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THE BILLIONAIRE’S
BABY PLAN
ALLISON LEIGH
MARRYING THE
NORTHBRIDGE
NANNY
VICTORIA PADE
THE BILLIONAIRE’S
BABY PLAN
ALLISON LEIGH
Dear Reader,
I’ve said more than once how much I enjoy participating in multiauthor continuities. I have the chance to work with—and learn from—authors whose work I admire, and sometimes work again with authors I’ve had such fun with on previous projects. The Baby Chase has been no exception. It has also given me a chance to work again with editor extraordinaire Susan Litman who somehow manages to keep tabs on a mountain of details (a mammoth-size task that would send me around the bend) and does it with such amazing humor and grace.
So welcome, again, to the Armstrong Fertility Institute, where families are made and where the Armstrong family, in particular, learns just how much of a family they really can be.
I hope you enjoy the chase!
Allison Leigh
About the Author
ALLISON LEIGH started early by writing a Halloween play that her grade school class performed. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.
She has been a finalist for a RITA® Award and a Holt Medallion. But the true highlight of her day as a writer is when she receives word from a reader that they laughed, cried or lost a night of sleep while reading one of her books.
Born in Southern California, Allison has lived in several different cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighborhood church. She currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.
For my husband.
Prologue
“Good news.” Lisa Armstrong sailed into the living room of her brother Paul’s Beacon Hill town house, waving a newspaper over her head like a flag. “All of that sweet-talking to the features editor I’ve been doing the past few months are finally paying off. The paper’s going to do a twelve-week series on families seeking alternative methods of conceiving, and the Armstrong Fertility Institute is going to be prominently featured.” She felt her brilliant smile wilt a little when she finally focused on her brother’s unsmiling expression. “This is good news,” she reminded him. Her gaze switched to Ramona Tate’s pretty face. “All human interest and all good press for the clinic. Nothing for you to have to spin into something more palatable.”
But Ramona did not look overjoyed, and as the institute’s public-relations magician—not to mention her brother’s fiancée—she ought to have, particularly considering the tap-dancing she’d been having to do for too long now.
Lisa slowly lowered the paper and tossed it onto the coffee table. She’d been a little late to the sudden gathering her brother had called, and his spacious living room suddenly felt as if it was closing in on her.
Thoughts that her brother and Ramona had called the get-together to announce that they’d finally set a date for their wedding fizzled. There wasn’t a speck of joy on the faces of any of the handful of people gathered there.
She looked back at Paul. “What’s happened?”
“Derek has resigned his position as CFO of the institute.” Paul’s voice was even, but oddly flat.
“What? Why?”
“The financial audit that Harvey Nordinger conducted turned up serious discrepancies.”
“Which, as CFO, our silver-tongued brother should be dealing with,” she countered readily. She already knew the audit that Paul had instigated had shown less than satisfactory results.
Paul’s lips twisted. “I told Derek to resign, Lis.”
She felt the air leave her lungs in a whoosh. She sank down onto the arm of the couch, staring. “But he’s part of this family.” And the family was the institute. It had been since their obstetrician father, Gerald, had established it more than two decades earlier, expanding it from its roots as an innovative fertility clinic into one of the world’s premier biotech firms in the areas of infertility and genetic testing.
Paul, the eldest, was chief of staff. Derek, Paul’s twin, served as the CFO and Lisa, the youngest, was the administrator. Only Olivia, their other sibling, remained uninvolved in the day-to-day operations of the clinic.
Paul let out a rough sigh and raked his fingers through his hair. He shared a look with Ramona. “If Derek weren’t family, we’d be prosecuting him.”
Lisa blinked. “Excuse me?”
“He’s been embezzling from the institute. Harvey’s proved it.”
She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Harvey’s wrong. I know you trust him implicitly, Paul, but he’s wrong.” She looked around the room, from face to face. Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios, the shining duo that Paul had lured away from San Francisco to head up their research operation. Sara Beth, who was not only the institute’s head nurse, but also Lisa’s best friend and Ted’s bride. They all, along with Ramona, were eyeing Lisa with something akin to pity. “He has to be,” she insisted. Derek might be Paul’s twin, but she was the one who felt closest to him.
And everyone there knew it.
Unease was blooming in her throat. Derek had his faults, certainly. But they all did. And most of those faults were centered on their unswerving commitment to the institute. “Derek wouldn’t steal from his own family.”
“I’m sorry, Lisa. He—” Paul broke off, his jaw clenching. Ramona slid her slender hand over his shoulder and his jaw slowly eased. His hand covered Ramona’s. “He admitted it,” he finished gruffly.
His words fell like stones.
Lisa’s throat slowly tightened and her nose started to burn.
She wanted to argue.
To convince him that, somehow, it was a terrible mistake.
But how could she? The truth was written on his face.
He cleared his throat. “The reason why I wanted everyone to meet here, instead of at the institute, is because I want to make certain none of this gets out. Not to any of the staff or the patients, but especially not the media or—”
“Daddy,” she finished, her voice going hoarse. Until his declining health had forced his retirement, the Armstrong Fertility Institute had been Gerald Armstrong’s life. “He can’t find out. It’ll kill him.”
“Which brings us to the next point of all of this.” Lisa didn’t see how it was possible, but Paul looked even grimmer. “Finances. We barely have enough operating capital left to keep our doors open through the quarter. As it is, we’ll have to cut our budgets to the bone. If we lay off—”
“No.” Lisa shoved off the couch like a shot, wrapping her arms around her waist. “The second anyone gets wind of layoffs, the reporters will be back on us like sharks.” She shook her head. “Only this time they’ll have real blood to find. There has to be other ways for us to cut expenses. I don’t know about everyone else, but I’ll stop taking a salary—”
“Lisa—”
She ignored him. “—and we’ll get together a prospectus. We’ll get a loan.”
“No bank is going to touch us in the condition we’re in and we wouldn’t be able to keep Dad out of it.”
“Then private investors,” Lisa countered, feeling more than a little desperate. She may have missed out on the medical brilliance gene that Gerald had passed on to Paul, but she considered herself a decent administrator. It was the only thing about her that she felt certain her father was proud of. It was her one part in ensuring that her father’s life’s work lived on.
Yet she hadn’t known what Derek was doing.
“We’ve never had investors before,” Paul said.
“Pardon me for saying so, but you’ve never needed investors before,” Ted inserted quietly. He let go of Sarah Beth’s hand, which he’d been holding, and stood up. “However, it does give me an idea…”
Chapter One
Lisa stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk, staring at the narrow entrance of Fare, complete with uniformed doorman, ahead of her.
Why a restaurant?
Not for the first time since she’d flown from Boston to New York City was she still puzzling over the choice. Even though the meeting had been arranged by Ted Bonner, its purpose was business. Not social.
Thank heavens.
She realized the doorman was staring at her, and with a confidence that she didn’t feel, smiled at the man and strode across the sidewalk, unfastening the single button on the front of her black-and-white houndstooth jacket when he ushered her into the softly lit restaurant before silently departing.
The shadowy hostess station was unattended and she waited in the hushed silence. There was a faint strain of music, but it was subtle and nonintrusive.
Waiting to be shown to the table was okay with her. She didn’t want to be there anyway. But she’d promised Paul.
She swallowed.
This is just another meeting with a potential funder.
Investor.
Her mind debated the term.
She was used to meeting with funders. Usually representatives of a philanthropic or scientific foundation to discuss research grants that the institute was seeking.
This…this was another kettle of fish, entirely. And even though it had been her idea to use investors to solve their current dilemma, she’d never in her wildest imaginings thought she’d be meeting this particular one.
She smoothed her hand over the wide belt of her highwaisted slacks and buttoned her jacket again. Switched her slender, leather briefcase from one hand to the other.
The meeting that Paul had called earlier that week replayed in her mind. She’d never seen her ever-confident, ever-capable big brother actually question whether or not the institute could survive at all and that—as much as the reason why—still had her deeply shaken.
“The gentleman is waiting for you.”
Lisa blinked herself to the present where an exotically beautiful girl dressed in a narrow black sheath was smiling patiently, her hand extended slightly to one side.
She undid the button again, gripped the handle of her briefcase more tightly in her moist hand and stepped forward.
She spotted him immediately.
The “gentleman” whom Lisa would never have termed as such.
Rourke Devlin.
Billionaire venture capitalist. A man who never had to worry about finding funding for his own work because he was the fund. He was Ted Bonner’s friend. And even though she could appreciate that fact, could appreciate the generosity he’d shown to Ted and Sara Beth during their trip to newly wedded bliss, she couldn’t envision anything productive coming out of this encounter.
He was dark. Powerful. Arrogant. Rich as Midas.
And as frightening as the devil himself.
Rourke didn’t even rise as she approached his small round table situated in the center of the exclusive, small restaurant. But his black gaze followed her every step of the way.
She felt like a lamb sent to slaughter and damned Derek all over again.
She might have promised Paul that she’d do her best on this meeting despite her personal reservations, but it was because of Derek that this meeting—or any of the other half dozen that she’d frenetically set up for the following week—was necessary in the first place.
A black-clothed waiter had appeared out of nowhere to pull out the second chair at the table for her.
She thanked him quietly and took her seat, tucking the briefcase on the floor next to her. There were plenty of tables surrounding them, but none was occupied. Only Rourke’s, sitting here, center stage like king of the castle. “I’ve read reviews of Fare,” she greeted him. “The food is supposed to be magnificent.”
“It is.”
Hardly a conversational treasure trove. She hoped it wasn’t an indicator of how the rest of the meeting would go, but feared it probably was. Despite Ted’s insistence that Rourke was open to meeting with her, she couldn’t help but remember her encounter with him months earlier at their Founder’s Ball— and the single dance they’d shared—as well as his seeming disapproval at the time of the institute in general. “The view is lovely.”
He didn’t turn his head to glance at the bank of windows overlooking a pond surrounded by trees that were just now beginning to show the first hint of coming autumn. “Yes.”
In her lap, her hands curled into fists beneath the protection of the white linen draping the table. All right. Forget pleasantries. She’d just get to the point. “I appreciate you meeting with me.”
He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Do you?”
She studied him, wondering not for the first time exactly what it was about the man that seemed to place him on a different plane than others.
There were plenty of men as powerfully built. Plenty of men who possessed strikingly carved features and well-cut, thick black hair. All it took was money to buy the fine white silk shirt he wore with such casual ease. There was a single button undone at his tanned throat; a charcoal-gray suit coat discarded over the back of his chair.
He exuded confidence. Power. And he looked at her—just as he had on the other few occasions they’d been in one another’s company—as if he knew things about her that she might not even know herself.
Which mostly left her feeling as if she were playing some game in which she didn’t know the rules.
She moistened her lips, realizing as she did that it was an indicator of her nervousness, particularly when his gaze rested on her mouth for a moment. “I know your time is valuable.”
The waiter had returned and was silently, ceremoniously presenting, then opening a bottle of wine. The cork presented and approved, the first taste mulled over, the crystal glasses partially filled. Lisa had been part of the production hundreds of times and wondered silently what any of them would say if she told them she would have preferred a fresh glass of iced tea. Wine always went straight to her head.
And it didn’t take her MBA to know that she needed all of her faculties in prime working order when it came to dealing with Rourke Devlin, who hadn’t volunteered even a polite disclaimer about the value of his time.
But she said nothing. Merely smiled and picked up the glass, sipping at the crisp, cool Chardonnay. It was delicious. Something she might have chosen for herself if she were in the mood for wine. But she would have pegged Rourke as a red wine sort of man. To go along with the raw red meat those strong white teeth could probably tear apart.
“I told the chef we’d have his recommendation,” Rourke said. “Raoul never disappoints.”
“How nice.” She really, really wished they were meeting in his office. This just seemed far too intimate. Additional diners around them would have helped dispel that impression. “Isn’t Fare usually open for lunch?” It was well past noon. And the reviews she’d read about the place had indicated it took months to get a reservation.
“Usually.”
Which explained so much. She lifted the wineglass again and thought she saw the faintest glimmer of amusement hovering around his mobile lips. And it suddenly dawned on her why they were in a restaurant and not his office.
Because he’d known it would set her on edge.
She wasn’t sure why that certainty was so suddenly clear. But it was. She knew it right down in her bones. And the glint in his eyes as he watched her while he lifted his own wineglass seemed to confirm it.
She set down her glass and reached down to pull a narrow file out of her briefcase. “Ted gave you some indication why we wanted to meet with you.” It wasn’t a question. She knew that Ted Bonner had primed the pump, so to speak, with his old buddy, when he’d arranged the meeting once Paul had jumped on the bandwagon of approval. “This prospectus will outline the advantages and opportunities of investing in the Armstrong Fertility Institute.” She started to hand the file over to Rourke, only to stop midway, when he lifted a few fingers, as if to wave off the presentation that they’d pulled together at the institute in record time.
Not that he could know that.
Ted wouldn’t have told the man just how desperate things had become. Friendship or not, Dr. Bonner was now a firmly entrenched part of the Armstrong Institute team. And nobody on that team wanted word to get out about the reason underlying their unusual foray into seeking investors. Their reputation would never recover. Not after the string of bad press they’d already endured. Their patients wouldn’t want their names—some very well-known—associated with the institute. And without patients, there wouldn’t just be layoffs. The institute would simply have to close its doors.
Damn you, Derek.
She lowered the prospectus and set it on the linen cloth next to the fancy little bread basket that the waiter delivered, along with a selection of spreads.
“Put it away,” Rourke said. “I prefer not to discuss business while I’m eating.”
“Then why didn’t you schedule me for when you weren’t?” The question popped out and she wanted to kick herself. Instead, she lifted her chin a little and made herself meet his gaze, pretending as if she weren’t riddled with frustration.
He was toying with her. She didn’t have the slightest clue as to why he would even bother.
And she also left the folder right where it was. A glossy reminder of why they were meeting, even if he was determined to avoid it.
He pulled the wine bottle from the sterling ice bucket standing next to the table and refilled her glass even though she’d only consumed a small amount. “Have a roll,” he said. “Raoul’s wife, Gina, makes them fresh every day.”
“I don’t eat much bread,” she said bluntly. What was the point of pretending congeniality? “Are you interested in discussing an investment in the institute or not?” If he wasn’t—which was what she’d tried to tell Paul and the others—then she was wasting her time that would be better spent in preparation for meeting with investors who were.
“More bread would look good on you,” he said. His gaze traveled over her, seeming to pick apart everything from the customary chignon in her hair to the single silver ring she wore on her right thumb. “You’ve lost weight since I last saw you.”
There was no way to mistake the accusation as a compliment and her lips parted. She stared, letting the offense ripple through her until she could settle it somewhere out of the way. “Women can never be too thin,” she reminded him coolly, and picked up the wineglass again. Might as well partake of the excellent vintage since it was apparent that he wasn’t taking their meeting seriously, anyway.
No doubt he’d agreed simply to get Ted off his back.
“A ridiculous assumption made by women for women,” Rourke returned. “Most men prefer curves and softness against them over jutting bones.”
“Well.” She swallowed more wine. “That’s something you and I won’t have to worry about.”
He looked amused again and turned his head, glancing at the bank of windows. His profile was sharp, as defined—and cold—as a chiseled piece of granite. His black hair sprang sharply away from his forehead and the fine crow’s-feet arrowing out from the corner of his eyes were clearly illuminated.
Unfortunately, they didn’t detract from the total package.
“The view here is good,” he said. “I’m glad Raoul went with my suggestion on the location. Initially he was looking for a high-rise.”
She wanted to grind her teeth together, as annoyed with her own distraction where Rourke-the-man was concerned as she was with his unpredictability. “I didn’t know that restaurants were something you invested in. Techno-firm startups seemed to be more your speed. Aren’t restaurants notoriously chancy?” She lifted a hand, silently indicating the empty tables around them.
“Venture capitalism is about taking chances.” He selected a roll from the basket and broke it open, slathering one of the compound butters over half. “Calculated chances, of course. But as it happens, in the five years since Raoul opened the doors, I’ve never had cause to regret this particular chance.” He held out the roll. “Taste it.”
She could feel the wine wending its heady way through her veins. Breakfast had been hours ago. Wait. She’d skipped breakfast, in favor of a conference call.
Which meant drinking even the tiniest amount of wine was more foolish than usual.
Arguing seemed too much work, though, so she took the roll from him. Their fingers brushed.
She shoved the bread in her mouth, chomping down on it as viciously as she chomped down on the warmth that zipped through her hand.
“Good?”
Chewing, she nodded. The roll was good. Deliciously so.
It only annoyed her more.
She chased the yeasty heaven down with more wine and leaned closer to the table. “Obviously excellent bread and wine isn’t always enough to ensure success, or this place would be busting at the seams.”
“Raoul closed Fare until dinner for me.”
She blinked slowly and sat back. “Why?”
“Because I asked him to.”
“Again…why?”
“Because I wanted to be alone with you.”
A puff of air escaped her lips. “But you don’t even like me.”
Rourke picked up his wineglass and studied the disbelieving expression of the woman across from him. “Maybe not,” he allowed.
Lisa Armstrong had looked like an ice princess the first time he’d seen her more than six months ago in a crowded Cambridge pub called Shots where he’d been meeting with Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios.
He’d had no reason to change his opinion in the few times he’d seen her since.
“But I want you,” he continued smoothly, watching the sudden flare of her milk-chocolate eyes. “And you want me.” He’d known that since he’d maneuvered her into sharing a single, brief dance with him months earlier.
Her lips had parted. They were slightly thin, slightly wide for her narrow, angular face, and a shade of pale, delicate pink that he figured owed nothing to cosmetics.
And he hadn’t been able to get them out of his mind.
Obviously recovering, those lips pursed slightly. Her eyebrows—darker than the gold that covered her head—returned to their usual, level places. Her brown gaze was only fractionally less sharp than it had been when she’d first sat down across from him. But a strand of hair had worked loose of that perfect, smooth knot at the nape of her neck and had curled around her slender neck to tease the hollow at the base of her throat. “You have an incredible ego, Mr. Devlin.”
So he’d been told. By foes, friends and family alike. He pulled his gaze from that single, loose lock of hair that tickled the visible pulse he could see beneath her fair, fair skin. “I don’t think it’s egotism to recognize facts. And you might as well make it Rourke.”
“Why?” She didn’t seem to realize she’d reached for the other half of the roll he’d buttered and flicked a glance at it before dropping it back on the small bread plate. “Are we going to be doing business together after all?”
His inclination was to admit that they weren’t.
But he also had plenty of good reasons to want to ensure that Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios were able to continue their work without any more hitches. Investing in anything that Ted was involved in would be a good bet.
But through the Armstrong Fertility Institute?
Not even Ted knew why that particular idea was anathema to him.
Maybe it was small of him, but he wasn’t ready yet to release Lisa Armstrong from this particular hook. He was enjoying, too much, having the ice princess right where he wanted her.
He hid a dark bolt of amusement directed squarely at himself.
Nearly where he wanted her.
“Our salads,” he said instead, glancing at Tonio, their waiter and Raoul’s youngest son, as he approached with his tray.
He could see the ire creep back into Lisa’s eyes.
She controlled it well, though. Merely smiling coolly at Rourke as Tonio served them. He wondered if beneath that facade she would have preferred giving him a swift kick or if she really was that cool, all the way through.
It would be interesting to find out.
Interesting but complicated as hell.
He picked up his fork, his appetite whetted on more levels than he presently cared to admit. “Eat,” he said when she looked as if she weren’t even going to taste Raoul’s concoction. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d observed that she’d lost weight.
At the Founder’s Ball in her floaty gown of slippery brown and white that had hugged her narrow hips and left the entirety of her ivory back and shoulders distractingly bare, she’d felt slender and delicate in his arms.
Now, even with the thick weave of her jacket and the wide-cut legs of her slacks, he could tell she was even thinner.
She took her work to heart.
He could have told that for himself, even if Ted hadn’t mentioned it.
Often in the office before anyone else arrived. Often there later than anyone stayed.
For Ted to even notice something like that, beyond his Bunsen burners and beakers, was something. He’d said she was a workaholic.
Ironically, that gave her and Rourke something in common.
She was poking at the tomato salad and he was glad to see that some of it actually reached her mouth. His sister Tricia would take one look at her and want to fatten her up with plenty of pasta.
“How long have you and Dr. Bonner been friends?”
He had to give her points for adaptability. He’d expected to receive a mostly chilly silence for his autocratic refusal to discuss what they both knew she’d traveled to New York City to discuss. “Since we were boys.”
Her gaze flicked over him. “I find it hard to envision you as a boy. Were you schoolmates?”
He almost laughed.
Ted Bonner had grown up with wealth and privilege. Rourke and his three sisters might have had the same, if their father hadn’t walked out on them when they were young. Instead, the Devlin clan had gone from being comfortable to being…not.
They’d been locked out of their fine Boston home with no ceremony, no explanations.
He’d been twelve years old.
For a while, his mother had struggled to keep them in Boston. He and his sisters had switched from private to public schools. They’d moved into a basement apartment a lifestyle away from what they’d been used to. But in the end, within a handful of years, Nina Devlin had simply been forced to move them all back to New York where they’d moved into the cramped apartment above the home-style Italian restaurant his grandparents owned and operated.
And Rourke’s father? He’d landed in California with a surgically enhanced trophy wife who’d been fewer than ten years older than Rourke.
He’d seen them only once. When he’d been twenty-three and had raked in a cool million over his first real deal.
That was when Trophy Wife had indicated a considerable interest in Rourke’s bed and Dad had claimed Rourke was a chip off the old block.
He’d never seen either one of them again.
“Ted and I were in the same Boy Scout troop,” he told Lisa, fully expecting the surprise she couldn’t hide. Before they’d left Boston, his mother had chugged him across town to keep him involved in the troop that he’d been drafted into by his father, before he’d skipped. Rourke had hated it until he and Ted had struck up an unlikely friendship.
“You were a Boy Scout.”
“Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly—” He broke off the litany of Scout law when she snorted softly.
“Sorry,” she said, but aside from the bloom of pink over her sharp cheekbones, she didn’t particularly look it. “I just have a whole mental image of you wearing khaki shorts and merit badges.” The tip of her tongue appeared between her pearl-white teeth. Then she laughed softly, and shook her head. “A considerable change from your usual attire.”
He dragged his gaze away from the humorous stretch of her lips only to get caught in the sparkle of her eyes.
He tamped down on the heat shooting through him.
He hadn’t seen her smile, really smile, since that first glimpse of her at Shots when she’d been laughing over something with her friend Sara Beth.
Glancing at Tonio, who immediately cleared away their salads, Rourke picked up the prospectus. “The Armstrong Institute’s been plagued with bad press,” he said, breaking his own trumped-up rule of no business over lunch. “Questionable research protocols. Padded statistics.”
“Both allegations were proved false. By none other than your Scout buddy, Ted.”
“Yet the bad aftertaste of innuendo remains.”
The sparkle in her eyes died, leaving her expression looking hauntingly hollow. “That’s a little like blaming the victim, isn’t it? The Armstrong Institute has never operated with anything less than integrity. Nor has any of its staff. But we’re to be held accountable now for someone else’s shoddy reporting?”
“Integrity.” He mulled the word over, watching her while Tonio returned again with their main course of lobster risotto. “Interesting choice of words.”
Her gaze didn’t waver as she reached for her wineglass again. “I cannot imagine why.”
She would be a good poker player, he decided. Not everyone could baldly lie like that without so much as a blink. She was even better at it than his ex-wife had been.
But for the moment, he let the matter drop. “Eat the risotto. It’s nearly as good as my mother’s.”
She picked up her fork and took a small bite. Poked at the risotto as if moving the creamy rice around her plate would be an adequate substitute for actually eating. “Investment in the Armstrong Fertility Institute would be along the line of similar projects for Devlin Ventures. You’ve had great success in medically related firms.”
