The Billionaire’s Baby Plan Page 9

  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 panicke
d 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.

  A part of her wished Rourke would just return and put an end to this painful waiting, once and for all.

  But he didn’t return. And the time display on her cell phone told her that not even an hour had passed, anyway.

  She got out of bed, grabbed the bedspread off the bed and carried it, along with her wine, out onto the terrace. There, she wrapped the bedspread around her and stretched out on one of the chaises to stare into the dark, gleaming mystery of the Mediterranean sea. And there, finally, for the first time since she’d met Rourke in Raoul’s restaurant, she felt herself begin to relax.

  She never noticed when Rourke eventually came to the door of the bedroom and looked out at her to find her head bundled in terry cloth towel and her body wrapped in silk.

  Because she was fast asleep.

  Rourke sighed faintly and picked up the wine bottle from the wrought-iron table beside her and gave it a shake. Empty. There was still a good measure of liquid left in her glass, though, and he finished it off.

  Then he leaned over her and scooped her, bedspread and all, off the chaise.

  The lopsided towel unwound from her head, falling to the ground and her long hair tumbled free, damp and tangled, against his shoulder. He went stock-still, though, when her nose found its way to the hollow of his throat and her hand slid over his shoulder.

  “I hope you didn’t fire the guy on the phone.” She sighed so deeply he felt her warm breath on his throat and fast heat pooled low in his gut.

  The last thing he wanted to think about was his conversation with his media director, who’d called to warn him that some reporter had been nosing around, tying together the coincidence of Derek Armstrong’s resignation as the institute’s CFO with a reported sighting that he’d checked into an exclusive detox center in Connecticut on the very same day that his sister married Rourke. “I didn’t fire him.” He turned sideways to carry her into the bedroom and nudged the door shut behind them. Then he settled her on the mattress.

  “’S good.” She turned on her side, kicking at the confining bedspread until one long, slender leg was freed, then tucked her hands beneath her cheek.

  He reached back to turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness that was relieved only by the slant of moonlight through the windows. “Sleep tight, princess,” he murmured and started to turn.

  “Where’re you going?” She pushed up on her elbow. Her wildly tangled hair streamed over one shoulder and the shirt she was wearing had slipped off the other.

  To hell, he thought.

  He reached for his belt and pulled it free. “Nowhere.”

  In the faint light, he could see her slowly close her eyes and she lowered her head again.

  Even before he climbed into bed beside her minutes later, he knew she was once again fast asleep. He still scooped her against him. And when she didn’t try to roll away, didn’t do anything but offer a deep exhale that seemed to press her body more closely against him, he slowly pressed his lips to her fragrant hair and closed his eyes.

  Who knew that hell could be so close to heaven?

  Chapter Seven

  It was the rattle of china that finally dragged Lisa out of the comforting oblivion of her warm cocoon.

  She opened her eyes, squinting against the bright sunshine that filled the room, getting a glimpse of the deepest blue sky she’d ever seen through the windows, as well as the attractive brunette who was settling the tray on the nightstand beside Lisa’s head.

  “Monsieur Devlin said you might wish for some coffee,” the girl said in heavily accented English.

  Lisa nodded, only to wince at the dull pain that reverberated through her head at the motion. She pushed up onto her elbow, gingerly taking the cup and saucer that the girl had filled and was holding out to her. “Thank you. Are you Marta?”

  “Mais non, madame. Je suis Sylvie.” She quickly rounded the bed to the other side of Lisa and began straightening the pillows there, sweeping her hands deftly over the tumbled bedding.

  Lisa eyed her, warily trying to see beyond the pain in her head to her memory of the night before. She’d eaten a little…Rourke had been on the phone…the wine…the chaise.

  Her stomach clenched as she recalled the sensation of floating, his arms around her.

  He’d obviously slept in the bed.

  But had they done anything else?

  Was it possible they’d made love and now she couldn’t even remember it?

  Feeling as if she’d fallen down the rabbit hole, she rubbed her hands over her eyes. Surely she’d remember…

  “I can bring madame les croissants et les fruits?”

  “No, thank you.” She pushed the rattling cup and saucer onto the nightstand before she managed to spill the steaming brew all over herself and the bed, and sat up on the side of the mattress. “Can you tell me where Mr. Devlin is?”

  The girl dimpled. “Swimming, madame. As he does every morning when he stays here.”

  Lisa pushed off the bed, yanking the hem of the jersey down around her thighs, and strode over to the French doors that were opened to the warmth of the morning sun. Ignoring the clanging inside her head at both the motions and the unrelenting sunlight, she went out onto the terrace and, sure enough, she could see Rourke’s black head bobbing in the blue, blue sea.

  “In case you wish to join him?” Sylvia appeared silently beside her bearing a plush white robe.

  “I’m not exactly wearing a swimsuit.”

  The girl merely smiled. “Nor is he, madame.”

  Lisa snatched the robe and yanked it on, covering her jersey as well as her self-consciousness. “Thank you, Sylvie.”

  The girl tilted her head slightly, managing to look amused and sly at the same time, before she disappeared back into the house.

  Maybe Rourke didn’t need to bring women to this place if the lovely Sylvie was already at his beck and call.

  Annoyed with herself for even wondering, she stomped barefoot down the steps to the lower terrace. Her feet met the coarse sand, slowing her speed considerably, but she made it to the towel that he’d dropped in a heap just beyond the water’s reach.

  He obviously knew she was there. He waved an arm, gesturing for her to come in.

  In answer, she gathered the robe around her and sat down on top of his towel.

  Despite the distance, she could see the flash of his teeth. Then his head disappeared beneath the surface of the glimmering water, reappearing again a moment later, considerably closer to shore. Before long, he was rising up altogether as he walked through the chest-high water as one hand slicked his hair back out of his face. Then the water was at his waist.

  His hips.

  She shaded her eyes, ostensibly from the sunlight, but just as much to hide the effort it took not to drop her jaw and just stare, when he kept right on coming. All warm, tanned flesh stretched over long, roping muscles.

  Warm, naked flesh.

  Not even being forewarned was enough to prepare her.

  He walked right out of the sea like some pagan God with water streaming down his corrugated abdomen, his thighs. His…everything.

  And he didn’t stop until he was less than two feet away. “My towel,” he finally prompted.

  Flushing, caught staring, she shifted off the towel and practically threw it at him.

  Not bothering to hide his smile, he easily caugh
t it and ran it down his chest. She was almost pathetically grateful when he wrapped it around his hips because she wasn’t sure she would ever regain the art of breathing if he didn’t.

  “I met Sylvie.” It wasn’t at all what she should be saying, much less in such a waspish tone.

  “I told her to make sure you had coffee before noon. Figured you’d need it after last night.” He stretched out on the sand beside her, his head propped on his hand. With his hair slicked back from his face, he looked even more devilish. Black eyes bright, thick lashes clinging together with sparkling water drops, the whisper of a sardonic grin hovering around his mobile lips.

  “Is she one of the women you’ve been here with?”

  The slashing line beside his lips deepened. “She’s a child.”

  “She didn’t look very childish to me.”

  He tugged at her robe’s belt until it came loose. “Mrs. Devlin, are you sounding jealous?”

  “Certainly not. I just don’t want to be embarrassed by coming face-to-face with one of my husband’s lovers while on my honeymoon.”

  He gave a bark of laughter and captured her ankle in his hand. She nearly jumped out of her skin and wasn’t helped any when his palm began slowly running up her calf beneath the loose folds of the robe. “Sylvie is Marta’s niece,” he drawled, his gaze capturing hers and allowing no escape. “Marta is a longtime employee of the owner, who happens to be a good friend of mine.” His warm, still-wet palm reached her knee and began inching along the descent of her thigh. “And while we’re married, the only lover I’ll have is you.”

  She clamped her hand over his wrist, stopping the progress of his utterly distracting hand before it crept any farther toward the hem of her hockey jersey. “Have? Does that mean we already—last night—” She broke off, miserably humiliated at even having to ask.

  His eyes were inscrutable. “You don’t remember?”

  Her jaw tightened. “Obviously. Not.”

  He moved suddenly, and instead of her hand capturing his wrist, he’d pushed her down and pressed hers into the sand above her head while he settled over her. “Princess, you’ll definitely know when it’s the morning after.”