The Billionaire’s Baby Plan Read online

  Rourke faced her. “I want an heir.”

  Lisa did a credible job of hiding her astonishment. “And you want the institute to assist with that? We have an excellent history with surrogacy.”

  “I know.”

  Relief coursed through her. He’d said he wanted an heir. A child. They could help to make that come about. “Confidentiality is sacred at the Armstrong Institute, Rourke. You don’t have to worry about that. 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. I want you to be my wife.”

  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

  THE BILLIONAIRE’S BABY PLAN

  ALLISON LEIGH

  Books by Allison Leigh

  Silhouette Special Edition

  †Stay… #1170

  †The Rancher and the Redhead #1212

  †A Wedding for Maggie #1241

  †A Child for Christmas #1290

  Millionaire’s Instant Baby #1312

  †Married to a Stranger #1336

  Mother in a Moment #1367

  Her Unforgettable Fiancé #1381

  The Princess and the Duke #1465

  Montana Lawman #1497

  Hard Choices #1561

  Secretly Married #1591

  Home on the Ranch #1633

  The Truth About the Tycoon #1651

  All He Ever Wanted #1664

  The Tycoon’s Marriage Bid #1707

  A Montana Homecoming #1718

  ‡Mergers & Matrimony #1761

  Just Friends? #1810

  †Sarah and the Sheriff #1819

  †Wed in Wyoming #1833

  **A Cowboy Under Her Tree #1869

  ††The Bride and the Bargain #1882

  *The Boss’s Christmas Proposal #1940

  §Valentine’s Fortune #1951

  †A Weaver Wedding #1965

  †A Weaver Baby #2000

  †A Weaver Holiday Homecoming #2015

  ‡‡The Billionaire’s Baby Plan #2048

  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 P.O. Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772.

  For my husband.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  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. D
erek 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 high-waisted 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.