The Billionaire’s Baby Plan Page 3

  “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 s
urely 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.