The Billionaire Daddy. Renee Roszel

and contemporary, of warm woods and wicker and bright, sunny hues.

      On one wall of coarse siding, a collection of old weather vanes gave a sense of drama and fantasy to the room. A shaker rocker sat before the French doors, giving the open space a welcoming, country porch feel. Frothy sheers puddled at the outermost reaches of the glass doors, looking as though they were there for show, never really employed to obscure visual access to the grassy dunes, beach and sparkling sea.

      “Miss Quinn?”

      His stern use of her name relayed, once again, that he was afraid she’d fallen into some peculiar brain fog. Which she had. Lauren blinked several times, hoping the small flutter of lashes wouldn’t alert Mr. Delacourte to the fact that she’d been deeply intent on computing the pros and cons of the place. “It seems—adequate.”

      She made herself turn his way, and frowned. The intensity of his gaze had a surprising seductive quality, and she felt awkward and uncertain. “I—I’ll make a thorough survey, however—to be sure I have everything Tina and I require.” Deciding the situation was making her feel awkward and uncertain enough without staring into his watchful eyes, she dropped her gaze to Tina.

      Her heart swelled, and she could hardly keep her happiness locked inside. Lauren marveled at her good fortune to have stumbled into such an extraordinary opportunity—the chance to be with her niece, and to unmask Mr. Delacourte as utterly unfit to raise an innocent little girl.

      “Come.” He moved into the room, his scent pleasantly filling her nostrils as he passed her in the doorway. She noticed he took care not to touch her. “I’ll show you the baby’s room.” He glanced back, and with the quirk of a brow, added, “And none too soon. If I’m not mistaken, that expression on her face means she’s—occupied.”

      Lauren didn’t understand, and glanced at the baby. Her face was screwed up as though she were having a very deep thought. Chubby cheeks were flushed red. What in the world could that possibly mean—Suddenly Lauren detected a scent much less pleasant than Dade’s aftershave. Oh!

      “This is good timing,” Mr. Delacourte said. “You can show me how to change a diaper.”

      Lauren heard his words, though they didn’t quite penetrate. Her brain was occupied by this new problem, one that forced her to realize she hadn’t thought her plan through. She had never changed a diaper. She took a breath, then was sorry she had. “Tina, honey,” she murmured, “for a sweet little darling, you…” Her boss’s suggestion finally penetrated, and she shot a glance toward him. “Show you how to what?” She flinched at the panicked edge to the question.

      He had reached the door to the baby’s room and turned, his expression concerned. “I said you could show me how to change a diaper. Is there a problem?”

      Yes, there’s a problem! I can’t change a diaper! she cried mentally, searching in her mind for what to actually say to the man. “You—you want me to show you how to change a diaper?”

      He crossed his arms and lounged against the wall, eyeing her with a wrinkled brow. “If I am to raise this child, there are things I should know how to do.”

      “But that’s what a nanny is for.” She didn’t want him watching her beginning, fumbling efforts at taking care of a baby. “You—you leave it to me.”

      His jaw worked, and Lauren could tell he was no more happy about this than she. “No. I’ve decided I…” He halted, his nostrils flaring. “Your job description does not include an expectation that I explain my motives, Quinn.” He indicated the way with a curt nod. “If you don’t mind?”

      I mind! I really, really mind! she shrieked telepathically, barely managing to keep her features unruffled. With a slow, delaying nod, she trudged toward the nursery. She tried to calm herself. How hard could it be? She’d seen babies being diapered in TV ads. You simply take one of those disposables out of the box, place the baby’s backside on it, slip the part that goes in front between her legs and fasten it with the adhesive tabs. Any idiot with the IQ of sawdust could do that!

      The nursery didn’t get much notice. Lauren had the impression it was similarly rustic to her room, though the furniture was white with pink accessories and there weren’t any weather vanes on the walls.

      She spied the flat surface and assumed this was where she was to change the baby, mainly because Mr. Delacourte had moved to stand beside it. She scanned the plastic covered countertop. To her horror, she spied beneath it a shelf heaped with cloth diapers, folded in squares. Cloth? She’d never seen a commercial where anybody folded a cloth diaper! She didn’t even know cloth diapers were sold anymore.

      “Cloth?” she asked, her voice quivering slightly.

      “The environment needs all the help it can get.”

      She peered at him, forcing herself not to shout, So you torture me instead! Pressing her lips between her teeth, she nodded as anger flared. He supposedly cared about the environment, but he didn’t care about the women he impregnated on his overnight dalliances! “It’s nice to know you have a conscience about some things,” she muttered.

      “Excuse me?”

      She cringed. Had she said that out loud? “I said—” she stalled “—it’s nice to know you have a conscience about these things.”

      His low laughter was rich. “Thank you, Quinn. I’ll try not to be too wounded by your astonishment.”

      With clamped jaws, she gingerly lay Tina on the changing surface. “I’m sure you’ll heal, sir.” She busied herself unsnapping Tina’s pink romper, trying to look as though she knew what she was doing. Considering the fact that she was frightened to death, she was amazed and gratified to notice her fingers hardly shook.

      Tina seemed so fragile. She didn’t want to break any tiny arms or legs or fingers or toes. As she meticulously worked her way toward diaper removal, Mr. Delacourte hovered at her elbow. Though he’d vowed not to touch, as she maneuvered, she brushed his belly and chest with her arm. He didn’t shift away. She supposed he felt he needed to get a good, close look so he wouldn’t miss a thing, and her elbow would just have to deal with grazing his body.

      She wished she were across the room, or even better, in another state! “Uh, did you make such a close inspection when your other nanny did this?”

      “I was busy with work. You’re my teacher, Quinn.”

      This was a break. At least he wouldn’t be able to tell when she fouled up royally. She prayed she had enough innate intelligence and maternal instinct so she wouldn’t harm the child in her fumbling efforts.

      She grasped the baby by one foot and lifted, but that didn’t work very well. Tina tipped funny. Still, with this lopsided glimpse, Lauren knew she had a mess on her hands. Trying to hide a grimace, she made a quick survey of the tabletop and spotted some Tot-Mops. She plucked one from its pop-up box. Swallowing hard, she began to clean Tina’s tainted little backside. She worked carefully and slowly, grimly determined. When she’d seen these little damp squares of tissue used on TV, it hadn’t taken seven of them to do the job! Luckily a covered wastebasket sat nearby. She could open it with her foot, so she quickly disposed of the yucky things.

      “A diaper, please?” she said through gritted teeth. The last thing she wanted was a cloth diaper.

      He held one out.

      “Just—put it down.”

      When he obliged, she closed her eyes and counted to ten. Let me be able to do this! She released Tina to squirm on the plastic surface and eyed the diaper with hostility. The dreaded thing was more oblong than square. That was a stupid shape for a diaper! A shawl, maybe.

      She sucked in a breath, then blew it out. It was now or never! She made a snap decision and folded it, creating a triangle—more or less. Mainly less. Not happy with the weird shape, she made another fold. This time, it was no less weird, but smaller. It might work, though it looked like it had been in a head-on collision with a bigger, stronger triangle.

      Holding