The Billionaire's Christmas Baby. Marion Lennox

the New Year.

      But now... His mobile laptop didn’t allow him to access the innermost secrets of the Grayland Corporation. Too risky. He’d brought some work but it wouldn’t take all his concentration—and he needed his concentration to be taken.

      His father’s funeral...

      And a baby sister?

      What had the old man been thinking?

      He knew his father’s illness had made him confused over the last year. There’d never been any love lost between them at the best of times, but Colin Grayland had been proud of his company and fiercely patriarchal. There’d never been any hint that he’d disinherit Max, but that had been mainly through lack of choice, and for the last twelve months the old man had been obsessively secretive.

      Max had learned of Isabelle’s existence two days ago. As sole heir, the lawyers had transferred his father’s personal banking details to him before he’d left New York. A quick perusal had shown a massive payment to Isabelle almost a year ago. Then another seven months back—was that when Isabelle had her pregnancy confirmed?—and then regular deposits until the last few days of the old man’s life.

      He’d assumed Isabelle had been his father’s mistress but the amounts had been staggering, and now he knew why.

      Colin Grayland had paid for a baby. A son, if Isabelle was to be believed, though he must have been too confused to think of the ramifications, or the possibility, of a daughter.

      And now he was landed with a baby. His sister?

      The thought was doing his head in. He had no idea how to face it.

      Lawyers? Surely it was illegal to dump a baby. Isabelle would have to take the baby back.

      But she didn’t want her.

      So adoption? For a baby who was...his sister?

      He couldn’t think straight. He needed a drink, badly.

      Was he kidding? It was four in the morning.

      Yeah, but it was midday in New York. He travelled often and his rule for coping with jet lag was not to convert to local time unless he was staying for more than a few days. So his body was telling him he’d stayed up late and now he’d overslept. It was thus time for lunch and a man could have a whisky with lunch.

      He wouldn’t mind a sandwich either. Room service was his go-to option in such circumstances but he couldn’t wake the pair in the next room.

      He didn’t want to think about the pair in the next room.

      But the next room also held the minibar. A packet of crisps and a whisky would set him up to sit and write the final version of what he had to say at his father’s funeral.

      He definitely needed a whisky to write what had to be said.

      If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. That had been a mantra drummed into him by some long ago nanny, and it normally held true, but a huge section of Australia’s business community would turn out. They’d be expecting praise for a man who’d made his money sucking the resources of a country dry.

      He did need a whisky, but that’d involved the minibar. Which involved walking into the next room.

      They were in the next room. Sleeping.

      Or...had something woken him? Maybe they were awake and he was wasting time, hanging out for a snack. Besides, he was paying her.

      Do it.

      The minibar was by the door through to the elevators. Moonlight from the open drapes showed the way.

      He moved soundlessly across the room.

      And stopped.

      A sliver of moonlight was casting a beam of light across the settee.

      The woman—Sunny Raye, her name tag had said—was sleeping. The settee had been made up as a bed, loaded with the hotel’s luxury sheets and duvet and pillows.

      They weren’t being appreciated.

      The pillows were on the floor. The duvet had been discarded as well, so her bedding consisted of an under-sheet and an open weave cotton blanket pulled to her waist.

      Having discarded the pillows, she was using her arm to support her head. That’d give her a crick neck or a stiff shoulder in the morning, he thought, but he was distracted.

      She was wearing an oversized golfing T-shirt with the hotel’s logo emblazoned on the chest. Her curls, caught up in a knot when he’d last seen her, were now splayed over the white sheet. Brown with a hint of copper. Shoulder-length. Tangled.

      Nice.

      Earlier he’d thought she was in her thirties. Her face had worn the look he often saw on hotel staff at the lower end of the pay scale—pale from not enough sunlight, weary, worn from hard physical work.

      Now, though, he revised his age guess downward. She looked younger, peaceful in sleep, even vulnerable?

      And then a faint stir in the crook of her arm had him focusing to her far side.

      The baby was asleep beside her.

      In what universe...? Even he knew this!

      ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The exclamation was out before he could stop himself. She jerked awake, staring up, as if unsure where she was, what she was doing, what he was.

      She looked terrified.

      He took a couple of fast steps back to give her space. He didn’t apologise, though. He might have scared her but he was paying for childcare. He wanted childcare—not a baby suffocated in sleep.

      ‘She shouldn’t be sleeping with you,’ he said, louder than he should because there were suddenly emotions everywhere. He shouldn’t care. Or should he care? Of course he should because this baby was his sister, but that was something he didn’t have head space to think about. The idea, though, made him angrier. ‘I know little about babies but even I know it’s dangerous to sleep in the same bed,’ he snapped. ‘Surely you know it too.’

      He saw the confusion of sleep disappear, incredulity take its place. She pushed herself up on her elbow, making a futile effort to push her tumbling curls from her eyes. The baby slept on beside her, neatly swaddled, lying on her back, eyes blissfully closed.

      ‘You want an apology?’ she demanded and an anger that matched his was in her voice. ‘It’s not going to happen. I’m a cleaner, not a nanny.’

      ‘I’m paying you to care for her.’

      ‘Which I’m doing to the best of my ability. Sack me if you don’t like it. Look after your baby yourself.’

      ‘I might have to if you won’t.’

      And the anger in her face turned to full scale fury. All traces of sleep were gone. ‘Might?’ she demanded. ‘Might? How much danger would she have to be in before you showed you care enough to do that?’ She rose to face him. She was wearing T-shirt and knickers but nothing else. Her legs were long and thin and her bare feet on the plush carpet made her seem strangely vulnerable. His impression of her age did another descent. ‘You want me to leave?’

      ‘I want you to do what you’re being paid for.’

      ‘Believe it or not, I am.’ She glared her fury. ‘Your sister’s sleeping on a firm settee that has no cracks in the cushioning and a sloping back that’s too firm to smother her. See the lovely soft settee cushions? They’re over there. See my pillows and my nice fluffy duvet? They’re over there too. So I’m sleeping on a rock-hard settee with no cushions and no duvet.’

      ‘Because...’

      ‘Because the moron who set up Phoebe’s pram filled it with a feather mattress, which is far more dangerous to a newborn than how I’ve arranged things. The mattress is stuck in the pram. Did you notice? Of course not. But I did when I