Marion Lennox - The Billionaire's Christmas Baby

He didn’t want to think about the pair in the next room.

But the next room also held the minibar. A packet of crisps and a whisky would set him up to sit and write the final version of what he had to say at his father’s funeral.

He definitely needed a whisky to write what had to be said.

If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. That had been a mantra drummed into him by some long ago nanny, and it normally held true, but a huge section of Australia’s business community would turn out. They’d be expecting praise for a man who’d made his money sucking the resources of a country dry.

He did need a whisky, but that’d involved the minibar. Which involved walking into the next room.

They were in the next room. Sleeping.

Or...had something woken him? Maybe they were awake and he was wasting time, hanging out for a snack. Besides, he was paying her.

Do it.

The minibar was by the door through to the elevators. Moonlight from the open drapes showed the way.

He moved soundlessly across the room.

And stopped.

A sliver of moonlight was casting a beam of light across the settee.

The woman—Sunny Raye, her name tag had said—was sleeping. The settee had been made up as a bed, loaded with the hotel’s luxury sheets and duvet and pillows.

They weren’t being appreciated.

The pillows were on the floor. The duvet had been discarded as well, so her bedding consisted of an under-sheet and an open weave cotton blanket pulled to her waist.

Having discarded the pillows, she was using her arm to support her head. That’d give her a crick neck or a stiff shoulder in the morning, he thought, but he was distracted.

She was wearing an oversized golfing T-shirt with the hotel’s logo emblazoned on the chest. Her curls, caught up in a knot when he’d last seen her, were now splayed over the white sheet. Brown with a hint of copper. Shoulder-length. Tangled.

Nice.

Earlier he’d thought she was in her thirties. Her face had worn the look he often saw on hotel staff at the lower end of the pay scale—pale from not enough sunlight, weary, worn from hard physical work.

Now, though, he revised his age guess downward. She looked younger, peaceful in sleep, even vulnerable?

And then a faint stir in the crook of her arm had him focusing to her far side.

The baby was asleep beside her.

In what universe...? Even he knew this!

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The exclamation was out before he could stop himself. She jerked awake, staring up, as if unsure where she was, what she was doing, what he was.

She looked terrified.

He took a couple of fast steps back to give her space. He didn’t apologise, though. He might have scared her but he was paying for childcare. He wanted childcare—not a baby suffocated in sleep.

‘She shouldn’t be sleeping with you,’ he said, louder than he should because there were suddenly emotions everywhere. He shouldn’t care. Or should he care? Of course he should because this baby was his sister, but that was something he didn’t have head space to think about. The idea, though, made him angrier. ‘I know little about babies but even I know it’s dangerous to sleep in the same bed,’ he snapped. ‘Surely you know it too.’

He saw the confusion of sleep disappear, incredulity take its place. She pushed herself up on her elbow, making a futile effort to push her tumbling curls from her eyes. The baby slept on beside her, neatly swaddled, lying on her back, eyes blissfully closed.

‘You want an apology?’ she demanded and an anger that matched his was in her voice. ‘It’s not going to happen. I’m a cleaner, not a nanny.’

‘I’m paying you to care for her.’

‘Which I’m doing to the best of my ability. Sack me if you don’t like it. Look after your baby yourself.’

‘I might have to if you won’t.’

And the anger in her face turned to full scale fury. All traces of sleep were gone. ‘Might?’ she demanded. ‘Might? How much danger would she have to be in before you showed you care enough to do that?’ She rose to face him. She was wearing T-shirt and knickers but nothing else. Her legs were long and thin and her bare feet on the plush carpet made her seem strangely vulnerable. His impression of her age did another descent. ‘You want me to leave?’

‘I want you to do what you’re being paid for.’

‘Believe it or not, I am.’ She glared her fury. ‘Your sister’s sleeping on a firm settee that has no cracks in the cushioning and a sloping back that’s too firm to smother her. See the lovely soft settee cushions? They’re over there. See my pillows and my nice fluffy duvet? They’re over there too. So I’m sleeping on a rock-hard settee with no cushions and no duvet.’

‘Because...’

‘Because the moron who set up Phoebe’s pram filled it with a feather mattress, which is far more dangerous to a newborn than how I’ve arranged things. The mattress is stuck in the pram. Did you notice? Of course not. But I did when I checked her before I went to sleep. Some idiot’s screwed in an elephant mobile—for a newborn!—and they’ve caught the fabric of the mattress. I’d need to rip the mattress to get it out and feathers would go everywhere and you’d probably make me pay for it. Housekeeping’s up to their ears in work and it would’ve taken them an hour to get me a cot, even if there was one available, which I doubt. I didn’t fancy putting her to sleep on the floor and by the time I’d figured all that out I was tired and over it so she slept with me. She’s been as safe as I could make her. But take over, by all means. I’ve a crick in my arm like you wouldn’t believe. It’s been over four hours since she fed so she’s likely to wake up any minute but she has formula and the instructions are on the tin. Forget the money. I couldn’t give a toss. I’m leaving.’

There was a stunned silence. He stared at the settee, bereft of anything soft. He looked at the still miraculously sleeping Phoebe.

He looked at the furious, tired, overworked woman in front of him and he felt a sweep of shame.

He was way out of his comfort zone and he knew enough to realise he had to back off.

‘I apologise.’

‘Of course you do. You’ve given me a lecture. Now you’re expecting to go back to your nice comfy bed and leave me holding the baby. I don’t think so.’ She was a ball of fury, standing in her bare feet in the near-dark, venting her fury. Righteous fury.

‘I could double the chocolates,’ he said, feeling helpless.

‘You think you can buy me with chocolates?’

‘I thought I already had.’

‘Get stuffed,’ she told him and flicked on the table lamp and started searching among the discarded bedding for her uniform.

And, as if on cue, the baby woke.

Phoebe. His sister.

She didn’t cry but he was attuned to her, and the moment her eyes flickered open he noticed.

She was so tiny. So fragile. She was swaddled in a soft wrap, all white. Her hair was black. Her eyes were dark too.

She looked nothing like Isabelle.

She was all his father.

She was all...him?

Dear heaven...

‘The formula’s on the sink,’ Sunny said, sulkily now, as if she thought she was misbehaving. ‘Make sure the bottle’s clean and the water’s been boiled.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You don’t know what you can do until you have to. Believe me, I know.’ She snagged her uniform from the floor and headed for the bathroom. ‘She’s all yours.’

And, as if the idea terrified her, Phoebe opened her mouth and started to wail.

‘Well,’ Sunny said, over her shoulder. ‘Pick her up.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She reached the bathroom and closed the door firmly behind her.

Help...

The baby’s wails escalated, from sad bleats to a full-throated roar in seconds. How could such a beautiful, perfect wee thing turn into an angry, red-faced ball of desperation?

Was it the thought of being left with him? He knew nothing of babies. Zip.

This was his sister. Half-sister, he reminded himself, but it didn’t help.

The bathroom door was still firmly closed.

Somehow he’d sacked his babysitter for no reason.

How could he have thought she’d been unsafe? Sunny had her as safe as she could make her. She’d checked her before she’d gone to sleep. She’d noticed the too-soft mattress.

He hadn’t.

Tentatively he lifted the wailing bundle into his arms. Even the movement seemed to soothe her, and her sobs eased. Did she sense then how close she was to being abandoned?

The bathroom door opened again. Sunny stood there, still rumpled by sleep, but back in her stained uniform, her sensible shoes, her workday gear.

‘Where will you go?’ he asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Out west. Because there’s no public transport at four a.m. it’s an hour’s bike ride but that’s none of your business. I have no idea why I’m telling you.’

‘Stay.’

‘In your dreams.’

‘Sunny, I’m sorry,’ he said and he was. Deeply sorry. He looked at her tilted chin, her weary pride, her humiliation, and he felt a shame so deep it threatened to overwhelm him. That she was tired and overworked he had no doubt. Hotel cleaners were a race apart from the likes of him. They were shadows in the background of his world.

This one was suddenly front and centre.

And then he had a thought. A bad one.

‘You know about babies.’ The words were suddenly hard to form. ‘Are you...? Do you...?’

She got it before he could find the words. ‘You mean do I have my own baby strapped to my bike, waiting for me to finish my shift? Or left in a kitchen drawer with a bottle of formula laced with gin?’ She gave a snort of mirthless laughter. ‘Hardly. But I’ve raised four, or maybe I should say I’ve been there for them while they raised themselves. They’re grown up now, almost independent, apart from Tom’s teeth. But that’s my problem and you have your own. Goodnight and good luck.’ She headed for the door.

But he was before her, striding forward with a speed born of desperation. Putting his body between her and the door. But her words were still hanging in the air even as he prevented her leaving.

Four? He thought of how old she was, and how young she must have started, and he thought of a world that was as removed from his as another planet.

And she got that too. She gave a sardonic grin. ‘Yep, I started mothering when I was five, with four babies by the time I was nine. Life got busy for a while, and I admit I even co-slept. Not just with one baby—sometimes all five of us were in the same bed. But, hey, they’re all healthy and your Phoebe’s still alive so maybe I’m not such a failure. Now, if you’d let me leave...’

He didn’t understand but now wasn’t the time to ask questions. ‘Please,’ he said, doing his best to sound humble. ‘Stay.’

‘You can cope.’

‘I probably can,’ he admitted. ‘If you refuse then I’ll pay for a taxi to take you home and to bring you back tomorrow.’ He hesitated. ‘But, to be honest, it’s Phoebe who needs you. She shouldn’t be left with someone so inept.’

She hesitated, obviously torn between sense and pride. It was four in the morning. Even in a taxi it’d take time for her to get home, he thought. She was weary and she had to be back here again in a few hours.

Logic should win, but he could also sense something else, an anger that didn’t stem from what had just happened.