Marion Lennox - The Billionaire's Christmas Baby

A tentative examination made her shudder. Ugh. She gave up on the thought of a simple change and headed for the bathroom. She stripped off all the baby’s clothes, then used the washbasin to clean her. The wailing was starting to sound exhausted, but the baby had enough strength to flail her legs in objection to the warm water.

But Sunny was an old hand. Washing was brisk and efficient. She had a replacement nappy but no change of clothes. No matter—she was warmed and dry. Sunny wrapped her expertly in one of the hotel’s fluffy towels, carried her back to the living room, checked the bottle, settled down on the settee—had she ever sat on anything so luxurious in her life?—and popped one teat into one desperate mouth.

Then finally the world settled. The silence was almost overwhelming.

Even Sunny was tempted to smile.

Such little things. A clean bottom. A feed. Deal with the basics and worry about tomorrow tomorrow. That had been Sunny’s mantra all her life and it served her still.

But now she had time to think.

Next on her list was getting out of here.

She glanced across at Max, still barking orders into the phone. He looked like a man at the peak of his powers, a business magnate accustomed to ordering minions at will. He was trying to summon minions now.

But there weren’t many Australian minions who’d drop everything at this hour to be at his beck and call.

It’s not my problem, she told herself and turned her attention back to the bundle in her arms.

She was a real newborn. A week old at most, Sunny thought, suddenly remembering Tom. Sunny had been nine years old when Tom was born. She remembered weeks where she couldn’t go to school, where she’d struggled with a colicky newborn, where she’d felt more trapped than she ever wanted to feel again.

But she wasn’t trapped now. This little one had a family and that family wasn’t her. What was she—half-sister to the man on the phone? She even looked like him, Sunny thought. Same dark hair. Same skin tone—she looked as if she’d spent some of her time in utero under a sun lamp.

Did she have the same nose? It was difficult to say, she decided. It was a cute nose.

She was a cute baby. Wrapped in her white towel, she looked very new, and totally defenceless. She was still sucking her bottle but desperation had faded and tiredness was starting to take over. Sunny could feel the little body relax, drifting towards sleep.

Great. She could pop her back into the pram and leave.

‘She’s going to sleep?’

The deep voice, the hand on her shoulder made her start with shock. She hadn’t heard him leave the desk and walk over to her.

He was standing behind her, staring down at the baby.

‘She was well overdue for a feed,’ she managed. Why had he put his hand on her shoulder? To hold her down? To keep her here?

Or maybe he simply wanted contact, reassurance that he wasn’t alone.

He was alone, she thought. She was leaving.

‘Can I ask you to keep quiet about what’s happened?’ he asked.

‘Sorry?’ Her mind had been heading in all sorts of directions, one of them being the way she was reacting to this man’s touch. How inappropriate was that? Somehow she managed to focus.

‘I work on the staff here,’ she managed. ‘I signed a confidentiality agreement.’

‘And you’ll keep it? The media will pay for a story like this. If they make you an offer... I’ll meet it.’

‘I said I signed a confidentiality agreement,’ she retorted, flushing. ‘You think I’d break it for money?’

‘I have no idea what you’d do.’ He lifted a corner of the towel so he could see her name, embroidered discreetly under the hotel logo on her uniform. ‘Sunny Raye. What sort of name is that?’

‘Mine.’ She was starting to feel a bit glowery.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be personal.’

‘That’s good. There’s no need to be personal. I’m a cleaner and I need to go back to work.’

The bottle was finished and laid aside. Phoebe’s eyes were closed. Her tiny rosebud mouth was still making involuntary twitches, as if the bottle was still there.

She was beautiful, Sunny thought, but then she’d always been a sucker for a baby. A sucker for being needed?

Of course. Wasn’t that the story of her whole life?

‘I’ll pop her back in the pram,’ she suggested. She wanted to rise but the hand was still on her shoulder. The grip tightened.

Uh-oh. It was pressure.

‘You can’t leave.’

Watch me, she thought. And then she thought of the discreet little disc attached at her waist, like an extra button on her uniform. A security disc.

Even at exclusive hotels—and this was surely the most exclusive in Sydney—incidents happened. Guests drank too much. They were away from home. The normal rules often didn’t seem to apply.

Female staff were taught how to back away fast from situations, but as a last resort there was the disc. Three pushes and she’d have security guards here in moments.

Protecting her from this man?

He wasn’t harassing her for himself, though. He needed her for his baby.

Right, and she had chocolate cherry liqueurs to find and sleep to have and gifts to wrap before she returned here for her Christmas Eve shift tomorrow. Harden up, girl, she told herself. Even use the security disc if you must. You’re a cleaner. This is not your business.

She rose, despite the pressure of his hand. He released her—with real reluctance, it seemed—and stood back.

‘She’s fed and changed, sir,’ she told him, facing him head-on. ‘I’ll pop her back into the pram if you like, but I need to go. Though...’ A sudden pang of conscience made her add, ‘I’ll clean the bathroom before I go.’

‘You just cleaned the bathroom.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said woodenly and he frowned and opened the bathroom door. And recoiled.

‘My giddy aunt...’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said primly. She used his distraction to slip her sleeping bundle back in the pram. The pram was a mess too, filled with forms, baby clutter, a stupid elephant mobile strung across the top. But this wasn’t her concern either. She pulled out the loose stuff and laid it on the floor. Already his swish suite was starting to look as if a bomb had hit it, but this guy should have a few hours’ peace to sort things out. ‘Would you like me to clean?’ she asked primly.

‘Of course.’

‘There will be a charge,’ she said. ‘The stain on the tiles was our responsibility, but extra cleaning for normal hotel use incurs an out-of-hours service fee.’

‘You’re charging me for cleaning?’ He sounded incredulous.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ She glanced at her watch. She’d been here for almost an hour and it’d go on the hotel’s time sheets. If she wanted to be paid for overtime, she had to report it. And he had to pay.

‘That’s unreasonable.’

She was overtired. She was at the end of a stupidly long shift. She’d had enough.

‘Unreasonable for me to be paid for scrubbing? Really?’ So much for being a shadow. She let her glower have full sway. ‘I know, I’m just a money-hungry grub.’ Grub was the truth. She felt filthy. ‘But your decision shouldn’t be my business. I’ve done what I was sent to do, and more. Ring Housekeeping if you want the bathroom cleaned, and discuss charges with them. My shift is finished.’ And she took a deep breath and strode to the door, prepared to depart with as much dignity as she could muster.

She swung the door open, and Brent was there.

Brent. Assistant hotel manager. Guy on the way up. Obviously here to appease.

He looked at her and grub didn’t begin to describe the look he gave her. Okay, she was filthy. She’d been down on her knees scrubbing. She’d just tended one distressed baby. The wet splotches on her uniform—you try bathing a baby in a bathroom sink—could have been anything. Maybe they were ‘anything’. Maybe she smelled as well. Who knew? Who cared? She was over this.

‘What seems to be the problem, Miss Raye?’ Brent said, silky-smooth, and she thought, I am in so much trouble. Cleaning staff should never, ever be noticed, much less by the assistant manager of the entire hotel.

‘Sir, I was sent up to clean a stain in Mr Grayland’s bathroom.’ She hauled back on her temper, doing her best to make herself sound subservient. Yes, she’d let her anger hold sway for a moment but she needed this job. She needed to retreat fast. ‘I’ve done my best with the tiles but the stain needs Maintenance. I was about to report it, but before I could leave Mr Grayland requested urgent assistance with his baby.’

‘It’s not my baby!’

She ignored the savage growl from behind. She was too busy salvaging her career to care.

‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Brent told her, in the tone used the world over to convey menace to underlings when on the surface all had to be rosy. ‘Wait for me before you leave.’ And he turned to Max and put on his full managerial, ingratiating smile. ‘Now, sir...’

She was free. She’d have to wait in the change room for Brent to tell her what he thought of her but at least she was out of here. She grabbed her trusty mop and bucket and headed for the fire stairs. No elevator was going to be fast enough.

‘Stop her.’

‘Sir?’ Brent sounded confused. Sunny had almost reached the stairs. Almost gone...

‘If you’re here to tell me there’s no babysitting service available, I want this woman to stay,’ Max snapped. ‘And I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes to keep her.’

Brent hadn’t got where he was by being thick. Or slow. He’d got it in one. Her desperation to leave. Max’s desperation to have her stay. Without seeming to move, Brent was suddenly, seamlessly between Sunny and her precious stairwell.

Yikes.

‘Put your equipment down,’ he told her and once again she got that look of disdain. Brent was immaculate, smoothly urbane, doing what the guest needed. That he had to put himself so close to an actual cleaner was obviously distasteful in the extreme—that he had to talk to her was worse.

But he was blocking her path and he was making it clear she had no option. She put her mop and bucket down again but she wasn’t buying into whatever was happening. She put her hands behind her back, looked at the floor and waited. A good little cleaning lady...

‘Sir...’ With Sunny trapped, Brent turned back to Max. ‘We apologise but there is no babysitting service available. If you’d booked your baby in earlier...’

‘I didn’t have a baby earlier,’ Max snapped. ‘And I told you before—she’s not my baby.’

‘She’s his sister,’ Sunny muttered because she’d just spent twenty minutes cleaning and feeding a little girl and it suddenly seemed important—no, imperative—that someone laid claim to her. But as she said it, memories surfaced.

A social worker, taking Chloe from her arms. ‘You can’t take care of her, sweetheart.’

And Sunny yelling back with all the might of her small self. ‘But she’s my sister!’

Those memories weren’t appropriate now, but they were strong enough to make her lift her gaze to Max and look defiant. But his anger blazed back at her.

‘I asked you to keep quiet about what’s just happened,’ he snapped.

Right. She went back to staring at the floor, but not before she’d seen the stab of shock as she’d said the word sister. Not before she’d seen him glance back at the pram with a look that was suddenly uncertain.

Up until now his reaction had been one of shock and anger. Something had messed with his world and he needed to put it right. But now...his face suddenly showed a new emotion.