The Billionaire's Baby Plan / Marrying the Northbridge Nanny: The Billionaire's Baby Plan

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She felt Rourke’s glance, but he didn’t comment as he slowed the car to turn up a steep drive that seemed to appear out of nowhere. A dimly lit gate swung open for them, and once they were through, the road became even more winding and narrow.

Yet he navigated it all with obvious ease.

“I take it you’ve been here before.”

“Mmm.”

She chewed the inside of her lip. “With a woman?” She hated acknowledging the need to know.

His hesitation was barely noticeable. “None I’ve been married to.”

She couldn’t tell if it was amusement in his voice or irony.

But there was no time to dwell too long on wondering what woman—or women—had been here with him, because he pulled to a stop in a small stone-paved courtyard. “This is it.”

There was not much to see beyond the low lights that were bright enough only to point out the perimeter of the courtyard and light the way along a narrow walkway. She climbed out of the car while he was pulling their suitcases out of the trunk that had probably taken some mathematical genius to fit inside in the first place, and even though she held out her hand to take some of her own smaller items, he just ignored her and loaded the straps up on his own muscular shoulders.

She wouldn’t have thought the man would ever carry his own luggage.

“This way.” He headed toward the walkway. “Watch your step. The lighting is pretty dim and the pavers might be uneven.”

As she followed him, she also noticed that the bushes lining the walk were overgrown, which didn’t help the going any. She was glad she was wearing flats, though her gauzy ankle-length skirt wanted to snag against the overgrowth. Before long, they passed through an archway that led into another courtyard and he unlocked a wide, tall door, and led her inside.

Given his taste in homes, she shouldn’t have been surprised by the luxury that met them when he began flipping on lights as they passed through the entrance hall to a living area that rivaled his New York apartment for size. But after the rustic entryway, nevertheless, she was.

In his apartment, everything had seemed angular. Here, everything was arched—the doorways that were flanked by marble columns and the windows that were covered with shutters. The floors were gleaming stone and the furnishings all seemed to be done in soft browns. It was cool and elegant and expensively beautiful and she couldn’t help but wonder if the paintings that hung on the smooth, ivory walls were originals.

He dumped their luggage on the floor and crossed the long room to push open the shutters guarding the tall arch-shaped windows there. “I told Marta—the housekeeper—that we wouldn’t need her until tomorrow.” Lisa realized they weren’t windows at all but doors, when he pulled them right open letting in the fresh night air. “Come out and see the view.”

Nerves jumping anew, she followed him outside onto a deep terrace guarded by a majestic stone balustrade that faithfully followed the steps that crisscrossed from this level to two lower ones, and finally the ghostly white sand that led to the silver-white glisten of the sea. “It’s breathtaking,” she admitted.

“Wait until you see it at sunrise.”

“Sunrise?” She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I prefer to be sleeping at that hour.”

His white teeth flashed in a quick grin that caused her heart to smack around even more than the view had. “Some things are worth getting up for at that hour.”

She couldn’t form a response to that to save her soul.

And he knew it.

His grin deepened as he turned to go back inside. “I’ll show you the rest of the place.”

Aside from the main living area, “the place” included two kitchens, one media room, an office that Rourke said was equipped with every convenience, and a total of six bedrooms.

“This one has the best view,” he said of the very last one they came to.

And she could certainly see why.

The wide four-poster bed was positioned opposite a bank of windows that he immediately set about un-shuttering. They’d gone down a short flight of stairs to reach the room and it looked out the same direction as the living room, sharing that stellar view of the Mediterranean.

It didn’t take a genius to realize this was the room he was expecting they would share. The room. And the bed.

She kept her eyes strictly away from that particular item and went into the adjoining bathroom. Even that had windows that opened up to the view.

She pressed her palm to the knots in her belly and returned to the bedroom.

Rourke, done with the windows at last, watched her for a moment. “Marta will unpack everything in the morning. Do you want one of those suitcases for tonight?”

She hadn’t considered herself a normal bride. She hadn’t packed a trousseau. No sexy little negligees designed strictly for the purpose of enticing an eager groom. No fancy little ensembles to parade around in during the day. She’d packed what she’d had in her closet.

The only thing new that she’d worn in the past two days had been her wedding gown.

And everything beneath it.

Her mind shied away from those thoughts.

“I just need the overnighter. The small one. But I can get it.” She was already speaking to an empty room and could hear the sound of his footsteps on the half-dozen stairs that would carry him back to the living room’s level.

She let out a shaking breath, looking around the room again.

The bathroom had possessed several mirrors, but the bedroom itself contained none and for that she was grateful. There were two large armoires on each side of the room and a bureau in the arching hallway that opened into the adjacent bathroom. She peeked inside each, finding them all empty.

Rourke still hadn’t returned, so she opened one of the French doors and went outside onto the terrace.

If she looked up and to her right, she could see the terrace level off the living room. If she looked down and to her left, she could see the lowest terrace, which could be reached by another set of stairs. But the terrace on which she stood was the only one that possessed a setting of deeply cushioned chaises and chairs positioned beneath a tall pergola. Long, pale drapes hung down the colonnades, drifting softly in the night air.

She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped. It was all so impossibly beautiful.

If he chose a place like this for a honeymoon with someone he didn’t remotely love, what would he do for someone he did?

“Here.”

She whirled on her heel, pushing aside the disturbing thought. What did she care what he’d do for someone he loved?

Rourke stood in the deep shadow of the doorway, holding out her small case. She went to him and carefully lifted the strap away from his hand before sidling past him into the room.

Now what?

She was so far out of her element she didn’t have a clue. She twisted the leather strap in her hands. “I—”

“I—”

They both broke off.

He lifted an eyebrow, but she just shook her head, mute all over again.

“I have some calls to make.”

It was the last thing she expected him to say. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Not in New York.” He started to leave the room again. “It’s going to take me at least a few hours so if you’re hungry, I’m sure you can find something in the kitchen.”

“I don’t cook.”

He glanced back at her. “Don’t, or don’t know how?”

Her cheeks went hot. “Does it matter?”

He shrugged and she felt positive it was her fanciful imagination that colored his faint smile with a shade of indulgence. “Cooking isn’t part of the job description. But this place is always stocked with fruit and breads. Even someone who doesn’t cook won’t starve.”

Job description.

Her hands curled so tightly, the leather strap dug into her palms. “I suppose you want something to eat.”

His eyes were unreadable. “I’ll manage.”

Then he turned and left her alone and she almost wished she had jumped on the idea of preparing them some sort of meal. Because now all she was left with was that wide bed behind her and the sense that she was expected to prepare herself for it.

And for him.

Nerves spurred her into motion and she dumped her overnighter on the bureau. She needed to stop thinking like some Victorian virgin. She was a modern twenty-first-century woman, for God’s sake.

She yanked open the case and unloaded the few items inside. The travel bag containing her toiletries, the oversize Bruins jersey that she preferred to sleep in, and a pair of clean, thoroughly utilitarian white cotton panties.

Not a speck of lace or ribbon or silk in sight.

Sadly, she didn’t know if she’d have felt more confident if there had been. Probably not.

She was far more comfortable in a suit sitting in a boardroom debating business practices than she was in a nightgown waiting for a man…

She had a few hours, according to what he’d said, but instead of attempting another bath when the memory of her last attempt was so fresh in her mind, she unpinned her hair and took a short, steaming shower and tried not to think about the fact that the slate-tiled enclosure was certainly roomy enough for two.

When she got out, she wrapped her wet hair in one of the plentiful plush terry towels, slathered lotion on her arms and legs—just like she did every time she showered, she justified—pulled on the jersey and bikini pants, and, feeling like a thief in the night, crept her way through the villa to the nearest kitchen. There was, indeed, a wide assortment of foods already available.

She selected a crusty roll and a handful of green grapes and turned to go back to the bedroom. But the chilled bottle of wine that had already been opened caught her eye, and she grabbed that, too, as well as one of the wineglasses that hung from beneath one of the whitewashed cupboards. Feeling even more thieflike, she stole back to the bedroom, carefully skirting around the office.

But her footsteps dragged to a halt when the low murmur of Rourke’s voice through the partially closed door shaped into distinguishable words. “Call the publisher,” he was saying. “Tell him if he doesn’t squash the story, I’ll personally call on every corporate advertiser they’ve got and he won’t like the results.”

One of the grapes rolled out of Lisa’s hand and she silently darted after it, catching it just before it rolled down one of the steps.

She looked back and saw Rourke watching her, his phone still at his ear.

She flushed a little. “I was hungry after all.”

His gaze settled on the wine bottle, looking amused. “And thirsty?”

“This is France. And the bottle was already opened.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself to me.” He abruptly turned his attention back to the phone. “You’re damn right I’m serious.” His voice was sharp, obviously intended for his caller. “If you can’t accomplish this, I’ll hire someone who can.” He went back into the office, closing the door behind him.

Lisa scurried down the steps to the bedroom feeling a little sorry for whomever was on the other end of that call.

She quickly demolished the bread and grapes even before she finished half a glass of wine. She pulled out her own cell phone and started to dial Sara Beth twice.

But she didn’t want to burden her friend with foolishly panicked calls. Aside from Rourke’s insistence that nobody know the true details of their agreement, Sara Beth’s new husband was Rourke’s friend and Lisa was loath to put her problems between them. Particularly when Lisa suspected that Sara Beth was already concerned.

So she put the phone away.

She paced around the bed, avoiding it as if it was poisonous, until finally, annoyed with herself, she yanked back the creamy silk bedspread and bunched up a few of the bed pillows behind her back. She pulled out the suspense novel that she’d brought with her, but reading it now was just as big a pretense as it had been on the plane, and she finally tossed it aside.