The Billionaire's Christmas Baby
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This man wasn’t in a position to slap her. She could still walk away. This was her only chance—maybe baby Phoebe’s only chance—to find herself someone who cared.
And once again something twisted on Max Grayland’s face. He gave her a look she didn’t understand, then wheeled and walked back to the pram.
‘Goodnight,’ he muttered.
‘Properly,’ she hissed. ‘Touch her. Say it properly.’
‘Miss Raye!’ Brent was practically exploding but she wasn’t backing down.
‘Do it.’
And Max sent her a look that was almost afraid. There was a long silence. He knew what she was demanding, she thought, and he was afraid of it.
But finally he turned back to the pram. He gazed down for a long moment at the sleeping baby—a newborn, who was his half-sister.
And his expression changed yet again. He put a finger down and stroked the tiny face, a feather touch, a blessing.
‘Goodnight,’ he said again and then looked back at Sunny. ‘Satisfied?’
‘That’ll do for now,’ she said smugly and smiled.
The look he sent her was pure bafflement. But then his phone rang. He snagged it from his pocket, glanced at the screen and swore. ‘My conference call...’
‘We’ll take care of everything, sir,’ Brent said smoothly. ‘Take your call. Goodnight.’
‘Thank you,’ he said formally and, with a last uncertain glance at Sunny, he turned, walked into his grand bedroom and closed the door behind him.
WHAT HAD WOKEN HIM? Probably nothing, he conceded. His body was still on New York time, even if in reality his body was lying in a king-sized bed in a suite overlooking Sydney Harbour.
Four a.m.
Today was the day he’d bury his father.
Nothing less important than this would have dragged him half a world from New York for Christmas. His usual method of coping with the festive season was to have his housekeeper fill his apartment with food, set himself up with the company’s financial statements and use the break to conduct an overall assessment. It was a satisfying process, even if it meant a nasty shock for the occasional employee returning to work in the New Year.
But now... His mobile laptop didn’t allow him to access the innermost secrets of the Grayland Corporation. Too risky. He’d brought some work but it wouldn’t take all his concentration—and he needed his concentration to be taken.
His father’s funeral...
And a baby sister?
What had the old man been thinking?
He knew his father’s illness had made him confused over the last year. There’d never been any love lost between them at the best of times, but Colin Grayland had been proud of his company and fiercely patriarchal. There’d never been any hint that he’d disinherit Max, but that had been mainly through lack of choice, and for the last twelve months the old man had been obsessively secretive.
Max had learned of Isabelle’s existence two days ago. As sole heir, the lawyers had transferred his father’s personal banking details to him before he’d left New York. A quick perusal had shown a massive payment to Isabelle almost a year ago. Then another seven months back—was that when Isabelle had her pregnancy confirmed?—and then regular deposits until the last few days of the old man’s life.
He’d assumed Isabelle had been his father’s mistress but the amounts had been staggering, and now he knew why.
Colin Grayland had paid for a baby. A son, if Isabelle was to be believed, though he must have been too confused to think of the ramifications, or the possibility, of a daughter.
And now he was landed with a baby. His sister?
The thought was doing his head in. He had no idea how to face it.
Lawyers? Surely it was illegal to dump a baby. Isabelle would have to take the baby back.
But she didn’t want her.
So adoption? For a baby who was...his sister?
He couldn’t think straight. He needed a drink, badly.
Was he kidding? It was four in the morning.
Yeah, but it was midday in New York. He travelled often and his rule for coping with jet lag was not to convert to local time unless he was staying for more than a few days. So his body was telling him he’d stayed up late and now he’d overslept. It was thus time for lunch and a man could have a whisky with lunch.
He wouldn’t mind a sandwich either. Room service was his go-to option in such circumstances but he couldn’t wake the pair in the next room.
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.