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

The waiter had returned and was silently, ceremoniously presenting, then opening a bottle of wine. The cork presented and approved, the first taste mulled over, the crystal glasses partially filled. Lisa had been part of the production hundreds of times and wondered silently what any of them would say if she told them she would have preferred a fresh glass of iced tea. Wine always went straight to her head.

And it didn’t take her MBA to know that she needed all of her faculties in prime working order when it came to dealing with Rourke Devlin, who hadn’t volunteered even a polite disclaimer about the value of his time.

But she said nothing. Merely smiled and picked up the glass, sipping at the crisp, cool Chardonnay. It was delicious. Something she might have chosen for herself if she were in the mood for wine. But she would have pegged Rourke as a red wine sort of man. To go along with the raw red meat those strong white teeth could probably tear apart.

“I told the chef we’d have his recommendation,” Rourke said. “Raoul never disappoints.”

“How nice.” She really, really wished they were meeting in his office. This just seemed far too intimate. Additional diners around them would have helped dispel that impression. “Isn’t Fare usually open for lunch?” It was well past noon. And the reviews she’d read about the place had indicated it took months to get a reservation.

“Usually.”

Which explained so much. She lifted the wineglass again and thought she saw the faintest glimmer of amusement hovering around his mobile lips. And it suddenly dawned on her why they were in a restaurant and not his office.

Because he’d known it would set her on edge.

She wasn’t sure why that certainty was so suddenly clear. But it was. She knew it right down in her bones. And the glint in his eyes as he watched her while he lifted his own wineglass seemed to confirm it.

She set down her glass and reached down to pull a narrow file out of her briefcase. “Ted gave you some indication why we wanted to meet with you.” It wasn’t a question. She knew that Ted Bonner had primed the pump, so to speak, with his old buddy, when he’d arranged the meeting once Paul had jumped on the bandwagon of approval. “This prospectus will outline the advantages and opportunities of investing in the Armstrong Fertility Institute.” She started to hand the file over to Rourke, only to stop midway, when he lifted a few fingers, as if to wave off the presentation that they’d pulled together at the institute in record time.

Not that he could know that.

Ted wouldn’t have told the man just how desperate things had become. Friendship or not, Dr. Bonner was now a firmly entrenched part of the Armstrong Institute team. And nobody on that team wanted word to get out about the reason underlying their unusual foray into seeking investors. Their reputation would never recover. Not after the string of bad press they’d already endured. Their patients wouldn’t want their names—some very well-known—associated with the institute. And without patients, there wouldn’t just be layoffs. The institute would simply have to close its doors.

Damn you, Derek.

She lowered the prospectus and set it on the linen cloth next to the fancy little bread basket that the waiter delivered, along with a selection of spreads.

“Put it away,” Rourke said. “I prefer not to discuss business while I’m eating.”

“Then why didn’t you schedule me for when you weren’t?” The question popped out and she wanted to kick herself. Instead, she lifted her chin a little and made herself meet his gaze, pretending as if she weren’t riddled with frustration.

He was toying with her. She didn’t have the slightest clue as to why he would even bother.

And she also left the folder right where it was. A glossy reminder of why they were meeting, even if he was determined to avoid it.

He pulled the wine bottle from the sterling ice bucket standing next to the table and refilled her glass even though she’d only consumed a small amount. “Have a roll,” he said. “Raoul’s wife, Gina, makes them fresh every day.”

“I don’t eat much bread,” she said bluntly. What was the point of pretending congeniality? “Are you interested in discussing an investment in the institute or not?” If he wasn’t—which was what she’d tried to tell Paul and the others—then she was wasting her time that would be better spent in preparation for meeting with investors who were.

“More bread would look good on you,” he said. His gaze traveled over her, seeming to pick apart everything from the customary chignon in her hair to the single silver ring she wore on her right thumb. “You’ve lost weight since I last saw you.”

There was no way to mistake the accusation as a compliment and her lips parted. She stared, letting the offense ripple through her until she could settle it somewhere out of the way. “Women can never be too thin,” she reminded him coolly, and picked up the wineglass again. Might as well partake of the excellent vintage since it was apparent that he wasn’t taking their meeting seriously, anyway.

No doubt he’d agreed simply to get Ted off his back.

“A ridiculous assumption made by women for women,” Rourke returned. “Most men prefer curves and softness against them over jutting bones.”

“Well.” She swallowed more wine. “That’s something you and I won’t have to worry about.”

He looked amused again and turned his head, glancing at the bank of windows. His profile was sharp, as defined—and cold—as a chiseled piece of granite. His black hair sprang sharply away from his forehead and the fine crow’s-feet arrowing out from the corner of his eyes were clearly illuminated.

Unfortunately, they didn’t detract from the total package.

“The view here is good,” he said. “I’m glad Raoul went with my suggestion on the location. Initially he was looking for a high-rise.”

She wanted to grind her teeth together, as annoyed with her own distraction where Rourke-the-man was concerned as she was with his unpredictability. “I didn’t know that restaurants were something you invested in. Techno-firm startups seemed to be more your speed. Aren’t restaurants notoriously chancy?” She lifted a hand, silently indicating the empty tables around them.

“Venture capitalism is about taking chances.” He selected a roll from the basket and broke it open, slathering one of the compound butters over half. “Calculated chances, of course. But as it happens, in the five years since Raoul opened the doors, I’ve never had cause to regret this particular chance.” He held out the roll. “Taste it.”

She could feel the wine wending its heady way through her veins. Breakfast had been hours ago. Wait. She’d skipped breakfast, in favor of a conference call.

Which meant drinking even the tiniest amount of wine was more foolish than usual.

Arguing seemed too much work, though, so she took the roll from him. Their fingers brushed.

She shoved the bread in her mouth, chomping down on it as viciously as she chomped down on the warmth that zipped through her hand.

“Good?”

Chewing, she nodded. The roll was good. Deliciously so.

It only annoyed her more.

She chased the yeasty heaven down with more wine and leaned closer to the table. “Obviously excellent bread and wine isn’t always enough to ensure success, or this place would be busting at the seams.”

“Raoul closed Fare until dinner for me.”

She blinked slowly and sat back. “Why?”

“Because I asked him to.”

“Again…why?”

“Because I wanted to be alone with you.”

A puff of air escaped her lips. “But you don’t even like me.”

Rourke picked up his wineglass and studied the disbelieving expression of the woman across from him. “Maybe not,” he allowed.

Lisa Armstrong had looked like an ice princess the first time he’d seen her more than six months ago in a crowded Cambridge pub called Shots where he’d been meeting with Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios.

He’d had no reason to change his opinion in the few times he’d seen her since.

“But I want you,” he continued smoothly, watching the sudden flare of her milk-chocolate eyes. “And you want me.” He’d known that since he’d maneuvered her into sharing a single, brief dance with him months earlier.

Her lips had parted. They were slightly thin, slightly wide for her narrow, angular face, and a shade of pale, delicate pink that he figured owed nothing to cosmetics.

And he hadn’t been able to get them out of his mind.