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

slid him a quick glance, then looked back up at the display. “Yes, thank you. My hotel was comfortable.” It was hardly The Plaza, but then she was on an expense account. Unlike her wardrobe, the cash-strapped institute would foot the bill for this little junket. As such, the room was moderately priced and not entirely conveniently located. She glanced at her watch. “My flight leaves this afternoon.”

      Twenty-four. Twenty-three.

      “Do you ever wear your hair down?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      He pushed his hand in his trousers pocket, dislodging the excellent lay of his black suit coat. “It’s long, isn’t it?”

      Eighteen. Seventeen.

      “A bit,” she allowed, trying to figure out what angle he was coming from.

      “I’ve never seen you wear it down.”

      She huffed a little, exasperated not just with him, but with the eternal slowness of the elevator. “Since you’ve seen me only a handful of times, is that so surprising?” She didn’t like—or trust—the faint smile hovering around his lips. “If we’re going to be asking for personal information, then what was it that had you—” her voice dropped into a toneless imitation of Cynthia’s “—unavoidably detained?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

      “My mother was in the hospital last night.”

      Stricken, her eyebrows lowered. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She looked more closely at him. He didn’t look unduly upset. His suit was as magazine-perfect as always, his eyes clear and sharp; he didn’t look as if he’d spent the night in some hospital waiting room. “She’s all right?”

      “A sprained ankle that they thought might be broken.”

      “Oh. That’s good then. Well. Not good that she has a sprain, of course. But—” She realized she was babbling and broke off.

      Fortunately, the elevator finally rocked softly to a stop and the doors slid open. He waited for her to exit first but he still held her briefcase. And continued to do so, either oblivious to, or choosing to ignore, her awkward gestures of taking it back.

      They were nearly to the main entrance and he was still in possession of it when he spoke again. “Your security pass.”

      She’d completely forgotten it. She unclipped it from her lapel and dropped it off at the desk, then rejoined Rourke where he was waiting. “I didn’t realize you owned the building,” she said, holding out her hand for what seemed the tenth time. “It’s quite an impressive space.”

      He glanced around. “It’ll do.” Then he took her hand, as if that was what she’d been waiting for, and tugged her through the doors.

      Feeling as if she’d dropped through the looking glass, she couldn’t do anything but follow.

      Outside, the breeze had picked up, but the sun had warmed, foretelling a perfectly lovely September day. She caught her skirt with her free hand before it could blow up around her knees. “I’ll contact your assistant to reschedule.”

      “No need. Come with me.” He released her hand, and touched the small of her back, directing her inexorably toward a black limo that was parked at the curb.

      She tried digging in her heels, but that was about as effective as holding down her skirt against the mischievous breeze, and before she knew it, she was ensconced in the rear of the spacious limousine.

      With him.

      And what should have felt spacious…didn’t. Not when his thigh was only six inches away from hers and she could smell the heady scent of him. Fresh. Clean. A little spicy.

      “Mr. Devlin—”

      “Rourke.”

      A jolt of nervous excitement whisked through her. Maybe all wasn’t lost, after all.

      On the other hand, maybe he was merely planning to drop her at her hotel.

      The teeter-totter of possibilities was enough to make her dizzy and answers were the only thing that would solve that. So she obliged him. “Rourke.” Warmth bloomed in her cheeks at the feel of his name on her lips. “Where are you taking me?”

      “Greenwich.”

      “What? Why?” It would surely take an hour each way, and that was if the traffic didn’t get heavier.

      But he just lifted his hand, putting her off as he put his vibrating cell phone to his ear.

      She fell silent and sank deeper into the butter-soft leather seat, crossing her arms and kissing goodbye any chance she had of making her flight home on time.

      He was still talking, so she reached for her briefcase—at last—and pulled out her own phone, sending a quick message to Ella that she’d need to move back her flight. Again.

      Then, leaving that to her trusty assistant, she scrolled through her e-mails—two from Derek which she ignored as surely as she’d ignored his voice mail—and then dropped the phone back into her briefcase in favor of looking out the window.

      She was even beyond trying to puzzle out what Rourke was up to, because she just ended up with a headache, anyway.

      He stayed on the phone the entire drive—his voice low and steady as he discussed some upcoming media launch—and she found herself struggling against drowsiness. When the car finally turned up a long, winding drive bordered by immaculate lawns and massive shrubs, some still blooming, Rourke finally put away his phone.

      They passed an island of tall, slender cypress trees bordering a flowing fountain, then a terraced swimming pool, and after rounding yet another curve in the drive, came to a stop in front of an immense Tudor mansion.

      “It’s beautiful.” She couldn’t stop the exclamation when they stepped out of the car. “Who lives here?”

      “My mom.” He didn’t head toward the grand entrance, fronted by a dozen wide, shallow stone steps, but instead to a smaller, more unobtrusive door well off to one side.

      She hurried after him, her heels clacking against the pavement.

      He stopped and waited until she caught up to him, and they went in through the door. “You grew up here?” Her voice echoed a little in the long, empty hall they found themselves in.

      “Hell, no.” He reached back and grabbed her hand unerringly—sending a shuddering quake through her that she tried to ignore—then turned and left through another door that led outside onto a stone terrace.

      She immediately heard the high-pitched squeal of children’s laughter and Rourke let go of her hand just in time to catch up the little girl who aimed for him with the speed and accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.

      It was all Lisa could do not to gape as his face broke into a full-blown smile while he swung the blond-haired imp up in the air, earning another peal of squealing laughter from her. She caught his face between her starfish fingers and pressed a smacking kiss against his lips. “What’d you bring me?”

      Rourke laughed outright and hitched the little girl on his shoulder, tickling her knees beneath the short hem of her miniature white tennis dress. “This,” he told Lisa, “greedy little one is my youngest niece, Tanya. Say hello to Ms. Armstrong, munchkin.”

      “Is she your girlfriend?”

      Lisa nearly choked, particularly when Rourke sent her a sidelong look. “Does she look like she’s my girlfriend?”

      The little girl’s eyes were just as dark as Rourke’s; a startling contrast considering the golden curls spilling around her head. And they focused on Lisa with an unnerving intensity. “Maybe,” she determined. “But I’m gonna marry Uncle Rourke, anyway. He’s mine.”

      Lisa couldn’t help but smile. “I see.”

      “I’m five, so I gotta wait