Baby for the Tycoon. Emily McKay

anxious smiles. “I’m on your side of the bed, aren’t I?”

      “It’s fine.”

      “No, I’ll move. Just give me a second.” Bracing an arm at Peyton’s back, she half sat up, then hesitated. Peyton squirmed and Wendy’s frown deepened.

      “Just lie her down in the center. She can sleep there.”

      “You sure?”

      “Absolutely.” Was it wrong that he was scheming to get Peyton in the bed between them? A little devious maybe, but not wrong. He wouldn’t make a move on Wendy as long as Peyton was in the same room. But having her in the bed was a stroke of genius. Better than an icy shower, he was sure. And less conspicuous. Besides, he even had sound scientific reasoning in his corner. “I’ve been reading this book on—”

      “Attachment parenting?” she asked as she waggled the Kindle. “I’ve been stalking your Kindle, remember?”

      That playful, suggestive tone of hers was like a kick in the gut. Maybe he’d still need that cold shower. “I should just sleep on the floor.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.”

      She leaned over and rolled Peyton from her chest to the center of the bed. Then came up onto her hands and knees to climb over the still sleeping baby. The thin cotton of her boxer shorts clung enticingly to her bottom and his groin tightened in response to the sight.

      She had no idea just how far from ridiculous he was being. This was him at his most practical.

      Hell, forget the floor. He’d just sleep in the shower. With the cold water on.

      “I don’t mind.”

      “Well, I do,” she said, tossing the pillows on that side of the bed onto the floor—the side that from this moment on would always be her side of the bed. “When I think of all the things you’ve done for me in the past few weeks…”

      “Don’t make me into some kind of hero. You know why I married you.” The problem was he was no longer sure he knew why he’d done it. “My motives weren’t altruistic.”

      At least that was true.

      She flashed him a smile that was a little bit sad. “I know. But neither are mine. And I’m not about to kick you out of bed.”

       Ten

      “Not about to kick you out of your own bed,” she corrected, a blush tinting her cheeks.

      As if she wasn’t irresistible already.

      He wanted to argue about the sleeping arrangements. Dear God, he did. But he couldn’t logically make an argument for sleeping in the tub. Besides, he’d doubt he’d fit.

      “Oh, I get it,” she said with teasing concern. “You’re embarrassed about your body.”

      Clearly she was trying to hide her own embarrassment.

      “Wendy—”

      “You’re probably all pasty white under those dress shirts, huh?” She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Maybe you put on a few extra pounds over the holidays? Is that it? Is that why you’re standing there like a statue, refusing to get undressed?”

      He wasn’t about to tell why he really wasn’t getting undressed. If she hadn’t figured out how thin her tank top was and how much that turned him on, then he wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.

      “Hey, I won’t even look,” she teased, making a great show of rolling over to face the wall. “Now I can’t see you. You can even turn out the light if you want.”

      Rolling his eyes at her silliness, he reached over and turned off the lamp before starting on his buttons.

      “I guess you made peace with my dad,” she said after a minute.

      “I guess so,” he admitted, slipping off his shirt and tossing it vaguely in the direction of a nearby chair. He toed off his shoes and socks. “He’s not such a bad guy.”

      “No.” Her voice was small in the darkness. “He’s not. Everyone comes around eventually.”

      He hesitated before unbuttoning his jeans. He hadn’t slept in anything other than his underwear since college. He didn’t even own a pair of pajama bottoms. First thing in the morning, he was buying a pair. No, twenty pair. Maybe thirty just to be safe.

      A moment later he lay down so close to the edge of the bed that his left shoulder hung off the side. His awkward position was still not uncomfortable enough to block out the scent of her on his pillow. It smelled warm and feminine and faintly of peppermint.

      He lay there stiffly, eyes resolutely closed, keenly aware that she too was still awake. He searched for something to say. “I never knew you liked the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

      Damn, was he smooth or what?

      He heard her roll over in the dark and prop herself up on her elbow. “Doesn’t everyone?”

      He turned just his head to look at her, but found himself eye to eye with Peyton. Her tiny face was seven inches from his. Her lips pursed as she dreamed about eating. He remembered his niece doing that, from all those long years ago when he used to help feed his sister’s kids. Lacey would be in college now. He felt a powerful punch of longing. The kind he normally kept buried deep inside. To push it back down, he rolled up onto his elbow to look at Wendy.

      At least he understood the longing he felt when he looked at her. Pure sexual desire. He got that. He could control it—at least, he thought he could. God knew, he’d controlled it so far. But this unfamiliar longing to reconnect with his family? That was new and terrifying territory.

      He doubled his pillow under his head, allowing him to look over Peyton to where Wendy lay. She’d moved the night-light in from the nursery, a glowing hippo that cast the room in pink light and made Wendy’s skin look nearly iridescent. When he looked back up at her eyes, her gaze darted away from his, as if she was all too aware of the desire pulsing through his veins.

      He could see she was about to lie back down, so he said, “No, not everyone loves Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Most people don’t even know they were a witty and subversive comic book before becoming a fairly cheesy movie marketed to kids.”

      She gave a playful shrug, smiling, either because the topic amused her or because she was relieved he’d stopped looking at her like something he wanted to lick clean, he couldn’t tell which.

      “That’s me, I guess.” She imitated his hushed tone, obviously no more willing to wake Peyton than he was. “A fan of things witty and subversive.”

      “Yeah, I get that. What I don’t get is how I never knew it until now.”

      “Oh.” She gave another shrug, this one self-effacing.

      “For five years, you’ve dressed like the consummate, bland executive assistant.” Whispering in the dark as if this made the conversation far more intimate than the topic was. “Bland clothing in a neutral palate. Demure hair. Now I find out you’ve been hiding a love of violet nail polish and eighties indie punk rock.” He nodded toward her boxers. “Not to mention the Turtles.”

      She frowned. “Punk rock?”

      “The Replacements T-shirt you had on the other day.”

      “You recognized them?” She gave him a pointed once-over. “And yet you don’t seem like a fan of eighties alternative.”

      “I’m a fan of Google. And you couldn’t possibly have been old enough to attend the concert where that T-shirt was sold.”

      “I’m a fan of eBay. And of defying expectations.”

      “Which brings me back to my original question. Why didn’t I