Baby Fever: A Billionaire Secret Baby Romance, page 30
Caroline felt she could safely agree with that. Instead of a prune, though, she felt as wilted as the few roses she had noticed bravely attempting to bloom in a well-tended garden. What had she been thinking, to make her way to the middle of Texas in a silk blouse and panty hose?
Lord. Might as well just plunk a white cloche on her head and pull on a pair of elbow gloves, à la retro 50’s, to complete the picture. Did she really still have to worry about impressing anyone, after leaving behind every one of the hoops through which she had already jumped?
The cool air blasting from the silver Cadillac’s sleek vents felt like something from Resurrection Day, bringing her back to life. Unobtrusively Caroline loosened the tight collar, as she settled in behind her seat belt, and wished in vain for a wet washcloth. Or a tall glass of pure ice water. Or the cool spray from an outdoor sprinkler.
“This is only late May,” she commented, as Marilou flicked on her turn signal and pulled the car out into traffic. “How will you survive the rest of the summer?”
Sending her companion an understanding sideways glance, the admin chuckled. “Well, we’re more used to the temperatures round here than you are, comin’ from Yankee territory. You just take it easy for a while, and give yourself time. After a while you won’t ever wanna go back to the snow you left behind.”
I wouldn’t bet on it, was Caroline’s private response. “Do we have quite a distance to go before we reach the ranch?”
“No, ma’am. Fifty miles or so. Don’t you worry, we’ll be there lickety-split. You just relax and enjoy yourself. Texans are born with one foot on the gas pedal and the other on the brake.” Her laugh rolled out as easily and smoothly as the gentle hills through which they were now passing.
The scenery was much more interesting, and beautiful, than she had expected. Patches of barrenness here and there, yes; with only scrub of some sort, and weeds she would eventually learn answered to the names of nettle and plantain and creeper, and the aptly-captioned broomweed, snakeweed, and sneezeweed.
But then there were flowers, oceans and oceans of flowers, swimming away to the horizon: daisies and dill, blazing star and blue star, brown-eyed Susan and black-eyed Susan—a whole hodgepodge of color that called you to come investigate fragrance and texture.
And everything so spread out, with miles of distance between one spot and another. So much a contrast to her own tightly contained neighborhood, whose borders could easily fit into a mere clump of counties.
Elm, Caroline recognized, and oak, and willow. Universal trees, drinking deep of underground aquifers; providing shade, and shelter, and hope. She was relieved to see so many trees. She knew she would never have been able to transplant her own being away from the forested regions of Vermont if it meant setting up shop in a desert.
“And there’s a daughter?” she asked now, pulling herself forcibly back to the present.
“Yes, little Sophie. She’s six. Ah—six, going on sixteen. You’ll have your hands full with that one, believe me.” Another chuckle that did nothing to restore Caroline’s flagging confidence. “But you won’t have to deal with her quite yet.”
“I assume that I will be able to meet with Mr. Taggart at some point today?”
“Oh, sure enough. He’s set aside half an hour for you, at five o’clock.”
Astounded, Caroline turned toward the admin, who was humming along with some country western song emanating from a superior CD player in the background. “I beg your pardon? Set aside? He’s set aside half an hour?”
“Well, yes.” Marilou interrupted her humming to smile across the air-conditioned interior. “He’s a busy man, you know. In fact, he’s coming back from a business consortium especially to see you. Then he has to leave again right after supper.”
“Isn’t that just ducky.”
The rest of the trip, notable only for the speed at which the Cadillac cruised—surely far above the posted limit?—served as a vehicle for Marilou to play tour guide. She pointed out this landmark, and that, or commented on local news, or asked questions about Caroline’s everyday life back in Juniper, of the “Freedom and Unity” State.
“I believe you know most of that,” was Caroline’s quiet response. “Since we’ve been communicating for months, and you’ve been the one required to make all these arrangements.”
“Well, only followin’ Mr. Taggart’s directions, y’ know. Hope things’ve worked out the way you wanted. And you’re all recovered now?”
“Recovered?” Caroline, smoothing wrinkles from the suit skirt whose fit had proven more flattering some six months ago, flashed back to the weeks of recuperation resulting from the accident, and all the disastrous repercussions thereof. “Yes. I’m recovered, thank you. How long have you worked for Mr. Taggart, Marilou?”
“Oh, gracious, I started in his office right fresh outa college. Just as an aide for a while, till his main secretary retired.” With a giggle, she swung expertly around a slower moving vehicle and back into her own lane again. “Then he figured I was experienced enough to take over. So—lemme see…it’s been five years now. Not the easiest of relationships, sometimes, you understand.” That admission came with a sidelong mischievous look.
“I see.” Amazing. Mid-twenties, then; she might have passed for a teenager. Perhaps the work, and her employer, weren’t quite as demanding as it seemed. “Is he hard to deal with, then, Mr. Taggart?”
“Weeellll....not so much hard dealin’, as particular. But ain’t that true of most bosses? Ah, here we are, Miss Finch. Welcome to Ten Buck.”
The house was, surprisingly, neither as large nor as ostentatious as Caroline had expected.
Built of brick, wood, and stone in a rambling Spanish style that looked as if pieces had been added here and there, as an afterthought, it seemed a very approachable place. One that fit sweetly into its environment and gave the impression of having grown with the land.
A curving walk led around trees that appeared to have been left in their own native design, rather than imported, and green plantings sheltered by large chunks of rock. Rock which, Caroline would later learn, had been cut from the creek a mile or so away and hauled to the homestead for placement.
“Why, it’s—it’s actually quite lovely,” was her involuntary reaction.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Marylou wore the rather smug expression of a cat lapping up cream, as if she could take personal satisfaction for the results of this Texas hill layout. “Mr. Taggart started out workin’ from the original two story farmhouse, owned by his mama and daddy, and then just kept makin’ changes as the mood hit him.”
“Oh. Well, it looks pretty complete. Um—do you think he’s finished with it by now?”
With a shrug, she pulled to the end of the rounded driveway and parked with an expert eye for the curb. “Hard tellin’. Reckon he’ll let us know if the itch strikes him to start remodelin’ again. C’mon, I’ll take you inside to your room.”
“My luggage?” Caroline asked for the second time, just to double check, as she reached for the door handle.
Marylou flapped a breezy hand. “Oh, well, Tom—he’s sorta second in command around here—he’ll bring your stuff in straightaway. C’mon, I wanna see what you think of the arrangements.”
Chapter Three
The arrangements were, as might be expected at this not-quite-palatial mansion of a super-wealthy cattleman, impeccable.
Tom Sinclair, a tall, somewhat stooped man whose age might range anywhere between forty and seventy due to what was probably normal outdoor weathering, made several trips up and down and back up the wide curving staircase with every box, satchel, and bag pulled forth from the Cadillac’s trunk and rear seat. Not all of Caroline’s personal possessions from that remote place a world away, but close to it.
“Thank you so much,” Caroline told him at the doorway, when he was ready to depart. “I really appreciate your bringing in everything so quickly.”
“A pleasure, ma’am,” he said with a slow smile and an unfamiliar touch of forefinger to forehead. Almost like a salute. “You just lemme know, you got anything else you need t’ have done.”
Finally alone, and grateful for the silence and the space, she kicked off those killer stilettos (and what an extravagant waste of resources that purchase had been!), peeled away the sticky panty hose (to be forever relegated, she hoped, to the nearest waste basket), and padded barefoot about the spacious suite to which she had been escorted. Done by a professional decorator, no doubt,
White walls and furnishings and, on the pecan floor, a huge oddly-shaped rug in eggshell color that she hoped hadn’t been ripped off some living creature. The accents of bedspread, chaise, and bench, all of a match in pale blue-gray, contrasted beautifully with the mass of green landscape seen through French doors and transom windows that opened out onto a sunroom. No draperies for privacy were necessary, but white pleated shades awaited drawing against too much heat.
The room bespoke quiet elegance in a rather plain, old-fashioned way. And offered comfort and ease, as well. Quite attractive, in its own way; one she might have chosen for herself.
More than Caroline had enjoyed in far too long a time. Nothing she had ever had experienced could compare to this luxury.
Porcelain and marble and shining clear glass made up the bathroom. Along with fluffy rugs, laid conveniently on the tile floor, and stacks of thick cotton towels. Here, a gracious garden window, its sill filled with lush Boston fern, encompassed the fields and giant oaks beyond.
It would be such a delight, Caroline wistfully mused, looking around, to soak in that spa tub with its array of jars holding colorful bath salts, to stand under that rain shower and luxuriate in its soothing flow.
During the past few months of so much trauma and turmoil, she had not dared to glance at her image in a mirror any more often than necessary.
She did so now, reluctantly, and took impersonal inventory.
Stick-straight red hair. Not chestnut, or auburn, or sun-kissed bronze. No. True red. And the pale complexion to go with it, dusted over by a few stubborn freckles leftover from the prior summer. The combination could be less than flattering should a blush stain the high cheekbones. Steady, long-lashed eyes (thank you, whoever had invented mascara!), close in color to aquamarine, that one semi-admirer had actually called “amazing.” A figure currently dispossessed of the curves and suppleness it deserved. Possibly, hopefully, to be rectified with time and care.
Would her flight to this ranch, so far from everything she had known and loved, ease the situation in which she found herself?
Or would she find herself falling further down the rabbit hole?
Chapter Four
He looked exactly like the photograph that had been sent to her, months ago, at the beginning of their correspondence—a photo which, Caroline would secretly admit, didn’t do the man justice. No one should have the right to be that devastatingly attractive. She knew her own rather ordinary looks must pale by comparison, and wondered, once again, just what she had gotten herself into.
The basis for their future relationship started out pleasantly enough. For five minutes, anyway. When she entered his vast study, escorted by the energetic Marilou, he rose from behind a massive desk to greet her.
“Miss Finch.” Reaching out one hand, he took hers in a firm grip and then motioned for her to have a seat in the armchair upholstered in navy and forest green chintz.
Here the main motif meant wood. Dark wood on the floor and the walls, in the furniture and the many bookshelves, as a fireplace surround and as crown molding. What saved the spacious room from looking like a hermit’s cave was the set of enormous windows, all the way around, sliding open (when cooler weather permitted) to a tree-lined terrace beyond.
Impeccable. And intimidating. Everything about the master of these acres, his staff, his home, even his office, underscored the words. Was there any chink in his fortification?
“Mr. Taggart,” she acknowledged, slipping onto the indicated cushion.
“Anything else, sir?” chirped his admin from the doorway.
“No, thanks, ML. Go on, now; get out of here and go home to your boyfriend.”
She giggled. “Oh, nothin’ really goin’ on tonight. But Jimmy, he gets worried if I ain’t pullin’ into the driveway when I’m s’posed t’ be. G’night, Mr. Taggart; g’night, Miss Finch.”
“Good night, Marilou. Thanks for all your help today.”
Waving a negligible hand, she slipped away. The house suddenly sounded very quiet and felt very empty.
“Where is your daughter, Mr. Taggart?” Caroline asked curiously.
“Oh, she’s been taken on some afternoon field trip from school. One of the mothers will be dropping her off soon.”
“Is there a governess here for her? A nanny? A child-care worker?”
“Marilou pitches in when necessary; she’s my jill-of-all-trades. We’ve got it covered.”
Uneasiness began to curl a warning inside Caroline’s middle. “But—surely the child can’t be left alone in between times. I don’t believe that, in all our correspondence, you’ve ever mentioned her mother. Where is she?”
“Her mother,” said Ben, with an unexpected flatness to his tone, “is gone. Now, then.”
He leaned back in his chair, whose leather seemed to have settled in to fit his shape, to look Caroline over with speculation and calculation. It seemed only fair. After all, he had practically bought and paid for her.
His most arresting feature must surely be those heavy questioning brows set over intense blue eyes—as brilliant as a gas flame. What did they see, those keen and vivid blue eyes, as his gaze slowly roamed down her figure, then up again? There was that intimidation factor, that he had learned to use with such effectiveness. A shock of light brown hair, carelessly disarrayed, tumbled anyhow over his forehead, part of a square face, a hard strong jaw slightly stubbled at the end of the day, and a wide mobile mouth.
A face to swoon for, were she so inclined. And wondered vaguely whether his body was made to match. Nice wide cowboy shoulders, anyway, under a rather worn corduroy jacket and muted plaid shirt. Perhaps the dark blue Levi’s, glimpsed upon her entrance, might be considered part of his workday uniform.
She, at least, after freshening up and unpacking most of her essentials in the beautiful bedroom, had taken time to change for this first, all-important meeting in the flesh. Guessing rightly that casual mode would be more appropriate for now (and stealing a leaf from the secretary’s book), Caroline had put on schoolmarm’s clothing. And wasn’t that a laughable cliché!
So it was that, armored in a familiar cotton sweater of soft turquoise, a loose flowing skirt in a wash of aqua and coral, and boring beige ballet flats, she had entered what was probably the inner sanctum of Ten Buck’s owner.
“I think we can dispense with formality now, Caroline, don’t you?” His voice was a smooth drawl returning her to the present, and her responsibilities.
“Certainly, Mr. Taggart, if that is your wish.”
He smiled. Oh, God. As if the whole package weren’t enough, now a pair of fabulous dimples flashed into view. “Ben. Just Ben.” Then he frowned slightly, in consideration. “You’ve let your hair grow a lot longer. Not sure I like the length; it doesn’t really become you. I’ll have ML make an appointment for a cut and style tomorrow.”
Outwardly calm, inwardly quaking like an aspen leaf, she slid forward and rose to her feet. “Thank you so much, Mr. Taggart, for everything you’ve done. But I believe our association has just ended. I’ll go get my things, and call for—”
“Hold it, right there.” He had shot upright, his expression reading somewhere between irritation and amusement. Did no one ever cross his wishes? “What’s the problem? I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, if that’s what happened, but—”
“I don’t think our association will work, after all, Mr. Taggart. Please let me know how much you have spent on our—arrangements, so that I can—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The irritation won out, as evidenced by the muscle moving along his jawline as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. “What exactly has put a burr under your saddle?”
Caroline was already halfway to the door. “The fact that you don’t know tells me all I need. Good day, Mr. Taggart. Be sure to send me—”
“Stop.” Just that quickly he was beside her, one hand clamped around her wrist to prevent further movement. “Look, obviously you’re upset. And, I agree, this isn’t a good sign when we’ve only started to talk. But you have to tell me what’s wrong.”
Tipping her head back to meet his glare straight on, she dug deep for the bravado she needed to face him down. It had to be done, immediately, cleanly, or he would ride rough-shod over every aspect of her personality from here on.
“You made an assumption that may or may not be correct, Mr. Taggart. And then you usurped my own wishes. Whether you like my hair style, I will be the one deciding when and how much to get it cut. Do we understand each other?”
For a full minute, while a noisy flock of birds frolicked in the oak branches outside the window, Ben Taggart simply stared at her in astonishment. Then he began to laugh: first a slow gurgle of good humor, then a ripple that emanated upward and outward from his belly.
“May I be released now?” she asked primly, reminding him of his clasp.
“Okay. Okay.” Still chuckling, he obeyed. “Will you rejoin me, so we can make a fresh start at this whole thing?”
“Of course, Ben.” Having won what she considered a major point, Caroline returned to her seat. “Please tell me about your ranch, and about Sophie.”
“Be glad to, Carrie.” At her uplifted brow, he paused, questioning, with a hesitation that she guessed he rarely employed. The sense of command, of power, hung around him like an actual tangible scent. “What, no nickname, either?”
“I’m just not used to it, I admit. However, you may feel free to follow your preference.”
