Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed

‘Oh, I believe Wendy doesn’t like interference in her business. I’m like that myself, but—’ her eyes met his ‘—but I don’t believe you don’t tell her what you think. I’ve seen you two together, remember.’

He felt a small muscle pulse in his cheek. ‘I don’t want her hurt.’

‘I won’t.’

And, strangely, he believed her. There was an innate honesty in those rich eyes that made him want to trust her. Was that how she worked? Was it a highly cultivated technique which persuaded the unsuspecting to share their innermost secrets?

‘If you slander her in any way I’ll sue you.’

She didn’t flinch. ‘An authorised biography is just that—authorised.’ Then her face softened. ‘You really love her, don’t you?’

‘She’s a special lady.’

‘So I gather.’ Lydia slipped her arms out of her jacket and placed it over the chair by the table. ‘You can trust me. Where do you want me to take Nimrod to? Do you have a housekeeper to receive him?’

A housekeeper. A nanny. A daughter.

He didn’t trust her. Not with one atom of his body. If he left Lydia in the cottage she would, no doubt, look around. She’d open drawers and search through Wendy’s possessions. But then, Wendy herself had argued that she’d nothing to hide.

Let her search.

‘My housekeeper is Mrs Pearman. Christine Pearman.’ It felt as if he’d lost some unspoken battle. ‘Did your research on me extend to knowing where I live?’

As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted his phrasing of them. Lydia Stanford was doing him a favour. Even if she did have an unacknowledged agenda of her own.

‘You weren’t that much of an interest, but I’m sure I can find out with a couple of phone calls if you want to make it a game.’

He’d deserved that, Nick thought as he fished in his pocket and pulled out his card case. ‘It’s a ten, fifteen minute drive from here. No more.’ He scribbled down the address. ‘I’ll ring Christine and let her know to expect you. You’ll need to phone up to the house when you arrive and they’ll open the gates.’

Lydia took the card and looked down at it.

‘If you need to leave before Nimrod puts in an appearance, I’d be grateful if you’d leave a message with my secretary and I’ll come back this evening. The number’s on the front. It’s a direct line through to her. I don’t want you to feel you have to sit here for hours.’

She turned the card over. ‘It’s not a problem.’

‘No, well…thank you.’

Her eyes flashed up. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’ll lock the front door. If you leave the key beneath the flowerpot…’

‘No problem,’ she said again.

There was nothing left to do. ‘The cage is here.’ He pointed at the cat basket.

‘Yes.’

It was just leaving that was the problem. It was walking back down the hall and shutting the door.

Trust. This was about trust. About leaving her alone in Wendy’s cottage.

Or was it? There was the suspicion that this was about more than that. There was something about her golden aura that touched him. He knew it—and he was almost certain she did.

Danger. Fire. And Lydia Stanford. Like the Holy Trinity they belonged together.

‘Thank you.’

‘Give Wendy my…’Love. She’d been about to say love. Hardly appropriate for a woman she didn’t know. ‘Best wishes.’

His hand went to his tie. ‘I’ll do that.’

Lydia made herself smile. She didn’t know what was going on here. There were undercurrents she didn’t understand. ‘Perhaps she’ll ring me when she feels…ready?’

‘I’m sure she will.’

And then he left. Awkwardly—and she had no idea why. Why was it she felt so uncomfortable round Nicholas Regan-Phillips? It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to men with influence and money. She was.

She heard the front door click shut and gazed about Wendy Bennington’s tired kitchen. What the heck was she doing? And, more importantly, why was she doing it?

It was true, what she’d told Nicholas Regan-Phillips, she did have the time. This was her holiday.

Nicholas Regan-Phillips. What a mouthful of a name. Nick Regan. His Nick Regan suited him far better.

Lydia filled the old limescale encrusted kettle and set it on the gas hob. It was just so out of character for her to have agreed to kick her heels in such a place.

Why would she do that? This wasn’t her problem.

But Nick Regan was, that little voice that sat some way to the left of her shoulder whispered. He was arrogant, rude, supercilious…and sexy. Lydia searched around for a coffee mug. Bizarrely, Nick Regan was very, very sexy—and he was probably the reason she’d agreed to stay.

Now, if Izzy knew that…

CHAPTER THREE

SOME decisions just weren’t good ones. Lydia glanced over at the cat basket, ridiculously pleased to see that Nimrod was safely locked inside.

There was no man, or woman, on earth who warranted the kind of self-sacrifice she’d endured today. Wendy’s cottage was an unpleasant place to kick your heels for the best part of a day and Nimrod was the kind of cat who should be certified—and she had the scratches to prove it.

Lydia changed gear to negotiate a particularly tight bend. She’d gone wrong at the moment when she’d said it would be no problem to stay. She should have cited a mountainous pile of laundry and the possibility of a phone call from her former editor as reasons she had to be back in London.

Instead, she’d endured hours sitting on an uncomfortable sofa with a laptop perched on a melamine tray before being…well, here…and on her way to Nicholas Regan-Phillips’s domestic empire. Though that part didn’t bother her. She had to admit she had a rabid curiosity to see what it would be like.

There’d been any number of Internet articles about Drakes but Nicholas Regan-Phillips ‘the man’ had emerged as something of a mystery. It was pure nosiness, of course, but when fate landed you an opportunity like this one she was not the woman to let it go to waste. She was just dying to see what kind of place he called home, considered it reparation for an otherwise completely wasted day.

Another four miles and an unexpected sharp bend and the gates of Fenton Hall loomed impressively out of a quiet country lane. Lydia pulled the car to a gentle stop. The house itself was completely hidden from view. The gates were well over six feet high, tightly shut and were edged by equally high stone walls. It was taking a desire for privacy to rather extreme lengths.

She reached into her jacket pocket for his business card and came out empty. Where had she put the blasted thing? She leant over to pull her handbag off the back seat and flipped open the soft leather. His card was tucked in the small front pocket.

Lydia keyed in the number he’d written on the reverse and within seconds she was answered. ‘Hello. I…er…I need…’ she searched for the name on the business card ‘…I need…Christine Pearman. I’m delivering Nimrod, Wendy Bennington’s cat. Mr Regan-Phillips said he’d phone…?’