The Billionaire's Christmas Baby

It was ten at night and she was bone-weary. She’d agreed to work overtime because she needed the pay—Christmas was expensive—but all she wanted now was her bed. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and she was rostered to work again from eight to five. Where could she find time to buy Gran’s chocolates, and how much would she need to spend?

Aaagh!

‘How long does it take to scrub one floor?’

Uh-oh.

The stain on the tiles was hard against the bathroom door. She hadn’t been able to shut it, which meant she was in full view of the guest sitting at the desk. He was annoyed? The feeling was mutual. This was a job for Maintenance, not for a scrubbing brush.

But Sunny’s job was to make the guest feel that this was a scrubbed stain rather than a missed-by-Housekeeping stain. Keep him happy at all costs—that had been the order. When Max Grayland was in town the hotel fell over itself to make sure all was right with his world. Heads would roll over this stain, but it wouldn’t be her head.

Enough. She dried the floor with care, then rose. Oh, her knees hurt, but perky must be maintained.

‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ she told him brightly, as if this was the start of her shift rather than two hours after she was supposed to be gone. ‘It appears to be a bleach stain, possibly from hair dye. It should have been noticed and I apologise that it wasn’t. I can arrange for the tile to be replaced now, if you like.’

Ross in Maintenance would kill her, but she had to offer.

‘However, it’ll involve noise and you may wish us to leave it until morning,’ she added. ’Meanwhile, I can assure you it’s clean and totally hygienic.’

‘Leave it then.’ Max Grayland pushed the documents he’d been working on aside and rose, and she sensed he was almost as weary as she was. With reason? She knew he’d flown in from New York this morning, but Max Grayland crossed the globe at will. Surely travelling in first-class luxury prevented jet lag?

How would she know? Sunny had never flown in her life.

But he did look tired. Rumpled.

He was a financial whiz, she’d been told, a man in his mid-thirties, at the top of his game. The media described him as a legal eagle, and that was what he looked like. He was tall, dark and imposing, with deep, hooded eyes and a body that seemed toned to the point of impossible.

He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn at check-in but he’d ditched his jacket, unbuttoned the top of his shirt and rolled his sleeves. His after-five shadow looked like after five from the night before.

What was a man like this doing looking exhausted? Didn’t he have minions to jump to his every whim?

He stalked over and stared at the stain as if it personally offended him, but she had a feeling he was seeing far more than the stain. He raked his dark hair and his look of exhaustion deepened.

‘Leave it,’ he growled again. ‘Thanks for your help.’

That was something at least. Most of the guests who stayed in the penthouse didn’t bother to say thank you.

‘I’m sorry I can’t do more.’ She edged past him, which was a bit problematic. She was carrying a mop and bucket and she had to edge sideways. She didn’t edge far enough and her body brushed his.

She smelled the faint scent of aftershave, something incredibly masculine, nice...

Sexy.

Good one, Sunny, she thought. This morning her hair had been tied into a neat knot, but the knot had loosened hours ago and she hadn’t had time to redo it. After a day’s hard physical work in the hotel’s often overheated rooms, her curls were limp and plastered against her face. Her uniform was stained. She knew she smelled of cleaning products—and she was suddenly acutely aware that the guy she was brushing past was a hunk.

A billionaire hunk.

Get a grip.

‘Goodnight, sir,’ she said primly and headed for the door. For some reason she wanted to scuttle. What was he doing, unsettling her like this?

Cherry liqueur chocolates, she told herself firmly. Focus on imperatives.

But a rap at the door made her pause.

Her training told her to melt into the background, which was impossible when she was in his room, carrying an armload of cleaning gear.

‘What the...?’ Behind her, Max Grayland growled his displeasure. ‘I don’t need anyone else fussing over this. Tell your people to leave it.’

He was assuming it’d be the manager, coming to grovel his apologies. She hadn’t reported that she couldn’t fix the stain, though. Brent wouldn’t be here yet.

But access to the penthouse suite floor was security locked. Stray visitors didn’t make it up here.

‘You’re not expecting anyone, sir?’

‘I’m not,’ he snapped. ‘Tell them to go away.’ And he retreated behind his desk.

There was nothing for it. She put down her mop and bucket, pushed her stray curls back behind her ears—gee, that’d make a difference—and opened the door.

And almost fainted.

She knew the woman in front of her. Of course she did—this was a face that was emblazoned on billboards, on buses, on perfume advertisements nationwide. Exotic and glamorous, Isabelle Steinway’s pouty face was her fortune. She was famous for...well, for being famous. Her fame had just started to fade when news of her pregnancy had hit the tabloids, and for the last few months the media had been going nuts. There’d been gossip galore, fed by Isabelle’s publicity machine—a secret father, the body beautiful doing all the ‘right things’ and selling those ‘right things’ as exclusives...

And then nothing. For the last few weeks Isabelle had inexplicably gone to ground. There’d been a publicity statement that she wished for privacy for the birth, which was a huge ask for the public to believe.

But she was here now, glamorous as ever, in a tight-fitting frock that made a mockery of the fact that she must have just given birth.

A night porter was standing behind her, looking anxious. Nigel must have been badgered into allowing her up here, Sunny thought, but who could blame him? The media reported that what Isabelle wanted, Isabelle got, and one pimply-faced teenage porter wouldn’t be enough to stand in her way. Nigel looked terrified. And deeply unhappy.

He was pushing a pram and the pram was wailing.

But Isabelle was ignoring the pram. The moment Sunny opened the door, she swept in, brushing her aside as if she was nothing. As indeed she should be. She should disappear, but Nigel was blocking her way. He’d pushed the pram into the doorway, stopping her leaving, and his gaze was that of a rabbit caught in headlights.

They were both stuck.

She might as well turn and watch the tableau in front of her.

The penthouse had been decorated for Christmas. A massive tree sparkled behind them. There were tasteful bud lights hanging from the windows, and through those windows the lights of Sydney Harbour glittered like a fairy tale.

The two centrepieces in this tableau were also like something out of a fairy tale. Yes, Max looked exhausted, but this man would look good after a week in the bush fighting to survive. The warrior image suited him—business clothes seemed almost inappropriate.

And Isabelle? She was wearing a silver-sequined frock that would have cost Sunny a year’s wages or more. How had she got into it so soon after giving birth? There must be a whalebone corset somewhere under there, Sunny thought. Her blonde hair was shoulder-length, every curl exquisitely positioned. Her crimson mouth was painted into a heart shape. Everything about her seemed perfect.

Except the pram behind her. The wail coming from its depths was growing increasingly desperate.

But Isabelle seemed oblivious to the wail. She was focusing on Max, her glower designed to skewer at twenty paces.

‘She’s yours,’ she spat and Sunny watched Max react with blank incredulity.