The Billionaire's Baby Plan / Marrying the Northbridge Nanny: The Billionaire's Baby Plan

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 agreed 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.”