Cinderella's Tycoon

She also knew that he was big, dark and...compelling.

A wave of heat that had nothing to do with the weather rolled through her. She recalled the questionnaire she’d been required to fill out for the clinic, listing the qualities she wanted in her baby’s father. The personality part had been the most important, of course. On it she’d stated that she wanted somebody kind, gentle and honorable, like her own father.

But there’d also been a section for physical attributes. She shifted uncomfortably on the hot pavement as she acknowledged that when she’d requested someone tall, lean and imposing, with dark hair, light eyes, chiseled features and a graceful way of moving, she might have been describing Sterling.

Yet there was no way he could know about that. Could he? No, of course not. Nobody but the people at the clinic even knew she was expecting. And though she’d told Callie what she’d done, she trusted her friend to have kept her secret.

So what could he possibly want?

Before she had time to venture a guess he turned and caught sight of her. His gaze flicked over her, and something in his expression made her self-conscious. She glanced down at her mauve jumper, acknowledging that perhaps the calf-length hem and voluminous skirt weren’t the most fashionable, and that the color might not have been the wisest choice for someone with her pale skin and auburn hair. And it probably didn’t help that the hair in question was escaping its careful coil. Raising a hand, she wasn’t surprised to find that the slippery mass was listing sharply to one side, while wisps snaked down her neck and tickled her temples and ears.

Still, that was hardly a reason for her visitor’s jaw to suddenly bunch the way it did. Nor did it explain the decidedly cool note coloring his Texas drawl—so much more melodic than her own Northern diction—as he said gruffly, “Ms. Wilkins?”

As so often happened, shyness stole her tongue. Embarrassed, she ducked her head, and tried desperately to relax. After all, in roughly seven months she was going to be somebody’s mother. How could she hope to take care of a child, if she couldn’t handle a simple conversation?

Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “Hello, Mr. Churchill. May I help you?” Oh, brilliant, Susan. You sound like the order taker at a fast-food restaurant.

“We need to talk.”

“We do?”

He gave her a don’t-waste-my-time look. “We do.”

Biting her lip, she crossed the sun-burned lawn and stopped before the single step to look up at him. Casually dressed in boots, jeans, a navy polo shirt and the Stetson that Susan sometimes thought was required dress for every man in Texas, he had an innate elegance that made her more aware than ever of her own woeful state. Clearing her throat, she said, “Is this about Callie and Hank? Are they okay?”

He stared at her blankly, then gave an impatient shrug. “As far as I know. Last I heard, they were still on their honeymoon.”

“Thank goodness.” She gave a sigh of relief and tried to explain the reason for her question. “I just thought, since we both know them, that you must be here because something had happened.”

“It has. But not to them.” He motioned toward the door with an abrupt jerk of his head. “Why don’t we go inside?”

It was more an order than a request. Yet staring up into his cool gray eyes, she couldn’t find the nerve to refuse. “All right.” Glad for an excuse to look away, she fumbled in her purse for her house key.

She stepped up onto the stoop, sidled past him and unlocked her door. He was so close she could smell him, and the unfamiliar combination of aftershave, freshly laundered clothes and something else that was uniquely male made her hand tremble on the doorknob.

She walked gratefully into her dim little living room. It felt reassuringly familiar, not to mention refreshingly cool after the outside heat. Setting her purse on the small table next to the couch, she turned to face her guest, taking a surprised step back as she found he was standing right behind her, hat in hand. She sent him a tremulous smile. “Can I—can I get you something to drink?”

He didn’t smile back. “No.”

Suddenly desperate for a glass of water—her throat was so dry it was hard to swallow, and she really could use a moment to herself—she backed toward the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind if I get something for myself—”

“I understand you’re not married,” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“Do you have a boyfriend? Someone you care about?”

She. stopped in her tracks and gawked at him. “I hardly think that’s your concern,” she said faintly.

“It is if you’re having a baby. Are you?” He spoke as if he had every right to ask such a question.

“Mr. Churchill. Really!”

He took a step toward her. “Are you?”

Although she cautiously took a step back, his very intensity compelled her to answer. “Yes. Yes, I am. But how did you...that is where did you...” How could he possibly know? After all, Mrs. Richey had assured her of the clinic’s strict rules of confidentiality, unless—oh! The phone call! That must be it. There must have been some sort of security breach and—

“It’s mine.”

She stared at him, certain she hadn’t heard right. “What?”

“The baby. It’s mine,” he said flatly.

For half a second the room seemed to constrict, and then her common sense kicked in. She shook her head. “No. It most certainly is not. You—you—you’re—” Crazy.

Of course! She felt overwhelming relief, followed by a rush of compassion and a smidgen of regret as the harmless romantic fantasy she’d woven about him completely unraveled. Nevertheless, his being “confused” was the only rational explanation. Drawing a deep breath to steady herself, she said gently but firmly, “You’re mistaken, Mr. Churchill. I don’t know where you got this idea, but I assure you you’re wrong.”

“You’re not pregnant?”

“Well, yes, I am, but—”

“Then it’s mine.”

“No,” she said more sharply than she intended. “I mean—how could it be? I’ve never... And you and I most certainly have never...” Out of the blue, her imagination served up a brief but steamy vision of the two of them creating a baby the old-fashioned way. Mortified, she felt a betraying flush of heat rise in her cheeks. “That is, we’ve never even spoken before today,” she said hastily.

“There was a mix-up at the clinic. My semen was used in your procedure.”

She shook her head. “No—”

“Yes,” he contradicted, his voice suddenly harsh. “How the hell do you think I know about this? About you?”

His vehemence silenced her. The truth was there, not only in what he said but in his grim face. “Oh, dear. Oh, my. It can’t be. There must be a mistake. This is my baby. Mine...”

“Not anymore. Now it’s ours.”

Whether it was the shock, the heat or his alarming words, she suddenly felt faint. Black spots danced before her eyes and the room began to whirl around her. She must have swayed, because the next thing she knew he was at her side. Ignoring her cry of protest, he slid one big muscular arm around her back, slipped the other under her knees and lifted her into his arms.

If Susan hadn’t already felt faint, his sudden proximity would have done it. Cradled against his broad chest, she was bombarded by foreign sensations. There was his warmth, the steely strength of his body, the solid beat of his heart against her breast. She squeezed her eyes shut, awash in contradictory feelings. Part of her wanted him to put her down this instant. But another part, shameless and unfamiliar, had an awful desire to snuggle closer. Confused, she gave a grateful sigh as he leaned over and she felt the nubby surface of her couch against the backs of her legs.

Without a word, he sat beside her and forced her head toward her knees. “Breathe,” he ordered.

She nodded, doing as he said until the world quit spinning. “I’m sorry,” she murmured finally, shrugging off his hand and sitting upright. “I’m not usually a fainter. It’s just... I can’t seem to take it in...” Swallowing, she turned to look at him. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Positive. I just spent an hour with Margaret Richey. There’s no question. The child you’re carrying is mine.”

A dozen questions immediately popped into her mind. Like, why had the clinic told him before they’d told her? Wasn’t there some sort of rule that she had to be notified first? As far as that went, shouldn’t Mrs. Richey have come in person to tell her, instead of allowing Sterling to deliver the news?

Yet those things could all be answered later. Right now, the only question that mattered was the one she was most terrified to have answered. “Why—” she had to stop and clear her throat “—why are you here? What do you want?”