The Tycoon's Instant Daughter

“Oh, absolutely. I got that. I did. And I wanted to ask you, what about salary? And maybe I should know a little more about the benefits package you offer.”

He quoted a very generous figure. “As to benefits—full medical, and we have a dental plan. And an optical plan, as well. All the major holidays—or time and a half if she agrees to work a holiday. And two weeks vacation a year.”

Hannah could see that she’d have no trouble at all filling this job—good money, fine benefits and the chance to watch Becky take her first step, sound out her first word, learn to ride a bike…

What more could any woman ask for? If she didn’t watch herself, she’d end up pea-green with envy of the woman she was planning to hire.

“Anything else?” he asked. He looked kind of hopeful. And for some reason that made her want to try to think up more questions.

But how wise would that be?

“Um. No. I think that’s everything. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He kept smiling that killer smile.

But after a minute it faded.

He finally said, “All right. Good night.”

“Yes. Good—”

They both heard the cry at the same time—well, it was more of a whine, really. A small, fussy, tender little sound. They stared at each other. Hannah was holding her breath.

And she knew that he was, too.

Another whine. And then a louder one. And then an outright cry.

Hannah told him ruefully, “Someone is calling me.” She moved forward a fraction, and then hesitated. “Excuse me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He stepped back, out of the doorway.

She brushed past him.

Cord just stood there, staring after her as her bare feet whispered across the playroom floor, the bit of snowy-white nightgown that showed beneath her robe seeming to glow in the darkness as she retreated. When she disappeared through the door to the baby’s bedroom, he bestirred himself and followed.

She was lifting Becky from the crib as he reached her side.

“She might be wet. And she’s probably hungry. I usually feed her around eleven. And she’s a good girl.” She cooed something appreciative into Becky’s tiny ear, then added, over the baby’s shoulder, “After this, she’ll most likely sleep through the rest of the night.”

She turned for the white bureau nearby, the one with the changing pad on top. He had a feeling what was coming. And it was.

She laid the squalling baby on her back, then slid a finger down her diaper. “Yep. Time for a change.”

He considered backing up until he was out the door. But unfortunately, she spoke before he could get his legs to move.

“Come on.” She flicked on the little carousel wall lamp next to the bureau. “You need to learn how to do this. And it won’t be so tough. It’s only wet this time.” She had the nerve to grin at him.

“Maybe I should wait,” he suggested, wincing as his little girl squalled, flailing her arms and kicking her fat little legs. “I’ll give it a try sometime when she’s not squirming so much.”

“Mr. Stockwell, babies who need changing most generally are going to squirm.”

“See. There you have it.”

“Have what?”

Becky, who didn’t look nearly as cute right then as she had when she was sound asleep, kept on yowling and waving her arms and legs around. She was wearing some little yellow T-shirt thing with snaps all over the front of it.

Ms. Miller made more cooing sounds as she peeled away tabs.

“You should do it,” he said. “You’re good at it.”

“And you should learn. Come on over here.”

Hell.

He took the few steps to stand by the changing pad with her. She already had the diaper off. She pressed a lever with her foot, and tossed it into the white bin beside the bureau. Next, she reached over and pulled a couple of white squares out of a plastic container.

She held out the squares. “Here. These are baby wipes. Take them.”

He should have known better, but he did what she told him. The damn things were wet, for the love of Mike. His disgust must have shown on his face.

Ms. Miller let out a loud hoot of laughter.

Surprised the hell out of him—and Becky, too. His little girl stopped yowling to stare at the woman standing over her.

Ms. Miller had the grace to shut her mouth. “Oops,” she said. “Sorry.” She looked away—to control herself, presumably. He heard one more snicker and then she turned back to him with a straight face.

He was still holding the wet squares from the plastic container.

Ms. Miller said, “Wipe her bottom. Very gently.”

He said nothing, only shook his head and stepped closer and did what she said that he had to do.

Once that was accomplished, she had him throw away the used wipes. Then she handed him the diaper rash ointment and told him to gently rub it on. And then, she showed him how to fold a diaper into the slots on the pair of plastic pants. Finally she had him take Becky’s little feet and lift up her bottom and slide the diaper and plastic pants underneath her.

After that, it was pretty simple. He folded the sides up and pressed the Velcro tapes together.

“Now,” she said, “we’ll wrap her back up nice and cozy in this light blanket and you can hold her for a few minutes. I’ll stick a bottle in warm water. Be back in a flash.”

She was gone before he could order her to stay. A dim light went on somewhere in the playroom.

How long did it take to warm up a bottle?

Too long, more than likely.

Becky looked like she might just start crying again. So he picked her up very carefully and put her on his shoulder the way Ms. Miller had shown him before. And then he stood there, feeling like ten kinds of oafish idiot, patting her little back and listening to Ms. Miller in the other room, bustling around in there, doing whatever had to be done to get Becky’s nighttime snack ready.

Becky made a little, experimental sort of fussy sound.