The Billionaire's Baby Plan / Marrying the Northbridge Nanny: The Billionaire's Baby Plan
laughed. Branded by his touch and shackled by his wedding ring.
He’d reached her waist. Another inch and she would be free of the dress, and of him. And, please God, the disturbing sensations roiling around inside her.
She held her breath, waiting. And the second she felt that bit of release, she started to step away.
But Rourke’s hand slid right beneath the fabric of her gown, circling her waist. His palm pressed flat against the satin covering her belly as he tugged her back against him. “I’ve been wondering what was under the gown.”
She could feel his shirt fabric against her shoulder blades. It was maddening. But what was more maddening was her weak longing to lean against the hard muscles she could feel beneath that shirt. “I beg your pardon?”
He laughed softly. “Let go of the dress.” He didn’t wait, but tugged the bodice out of her lamentably lax grip.
The gown slid to a fluffy cloud around her ankles, leaving her standing there wearing nothing but the white satin and lace corset and matching thong. And his hands.
Her frantic gaze landed on their reflection in the mirror, only to get caught in the snare of his gaze.
Never looking away from her, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck.
She swayed. His fingers splayed wider against her. Thumbs brushing against her corset-contained breasts. Little fingers sliding against the thin elastic of her insubstantial panties.
Desire wrenched through her, hot and wet and aching.
She drew in a hard, quick breath. She pushed away his hands and stepped out of the cloud to snatch it up against her. “This isn’t part of the deal. I’m not…I’m not h-having sex with you!”
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “We’re married now, Lisa Devlin. So tell me. What the hell do you think is the deal?”
Chapter Six
Lisa stared at Rourke. “Do we have to rehash it all? You want a child. I want to keep the institute from closing its doors.” She lifted her hands. “And here we are.”
He watched her for a tight, seemingly endless moment. “My child isn’t going to be conceived in a petri dish.”
Her stomach tightened. She advanced on him. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
He had the gall to laugh. “I know you’re not that naive.” She jabbed her finger against his chest. “I am not sleeping with you.”
He grabbed her hand, holding it aloft so that her rings winked in the light, sending prisms around the room. “It’s too late for reneging now. You agreed.”
“I agreed to be a surrogate for you. I didn’t agree to be your whore!”
“You agreed to be my wife.” His voice turned as flat as his eyes had gone. “To bear me a child. I never once said it would be the product of in vitro. And make no mistake. If I was going to treat you like a whore, I would’ve just taken you the night of the Founder’s Ball and left the money on your nightstand.”
“I don’t know what infuriates me more.” She finally managed to snatch her hand away from his hard grip. “Your absolute arrogance in thinking I would have slept with you that night, after sharing one dance with you, or you pretending now that this is what I agreed to! The Armstrong Institute specializes in IVF!”
“I didn’t marry the Armstrong Institute!” His voice rose. He inhaled sharply. Let it out more slowly. “Obviously—” his voice was more controlled, even if his teeth were bared “—we’re at cross-purposes, here.” He suddenly moved, making her jump.
But he only moved past her to turn off the gushing water taps. “We’ll conceive the baby in the normal way. I never said—or implied—otherwise.”
She crossed her arms over the crumpled bodice of her dress, trying not to tremble.
She failed miserably.
“You know I believed otherwise.” Her voice was stiff.
He lifted a sardonic brow. “Do I?”
She racked her brain. Surely they’d covered this. Hadn’t they?
But the sinking sensation in her belly gave leeway for doubt to creep in.
She’d assumed.
And now, faced with his implacable certainty, she realized how badly she’d erred.
He did expect to sleep with her. To conceive a child, just as nature intended. And she…heaven help her…she had agreed to his terms without ever clarifying this most salient point.
“Rourke—” She barely managed to voice his name. “Honestly, we barely know each other. I didn’t…I mean, I don’t—”
“Save it.” He lifted a weary hand. Ran it down his face. “You and I both know it doesn’t matter how long we’ve known each other. It’s enough. But it’s been a long day. So take your bath.”
She swallowed hard and couldn’t prevent slanting a gaze toward the door through which he’d entered. Did it lead to his bedroom?
To his bed?
“And…and then?”
His black gaze raked over her. “Don’t worry, princess. The mood’s definitely passed for now.”
She wanted to sag with relief but pride kept her shoulders more or less straight.
“Our flight leaves tomorrow morning.” He went to the door. “But make no mistake, Lisa. Once we’re in France on our honeymoon—” his lips twisted “—I expect to make this marriage a real one. I suggest you spend the time between now and then getting accustomed to the idea.”
Then he left, closing the door softly, but finally, behind him.
She sank down on the wide ledge of the bubble-filled tub, her fingers still clutching the fabric of her wedding gown.
She was shaking. And she very much feared that it wasn’t horror over her mammoth-size misunderstanding where her wifely duties were concerned.
It was anticipation.
And where was that going to leave her, once her purpose had been served?
The answer to that question was still eluding her when they boarded Rourke’s private jet the following morning. And when they landed in Nice that night.
Rourke was no particular help. Aside from introducing her to his flight crew when they’d boarded the plane, he barely spoke to her once they were in the air.
Mostly, he spent the time on the phone. And most of that time he spent pacing the confines of the luxuriously equipped airplane. The only time he sat down in one of the sinfully soft leather seats was when Janine or Sandy, his two flight attendants, served them their meals.
She could almost have let herself believe that what had happened in his apartment the night before had never happened at all.
Almost.
Instead, her traitorous eyes kept tracking his movements about the cabin, willfully taking note of the sinuous play of muscles beneath his black trousers as he paced, of the way his hands gestured as he spoke, tendons standing out in his wrists where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt shortly after takeoff.
Now, they were gliding silently through a star-studded night as they left the airport behind in a low-slung sports car that offered very little space between her and Rourke, at the wheel.
There was no driver. No flight crew.
Just…the two of them.
And all too easily, her senses were filled with the memory of his lips brushing against the nape