted on one hand, but he knew she was singularly dedicated in her goals where the institute was concerned. Agreeing to his terms had been her only option.

He wished that the elation could edge out the disgust if only for a moment or two.

“Where’d Lisa go?”

He looked over at Tricia, who’d walked around to the front of the house. “She has to catch a flight back to Boston.”

After she’d agreed, she’d asked him about the rest of his plans.

And even though he had more than a few, he hadn’t been able to heap them on top of her slightly bowed shoulders. So he’d lied. He’d told her that he would contact her later and they could iron out the details.

Her lips had twisted. But when she’d pushed off the bench, she’d stood tall and slender in front of him when she’d told him that she would use his limo then, after all.

Because she had work to get back to.

He knew there was no doubting that.

Even with him throwing money at the institute, it was going to take some real work to recover from the mess that Derek Armstrong had left behind.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, willfully pushing all thoughts of the man out of his head. He looked at Tricia. “What did you think of her?”

His sister—only two years his junior—looked up at him. “What do you think I thought? She looks like Taylor.”

He turned to look back at the curving drive, though the limousine had already passed from sight. That had been his first thought, too, when he’d seen Lisa in Shots. That she looked like his faithless ex-wife. But the next time he’d seen her—when Ted and Sara Beth had eloped—he’d realized how superficial that first, startling resemblance had been. Oh, Lisa was still slender and leggy. A blonde with brown eyes and a face that was arrestingly sculptured with a reserved demeanor that just begged to be smashed.

“She’s not Taylor,” he told his sister. She might be an ice princess, but Lisa had a brain. And dedication, which she’d proved just that afternoon.

The only dedication his ex had was to herself.

“Well, obviously, I know that,” Tricia said, rolling her eyes. “Just make sure you remember it.”

“What else did you think of her?”

She eyed him more closely. With all the suspicion of a sister who’d endured plenty from him throughout their childhood. “She seems nice enough. A little cool, but I think that’s probably because she’s shy.”

“Shy?” He shook his head, dismissing the notion. Lisa had confidence to spare. There was no room for shyness there. “Not a chance.”

His sister huffed. “Why’d you ask if you’re going to ignore what I think, anyway? Trust me. The woman has a shy streak a half mile wide. You just don’t see it ‘cause you’re a guy. All you see are those long legs of hers and those big brown eyes.”

He saw a lot more than that. He saw the means to his future. One that, for a long while, he’d given up on ever having.

He never thought he’d be in the position of hearing his own biological clock ticking, but that was where he was. There was a helluva lot of macabre irony that the situation caused by Derek Armstrong was now providing Rourke with the means to succeed in the one thing he’d ever failed at.

Or maybe, it was simply poetic justice.

Elation edged ahead at last, and Rourke dropped his arm over his sister’s shoulder. “How fast do you think you can put together a wedding?”

Lisa stood on the front porch of her parents’ home and took a deep breath. She’d barely landed in Boston when her cell phone started ringing with messages, but it was the one from her mother that had brought Lisa here this evening.

Nobody ignored Emily when she summoned you to a family dinner.

Not even when one had, just that day, been coerced into agreeing to marry a devil.

Blowing out a breath, she pushed open the door, entering the foyer where the scent of furniture polish and fresh flowers greeted her. Knowing that her mother wouldn’t appreciate her arriving with briefcase in hand—tangible evidence that she was a businesswoman and not a society wife—she left it on the floor next to an antique console table that held the cut-crystal vase filled with flowers and walked through the house that she’d grown up in.

She found everyone already in the drawing room. Her mother was sitting on the settee, her typical glass of sherry in her hand. Surprisingly, Gerald was out of bed and sat in his wheelchair next to the settee, sipping amber liquid from a squat glass of his own. Paul and his fiancée, Ramona, were standing close together near the bay window that overlooked the back of the estate. Her blond head was tilted close to his dark one and they seemed lost in their own world.

Derek was notably absent, for which Lisa was painfully grateful.

She was pretty certain that in her present mood, she would have lost her control altogether if she’d had to see him just then.

It was going to be difficult enough trying to sell the idea of her sudden “romance” with Rourke Devlin as it was.

She went to her father first, bending over him to kiss his cheek. “Daddy. It’s good to see you up. You’re looking well.” And he did. His shoulders weren’t as broad and strong as they’d been before he’d become confined to his wheelchair and his face wasn’t as fiercely handsome as it had once been, but he was still an impressive, dauntingly intelligent man.

And right now, that intelligence was peering out at her from her father’s eyes. “You don’t,” he said bluntly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” She straightened and managed a laugh. “Just too much to do and not enough hours in the day. That’s what you always used to say,” she reminded.

He lifted his glass, watching her over the rim. He didn’t look convinced, but she turned quickly for her customary air-kiss with her mother.

“You’re late,” was the only observation her mother had for her.

“I’m sorry.” She looked over the back of the settee to find her brother watching her, his eyebrows lifted a little.

She could well imagine he was curious about the results of her New York trip. She shook her head ever so slightly, glancing back at her mother. “You know I was in New York for most of the day. I had to stop at the institute when I got back.”

Emily’s lips pursed. “I suppose that’s why you didn’t have time to dress more appropriately for dinner.”

She was long used to her mother’s disapproval and ignored it in favor of going to the gleaming wooden bar on the far side of the room. “I thought Olivia and her clan would be here, too,” she said to no one in particular.

“She and Jamison had another function tonight.”

And of course those functions would be important enough not to earn Emily’s trademarked sniff of displeasure. “Too bad,” Lisa said. “I was looking forward to seeing Kevin and Danny again.” Since they’d joined the family, Lisa had been unfailingly charmed by the two sweet little boys her sister and brother-in-law had adopted. And right now, the three-and seven-year-olds would have provided a welcome distraction. “How long until dinner?”

She could hear her mother’s sigh from across the room. “Long enough for you to have an aperitif.”

As if to not have a pre-dinner drink was the height of crassness.

Paul appeared beside her and pulled a wineglass from beneath the bar. “White?”

She stifled her own sigh and nodded.

He poured her a glass. “I’m sorry I was tied up with patients this afternoon and missed you when you got back.” His voice was low. “How’d it go?”

Her fingers tightened nervously around the delicate crystal stemware. Her mother had switched her attention to fussing over Gerald, though Ramona was watching them. Lisa pulled her lips into a smile for her brother and his fiancée, lifting her glass a little as if in a toast. “We…um…we’re not going to have to worry about that…small problem anymore. It’s completely taken care of.” Or it would be soon enough.

She took a hasty gulp, drowning her anxiety in wine.

“He went for it, then?”

He, of course, meant Rourke. “Mmm-hmm.”

Her brother smiled. “I knew you could pull it off, Lis.”

“There is one thing I need to tell you—” She broke off when they heard the chimes ringing from the front doorbell. Her first thought was that Derek was showing up, after all, but she quickly dismissed it. This was his childhood home, too. He wouldn’t have stood on ceremony any more than she had. He’d have walked right on in.

“Go see who it is, Lisa,” her mother ordered. “Anna is off today.” Anna was her parents’ housekeeper.

She didn’t mind. It gave her an escape for at least a few minutes. She left her wineglass sitting on the bar and walked through the house back to the front door, pulling it open without so much as a glance through the heavily leaded sidelights.

Rourke stood on the porch. He was wearing a dark overcoat that made his shoulders look even wider than usual, and the golden light from the sconces positioned beside the massive door made his black hair glint.

She resolutely ignored the way her heart practically stood still and pulled the door shut a little behind her, lest anyone else’s curiosity led them to the foyer. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet your fiancé?”

The term jarred her. “What would you like me to do? Throw myself into your arms?”

“That’d be more natural, wouldn’t it?”

“There’s nothing natural about any of this.” The magnitude of what she’d agreed to overwhelmed her all over again. As did the needlessness of it all. She stepped farther outside, nearly pulling the door closed entirely. “Why me?” she asked. “If you want a child—within the bounds of wedlock,” she added quickly before he could interrupt, “why not just marry one of your other women?”

He smiled a little. “And what women would those be?”

The evening air was decidedly cool, but her limbs felt decidedly not. “The women you date. Obviously.” He was a seriously eligible bachelor. There was no question that the man had women in his life.

“Dating gets…messy.”

Wasn’t that what she believed, herself?

“This feels pretty messy to me,” she countered.

“This is business. The terms are already outlined.”

“A child is not a business.”

“So says the woman whose entire life revolves around an institute that creates them.”

“We’re not cloning people, for heaven’s sake! We’re helping infertile couples achieve fertility.” She went stock-still when his hand suddenly lifted toward her.

“This strand of hair keeps working loose of that knot you keep it in.” His knuckles brushed the underside of her jaw as he ran his thumb and forefinger down the long, wavy lock.

It didn’t seem to matter that he was wreaking havoc on her life. Just that faint touch made her bones feel like gel. “Wh-what are you doing here? For that matter, how’d you even know where I was?”

He wound the strands of hair around his finger. “Your assistant told me.”

She jerked back, and he let her hair loose though he still left her feeling crowded on what was supposed to be a very spacious porticoed entrance. “What were you doing calling Ella?”

“Finding out your schedule, obviously.”

“You should have contacted me.”

He smiled faintly. “Somehow, I think Ella was more forthcoming than you would have been.”

The truth of that stuck in her throat. “You said we…we would work out the details of our—” She couldn’t even manage an appropriate word and just waved her hand instead. “Later.”

“And now it’s later. You’re meeting with your family this evening. I figured it’d be logical for me to be here when you tell them we’re getting married.”

“Maybe I didn’t plan to tell them this evening,” she bluffed. Badly.

“I’d think you’d rather they hear it from you than from somewhere else.”

“What’d you do? Issue a press release?” She hadn’t really taken him seriously on that score.

“I’ve arranged for the ceremony to be held in New York at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

“What?” The cathedral was famous. It was Catholic. “I’m not Catholic.” She hadn’t even been to church in years. And he was a divorced man.

“I am.”

She folded her arms tightly. “Aren’t there…requirements to be met there? Marriage classes or something?”

“Ordinarily.”

How simply he glossed over what she knew had to be an encyclopedia of protocols, and it was just another example that he wasn’t any ordinary man. Not even an ordinary, wealthy man.

So she squashed the multitude of questions that her detail-oriented mind wanted answers for, and settled for just one. “Why do you want a church ceremony when you’ve already promised that our…union…has an expiration date?”

“That’s a promise known only between you and me, remember? As far as anyone else is concerned, this is the real deal. Unless you’re already chickening out.”

She made a face. “I’m not chickening out.” Not because she didn’t want to back out. She did. But she wanted to ensure the institute’s security even more.

“Good.” He slid his hand inside the pocket of his coat and he pulled out a small, square jeweler’s box. Without ceremony, he thumbed it open and pulled out a diamond ring. “Put this on.”

She eyed the simple, emerald-cut solitaire. If this were a real engagement—if she were head over heels in love with the man—she would have been bowled over by its exquisite beauty. Something she would have chosen for herself—albeit a more modest-size stone—if she were given the opportunity.

But in that sense, there was nothing real about any of this.

She took the ring and slid it onto her left ring finger. The narrow band fit a little loosely and she nudged it with her thumb, pushing the weighty diamond to the center.

Beautiful or not, the ring felt more like a noose around her neck.

“I suppose you’ve already decided what date, too?”

“Next week.”

She nearly reeled. “So soon?”

“I can fit it into my schedule now. And yours, as it happens, since you’ll be able to cancel all of those meetings you have lined up next week with potential investors.”

“H-how did you arrange the cathedral on such short notice?”

“I asked.”

Panic bloomed inside her head. How could she ever be a match against him?

“Everything is already arranged,” he continued. “The ceremony will be at four. We’ll have a small reception afterward at my penthouse. It’s easier than finding another suitable venue, and Raoul will provide the catering. All you have to do is find a gown. We’ll issue a few official photographs for the press, so keep that in mind.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t take care of the gown, then, too.”

“Your taste is excellent. But if you prefer, I can make a few calls to some designers I know.”

“Gosh. Thanks.” She shivered and her sarcasm was shaky.

“You’re cold.” He suddenly pulled her close to him, wrapping his overcoat around her.

It was like being engulfed by a blast furnace. And for the life of her, she couldn’t pull away.

“Better?” His voice dropped, whispering against her temple.

Her fingers curled against his shoulders, easily discerning the hard feel of him beneath the soft wool. No extra padding in that coat, at all. “Not really,” she admitted.

“It won’t all be bad. Have you seen the Mediterranean?”

She shook her head. She had to fight against the urge to lean against him. To just let him take her weight, and everything else on her plate…

But wasn’t that what he was doing, anyway?

“I’ve arranged a private villa in the French Riviera for the honeymoon.”

Honeymoon. She almost laughed. Or cried. Because he was covering all of his bases as far as appearances went. “I don’t want to be away from the office for even a week.”

“You will be, and it’ll be three weeks.”

Her gaze flew to his. “That’s impossible. I can’t just flit off for—” She broke off when the door behind them opened again.

“What on earth is taking so.” Emily’s voice trailed off at the sight that met her. “Long?” Her eyebrows lifted in silent demand.

Lisa tried to untangle herself from Rourke’s arms, but he wasn’t cooperating. Which left her to peer over his shoulder at her mother. But when she opened her mouth to explain, nothing came. “I…I—”

“Blame it on me, Mrs. Armstrong,” Rourke said smoothly. Without releasing Lisa, he tucked her against his side and turned to face Emily, his hand extended. “It’s good to meet you again.”

Again? Startled, Lisa looked from his face to her mother’s.

The insistent inquiry on Emily’s face was replaced by surprise. And no small amount of confusion. “Mr. Devlin. How nice to see you.”

“Your mother and I were on the same charitable board a few years ago,” he told Lisa. The smile he directed at Emily was both rueful and charming. “I’m afraid I forgot to mention it before.” He looked at Lisa, the very picture of devoted man. “We’ve been busy with…other matters.”

Her cheeks burned. She wondered if he’d studied the way Ted Bonner was always looking at Sara Beth, because he had the whole besotted thing down to an art. She glanced at her mother, who was now eyeing her with even more surprise.

“You are…seeing…Rourke Devlin?”

She would have had to have been a stone to miss her mother’s implication.

Her chin lifted. She smiled a little and let her left hand slide down to the center of Rourke’s chest. There was no way that her mother could miss the diamond on her finger. “Yes.”

Emily’s lips parted. She blinked a little. And Lisa knew that she probably should be ashamed of enjoying, just a little, the sight of her mother so obviously at a loss for words.

“I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t speak to you and Dr. Armstrong before now,” Rourke smoothly stepped into the verbal void. “But your daughter has a way of making me forget all convention.”

Lisa nearly choked over that.

But Emily was recovering quickly. Her smile was still more than a little puzzled. Proof that she couldn’t understand what appeal Lisa might have for a man like him. But she stepped back in the doorway, extending her hand. “Of course we don’t mind,” she was saying. “Lisa is an adult. She makes her own decisions. Now come in out of the chill. We’ve got most of the family here,” she continued when Rourke let go of Lisa and nudged her back inside the house. “Though it would have been perfect if Derek and Olivia could have been here for such an announcement.” She gave Lisa a censorious look, as if Lisa had deliberately chosen the timing to annoy her.

But there was nothing but delighted pleasure again in Emily’s face when she pushed the door closed and tucked her arm through Rourke’s to lead him through her graciously decorated home.

Following behind them, Lisa blew out a silent breath.

At least now she didn’t have to figure out a way to break the unlikely news that she was going to marry the man.

In that, she supposed she ought to be grateful.

“Everyone, look who’s here.” Emily’s voice had taken on a cheerful slant by the time they entered the drawing room. “Darling.” She went first to Gerald. “You remember Rourke Devlin, don’t you?”

Rourke shook the older man’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Dr. Armstrong.”

Gerald waved that off. “Gerald,” he insisted. “And of course I remember the last time.” He sounded irritated that Emily might suggest he wouldn’t. “He was at the Founder’s Ball. Lisa, get the man a drink.” He gestured to the leather chair that until a few years ago, had been his own preferred perch. “You’ve met my eldest son, Paul, and his fiancée?”

Aware of the surprised looks that were passing between her brother and Ramona as the two greeted Rourke, Lisa went to the bar. She couldn’t very well ask Rourke what he preferred to drink—presumably that would be something a “normal” fiancée would know—so she poured him a glass of the same wine she was drinking.

Though, as she carried it over to him and he tugged her down onto the arm of the chair and held her there with his implacable hand around her hips, she was rather wishing that she’d chosen a much stronger drink for herself. Instead, she held her own glass with tight fingers and it was then—seemingly all at once—that the rest of them noticed the ring on her finger.

Ramona gasped.

Paul muttered an uncharacteristic oath.

And Gerald just slapped his hand on his thigh. “Well, my God, Lisa-girl. Aren’t you full of surprises!”

She smiled, hoping it didn’t look as weak as it felt, and avoided her brother’s eyes. Of all those present, he was the one least likely to be convinced about her and Rourke’s sudden match. “Wait until you hear Rourke’s plans for the wedding,” she said and smiled down at her intended bridegroom with a sudden hint of sadistic relish.

Let him be the one to tell Emily Stanton Armstrong that the wedding was already in the works.

And she’d have no say in the details, whatsoever.

“My pleasure,” he said smoothly. But instead of launching into the litany of wedding arrangements that he’d already, arrogantly made, he lifted her free hand and pressed his thumb unerringly against her erratic pulse.

Then he smiled a little and sent her brief little spurt of satisfaction packing when he pressed his mouth slowly, intentionally, against her palm.

She forgot about her mother and everyone else. Except Rourke. And the fact that he’d plucked all control right out of the hand he was kissing.

Chapter Five

“You look beautiful.” Lisa’s sister, Olivia, fussed for a moment with the lightweight veil that streamed down Lisa’s back from the small jeweled clasp where it fastened around her low chignon. “This has got to be one of the most romantic marriages I’ve ever heard of.” Her dark eyes met Lisa’s as she squeezed her hand. “This has been a remarkable year. I’m so happy for you and Rourke.”

“Thanks.” Lisa stared at herself in the long mirror of the luxurious hotel suite where she’d spent the night before her wedding. She’d traveled from Boston just yesterday morning and, in the thirty-six hours since, had been pinned and tucked into the wedding gown that she now wore, and her body from head to toe had been primped and fussed over by a crew of hairdressers, masseuses and aestheticians. And not two hours earlier, all buffed and polished, she’d stood in her perfectly fitted ivory gown on the terrace of her beautiful suite for the formal portrait that her mother had insisted upon. She’d been catered to and fussed over, and if she’d been given her fondest wish, she would have been miles and miles away from all of it.

There was something really wrong with surrounding herself with all the trappings of a fairy-tale wedding when the reason for it in the first place was anything but a fairy-tale romance. Lisa kept waiting for someone to stop and point them out as the counterfeit couple that they were, only nobody did.

Not Rourke’s family, who’d hosted the rehearsal dinner the evening before at an unexpectedly quaint, homey Italian restaurant that Lisa had learned had once belonged to his grandparents, but was now run by Lea, mother of the impish Tanya. And definitely not by Lisa’s parents. Emily might have been frustrated by her inability to run what she considered “her” territory—her daughter’s wedding—but she was nevertheless glorying in the fact that Lisa was making such an unexpectedly advantageous match.

Lisa dragged her thoughts together. “And, you know, thanks for being my matron of honor,” she offered to her sister. Olivia looked ethereal in her close-fitting royal-blue gown. Thanks to being Mrs. Jamison Mallory, she hadn’t needed to prevail upon any of Rourke’s connections to come up with an outfit befitting the occasion. “I know it was short notice.”

Olivia laughed a little. “I’m glad to do it, Lisa.” She swept a slender hand down her tea-length skirt. “Actually, I assumed you’d want Sara Beth to stand up with you. You’re so close.”

Lisa would have been glad for her best friend’s support even if Sara Beth didn’t know the full details of her and Rourke’s arrangement. But Sara Beth had already been with Lisa for much of the day. She’d arrived at the hotel that morning before the buffers and the polishers with a bottle of champagne and a determination to see Lisa through what she suspected wasn’t the “perfect romance” that had been touted in the news as soon as the media got a whiff of Rourke Devlin’s impending nuptials.

But now, Sara Beth was already at the cathedral, giving support to her husband who was serving as Rourke’s best man.

“I love Sara Beth, too. But you’re my sister,” Lisa said.

Olivia looked touched. “Well. Don’t make my mascara run now, when it’s time for us to leave for the ceremony. I hope that Jamison hasn’t let Kevin lose the rings.” She turned to retrieve the orchid bouquets that had been delivered to Lisa’s suite earlier. “He’s so excited about being the ring bearer but I think a lot of it may have to do with getting to walk beside Chance’s stepdaughter, Annie. He’s fascinated with her red hair.”

Panic rippled through Lisa’s stomach, and it had nothing to do with either Kevin or little Annie. With Olivia’s attention elsewhere, she quickly swallowed down the last of her champagne. Courage, even in liquid form, seemed definitely called for.

Then she hefted up her trailing gown and took her bouquet from her sister. Like it or not, it was showtime.

Rourke pulled back his cuff and looked at his watch.

“Don’t worry.” Ted clapped him on the back. “The Plaza is only minutes away. She’ll be here.”

“I know. I just want to get it over with.”

Ted smiled. “And get on with the wedding night?”

Rourke didn’t deny it. He hadn’t told his old friend any of the details behind the sudden marriage; leaving intact Ted’s assumption that Rourke’s interest in Lisa had carried them away.

The pretense wasn’t entirely a pretense, anyway. Since that night with Lisa at her parents’ home, he hadn’t seen her again until the previous day when they’d both put their signatures on his prenup before joining the rest of their families and friends for the rehearsal and the dinner following.

Holding her in his arms, dropping kisses on her lips. None of it had been a hardship and if anything, he was more than a little preoccupied with thoughts of what was to come after the “I do’s” were said.

“Gentlemen?” The woman in charge of keeping them on time poked her head into the room where Ted and Rourke were waiting. “We’re ready for you.”

Ted grinned and gave him a thumbs-up before preceding him to the chapel. The organist was already playing when he and Ted lined up in front of the priest.

He was surprised to feel a jolt of nervousness when he turned to wait for his bride. It wasn’t a common sensation. His mother sat in the front pew, beaming her pleasure at him. Behind her were his sisters and their husbands and broods. Tanya was bouncing in her seat, alternating between pouts and smiles. She’d given him hell the evening before for stooping to marry someone else before she became available.

Young Kevin Jamison appeared, his focus much more squarely on the pillow he was carrying which bore the wedding rings, than it was on where he was walking. Fortunately, his sidekick, Annie Labeaux—who was practically preening in her ruffled yellow dress—knew her marks perfectly, and kept Kevin coming in a forward motion.

Then Lisa’s sister appeared, gliding up the aisle like the dancer he knew she’d once been. Tanya bounced again and, despite her mother’s grasping hands, managed to stand up on her pew to wave both hands at him.

He waved back, earning a soft chuckle from most of the guests. But he wasn’t really listening because Lisa had appeared at the rear of the chapel.

Rourke was vaguely aware of Gerald accompanying her in his wheelchair along the aisle toward him. Vaguely aware of the change in the organ music. Vaguely aware that he was still breathing.

She was beautiful.

Draped in some airy fabric that cinched her narrow waist in bits of lace, managing to look painfully innocent and wrenchingly sexy at the same time.

Her eyes didn’t meet his when she reached the end of the aisle. She kissed her father’s cheek and his motorized chair silently left her side.

Leaving Lisa to him.

He could see her pulse beating at the base of her slender neck. See a similar beat in the smooth flesh between the modest V of her neckline. And he could feel it beneath his fingers in her hands after she handed off her bouquet to her sister and placed them, cool and slightly shaking, in his.

Later, he knew they’d both repeated the vows. Knew he’d pushed his platinum band on her finger and had donned the wider version of it for himself. He knew that she’d lifted her lips for his brief kiss when the priest called for it, and knew that she’d tucked her hand through his arm as they’d walked back down the chapel aisle.

He knew it, because the license was duly signed afterward, they blinked against the flash of a dozen cameras as they left the cathedral behind, and then they were inside his limousine, which was bearing them, right on schedule, back to his Park Avenue apartment. The rest of the wedding party and guests were following in a raft of identical stretches.

“So that’s it,” she said, as they left the cathedral behind. She was looking at her hands that were splayed flat on her lap, surrounded by the cloud of her long gown.

Probably looking at the wedding rings.

“That was just the start.”

He watched her fingers curl into the airy gown until neither her fingers nor the rings were visible. She looked straight ahead at the smoked privacy window separating them from the driver, then turned her head to look out the window. Her veil was pulled to one side, exposing her pale nape and the small, lone freckle that graced the tender skin.

He would kiss that freckle soon enough. And every inch of creamy flesh that stretched down her spine. He wondered how long it would take to undo the dozens of tiny diamondlike buttons that stretched down the back of her gown. Wondered, too, what she would be wearing beneath it.

She looked at him suddenly, her eyes narrowed, as if she’d been reading his mind. But she quickly disabused him of that notion. “There’s not going to be any photographers at your apartment, are there?”

“At the reception?” He shook his head. “No. Outside the building, though? Likely.” There had been a few camped out there for the past several days, clearly documenting the somewhat surprising fact that Rourke Devlin’s fiancée wasn’t yet in residence. “Don’t worry. You’re the picture of a princess bride. Just look up at me adoringly as we go inside and everyone’ll be happy.”

She grimaced and looked back out the window again. “Everyone but us,” she muttered. “Even my best friend doesn’t know what a lie this all is. I hope you’re planning on going to confession someday or that farce of a wedding ceremony will haunt us to hell.”

He touched his finger to her arm, feeling her start, before he dragged it slowly down to her wrist. “That’s how you saw it?”

She shifted, crossing her arms. “How could I not? It was a pretense. Love, honor and cherish?” She shook her head, the corner of her lips turned downward.

“You’ll be my wife with all the respect that deserves. I’ll honor you.” And he’d cherish her body the second he had the chance. No question.

The line of her jaw was like a finely chiseled masterpiece. “You won’t love me.”

Love had never gotten him anywhere. “And you won’t love me.”

She slid him an icy look. “That’s right. The sooner we get what we want out of this deal, the happier I’ll be.”

“Then we’re in agreement.” He held her gaze with his, even after the limo sighed to a stop in front of his building. “Now, are you ready to get on with this?” His driver opened the door next to him.

Lisa’s gaze slipped away. She picked up her bouquet that had been lying on the seat between them and nodded.

He stepped out of the car, and turned to help her out. She stuck out one slender foot, shod in delicate straps, and then the dress seemed to follow as she slid out of the vehicle.

It was like watching flower petals unfurl and he knew the photographers that—as predicted—were still camped out nearby would be snapping away.

The moment Lisa was standing beside him, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. His mouth covered hers.

Her lips parted; he could taste her quick word of protest, but he ignored it. And then he could taste the faint hint of champagne on her tongue and then deeper, the taste of her as she was kissing him back.

“Time enough for that later.” Ted’s laughing voice barely penetrated the fog that was gathering in Rourke’s head. The hand his friend clamped on his shoulder was more intrusive.

Rourke slowly pulled away.

Lisa’s eyes were wide. Her cheeks were flushed.

Sara Beth danced around next to Lisa, sliding a short little capelike thing around her shoulders that matched Lisa’s dress before scurrying her toward the building, chattering a mile a minute about God only knew what. Crushed orchids rained down from Lisa’s bouquet onto the sidewalk as they went.

He forced a smile for Ted and the others who were rapidly disgorging from the stream of limousines but the only thing he really saw was the panicked glance Lisa tossed back at him the moment before she disappeared into the building.

Yeah, he’d given the photographers their money shot, but just then he wasn’t certain who was paying the price.

Lisa leaned back against the elevator wall and stared at her hands. She hadn’t even had time to get used to the weight of the engagement ring during the past week, and now there was another band there to add to the unsettling unfamiliarity.

“Some kiss.”

She glanced up at Sara Beth, who was not doing even a credible job of sounding, or looking, casual.

Lisa pressed her lips together for a moment. She could still taste him. “Yes.” She kept her voice low. The elevator doors were still open. There was no point in pushing the button for Rourke’s floor, because that particular one required a key.

Sara Beth’s voice was just as low. “Considering the steam radiating off the two of you, I would’ve expected you to look a little more…glowing.” She plucked Lisa’s somewhat smashed bouquet out of her hands and gently stroked her hand over the blooms. “Rourke’s obviously crazy about you. But are you really okay with this marriage thing? It’s awfully sudden.”

“I told you back at the hotel that I was.”

“Yes, and you were two glasses into a bottle of champagne before you managed to say that.” Sara Beth lifted her chin and smiled a little stiffly when Emily and Ramona stepped onto the elevator followed soon by Gerald, whose chair was being pushed by Paul.

“I still don’t know why Derek wasn’t at the ceremony,” Emily was complaining. “I’ve left him a half-dozen messages but he hasn’t called me back.”

“Maybe he had something else he couldn’t get out of,” Paul said, his voice even.

“Not even for his sister’s wedding?” Emily shook her head, looking upset.

“It was short notice for everyone, Mother,” Lisa reminded, hoping that would be the end of it.

She had made it a point not to invite Derek and, considering the number of phone messages he’d been leaving for her, had been half afraid he’d show up anyway. Unless he was living under a rock, he couldn’t fail to have read or heard that she was marrying the handsome billionaire.

Then Ted arrived, holding up a key that he used to unlock the button for the penthouse floor. “Rourke’s talking to security. They were supposed to have the elevators unlocked by the time we got here.”

“No detail left unturned,” Lisa muttered.

Her mother leaned over to pinch Lisa’s cheeks and she jerked back. “Hey.”

“You need some color in your cheeks,” Emily defended. “You’re almost as white as your dress.”

“I think she looks perfect,” Ramona inserted, giving Lisa a quick wink when Emily turned to fuss over Gerald.

The elevator let them off in a spacious, marble-floored hallway that possessed two grand doors at opposite ends. The door belonging to Rourke was obvious; it was opened and a sedately uniformed beauty stood beside it, bearing a silver tray of crystal champagne flutes.

It took only a moment for Lisa to recognize the girl as the hostess from Raoul’s restaurant. “For the new Mrs. Devlin,” she greeted her, holding out her tray.

Mrs. Devlin.

Lisa’s hand shook as she took one of the exquisitely cut stems. “Thank you.”

“For heaven’s sake, Lisa, we’re not going to stand out here.” Emily glided past, taking a glass of champagne for herself and Gerald, and entered the apartment with none of the reluctance that Lisa was trying to hide.

The second elevator arrived with a soft chime and, half afraid it would be bearing Rourke, she gathered her dress and went inside.

Even though she had been prepped by Sara Beth, who had seen the place when Ted had brought her here for a romantic getaway, Lisa still wasn’t prepared for her first sight of Rourke’s city home.

In its way it was as grand as his Greenwich estate. But where that mansion looked to have been steeped in tradition, his penthouse dripped modernism from its bank of unadorned windows to the gleaming dark wood floor, and minimalist ivory-colored furnishings.

The only color of note came exclusively from the chest-high glass vases flanking every window that were filled with immense bouquets of purple irises that seemed to reach for the high, coffered ceiling. The flowers were repeated in squat glass bowls all around the spacious living area.

She didn’t know what surprised her more. The sleek, urban decor, or the profusion of flowers that he’d clearly arranged just for the purpose of their so-called reception.

“I told you it was beautiful,” Sara Beth whispered beside her. She tucked her arm through Lisa’s and drew her through the living area that was long enough to encompass Lisa’s entire town house, toward the terrace beyond the windows where the flowers were even more resplendent.

Stunned, Lisa slowly stepped outside. There were several tables set there arranged end to end and looking as if they’d come straight out of a photo shoot from a high-end wedding. Situated in the corner, there was even a harpist whose dulcet sounds trickled in the air. “Amazing,” she murmured.

“Thanks.” Rourke’s sister Tricia crossed to the nearest table and needlessly adjusted the position of a gleaming silver dessert fork against the pristine white linen cloth covering the table. “I’m afraid my brother didn’t give me much time to pull things together.”

Lisa started. “You did all of this?” She assumed that Rourke had simply thrown enough money at the situation to make things turn around on his dime-size schedule.

Tricia nodded. “Do you like? I wasn’t sure about the color, but Rourkey said you were wearing purple the first night he saw you.”

Lisa’s capacity for speech deserted her. Whether because of hearing him called Rourkey, or that he’d remembered what she was wearing that night in Shots all those months ago.

Seeming to notice her muteness, Sara Beth squeezed her hand. “It’s all so beautiful,” she answered into the silence.

Tricia smiled, obviously pleased. “Wait until you see the cake that Raoul’s wife made. It’s a thing of beauty.” She leaned forward suddenly and gave Lisa a quick hug. “And before everything gets too crazy, welcome to the family.”

Thoroughly discomfited, Lisa hugged her back. “Thank you.” But as she straightened, she spotted Rourke, who’d arrived, seeming to bring up the tail end of their modest gathering of guests.

Fortunately for Lisa, Tricia immediately slid into general mode at the sight of her brother, and she simply went where she was directed—namely to one of the chairs at the center of the long tables.

It was easier than having to think, particularly when she was already consumed with the effort of maintaining a smiling facade in the face of all the good wishes that heaped upon her head.

Hardest, though, was when Nina Devlin—clearly fighting tears—was the last to offer a toast to their marriage. “It just took falling for the right girl to get my son properly down the aisle. I couldn’t be happier to have such a beautiful girl as a new daughter.” She sniffed and lifted her glass, her damp eyes looking right into Lisa’s. “To you and my son. Take care of the love you have found. Take care of each other.” She grinned suddenly. “And take care of the grandbabies I’m hoping you’re not going to wait too long to give me!”

Laughter rounded the table as glasses softly clinked yet again and the breeze whispered around their heads, making the purple flowers marching down the centers of the tables dance.

It would all have been perfect.

If it had been real.

Rourke leaned close to her, his lips grazing her cheek. “Drink, for God’s sake.” His voice was soft, for her ears alone.

She smiled brightly and drank.

She turned her lips toward him for a glancing kiss whenever one of his sister’s mischievous kids tapped their water glasses with a spoon. She pushed a few bites of Raoul’s excellent food into her mouth when it seemed expected. She stood in front of the beautiful confection of a cake that Raoul wheeled out to cut the first slice to share with Rourke. She went through the motions with a smile on her face until she wanted to scream. But she didn’t drop that smile until hours later, when the last guest had finally departed and even Raoul and his son, Tonio, and daughter, Maria, had left through a separate entrance off the kitchen that Lisa had yet to even see.

Only then, when it was just Rourke and Lisa left in that high-ceilinged living room scented by irises and filled with the soft sounds of a low guitar, did she finally, finally let the smile fade.

Her cheeks actually hurt.

She pulled off the fine shrug that matched her gown and dropped it on the end of one of the couches before sitting down to peel her feet out of the strappy designer torture devices otherwise known as sandals and wriggled her toes.

“Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.” Rourke slid off his jacket and tossed it next to her.

She automatically reached for it, her fingers smoothing out the finely pinstriped charcoal over the back of the couch so it wouldn’t wrinkle. “Everyone but us.”

His smile was faint. He pulled on his tie. “I wouldn’t have minded everyone leaving an hour sooner than they did, but I thought it was okay. Food was good.”

She realized she was staring at his strong throat where his fingers were loosening the collar of his shirt and quickly looked away. “Raoul doesn’t disappoint.” Though she would have been hard-pressed to remember what the menu had been.

She pushed to her feet only to nearly trip over her gown when she walked toward the windows. She lifted her skirts. “This is quite a view you have here. The skyline. The park.”

“It’s a place to sleep.”

She made a soft sound. How easily he dismissed the million-dollar view. “Right.” Her fingers toyed nervously with the diamond hanging just below her throat. The necklace had been a gift from her father when she’d graduated from college. Aside from Rourke’s rings, it was the only other piece of jewelry that she was wearing. From the corner of her eye she saw him toss his tie aside as cavalierly as he had his jacket.

It made her even more acutely aware of how alone they were.

“That was, um, nice news Chance shared before they left,” she said, feeling a little desperate. “About him adopting Jenny’s daughter, Annie.” Not until she’d seen Rourke slapping Chance on the back and kissing Jenny’s face had she realized he was almost as good a friend with Chance as he was with Ted. She was still wearing her veil and the whisper-light silk tulle tickled her back. She reached back to unfasten it. “She’s a sweetie.”

“Yeah, she is. Chance’ll be a good dad. He and Jenny are great together. Here. Let me.”

A sharp wave of unease rolled through her. She sternly dismissed it. Theirs was a marriage of convenience. It didn’t involve sex. Just because she couldn’t get her mind off it didn’t mean a thing.

She swallowed and turned her back toward him. “It’s got more pins in it than you’d think,” she warned.

“I’ll find them.” His fingers grazed against her head.

She closed her eyes, trying not to jump like some virgin on her wedding night.

It was almost laughable.

She wasn’t a virgin, though she might as well have been for all of the experience she didn’t really have.

And it was her wedding night.

But for them, those two things were not even relevant. It wasn’t as if they’d need to sleep together to make a baby. They had the institute for that.

With surprising gentleness, he worked the handful of pins free, then unfastened the jeweled clasp of the veil and handed it over her shoulder to her. His bare forearm brushed against her.

When had he rolled up his shirtsleeves?

Feeling treacherously close to the edge of hysteria, she took the veil and quickly stepped away. “Bath and a bed,” she blurted, only to feel her cheeks turn hot. “That’s, um, that’s what I think I need.” She waved her hand, which also managed to wave the floating, silky veil. “Just point the way. I’ll find it.”

He looked amused. “Bedroom’s down that hall.”

“Great.” She took a step only to tangle her bare foot in her skirt again. She hauled everything up in her arm. “Um… thanks.” Her cheeks went even hotter. She was acting like an absolute idiot and knew it and before she made a bigger spectacle out of herself, she nearly ran down the hall. She found the bedroom with no difficulty, and closed herself behind the door with relief.

The furnishings there were just as sleekly designed, with a mile-wide pedestal bed and nightstands that seemed to grow right out of the wall on either side of it. There were acres of unused space, yet the room didn’t feel stark or barren. Maybe because of the large fireplace that was opposite the bed, or the expanse of windows—again unadorned—that lined one wall.

Behind one of the doors the room possessed, she found her suitcase sitting on a luggage rack in the sizable closet. The closet then led to the en suite bathroom that, even in her exhausted state, was enough to make her swoon a little.

She flipped on the water over the massive tub and tossed in a generous measure of amber-colored salt from one of the heavy crystal containers decorating one corner of the stone ledge surrounding it. Immediately, lush, fragrant bubbles began to bloom beneath the rush of water and she reached for the buttons on the back of her dress only to realize with chagrin that there was no way that she would be able to undo enough of them on her own to even get the gown past her hips. Not even sliding her shoulders out of the narrow, fancily knotted chiffon that served as straps helped.

“Great.” She eyed herself in the reflection of the wood-framed mirror that hung above the rectangular-shaped vessel sink. Her eyes looked wild and, thanks to pulling the pins from her veil loose, her hair was falling down.

“Lisa?”

She jerked, staring at a second door that led into the bathroom as it slowly opened. “What?”

Rourke stuck his head through. “I figured you’d need help with the dress.”

She hated, absolutely hated, the fact that he’d realized that problem, too. But she walked over to him, presenting him with her back. “I do.”

“Not the first time you’ve said those words today.” His fingers grazed her back between her shoulder blades.

“Not the first time I didn’t want to say those words today, either,” she pointed out coolly. “Just get on with it.” She pressed her hand against the bodice of the dress to hold it in place against her breasts as, centimeter by centimeter, she felt it loosening at the back.

“You know that telling me something like that just makes me want to take my time, right?”

She ignored him. It wasn’t so easy, however, to ignore the feel of his fingers moving against her back. Even with the corset she wore beneath the gown, every grazing touch left her feeling branded.

She nearly laughed. Branded by his touch and shackled by his wedding ring.

He’d reached her waist. Another inch and she would be free of the dress, and of him. And, please God, the disturbing sensations roiling around inside her.

She held her breath, waiting. And the second she felt that bit of release, she started to step away.

But Rourke’s hand slid right beneath the fabric of her gown, circling her waist. His palm pressed flat against the satin covering her belly as he tugged her back against him. “I’ve been wondering what was under the gown.”

She could feel his shirt fabric against her shoulder blades. It was maddening. But what was more maddening was her weak longing to lean against the hard muscles she could feel beneath that shirt. “I beg your pardon?”

He laughed softly. “Let go of the dress.” He didn’t wait, but tugged the bodice out of her lamentably lax grip.

The gown slid to a fluffy cloud around her ankles, leaving her standing there wearing nothing but the white satin and lace corset and matching thong. And his hands.

Her frantic gaze landed on their reflection in the mirror, only to get caught in the snare of his gaze.

Never looking away from her, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck.

She swayed. His fingers splayed wider against her. Thumbs brushing against her corset-contained breasts. Little fingers sliding against the thin elastic of her insubstantial panties.

Desire wrenched through her, hot and wet and aching.

She drew in a hard, quick breath. She pushed away his hands and stepped out of the cloud to snatch it up against her. “This isn’t part of the deal. I’m not…I’m not h-having sex with you!”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “We’re married now, Lisa Devlin. So tell me. What the hell do you think is the deal?”

Chapter Six

Lisa stared at Rourke. “Do we have to rehash it all? You want a child. I want to keep the institute from closing its doors.” She lifted her hands. “And here we are.”

He watched her for a tight, seemingly endless moment. “My child isn’t going to be conceived in a petri dish.”

Her stomach tightened. She advanced on him. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

He had the gall to laugh. “I know you’re not that naive.” She jabbed her finger against his chest. “I am not sleeping with you.”

He grabbed her hand, holding it aloft so that her rings winked in the light, sending prisms around the room. “It’s too late for reneging now. You agreed.”

“I agreed to be a surrogate for you. I didn’t agree to be your whore!”

“You agreed to be my wife.” His voice turned as flat as his eyes had gone. “To bear me a child. I never once said it would be the product of in vitro. And make no mistake. If I was going to treat you like a whore, I would’ve just taken you the night of the Founder’s Ball and left the money on your nightstand.”

“I don’t know what infuriates me more.” She finally managed to snatch her hand away from his hard grip. “Your absolute arrogance in thinking I would have slept with you that night, after sharing one dance with you, or you pretending now that this is what I agreed to! The Armstrong Institute specializes in IVF!”

“I didn’t marry the Armstrong Institute!” His voice rose. He inhaled sharply. Let it out more slowly. “Obviously—” his voice was more controlled, even if his teeth were bared “—we’re at cross-purposes, here.” He suddenly moved, making her jump.

But he only moved past her to turn off the gushing water taps. “We’ll conceive the baby in the normal way. I never said—or implied—otherwise.”

She crossed her arms over the crumpled bodice of her dress, trying not to tremble.

She failed miserably.

“You know I believed otherwise.” Her voice was stiff.

He lifted a sardonic brow. “Do I?”

She racked her brain. Surely they’d covered this. Hadn’t they?

But the sinking sensation in her belly gave leeway for doubt to creep in.

She’d assumed.

And now, faced with his implacable certainty, she realized how badly she’d erred.

He did expect to sleep with her. To conceive a child, just as nature intended. And she…heaven help her…she had agreed to his terms without ever clarifying this most salient point.

“Rourke—” She barely managed to voice his name. “Honestly, we barely know each other. I didn’t…I mean, I don’t—”

“Save it.” He lifted a weary hand. Ran it down his face. “You and I both know it doesn’t matter how long we’ve known each other. It’s enough. But it’s been a long day. So take your bath.”

She swallowed hard and couldn’t prevent slanting a gaze toward the door through which he’d entered. Did it lead to his bedroom?

To his bed?

“And…and then?”

His black gaze raked over her. “Don’t worry, princess. The mood’s definitely passed for now.”

She wanted to sag with relief but pride kept her shoulders more or less straight.

“Our flight leaves tomorrow morning.” He went to the door. “But make no mistake, Lisa. Once we’re in France on our honeymoon—” his lips twisted “—I expect to make this marriage a real one. I suggest you spend the time between now and then getting accustomed to the idea.”

Then he left, closing the door softly, but finally, behind him.

She sank down on the wide ledge of the bubble-filled tub, her fingers still clutching the fabric of her wedding gown.

She was shaking. And she very much feared that it wasn’t horror over her mammoth-size misunderstanding where her wifely duties were concerned.

It was anticipation.

And where was that going to leave her, once her purpose had been served?

The answer to that question was still eluding her when they boarded Rourke’s private jet the following morning. And when they landed in Nice that night.

Rourke was no particular help. Aside from introducing her to his flight crew when they’d boarded the plane, he barely spoke to her once they were in the air.

Mostly, he spent the time on the phone. And most of that time he spent pacing the confines of the luxuriously equipped airplane. The only time he sat down in one of the sinfully soft leather seats was when Janine or Sandy, his two flight attendants, served them their meals.

She could almost have let herself believe that what had happened in his apartment the night before had never happened at all.

Almost.

Instead, her traitorous eyes kept tracking his movements about the cabin, willfully taking note of the sinuous play of muscles beneath his black trousers as he paced, of the way his hands gestured as he spoke, tendons standing out in his wrists where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt shortly after takeoff.

Now, they were gliding silently through a star-studded night as they left the airport behind in a low-slung sports car that offered very little space between her and Rourke, at the wheel.

There was no driver. No flight crew.

Just…the two of them.

And all too easily, her senses were filled with the memory of his lips brushing against the nape of her neck, his hands sliding over her.

In the faint glow of the dashboard lights, she could see that hand capably curled over the steering wheel.

She bit her lip for a long moment and opened her window a few inches to let in the rush of night air but it wasn’t anywhere near cool enough to suit her.

“You all right?”

“Just a little tired.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Despite traveling in the cradle of luxury, the flight had still taken hours. Add in the time difference and it meant it was nearly midnight there. “I thought it would be cooler outside.”

“Weather around here is pretty temperate year-round and August wasn’t long ago. There’s still heat lingering. Might even find the water still good for swimming.” He glanced at her, then back at the road. “We’ll be on a private beach.”

She lowered the window another few inches, wanting the wind to blow away the ideas that caused.

The road they were driving on was narrow. Winding and, aside from the gleam of moonlight, very, very dark. They might have been the only two people left in the world.

“My father took me to Paris once,” she desperately interrupted the insistent images filling her head. “I was still in college.” It was the first time he’d included her in such a manner and she’d been thrilled to accompany him to the medical conference. “But we were so busy that I never had a chance to leave the city.”

“Busy doing what?”

She was vaguely surprised that he even responded. It seemed unlikely that he was as tensely nervous as she. But still, conversation was better than silence, and it might keep her imagination under some control. “Keeping up with my father, mostly. He was presenting some new research at a conference.” She thought back, remembering. “He was amazing.”

She hadn’t been offended to be the one fetching him water or carrying his papers. And when he’d included her in his conversations—had actually seemed proud of her when she’d offered some thought or opinion—she’d felt as if she’d accomplished something truly great. “It was the first time he actually treated me like an adult.”

She felt Rourke’s glance, but he didn’t comment as he slowed the car to turn up a steep drive that seemed to appear out of nowhere. A dimly lit gate swung open for them, and once they were through, the road became even more winding and narrow.

Yet he navigated it all with obvious ease.

“I take it you’ve been here before.”

“Mmm.”

She chewed the inside of her lip. “With a woman?” She hated acknowledging the need to know.

His hesitation was barely noticeable. “None I’ve been married to.”

She couldn’t tell if it was amusement in his voice or irony.

But there was no time to dwell too long on wondering what woman—or women—had been here with him, because he pulled to a stop in a small stone-paved courtyard. “This is it.”

There was not much to see beyond the low lights that were bright enough only to point out the perimeter of the courtyard and light the way along a narrow walkway. She climbed out of the car while he was pulling their suitcases out of the trunk that had probably taken some mathematical genius to fit inside in the first place, and even though she held out her hand to take some of her own smaller items, he just ignored her and loaded the straps up on his own muscular shoulders.

She wouldn’t have thought the man would ever carry his own luggage.

“This way.” He headed toward the walkway. “Watch your step. The lighting is pretty dim and the pavers might be uneven.”

As she followed him, she also noticed that the bushes lining the walk were overgrown, which didn’t help the going any. She was glad she was wearing flats, though her gauzy ankle-length skirt wanted to snag against the overgrowth. Before long, they passed through an archway that led into another courtyard and he unlocked a wide, tall door, and led her inside.

Given his taste in homes, she shouldn’t have been surprised by the luxury that met them when he began flipping on lights as they passed through the entrance hall to a living area that rivaled his New York apartment for size. But after the rustic entryway, nevertheless, she was.

In his apartment, everything had seemed angular. Here, everything was arched—the doorways that were flanked by marble columns and the windows that were covered with shutters. The floors were gleaming stone and the furnishings all seemed to be done in soft browns. It was cool and elegant and expensively beautiful and she couldn’t help but wonder if the paintings that hung on the smooth, ivory walls were originals.

He dumped their luggage on the floor and crossed the long room to push open the shutters guarding the tall arch-shaped windows there. “I told Marta—the housekeeper—that we wouldn’t need her until tomorrow.” Lisa realized they weren’t windows at all but doors, when he pulled them right open letting in the fresh night air. “Come out and see the view.”

Nerves jumping anew, she followed him outside onto a deep terrace guarded by a majestic stone balustrade that faithfully followed the steps that crisscrossed from this level to two lower ones, and finally the ghostly white sand that led to the silver-white glisten of the sea. “It’s breathtaking,” she admitted.

“Wait until you see it at sunrise.”

“Sunrise?” She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I prefer to be sleeping at that hour.”

His white teeth flashed in a quick grin that caused her heart to smack around even more than the view had. “Some things are worth getting up for at that hour.”

She couldn’t form a response to that to save her soul.

And he knew it.

His grin deepened as he turned to go back inside. “I’ll show you the rest of the place.”

Aside from the main living area, “the place” included two kitchens, one media room, an office that Rourke said was equipped with every convenience, and a total of six bedrooms.

“This one has the best view,” he said of the very last one they came to.

And she could certainly see why.

The wide four-poster bed was positioned opposite a bank of windows that he immediately set about un-shuttering. They’d gone down a short flight of stairs to reach the room and it looked out the same direction as the living room, sharing that stellar view of the Mediterranean.

It didn’t take a genius to realize this was the room he was expecting they would share. The room. And the bed.

She kept her eyes strictly away from that particular item and went into the adjoining bathroom. Even that had windows that opened up to the view.

She pressed her palm to the knots in her belly and returned to the bedroom.

Rourke, done with the windows at last, watched her for a moment. “Marta will unpack everything in the morning. Do you want one of those suitcases for tonight?”

She hadn’t considered herself a normal bride. She hadn’t packed a trousseau. No sexy little negligees designed strictly for the purpose of enticing an eager groom. No fancy little ensembles to parade around in during the day. She’d packed what she’d had in her closet.

The only thing new that she’d worn in the past two days had been her wedding gown.

And everything beneath it.

Her mind shied away from those thoughts.

“I just need the overnighter. The small one. But I can get it.” She was already speaking to an empty room and could hear the sound of his footsteps on the half-dozen stairs that would carry him back to the living room’s level.

She let out a shaking breath, looking around the room again.

The bathroom had possessed several mirrors, but the bedroom itself contained none and for that she was grateful. There were two large armoires on each side of the room and a bureau in the arching hallway that opened into the adjacent bathroom. She peeked inside each, finding them all empty.

Rourke still hadn’t returned, so she opened one of the French doors and went outside onto the terrace.

If she looked up and to her right, she could see the terrace level off the living room. If she looked down and to her left, she could see the lowest terrace, which could be reached by another set of stairs. But the terrace on which she stood was the only one that possessed a setting of deeply cushioned chaises and chairs positioned beneath a tall pergola. Long, pale drapes hung down the colonnades, drifting softly in the night air.

She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped. It was all so impossibly beautiful.

If he chose a place like this for a honeymoon with someone he didn’t remotely love, what would he do for someone he did?

“Here.”

She whirled on her heel, pushing aside the disturbing thought. What did she care what he’d do for someone he loved?

Rourke stood in the deep shadow of the doorway, holding out her small case. She went to him and carefully lifted the strap away from his hand before sidling past him into the room.

Now what?

She was so far out of her element she didn’t have a clue. She twisted the leather strap in her hands. “I—”

“I—”

They both broke off.

He lifted an eyebrow, but she just shook her head, mute all over again.

“I have some calls to make.”

It was the last thing she expected him to say. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Not in New York.” He started to leave the room again. “It’s going to take me at least a few hours so if you’re hungry, I’m sure you can find something in the kitchen.”

“I don’t cook.”

He glanced back at her. “Don’t, or don’t know how?”

Her cheeks went hot. “Does it matter?”

He shrugged and she felt positive it was her fanciful imagination that colored his faint smile with a shade of indulgence. “Cooking isn’t part of the job description. But this place is always stocked with fruit and breads. Even someone who doesn’t cook won’t starve.”

Job description.

Her hands curled so tightly, the leather strap dug into her palms. “I suppose you want something to eat.”

His eyes were unreadable. “I’ll manage.”

Then he turned and left her alone and she almost wished she had jumped on the idea of preparing them some sort of meal. Because now all she was left with was that wide bed behind her and the sense that she was expected to prepare herself for it.

And for him.

Nerves spurred her into motion and she dumped her overnighter on the bureau. She needed to stop thinking like some Victorian virgin. She was a modern twenty-first-century woman, for God’s sake.

She yanked open the case and unloaded the few items inside. The travel bag containing her toiletries, the oversize Bruins jersey that she preferred to sleep in, and a pair of clean, thoroughly utilitarian white cotton panties.

Not a speck of lace or ribbon or silk in sight.

Sadly, she didn’t know if she’d have felt more confident if there had been. Probably not.

She was far more comfortable in a suit sitting in a boardroom debating business practices than she was in a nightgown waiting for a man…

She had a few hours, according to what he’d said, but instead of attempting another bath when the memory of her last attempt was so fresh in her mind, she unpinned her hair and took a short, steaming shower and tried not to think about the fact that the slate-tiled enclosure was certainly roomy enough for two.

When she got out, she wrapped her wet hair in one of the plentiful plush terry towels, slathered lotion on her arms and legs—just like she did every time she showered, she justified—pulled on the jersey and bikini pants, and, feeling like a thief in the night, crept her way through the villa to the nearest kitchen. There was, indeed, a wide assortment of foods already available.

She selected a crusty roll and a handful of green grapes and turned to go back to the bedroom. But the chilled bottle of wine that had already been opened caught her eye, and she grabbed that, too, as well as one of the wineglasses that hung from beneath one of the whitewashed cupboards. Feeling even more thieflike, she stole back to the bedroom, carefully skirting around the office.

But her footsteps dragged to a halt when the low murmur of Rourke’s voice through the partially closed door shaped into distinguishable words. “Call the publisher,” he was saying. “Tell him if he doesn’t squash the story, I’ll personally call on every corporate advertiser they’ve got and he won’t like the results.”

One of the grapes rolled out of Lisa’s hand and she silently darted after it, catching it just before it rolled down one of the steps.

She looked back and saw Rourke watching her, his phone still at his ear.

She flushed a little. “I was hungry after all.”

His gaze settled on the wine bottle, looking amused. “And thirsty?”

“This is France. And the bottle was already opened.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself to me.” He abruptly turned his attention back to the phone. “You’re damn right I’m serious.” His voice was sharp, obviously intended for his caller. “If you can’t accomplish this, I’ll hire someone who can.” He went back into the office, closing the door behind him.

Lisa scurried down the steps to the bedroom feeling a little sorry for whomever was on the other end of that call.

She quickly demolished the bread and grapes even before she finished half a glass of wine. She pulled out her own cell phone and started to dial Sara Beth twice.

But she didn’t want to burden her friend with foolishly panicked calls. Aside from Rourke’s insistence that nobody know the true details of their agreement, Sara Beth’s new husband was Rourke’s friend and Lisa was loath to put her problems between them. Particularly when Lisa suspected that Sara Beth was already concerned.

So she put the phone away.

She paced around the bed, avoiding it as if it was poisonous, until finally, annoyed with herself, she yanked back the creamy silk bedspread and bunched up a few of the bed pillows behind her back. She pulled out the suspense novel that she’d brought with her, but reading it now was just as big a pretense as it had been on the plane, and she finally tossed it aside.

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