Cinderella's Tycoon. Caroline Cross

involved a lot of time-consuming research and planning, once they’d put their plan into motion, things had happened fast. As a consequence, for the past week he’d operated on too little sleep and too much adrenaline, and it was finally taking its toll. As he’d unsuccessfully tried to tell Maxine when he’d gotten in that morning, he didn’t care about food. All he wanted was a long hot shower and sleep.

      Not that he was complaining. Lately his life had seemed increasingly empty, and he’d welcomed the break in his routine. He wasn’t sure what it said about his character, but he’d relished the challenge of getting the princess out of Obersbourg, the small, elite country in Europe that was her homeland. And he had to admit that, despite the potential danger, he’d also enjoyed the adrenaline rush of eluding the Palace Guard as their small group—he, Greg Hunt and Forrest Cunningham, the princess and her little boy—made their way to the small, private airfield where their plane had been waiting.

      Of course, the point was they had gotten away, he acknowledged with a grim smile. And it was a damn good thing. He didn’t have a doubt that their involvement would have sparked an international incident had they been intercepted. Or that Prince Ivan of Asterland—the man determined to marry Princess Anna—would have pressed to see them jailed and prosecuted. It was just too bad for Ivan that they’d succeeded...

      The phone continued to ring. Five, six, seven times—

      Abruptly out of patience, Sterling straightened, turned off the water and shoved open the door. His feet barely touched the thick white throw rug as he launched himself across the marble floor. Snatching a burgundy bath sheet off the heated rack, he wrapped it around his waist and stormed into his oversize bedroom, stopping before the inlaid table next to the bed. He snatched up the receiver. “What?”

      Dead silence was his answer. Thoroughly disgusted, he began to hang up, only to hesitate as a voice suddenly squawked, “Hello? Mr. Churchill?”

      He brought the receiver back to his ear. “That’s right. Who’s this?”

      “It’s Mike Tarlick. Margaret’s son?”

      Some of his tension drained away. Margaret Tarlick had worked as a secretary in Sterling’s main office at Churchill Enterprises until a car accident had left her seriously injured two years earlier. Tempering his voice, he said a trace more cordially, “Of course. Hey, Mike. How’s your mother?”

      “She’s doing fine. She loves the new job, and it sounds as if she’s even going to get a promotion.”

      Sterling stifled a yawn and glanced longingly at the vast expanse of his king-size bed. “That’s great.”

      “We really can’t thank you enough. If you hadn’t continued to pay her salary and kept up her insurance and found her this new position—”

      “It was no big deal,” Sterling said uncomfortably. If there was one thing he hated, it was being thanked for doing the right thing. “Your mama’s a real nice lady and a real hard worker. I just gave her a little head start. What can I do for you?”

      “Actually it’s what I can do for you, Mr. Churchill. I’m working as a tech at the Buddy Clinic these days, and I overheard something I think you ought to know.”

      Sterling scowled, his mood instantly deteriorating. The Buddy Clinic was local lingo for the Buddy Williams’ Clinic for Reproductive Technology. Ever since Sterling’s marriage had gone bust, he’d done his level best to put the fertility clinic’s existence out of his mind, associating it as he did with his most bitter personal failure.

      “You understand, I could lose my job if Mrs. Richey ever finds out I called you,” Mike went on, his voice growing anxious as he mentioned the clinic’s director. “But I just thought...after what you did for Mom... this is something you have a right to know.”

      Sterling seriously doubted there was anything Margaret’s son could tell him that he didn’t already know. He and Teresa had undergone every test known to mankind, and the clinic still had been unable to come up with a reason why they couldn’t conceive. Nevertheless... “You’ve got my word that I won’t tell anyone I talked to you.” Despite his level tone, he had a hard time stifling his impatience. After the past few weeks, he’d had all the intrigue he could handle.

      “Good.” Mike’s relief was audible. “Because the thing is, I’m breaking all the rules of confidentiality...”

      “Just tell me,” Sterling said tiredly.

      Mike took a deep breath. “Okay. I overheard two of the nurses talking. It seems there was a mix-up. A patient came in to be artificially inseminated and somehow the lab misread the code on the storage vial. The donor specimen that was used was...yours.”

      “What?” Sterling’s head snapped up; his exhaustion suddenly forgotten.

      “I don’t know what happened, Mr. Churchill, honest. Everyone here is always so careful. Normally everything is checked and double-checked, but that day the regular lab manager was out sick and they had some temporary help filling in and—” he took a deep breath “—I I wouldn’t have bothered you, except that I pulled the chart and the test came back positive and I thought you ought to know.”

      Sterling forced himself to concentrate as he tried to sort through the avalanche of information. Finally he said carefully, “What test came back positive?”

      “The pregnancy test,” the young man said matter-of-factly.

      For a second Sterling couldn’t seem to breathe. “The woman is pregnant?”

      “Yeah. That’s why I thought you ought to know. I mean, I’m sure Mrs. Richey intends to tell you, but first she’ll want to meet with the lawyers and—”

      “Mike?” Damn. Dammit all to hell. Some stranger was going to have his baby? And he wasn’t even supposed to know? Sterling took a deep breath, deliberately loosened the death grip he had on the phone and tried to sound calm. “What’s the pregnant woman’s name, Mike?”

      “Oh, I don’t think...that is, I’m sure Mrs. Richey will want to be the one to tell you...”

      Sterling squeezed his eyes shut. “Please. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

      There was another silence, the longest so far, and then Mike Tarlick said with obvious reluctance, “I really shouldn’t do this, but I guess...I mean, I suppose you have the right to know. It’s Wilkins. Susan Wilkins.”

      The name seemed vaguely familiar. Sterling struggled to put a face with it. For a moment nothing surfaced, and then it came to him. Susan Wilkins was that nondescript little redhead who worked at the library, the one who was a friend of Callie Langley’s.

      “Mr. Churchill? Are you there?”

      “Yeah. Yeah, of course I am. I appreciate the call, Mike. I won’t forget it. Thanks.”

      “You’re wel—”

      Sterling dropped the receiver into the cradle, uncaring that he’d cut the young man off. Ripping the towel free of his waist, he strode toward the huge walk-in closet, his mind whirling.

      Like it or not, sleep would have to wait. Not only did he have a call to make at the fertility clinic, but—more important—he had urgent business with a certain redheaded librarian.

      

      Susan Wilkins strolled slowly along the sidewalk.

      Stopping briefly before Cachet, the most exclusive of the many chic boutiques that lined Royal’s Main Street, she took a moment to admire a sleek, pricey lilac-colored sheath on display in the window.

      It was going on six o’clock. And despite a sluggish breeze that halfheartedly rattled the leaves on the big oak tree that stood sentinel down the street by Claire’s, the town’s best French restaurant, it was hot. The heat seemed to rise right off the concrete, burning through the soles of her worn leather flats and causing a trickle of perspiration to roll down her back. She could hardly wait to get home, take