The Billionaire's Christmas Baby

‘I’ll pop her back in the pram,’ she suggested. She wanted to rise but the hand was still on her shoulder. The grip tightened.

Uh-oh. It was pressure.

‘You can’t leave.’

Watch me, she thought. And then she thought of the discreet little disc attached at her waist, like an extra button on her uniform. A security disc.

Even at exclusive hotels—and this was surely the most exclusive in Sydney—incidents happened. Guests drank too much. They were away from home. The normal rules often didn’t seem to apply.

Female staff were taught how to back away fast from situations, but as a last resort there was the disc. Three pushes and she’d have security guards here in moments.

Protecting her from this man?

He wasn’t harassing her for himself, though. He needed her for his baby.

Right, and she had chocolate cherry liqueurs to find and sleep to have and gifts to wrap before she returned here for her Christmas Eve shift tomorrow. Harden up, girl, she told herself. Even use the security disc if you must. You’re a cleaner. This is not your business.

She rose, despite the pressure of his hand. He released her—with real reluctance, it seemed—and stood back.

‘She’s fed and changed, sir,’ she told him, facing him head-on. ‘I’ll pop her back into the pram if you like, but I need to go. Though...’ A sudden pang of conscience made her add, ‘I’ll clean the bathroom before I go.’

‘You just cleaned the bathroom.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said woodenly and he frowned and opened the bathroom door. And recoiled.

‘My giddy aunt...’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said primly. She used his distraction to slip her sleeping bundle back in the pram. The pram was a mess too, filled with forms, baby clutter, a stupid elephant mobile strung across the top. But this wasn’t her concern either. She pulled out the loose stuff and laid it on the floor. Already his swish suite was starting to look as if a bomb had hit it, but this guy should have a few hours’ peace to sort things out. ‘Would you like me to clean?’ she asked primly.

‘Of course.’

‘There will be a charge,’ she said. ‘The stain on the tiles was our responsibility, but extra cleaning for normal hotel use incurs an out-of-hours service fee.’

‘You’re charging me for cleaning?’ He sounded incredulous.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ She glanced at her watch. She’d been here for almost an hour and it’d go on the hotel’s time sheets. If she wanted to be paid for overtime, she had to report it. And he had to pay.

‘That’s unreasonable.’

She was overtired. She was at the end of a stupidly long shift. She’d had enough.

‘Unreasonable for me to be paid for scrubbing? Really?’ So much for being a shadow. She let her glower have full sway. ‘I know, I’m just a money-hungry grub.’ Grub was the truth. She felt filthy. ‘But your decision shouldn’t be my business. I’ve done what I was sent to do, and more. Ring Housekeeping if you want the bathroom cleaned, and discuss charges with them. My shift is finished.’ And she took a deep breath and strode to the door, prepared to depart with as much dignity as she could muster.

She swung the door open, and Brent was there.

Brent. Assistant hotel manager. Guy on the way up. Obviously here to appease.

He looked at her and grub didn’t begin to describe the look he gave her. Okay, she was filthy. She’d been down on her knees scrubbing. She’d just tended one distressed baby. The wet splotches on her uniform—you try bathing a baby in a bathroom sink—could have been anything. Maybe they were ‘anything’. Maybe she smelled as well. Who knew? Who cared? She was over this.

‘What seems to be the problem, Miss Raye?’ Brent said, silky-smooth, and she thought, I am in so much trouble. Cleaning staff should never, ever be noticed, much less by the assistant manager of the entire hotel.

‘Sir, I was sent up to clean a stain in Mr Grayland’s bathroom.’ She hauled back on her temper, doing her best to make herself sound subservient. Yes, she’d let her anger hold sway for a moment but she needed this job. She needed to retreat fast. ‘I’ve done my best with the tiles but the stain needs Maintenance. I was about to report it, but before I could leave Mr Grayland requested urgent assistance with his baby.’

‘It’s not my baby!’

She ignored the savage growl from behind. She was too busy salvaging her career to care.

‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Brent told her, in the tone used the world over to convey menace to underlings when on the surface all had to be rosy. ‘Wait for me before you leave.’ And he turned to Max and put on his full managerial, ingratiating smile. ‘Now, sir...’

She was free. She’d have to wait in the change room for Brent to tell her what he thought of her but at least she was out of here. She grabbed her trusty mop and bucket and headed for the fire stairs. No elevator was going to be fast enough.

‘Stop her.’

‘Sir?’ Brent sounded confused. Sunny had almost reached the stairs. Almost gone...

‘If you’re here to tell me there’s no babysitting service available, I want this woman to stay,’ Max snapped. ‘And I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes to keep her.’

Brent hadn’t got where he was by being thick. Or slow. He’d got it in one. Her desperation to leave. Max’s desperation to have her stay. Without seeming to move, Brent was suddenly, seamlessly between Sunny and her precious stairwell.

Yikes.

‘Put your equipment down,’ he told her and once again she got that look of disdain. Brent was immaculate, smoothly urbane, doing what the guest needed. That he had to put himself so close to an actual cleaner was obviously distasteful in the extreme—that he had to talk to her was worse.

But he was blocking her path and he was making it clear she had no option. She put her mop and bucket down again but she wasn’t buying into whatever was happening. She put her hands behind her back, looked at the floor and waited. A good little cleaning lady...

‘Sir...’ With Sunny trapped, Brent turned back to Max. ‘We apologise but there is no babysitting service available. If you’d booked your baby in earlier...’

‘I didn’t have a baby earlier,’ Max snapped. ‘And I told you before—she’s not my baby.’

‘She’s his sister,’ Sunny muttered because she’d just spent twenty minutes cleaning and feeding a little girl and it suddenly seemed important—no, imperative—that someone laid claim to her. But as she said it, memories surfaced.

A social worker, taking Chloe from her arms. ‘You can’t take care of her, sweetheart.’

And Sunny yelling back with all the might of her small self. ‘But she’s my sister!’

Those memories weren’t appropriate now, but they were strong enough to make her lift her gaze to Max and look defiant. But his anger blazed back at her.

‘I asked you to keep quiet about what’s just happened,’ he snapped.

Right. She went back to staring at the floor, but not before she’d seen the stab of shock as she’d said the word sister. Not before she’d seen him glance back at the pram with a look that was suddenly uncertain.

Up until now his reaction had been one of shock and anger. Something had messed with his world and he needed to put it right. But now...his face suddenly showed a new emotion.

Sister...

What sort of family did this man have? Obviously there’d been friction between father and son. Where was the rest of his family?

Why did the word sister register with such shock?