The Millionaire's Baby

The Millionaire's Baby
Diana Hamilton

NANNY WANTED Finn needed a stand-in mommy for his little girl. He got a stand-in nanny! They needed a nanny… When millionaire Finn Helliar walked into her nanny agency looking for help, Caro couldn't believe her luck! This was the man who'd hurt her sister and what better way to make him pay than to accept the position he was offering? … and look what they get!Unfortunately, Caro had reckoned without two things: Sophie, who was adorable, and Finn - who was even more adorable! The more time she spent with them, the more she realized her plan had one fatal flaw… how could she ever leave?

Letter to Reader (#u216c3bbd-ebfe-56b4-91e5-ab4e0fa73f6b)Title Page (#uf59fb11a-e1e5-5b88-b7df-35ee7f0a91ab)CHAPTER ONE (#u6bd44b0e-a610-56f5-9e71-3e1a81f269a5)CHAPTER TWO (#u84edc9bd-7a50-50ec-a187-64b97fc72437)CHAPTER THREE (#ucc916beb-4e31-5ed4-a002-9771101a3b25)CHAPTER FOUR (#u2eb22076-69b0-56d8-bc0f-a8a9d481255b)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader,

Let’s all join together and send special birthday greetings to Harlequin Presents

—twenty-five years of publishing the very best of romance fiction, enjoyed by millions worldwide, is no small achievement!

For the past ten years, I’ve been proud to be a contributing author to this mega-successful series and, because storytelling is as old as the human race, my books give me the very special feeling that I’m connecting with unknown yet valued friends throughout the world. This is a wonderful bond and I hope you’ll continue to enjoy the Presents

series through the next quarter century!

Diana Hamilton

P.S. The Millionaire’s Baby is part of a compelling new series, NANNY WANTED!, in which some of our most popular authors create nannies whose talents extend way beyond taking care of the kids!

The Millionaire’s Baby

Diana Hamilton

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

CAROLINE FARR was afraid she’d made a terrible mistake.

As the taxi wove through the snarl of traffic on Prince Albert Road she was convinced of it. So utterly convinced she had to grit her teeth in order to stop herself from telling the driver to stop and allow her to walk off her agitation in the sun-drenched greenness of London’s Regent’s Park.

It was so, so tempting...Mary Greaves, her business partner, could phone through and apologise, explain to the Helliars that, unfortunately, Ms Farr was unable to attend the interview for the position of nanny to their baby daughter, suggest another applicant, another interview.

But she wasn’t that weak! Mercifully, the unaccustomed feeling of panic began to subside as the taxi made a left turn into one of the leafy Georgian streets that abounded in this area. She wasn’t going to back down at the last moment and prove Mary right It wasn’t in her nature to back away from her own decisions.

Mary had said, ‘Caro! Have you gone mad? You can’t do it! You’re not trained—you know nothing about caring for children! That’s my area of expertise, not yours. Think of the agency’s reputation!’

And for the first time ever she had pulled rank and reminded her partner of just who had built up that enviable reputation, adding, ‘I’ve worked all hours on the administration side for two whole years. Now I fancy some hands-on experience. Humour me, Mary!’ Her smile when she’d wanted to appear relaxed had been big and wide and winning. ‘Looking after a child can’t be all that difficult. Millions of women do it all the time—and if I get out of my depth I promise I’ll let you know. The Grandes Familles Agency is as much my baby as yours; I won’t do a thing to harm our good reputation.’

The bit about fancying some hands-on experience had been a downright lie, plucked out of the air as an excuse for what had to appear as sheer craziness, a totally uncharacteristic deviation from her normal level-headed approach to her work at the agency.

But was it so crazy to want revenge?

She’d been in the main office when Honor, their secretary, had shown Finn Helliar into the room Mary used for client interviews. The band that had tightened around her chest with the painful suddenness of a steel trap had kept her immobile until Honor had teetered back on her very high heels a few moments later, a pussy-cat smile on her pretty, pointed face.

Caroline hadn’t needed to ask who he was. She’d known. She had never met him but she knew all about him, had seen that photograph in the press a couple of years ago. Handsome as he had looked—his smile tender for the lovely new bride on his arm—the camera image hadn’t done him justice. In the flesh his impact was nothing short of stunning.

She’d asked instead, ‘Why is he here?’ and she’d thanked heaven her voice sounded normal, coolly interested and utterly professional.

‘Some hunk, huh?’ Honor had smoothed the fabric of her pale grey skirt over her hips. ‘He phoned first thing this morning before you arrived. It seems they flew in from Canada a couple of days ago and need a temporary nanny until they find a permanent home outside of London. Nice work for some lucky lady!’

It had been then, precisely then, that Caroline knew what she was going to do, and when Honor had mused, ‘I wonder what his wife’s like?’ she’d merely shaken her head and gone into her own office to wait until her partner had finished interviewing Finn Helliar.

She could have told her secretary exactly who his wife was, what she looked like, but had been afraid she wouldn’t be able to hide her anger and outrage if she did.

Now, as the taxi drew up in front of the hotel where the Helliars were staying, Caroline swiftly ran through a mental check-list.

A good nanny was quiet and subdued in her appearance.

Well, she had done her best in that respect.

The mandatory street-wear uniform of the Grandes Families nannies meant her slim body was successfully de-sexed by the severely plain, tailored dark grey linen suit, the desired touch of white at her throat given by the crisply starched cotton shirt she wore beneath it, her jaw-length bob of glossy, dark auburn hair hidden beneath the grey cloche-style hat, her five feet six inches played down by her sensible flat-heeled shoes.

A good nanny had received rigorous training and carried impeccable references. Caroline Farr had the benefit of neither and as soon as that was discovered she would be shown the door.

Which meant she would have to deliver her castigation right there and then. She would prefer more time to plot a more fitting retribution but only by her acceptance as the Helliars’ temporary nanny could she get that.

She would just have to keep her fingers crossed and hope that the gods of retribution were fighting her corner!

After paying off the driver she faced the hotel, straightening. She would have expected Finn Helliar, hot-shot financier, chief executive of an aweinspiringly successful international merchant bank, to choose something ultra-modern, trendily sophisticated. But maybe his wife had insisted on somewhere like this—restrained, comfortable, old-fashioned, even.

Caroline shrugged. It wasn’t important. And the niggle of anxiety she had been trying to suppress bubbled up to the surface of her mind, making her frown and sink her teeth into her full lower lip.

The trouble with knee-jerk reactions, as her impulse to present herself as a temporary nanny had been, was a built-in, fatal lack of forward planning. She was uncomfortable with that.

So far she had planned her life meticulously; she had known where she was going, what she wanted. And if, as was a distinct possibility, she was shown the door as soon as her lack of credentials became known she could only hope that Finn Helliar himself would show her to that door and not leave the chore to his wife.

If the worst came to the worst and she was asked to leave she would say she needed a few moments alone with him. No way would she say what needed to be said in front of his wife. Fleur Helliar wasn’t the guilty one.

She stiffly approached the revolving doors with their solid mahogany and brass fittings. It would work out. Fate had obligingly delivered the callous brute into her hands—it wouldn’t let her down at this last minute.

The sitting room of the suite she was shown into had all the comfortable, relaxed charm of an English country home and the receptionist she had announced herself to, and who had spoken for a few seconds into the house phone, now said, ‘Make yourself comfortable. Mr Helliar asked me to give you his apologies. He won’t be more than a few minutes.’

It was, however, much less than that. Just a few seconds, but time enough to note two silver-framed photographs of his wife, the French singer who had briefly blazed to stardom before marriage and imminent motherhood had taken her to apparent obscurity.

His sudden, silent emergence into the room was a shock. It shouldn’t have been, but it was. His appearance took her by the throat and shook her, dislodging all her famed composure, depriving her of her wits so that she could only stand and stare at six feet something of honed male power.

His soft dark hair was appealingly rumpled, sticking up in wayward tufts, making him look younger than his thirty-four years. The front of the white shirt he wore above narrow black trousers was decidedly damp, the sleeves rolled up to expose the tanned skin of strong forearms. And his hands, the hands that held the child so gently and held her unwillingly fascinated stare for longer than was sensible, were beautifully made, strong-boned yet sensitive.

‘Please excuse the delay, Miss Farr. Sophie got more lunch outside her than in. She and I both agreed—didn’t we, my pet?—that she’d look more presentable after a bath, though the same can’t be said for me! Won’t you sit down?’

The intent silver-grey, black-fringed eyes were bright with enquiry, yet they held a hint of mischief, too. Caroline didn’t like that because that, and his rumpled appearance, the loving way he held the baby, made him seem human.

Reminding herself that he wasn’t—only a coldhearted, selfish, inhuman brute could have done what he’d done to her young sister, Katie—she sat, feet neatly together, her features carefully blank.

As the interview progressed, Caroline realised he was more interested in what made her tick, as a person, than in references and credentials. He didn’t mention either and she found herself enjoying the experience of re-inventing herself, presenting him with a dedicated lover of children whose hobbies were knitting, making model castles out of matchsticks, collecting wild flowers and recipes for fairy cakes.

The twitching of his mobile, sexy mouth brought her back to reality with a thump. Aborting her flights of fantasy, she asked herself tartly what she thought she was playing at. She should be taking advantage of what fate had handed her and giving him a piece of her mind.