The Billionaire’s Baby Plan Page 8

  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 a
greed 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.r />
  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.”