Boardroom Baby Surprise

Jackie Braun

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Copyright

Jackie Braun is a three-time RITA® finalist, three-time National Readers’ Choice Award finalist and past winner of the Rising Star Award. She worked as a copy-editor and editorial writer for a daily newspaper before quitting her day job in 2004 to write fiction full time. She lives in Michigan with her family. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com

‘My heroine comments that she usually doesn’t fall for the tall, dark and brooding type. Neither do I, but we both made an exception in Bryan Caliborn’s case.’

—Jackie Braun

Dear Reader

BOARDROOM BABY SURPRISE is my nineteenth book. (Twentieth if you count the first one I ever wrote. It was a train wreck that never got published.) Anyway, each book presents its own set of challenges and rewards. The process is never the same. But it often happens when I sit down to write that the characters come to me first.

That was the case with this book. My heroine, Morgan Stevens, is independent and self-sufficient, but when she finds herself alone and a new mother she is forced to rely on the hero, Bryan Caliborn. As for Bryan, he’s used to taking care of situations and looking after people, but in Morgan’s case he finds himself drawn in emotionally.

Lots of obstacles stand between them and their happy ending—which made the story tricky for me to write, but hopefully makes it that much more enjoyable for you to read.

As always, I welcome your comments. I can be reached through my website at www.jackiebraun.com

Best wishes

Jackie Braun

For my boys, Daniel and Will

CHAPTER ONE

SEATED in the tastefully decorated reception area at Windy City Industries, Morgan Stevens gripped the upholstered arm of the chair and panted as discreetly as she could.

Breathe, she coached herself. In…out…and again.

The jagged edge of the contraction was just beginning to wear off when the secretary returned through one of a trio of doors on the opposite wall.

The name on the woman’s desk plate was Britney. It suited her to a T. She was young, attractive, model-slender and crisply fashionable in a fitted black suit, bold-print silk blouse and a pair of killer heels. In comparison, Morgan felt decidedly dowdy in her pastel-colored maternity tent and the comfortable flat sandals that were the only shoes that would accommodate her swollen feet.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Caliborn is busy and can’t see you,” Britney said, working up a smile that looked about as sincere as a shark’s. “Might I suggest you make an appointment before coming by next time?”

Why? So he could be conveniently gone when she got there? No way. Morgan had been trying to reach Bryan Caliborn for months. She laid a hand on her protruding midsection. Nearly nine of them. The only correspondence she’d had in return, if it could be called such, was a letter from his legal counsel advising her that Mr. Caliborn disputed her allegation of paternity. In fact, he disputed knowing her. He considered her claims nothing less than extortion, and he would sue for damages if she continued to make them.

More than hurt and insulted by his threat, Morgan was outraged. If he didn’t want to play a role in their child’s life, fine. He should just say so. But to say they’d never met, well, that was beyond defense, legal or otherwise. She never would have taken Bryan Caliborn for such a ruthless, heartless man. Nor had he seemed slow, but he had to be if he wasn’t aware that all it would take was a bit of DNA to confirm Morgan was telling the truth. She’d hoped, apparently in vain, to avoid that sort of ugliness.

Rising awkwardly to her feet, she returned the young woman’s smile with one that was equally insincere. “Fine. Please pencil me in for his earliest availability.”

“Let me just check his calendar and see when that might be,” Britney said.

Morgan saw no sense in arguing with the secretary. She would deal with the elusive businessman herself. And she would do so now. While Britney walked behind her desk, Morgan headed to the door through which the woman had appeared a moment earlier. She assumed it was Bryan’s office. Opening it, however, she found it was a conference room, a conference room that was filled with suit-clad professionals seated around an oblong cherry table. File folders were open in front of them, not that they were looking at the pie charts and bar graphs. They were gaping at Morgan. But it was the man at the far end of the room who held her attention.

Handsome? No. A better word would be arresting. He had dark, almost black hair and eyes of the same fathomless hue. His face was angular with sharp cheekbones and slashing brows that, at the moment, were pulled down in a frown. The nose above his sculpted, flesh-toned lips was thin and just crooked enough to give it character.

Morgan swallowed. Even seated, it was obvious he was tall and powerfully built. Never in her life had she been attracted to the dark and brooding sort, but something about this man was definitely appealing. She told herself it was only because he seemed oddly familiar.

That thought shattered when he spoke. She’d never heard a voice like that before. He didn’t break the silence so much as pulverize it. His words boomed through the room like a thunderclap when he demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Sorry,” she began, backing up a step only to bump into the secretary, who took Morgan’s arm. The gesture seemed more like an effort to detain rather than to steady her, which irritated Morgan enough to prompt her to say, “I need to speak with Bryan Caliborn, and I need to speak to him right now. I thought he might be in here.”

“He is.” All eyes turned to the big man at the end of the table, who was now rising to his feet. He was every bit of six-four, maybe six-five, and every inch of him radiated power and authority. Again she had the odd feeling that she knew him, but it came as an utter shock when he said, “I’m Bryan Caliborn.”

“No.” Morgan shook her head, sure that she had heard him wrong. “You’re n—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Her water broke, releasing in a gush to form an unbecoming puddle on the polished parquet floor. The secretary let go of Morgan’s arm and jumped back, anxious to protect her Marc Jacobs pumps from harm. The people seated around the table gasped in unison, pulling back in their seats, as if Morgan’s condition were contagious. Only the man who claimed to be Bryan moved. Swearing richly half under his breath, he stalked around the table toward her.

“Sorry,” Morgan whispered, though she felt more mortified than apologetic.

She would have left then, turned and run away—or waddled as the case may be—but as her luck would have it, another contraction began to build. She angled away from him, hoping to make it to the reception area’s couch to wait out the worst of it. She made it only one step before grabbing the door frame and sagging against it. Using the other hand to support her abdomen, she fought the urge to whimper. Nothing was going as planned. Nothing had gone as planned in a long, long time.

“Britney, call an ambulance,” the big man barked. To Morgan he said, “I take it you’re in labor.”

Labor? She was being wrenched apart from the inside out. None of the books she’d read, none of the classes she’d taken had prepared her for this kind of pain. But she nodded, worried that any attempt at speech would release not only a whimper but a wailing shriek. God, she hurt.

She needed to sit down. She needed some of the drugs she’d learned about in her birthing class. She needed her mother. Only one of those things was an option now, but before Morgan could wilt to the floor, she was scooped up in a pair of powerful arms and carried into the office that was one door down from the conference room.

He settled her on the leather couch and returned a moment later with what looked to be a balled-up trench coat and a glass of water. He positioned the trench behind her head on the arm rest and then thrust the glass at her. Morgan wasn’t interested in water. For that matter, she doubted she could keep it down. But she dutifully took it and pretended to sip from the glass. His rigid demeanor told her he wasn’t the sort of man who stood for being defied. And while she generally wouldn’t stand for being bullied, she was in no shape to put him in his place.

“The ambulance will be here any moment,” the secretary said, peeking around the semi-closed door.

“An ambulance really isn’t necessary,” Morgan began. Not to mention that it would be expensive for someone who had just lost her health insurance along with her teaching job when the school year had ended a week earlier. The economy being what it was, the district didn’t have the funds for extras like music.

The worst of the contraction had passed, so she swung her legs over the edge of the couch and planted her feet on the floor. She would go now, exiting as gracefully as her condition allowed. Her car was in the parking ramp adjacent to the building and she could be at Chicago’s Northwestern Memorial Hospital in less than twenty minutes, assuming the traffic lights and her finicky compact car cooperated.

What stopped her wasn’t the big man, even though he took a lurching step in her direction, but the framed picture on the wall just to the right of the door. In it two men stood arm in arm, one dark and brooding, the other fairer and far less serious. Morgan blinked. She knew those smiling eyes, that windblown brown hair and carefree expression. By turns sweet and silly, this was the man with whom she’d spent seven lovely and, for her, uncharacteristically reckless days in Aruba.

Bryan.

She must have said the name aloud because when she glanced over, the man’s gaze also was on the photograph, his mouth compressed into a line so tight that it was hard to tell where his top lip ended and the bottom one began.

“You do know him,” she accused, pointing to the photograph. “You do know Bryan Caliborn.”

“I am Bryan Caliborn,” he proclaimed a second time. “That’s Dillon, my younger brother.”

Dillon…

Brother…

The words registered slowly, poking through a haze of disbelief. Though a part of her wanted to dispute them, the proof—all six-feet-something of it—was literally standing before her, his arms crossed, his expression ominous and intractable.

Bryan…rather, Dillon—the man who’d fathered Morgan’s baby, hadn’t given her his real name. This wasn’t exactly the kind of revelation a woman needed to hear with motherhood a few centimeters and a couple of hard pushes away. It made Morgan wonder what else he had lied about. What other truths he had obscured with his beguiling kisses and those impeccable manners she’d found every bit as seductive as his smile.

In her best schoolteacher’s voice, she demanded, “I want to see him.” For good measure, she added, “And don’t you dare tell me I need to make an appointment. As you can see, I’m not in any condition to wait an hour let alone a week or two.”

“It’s not possible,” the real Bryan had the audacity to say. She opened her mouth, intending to let loose with a blistering retort. Before she could, though, he said, “Dillon’s dead.”

Anger abandoned her, evaporating like water on hot asphalt. Bewilderment took its place—bewilderment and a couple dozen other emotions that swirled around in a dizzying mix. Since her legs threatened to give, Morgan backed up to the couch, sinking onto its cushions.

“He’s dead?”

Bryan’s head jerked down in a nod.

“But how? When?” She asked the questions, needing to know even though the answers really didn’t matter. What would they change? Not only was she about to become a single mother, her baby would never know his or her father. She swallowed a fresh wave of nausea. For that matter she hadn’t known her baby’s father.

“Six months ago. A skiing accident in Vail, Colorado.” The words came out stilted, made curt by grief. Or was that some other emotion lurking in those onyx eyes?

“I…I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I.” He glanced meaningfully at her stomach. “Where did you and Dillon meet?”

“Aruba. Last August.”

She’d gone there alone, using the tickets she’d bought her folks for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. They’d never had a honeymoon. Morgan had wanted to give them one as a surprise. Before she could, though, they’d died in a fluke carbon monoxide accident at their home. Though she wasn’t one to make excuses for her behavior, her grief helped explain why someone as levelheaded as she usually was had fallen for the faux Bryan’s advances in the first place. She’d been lost, lonely. He’d been charming and a distraction from bitter reality.

“And you…spent time with my brother?” One brow arched in disapproval as Bryan once again glanced at her abdomen.

“Yes.”

If she’d felt awkward and conspicuous before, she felt doubly so now. She stood, intent on leaving this time, though where exactly she would go beyond the hospital she hadn’t a clue. She was between jobs, between homes and in a strange city without family.

A pair of emergency medical technicians arrived before Morgan could get to the door. They carried black bags and were pushing a gurney.

She held up a hand. “Oh, this really isn’t necessary. I can get to the hospital on my own steam. My contractions aren’t that close together.”

Even as she said this another one began. Just how many minutes had passed since the last? She didn’t dare chance a glance at her wrist now.

“It is necessary,” Bryan objected. “Assuming what you say is true, that child is a Caliborn.”

“Assuming—” She gritted her teeth, and not because of the contraction. She would have stalked out then, but one of the technicians, a kind-faced man with salt-and-pepper hair and a bushy mustache, laid a hand on her arm.

“Let’s have a look at you first, okay? We wouldn’t want you to have that baby while you’re stuck in traffic on Michigan Avenue.”

He reminded Morgan of her father, which was the only reason she let him lead her back to the couch.

Once she was seated, the EMT knelt in front of her and pulled a blood-pressure cuff from his bag. As it inflated over her upper arm, she glanced at Bryan, who stared back at her stone-faced. She was coming to know that expression. She could only imagine what he was thinking.

Damn Dillon! Damn him for doing this. And damn him for being dead!

Bryan wanted to throttle his little brother, pin him in a chokehold like he used to do when they were kids and pound some sense into him. Only he couldn’t. Knowing that reopened a wound that had just barely begun to heal. Why did Dillon have to go and get himself killed?

Bryan still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that Dill was gone, buried in the family plot at Winchester Memorial Gardens alongside their paternal grandparents and a spinster great-aunt. How was it possible for someone that vibrant and full of life to die? Half the time Bryan wanted to believe that his younger brother was simply off on another one of his irresponsible jaunts, charging his good time to Bryan’s accounts.

He’d done that often enough after burning through his own trust fund by his late twenties, Vail being the last wild excursion. Bryan had been furious when his credit card company had called to confirm the charges. Only the best accommodations and restaurants for his little brother. He’d dialed Dill at the luxury hotel where he was staying in a suite that was costing Bryan a few grand a night, and left him a blistering message.

“Grow up, already!” he’d shouted into the receiver. “You’re thirty, for God’s sake. You have a position at the company if you’d ever deign to work. You need to start earning your own way and stop mooching off me. You do it again and I swear, Dill, I’ll call the police.”

Of course, he wouldn’t have. But he’d been so furious.

Now, sitting in his office looking both terrified and lovely as she answered the EMT’s questions and cringed her way through another contraction, was one doozy of an example of his little brother’s foolishness. As per usual, it would be up to Bryan to clean up the mess. He’d done that Dill’s entire life. Apparently, that applied posthumously, too.

He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. This mess was going to be harder than the others, assuming Morgan wasn’t lying about her baby’s paternity. That was a possibility given the Caliborn family’s net worth. She probably thought she had a big payout coming. Given the state of his brother’s finances, she was in for a rude awakening. Unfortunately, determining the truth wasn’t as easy as requesting a DNA test. It wasn’t because the father in question was deceased. Bryan’s DNA could be used to confirm a biological link between the baby and the Caliborns. That was precisely what had him hesitating. He was in no hurry to go through that…again.

He had to say, Morgan Stevens wasn’t Dill’s usual type. His brother had always gone for flashy women—bombshell blondes, busty brunettes and sassy redheads whose idea of keeping up with current events was to leaf through the tabloids while they had their hair styled. One of the dates Dill had brought to a family dinner last year had actually thought Austria was an abbreviation for Australia.

Morgan appeared to be intelligent and well-spoken, if her phone messages and letters were any indication. She was wearing conservative, if hideous, attire and, despite her advanced pregnancy, didn’t appear to be built like a Playboy centerfold.

So, just what had Dill seen in this woman?

Bryan didn’t have to wonder what Morgan had seen in Dill. His brother had been good-looking, charming and exceptionally free with his money, which he could afford to be since the money was actually Bryan’s.

Gold digger.

It was an old-fashioned term, but Bryan had met enough of those sort of women over the years to know it still applied. Rock stars weren’t the only ones who had groupies. Power brokers attracted them, too, though admittedly they were more refined and they tended to be looking for a ring and a Bergdorf charge card.

His ex-wife came to mind. She was remarried to a Texas oil tycoon whose fortune made the Caliborns’ look paltry by comparison. And she’d borne the tycoon a son, a son who, for a brief time, she’d allowed Bryan to believe was his.

The scandal had been the talk of Chicago for months after the news broke. The DNA test results had been leaked to the media—even before Bryan had seen them. The gossipmongers had had a field day and they would again if they caught wind of this.

Morgan’s moan brought him out of his bitter musings. Her lips parted and she began to pant. Her eyes were pinched closed, her face drawn and dotted with perspiration. She looked incredibly young and scared, especially when she whispered brokenly, “I don’t…think I can…do this.”

Bryan didn’t like weakness. In business, he considered it a character flaw. Oddly, her vulnerability touched him. It made him want to go to her, hold her hand, stroke her cheek and offer reassurance. Absurd reactions, all. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the edge of his desk instead.

“Sure you can. You’re going to be fine,” the EMT told her. “Lie back on the couch now. I’m just going to check to see how far you’ve dilated.”

That brought Bryan upright. He was no expert on labor and delivery, but he’d heard that term before and knew what it meant. On his way to the door, he said, “I’ll be outside.”

In the reception area, he paced uncharacteristically. He was used to taking charge of any given situation and then taking action. At the moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. Should he call his folks, who were currently vacationing abroad, and tell them…what? What exactly could he say? Congratulations, you may soon be grandparents.

Dill’s death had been so hard for Julia and Hugh Caliborn to accept. The death of a child, no matter how old, was wrong. It flouted the natural order of things. Parents were not supposed to bury their offspring.

Bryan pictured his mother upon hearing about Morgan’s baby. She would be excited and weepy about reclaiming a precious bit of her younger son. No doubt, she would lavish the child with every comfort and amenity. And Morgan, too, by default. She’d done the same with his former wife and the baby she’d been cruelly duped into believing was her first grandchild. Four months before the due date his mother had already made over one of her home’s guest rooms into a nursery. Then she’d thrown her daughter-in-law a lavish shower, buying everything left on gift registry afterward. She’d been at the hospital for the birth, crying the happy tears women cry at such occasions. And, eighteen months later, when they’d learned that Caden Alexander Caliborn was not a Caliborn at all, she’d shed more tears, nearly as devastated as Bryan had been.

He clenched his fists. Until he knew for certain this young woman wasn’t pulling a very convincing con, he had to protect them. That meant keeping news of Morgan not only from his parents, but from the press.

“Britney,” he called as he stalked to her desk. “Not a word of this leaves the building. If anyone in the conference room has questions about who this young woman is or why she came here looking for me today, you direct them to me. Understand?”

“Of course, Mr. Caliborn. You know you can count on me…for anything.” Her smile was a just a little too personal for his liking, but he ignored it. In all other aspects, Britney was an efficient and loyal employee. Her apparent crush on him would wane in time, especially if he kept doing nothing to encourage it.

When he turned around, the EMTs were wheeling Morgan out of his office on the gurney. Her head was elevated. Her face was as white as a sheet.

“Will you be coming with us?” the older EMT asked. “We have room in the ambulance if you want to accompany your wife to the hospital.”

Wife? He heard Britney gasp and gritted his teeth. Another rumor to dispel.

“She’s not my wife,” he bit out as the old bitterness returned. He glanced at his ring finger, recalling the gold band he’d once worn. To him, it had been a symbol of his love and fidelity. It wasn’t until Camilla had asked for a divorce that he’d learned neither had been returned.

Whatever the EMT thought of Bryan’s blunt denial, he masked with his professionalism. “Maybe you could make some calls for her then. It would be nice for her to have some support in labor and delivery, even if it doesn’t look like she’ll be in there long.”

Bryan nodded and glanced at Morgan. In a gentler tone, he asked, “Who should I contact for you?”

Her eyes remained closed and though she was no longer panting; her voice was a breathy whisper when she replied, “No one.”

“What about your family, your parents? Give me their number and I’ll have Britney call them. They’ll want to know.”

Moisture had gathered at the corners of her closed eyes. It leaked down her temples now, blending into her perspiration-dampened hair. Weakness, he thought, once again drawn by her vulnerability. Before he realized what he was doing, he reached out and dried her tears.

Morgan’s eyes flicked open at the contact. Green, he realized. A rich and vivid green. Like precious twin emeralds. He pulled back his hand and cleared his throat. “Your parents’ number?”

“They’re gone.”

“Where can we reach them?” he asked.

“You can’t.” Bryan experienced an unfamiliar ache in his chest when Morgan whispered brokenly, “I have no one. No one at all.”

CHAPTER TWO

SEVEN hours later, Bryan paced the length of the waiting room, sipping tepid coffee from a disposable cup while his gaze strayed to the large clock on the wall. It was after six, but Morgan remained in labor. So much for the EMT’s assertion that the delivery would be accomplished quickly.

What was he doing at the hospital? He didn’t have an exact answer, though duty ranked high on his list of choices. Given Morgan’s claims, he felt a certain sense of obligation to follow up on the situation. Of course, that didn’t explain why the minute the EMTs had wheeled her into the elevator he’d told Britney to clear his schedule for the afternoon, then he’d hopped in his Lexus, arriving at the hospital in record time. The entire way, he’d recalled Morgan’s pinched features and heart-tugging vulnerability.

She needed someone. Bryan was the only someone available.

He finished the remainder of the coffee and tossed the cup into the receptacle. If he’d known the birth was going to take this long, he would have lingered at the office or at the very least brought his laptop with him. Duty, he thought again. As Windy City Industries’ Vice President of Operations and soon to be CEO, he had plenty of work to keep him busy.

“Mr. Caliborn?”

He turned expectantly at the sound of the nurse’s voice. The woman stood in the doorway, a smile lurking around her lips, which he took as a good sign. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until she said, “The baby is a boy.”

Another Caliborn boy. Was this one the real thing? He pushed aside that question and asked, “Is everything…okay?”

“Fine. The baby is perfectly healthy and a respectable seven pounds, eleven ounces.”

He cleared his throat. “And Morgan?”

“She’s doing well, all things considered. It was a difficult labor, especially toward the end. For a while the doctor thought he might have to take the baby by caesarean section, but it all worked out.”

Because he didn’t know what else to say—a rare occurrence for him and not an entirely pleasant one—he offered a curt nod. Then he went to collect his suit coat from the back of one of the chairs. If he hurried, he could catch a couple of members of his management team before they left their offices for the day and maybe go over some of the plans for the company’s overseas expansion. But even as he was shoving his arm into a coat sleeve, he was changing his mind. Leaving seemed wrong.

“Excuse me!” he called out to stop the nurse. “I know it’s late, but would it be possible for me to see…the baby?”

That’s all he wanted, a glimpse at this child who might very well be his brother’s legacy and the sole Caliborn heir, as Bryan certainly had no desire to put his heart on the line ever again. For him, marriage and fatherhood were a closed chapter.

“I think that can be arranged.” The nurse smiled again before slipping out of the room.

Unfortunately, seeing the baby wasn’t as simple as taking a quick peek in a nursery window so Bryan could assuage his curiosity while maintaining his distance. The newborn was with its mother, the nurse told him when, forty-five minutes later, she led him down the corridor to Morgan’s room.

“Don’t stay too long,” she advised. “Morgan really needs her rest.”

He raised his hand to knock. Even as his knuckles grazed the door he wondered what he would say. In a business setting he could hold his own, but he’d never been good at casual conversation with virtual strangers. That had been Dill’s specialty.

After his knock, he waited for Morgan to call for him to come in. Instead, the door was flung wide by a bleary-eyed man decked out in wrinkled green scrubs and wearing a sappy grin.

“Have a cigar,” the man said, thrusting a cellophane-wrapped stogie into Bryan’s hand.

Bryan pegged him to be about thirty, and, given his attire, he’d been at the hospital for some time. So much for Morgan’s Oscar-worthy claim that she had “no one.” Disgusted with himself for falling once again for a woman’s lies, he turned to leave.

“Hey, wait!” The man grabbed his arm. “I take it you’re here to see the other new mom.”

Other new mom? Bryan shifted back and glanced into the room. A brunette, presumably the man’s wife, was holding a blanket-wrapped infant in the first bed. Beyond her, a drawn curtain partitioned the room.

“Maybe I should come back,” Bryan said. He already felt awkward and now he was going to have an audience.

“Nah. Come in,” the man coaxed, tugging on Bryan’s arm. Lowering his voice, he added, “I think she could use some company. The nurses said she went through labor alone and I overheard them say she doesn’t have a husband or anything.” His cheeks turned red. “You’re not the baby’s—”

“No.”

Bryan shook off the man’s hand and walked to the far end of the room. When he peeked around the curtain, Morgan’s eyes were closed. He used the opportunity to study her in a way that would have been rude if she were awake. Matted blond hair and a blotchy complexion offered proof of the hours she’d spent in labor…all alone. It wasn’t guilt he felt. He had no reason for that. But something else nudged him. Admiration? She’d certainly shown a lot of grit when she’d burst into the conference room, demanding to see him. As she slept, her brow wrinkled and what he was experiencing shifted, softened. Once again he felt the odd desire to touch her and offer comfort.

From the other side of the curtain, he heard the man talking softly to his wife. Though Bryan couldn’t hear the actual words, the tone was intimate. He recalled seeing a bouquet of fragrant flowers and a congratulatory helium balloon bobbing toward the ceiling. When Bryan’s wife had given birth, he’d bought out the hospital’s floral shop and had lavished her with gifts, including a diamond pendant necklace and matching earrings.

Morgan’s side of the room was stark. No flowers, no balloons. No man whispering soft words of love and encouragement. No expensive gifts from a proud father. Bryan swallowed. He tried to picture Dill in the role of new dad. He tried to picture his brother being supportive and taking responsibility. But he couldn’t. Even in a situation like this.

What was it Dillon had said upon learning Bryan was to become a father? After offering his congratulations, he’d added, “Better you than me.”

How bitterly ironic.

From the bassinette beside the bed came a faint sound, more like a mewling than a proper cry. Morgan might have been exhausted but her eyes opened immediately at the sound and a smile tugged at her lips.

“I’m here,” she crooned softly as she shifted somewhat awkwardly to sit on the edge of the bed. “Mommy’s here.”

It was then that she noticed Bryan.

He cleared his throat, feeling as if he should apologize for intruding. Instead, he said, “Hello.”

“Hi. I didn’t realize you were here. I must have dozed off for a minute.” She attempted to run her fingers through her hair, only to have them snag in a knotted clump of pale gold. Her cheeks grew pink.

“I won’t stay. If I’d known you were asleep…” He shrugged. “I just stopped in to see the baby and… Do you need anything?”

“No.” Then she shrugged. “Well, the little suitcase I had packed and ready for the hospital would be nice. I have a hairbrush in it, among other things.” Her smile turned wry.

“Where is it? I’ll send someone for it.”

“At my hotel.” When she mentioned the hotel’s name Bryan’s lips must have twisted in distaste, because she said dryly, “Apparently it’s not up to your high standards.”

No, it wasn’t. The place was little more than a flophouse. He kept that opinion to himself, though the idea of her and the baby—of any young, single woman and helpless infant—staying there bothered him tremendously.

“I’ll have Britney bring it by first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.” When he backed up a step, she said, “Don’t you want a closer look?”

He did. That was why he’d come to her room when good sense had told him to be on his way. Yet he hesitated, oddly more afraid of what he might not see than what he might.

The baby was lying on its back. Bryan remembered from Caden’s infancy that doctors recommended the position to prevent Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. When Caden had learned to roll over onto his stomach, Bryan had woken up at all hours of the night to check on him, watching his tiny back rise and fall in the low light of the nursery.

“He has hair under the cap,” Morgan said.

Bryan spied a few dark brown wisps poking out. Puffy eyes, that deep sea-blue ubiquitous to newborns, were wide open, and though the baby probably was merely trying to focus, he seemed to be regarding Bryan. Finally, one side of his tiny mouth crooked up in a fair imitation of a smile.

Dillon.

Bryan felt as if he’d taken a sledgehammer to the solar plexus. He saw his brother in that little face, not in obvious ways, for the baby’s features were too small. But taken in total, they reflected familiarity. Bryan’s heart ached again, this pain bittersweet because he couldn’t be completely sure he was seeing things as they were or as he wished them to be.

That had been the case once before. And how it had cost him to believe and later find out he’d been deceived.

“What will you name him?” he asked stiffly.

“Brice Dillon Stevens.”

He nodded, not surprised that she’d worked his brother’s name in somehow. But he wondered if Morgan had chosen to give the child her surname because she was unmarried or because she knew the baby wasn’t really a Caliborn. Of course, that hadn’t stopped Bryan’s ex-wife. She’d tossed the child’s paternity in his face when their marriage had splintered apart. She’d stayed with Bryan for all the months it took her to convince the oil tycoon he was the biological father.

Bryan’s lips twisted at the memory.

“I suppose you listed my brother as the father on the birth certificate?”

“I did. Is that a problem for you?” Morgan’s voice held an edge that belied her otherwise fragile appearance. She looked so young and vulnerable in that hideous hospital-issue gown that snapped closed at the shoulders. Yet her direct gaze and even more direct query hinted at steel.

He ignored her question. “I’ll be going. You need your rest.” Before he did, though, he removed a business card from his wallet and handed it to her. “If you require anything else, my private number is on the back.”

“Thanks, but I won’t be calling. I’m…” She glanced down at the baby, her expression softening in a way that tugged at him. “We’re going to be just fine.”

After Bryan’s departure the doubts Morgan had been experiencing for the past several months once again began circling like vultures, picking away at her usual optimism and determination.

We’re going to be just fine.

Were they?

What had she been thinking, packing up and crossing state lines without a firm plan in place? That wasn’t like her. Of course, nothing about her current situation fell within her personal range of normal. What was she going to do for a job, a place to live?

She hadn’t come to Chicago expecting Bryan—er, Dillon—to help out financially, though their child certainly was entitled legally and morally to monetary support. But she had hoped he would offer to pitch in on some expenses, such as the hospital bill. After that, she’d planned to leave up to him how much or how little he wanted to be involved in his son’s life both physically and financially. Morgan wasn’t a charity case. She had a small settlement from her parents’ estate. Unfortunately, the higher cost of living in Chicago was chewing through it more quickly than she’d anticipated.

And now she’d discovered that Dillon not only had lied to her about his identity, but he had been killed in an accident every bit as unforeseeable as the one that had claimed her parents. Gazing at the son they had created together in Aruba, she wasn’t quite sure how to feel. Being angry over his betrayal served no purpose. He was gone. She wanted to mourn the man she had known as Bryan, and she did, in the abstract way one mourns any life that is snatched away too soon. And, of course, she mourned him as her baby’s father. Morgan had been lucky enough to enjoy a close relationship with both of her parents, but she’d been especially tight with her dad. She’d wanted the same for Brice. God knew her son had precious few relatives as it was, with her parents gone.

As for mourning Dillon as someone significant to her, she didn’t. She couldn’t. It simply wasn’t possible since she hadn’t known him well. Indeed, beyond physically, she hadn’t known him at all, she realized again, and experienced another wave of shame. She wasn’t the sort of woman who engaged in a vacation fling, which perhaps explained why she’d gotten pregnant the one and only time she’d been foolish enough to throw caution to the wind. Or maybe subconsciously she had wanted a child, someone to love and nurture and to help fill up the yawning emptiness she’d felt since her parents’ deaths.

Whatever the reason, looking at her newborn son now she had no regrets.

“I love you,” she whispered, leaning over to stroke his cheek.

Indeed, Morgan had loved him from the time she’d learned he was growing inside her. But love, even a love this grand and expansive, wasn’t capable of obliterating her concerns. And she had plenty of those.

From the other side of the curtain, she could hear the couple discussing who they wanted to act as their newborn’s godparents. Judging from the number of names they tossed around, they had a lot of people to choose from. Morgan wasn’t completely without relatives, though none lived in the midwest. She did have a small circle of friends back in Wisconsin. A couple of them had urged her to stay in town even after she’d lost her job.

Jen Woolworth, another teacher, one with more seniority who had weathered the latest round of cuts, had been particularly vocal against Morgan leaving the state.

“Hon, you’re due soon. You shouldn’t be traveling, let alone moving. Stay here with us,” she’d urged.

The offer had been tempting. Jen was a dear friend and the two of them often grabbed a cup of coffee after school or hooked up on the weekends for a little shopping and girl talk. But Jen shared a small bungalow-style home with her husband, two rambunctious prepubescent boys and an incontinent miniature poodle they had named Puddles for obvious reasons.

They had enough chaos and no room for another adult, let alone an adult and an infant, even if Jen claimed it would be no big deal to make her boys bunk together in one of the small bedrooms, freeing up the other ten-by-eleven-foot space to serve as Morgan’s living quarters and nursery.

The baby fussed. Morgan pulled down her gown, recalling the instructions she’d received in her prenatal classes. Nursing should have been easy. It was the most natural thing in the world, right? But Brice seemed as baffled by it as she was, and he grew fussier by the minute. Finally, he all-out wailed. It was a pitiful sound, heartbreaking. As tears brimmed in Morgan’s eyes, she felt demoralized.

We’re going to be fine.

The words mocked her now. Had she really said them to Bryan less than half an hour ago? Had she, even for a moment, really believed it herself?

She wanted to join Brice in crying, but she didn’t. She’d never been a quitter and she wasn’t about to become one now. Her son needed her. He was depending on her. She couldn’t let him down. The luxury of tears would have to wait.

“Let’s try this again,” she murmured resolutely.

He finally latched on after a couple more false starts.

The flowers—a huge vase full of festive daisies, lilies and delicate irises—arrived as Morgan was putting Brice back in the bassinet. She couldn’t imagine who would have sent her such an expensive bouquet. No one back in Wisconsin knew Morgan had given birth and she didn’t know anyone in Chicago. Well, no one except for… No way.

She plucked the little white envelope from its holder among the blooms and tore it open. Sure enough, written in slashing bold cursive under the card’s pre-printed congratulatory message was the name Bryan Caliborn.

The real Bryan Caliborn.

She blinked. Who would have guessed that hard, brooding man could be so thoughtful? An hour later, when a couple of orderlies came to move her and the baby to a private room down the hall, Morgan added the word accommodating to his attributes. This room was far more spacious and included amenities such as a plush rocking chair, cable television, a padded window seat and framed reproductions of museum-quality art on the walls.

Just about the time Morgan was beginning to think she’d completely misjudged him, Bryan ruined it with his edict.

That’s what the typewritten missive amounted to. It was delivered the morning she was to be released from the hospital by the same snooty receptionist who’d brought Morgan’s suitcase by the day before: Britney. The young woman arrived just as Morgan finished dressing in a shapeless, oversize dress. Of course, Britney looked slender and runway chic in a fitted jacket, flirty skirt and peep-toe high heels.

“This is for you.” Britney set a large shopping bag on the bed and handed Morgan a note. It was from his highness.

Though Morgan was curious about the contents of the bag, she was even more so about the note.

Morgan,

I have sent a car to deliver you and the baby to new accommodations that you may use for the rest of your stay in Chicago. Your bill at the hotel has been settled in full and I’ve taken the liberty of having your belongings collected and moved.

I have asked Britney to accompany you. I will be in contact later this evening to ensure you have everything you need.

Bryan

Relief came first. This was the answer to her prayers. Just the thought of taking Brice to that dingy hotel room that reeked of stale cigarette smoke made her nauseated. And housekeeping and laundry services were included. What new mother wouldn’t appreciate help with those time-consuming chores? But Bryan’s motive puzzled her. Was he doing this because he believed her or was he merely interested in keeping a closer eye on her? She read the note again, but still was unable to decipher any clues. This time, however, relief wasn’t all she felt. It chafed her pride that he’d made the arrangements and moved her things without at least running his plan by her first. She didn’t like being told what to do.

Nor what to wear, she added, when Britney scooted the bag closer and said, “Mr. Caliborn told me to pick up an outfit suitable for your trip home from the hospital.”

“I have clothes,” Morgan objected.

Britney eyed her dubiously before going on. “Yes, well, I brought a couple of selections for you to choose from. I had to guess your size, but I went with loose-fitting styles,” she added, her gaze straying to Morgan’s midsection.

Morgan knew she still looked pregnant. Not the ready-to-pop balloon she’d appeared to be at her first encounter with the svelte Britney, but a good four or five months gone.

“I have clothes,” she said a second time. The words came out forcefully, causing the baby to rouse from his slumber.

“Mr. Caliborn felt you would be more comfortable in fresh things,” Britney clarified.

“You can tell Mr. Caliborn—” Morgan began, fully intending to decline the offer, but that was as far as she got before Britney pulled a subtly printed dress from the bag. Then Morgan’s only concern was, “God, I hope that fits.”

Britney’s brows arched. “I can tell Mr. Caliborn what?”

“That I said thank you. And that I will reimburse him.”

It did fit. Morgan had to hand it to Britney. The woman not only had a good eye for fashion, she had a good eye for what would look best on Morgan’s post-pregnancy body. While nothing could completely camouflage her tummy, the dress Britney had picked certainly minimized it, while accentuating a couple of assets that also had been enhanced by pregnancy. She just hoped Brice wouldn’t need to nurse between now and the time they reached wherever it was they were going, because the dress, which zipped in the back, wasn’t made for that function.

“Much better,” Britney said when she saw Morgan.

Her tone bordered on astonished, but it was hard for Morgan to be offended when she agreed.

“Thank you.”

With a curt nod, Britney glanced at her watch. “I’ve called for an orderly to bring a wheelchair. You’ve signed your discharge papers, right?”

“I did that before you arrived.”

She nodded again and pulled out her cell phone. “Noah, it’s Britney. Have the car waiting at the main entrance in fifteen minutes.”

Morgan might have felt a bit like Cinderella then, except Britney was hardly fairy-godmother material and, of course, she had no Prince Charming.

Then Britney said into the phone, “If you see any photographers, call me back immediately and we’ll go to plan B.”

“Photographers?” Morgan asked as soon as the other woman hung up.

“Paparazzi. Every effort has been made to keep news of you and your son under wraps, but it pays to be cautious.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

Britney huffed out a breath. “The Caliborns are a big deal in this city. They’re in the headlines regularly for business and philanthropic reasons, but scandals always sell more papers than straight news.”

Great. Morgan was a scandal, her son’s birth fodder for the tabloids. No wonder Bryan had been eager to find her “alternative accommodations.”

CHAPTER THREE

MORGAN stepped into the apartment foyer behind Britney and gasped. She certainly hadn’t expected her new place to be a penthouse that offered views of Lake Michigan and the famous Navy Pier from windows that ran the length of the exterior wall.

In the large living room the color scheme was heavy on beige and other neutrals with nary a punch of color. The furniture was tasteful and obviously top quality, and included a baby grand piano that had Morgan’s fingertips tingling to play just looking at it, but the place didn’t look lived-in. Indeed, every last inch of it seemed as cold as the foyer’s Italian marble floor.

“Who owns this place?” Morgan asked. She swore the question echoed.

“Mr. Caliborn. It’s his home,” Britney replied with a roll of her eyes.

“He lives here?” That came as a surprise. He had such an imposing personality she’d expected to see it stamped on his belongings.

“Since his divorce three years ago.” The secretary arched a brow then and asked sarcastically, “What? It’s not up to your standards?”

“It’s not that. It just seems a little…impersonal.” Yes, that was the word. It looked more like a showroom in a high-end furniture store than a home. “There aren’t even any photographs.”

“Mr. Caliborn isn’t the sentimental sort.”

Morgan wasn’t sure she agreed. He kept a picture of Dillon in his office. And she also recalled seeing one of an older couple, most likely his parents. And then there were the flowers he’d sent to her hospital room. She said as much to Britney.

“Don’t be so naive, Miss Stevens. Appearances are important to someone in his position. Precautions have been taken just in case the press ever gets wind of you and your…situation. Hence the flowers.” Her gaze lowered. “And the new frock he had me select in case some industrious photographer managed to snap a shot of you leaving the hospital. Think of it as damage control.”

Damage control? Morgan felt as if she’d been doused in ice water, yet for all that she was steaming mad. Before she could muster a response, though, Britney was moving past her, high heels clicking purposefully on the marble floor before she disappeared through an arched doorway off the living room. Morgan was left with little choice but to trail behind her. After passing through the formal dining room, Morgan caught up with Britney in the kitchen.

“The pantry is fully stocked and so is the refrigerator.” The young woman opened the stainless-steel behemoth’s double doors, revealing shelves lined with staples including milk, juice, cheese, eggs and butter. The crispers were bursting with a mouth-watering assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. “Mr. Caliborn said to help yourself and to make a list of anything else you need. He has a housekeeper who comes in twice a week to do the cleaning and laundry. Hilda also takes care of buying his groceries.”

So he’d mentioned in his note. But that brought up a most pertinent question. “Where will Mr. Caliborn be staying?”

“His parents are abroad for the summer. He’s moved to their residence in Lake Forest for the time being.” Britney cast Morgan a quelling look. “It means he’ll have a longer commute to work, but apparently he felt you would be more comfortable here than in a hotel.”

Some of Morgan’s anger dissipated. She would be more comfortable here. That went without saying, but Morgan didn’t want to displace Bryan from his home and disrupt his routine. She would call him after Britney left. Maybe they could come up with a different solution.

“Besides, the doorman here is vigilant in guarding Mr. Caliborn’s privacy, and as such he’ll be sure to keep any reporters from slipping up to see you.”

Ah, yes. Damage control.

Brice stirred in her arms then. She lifted him to her shoulder and pulled off the little cap he was wearing. Dropping a kiss on his crown, she murmured, “Hey, sleepyhead, are you finally waking up?”

Britney’s gaze shifted to the baby. She was a career woman, emphasis on career, but surely she wasn’t immune to the allure of a newborn. Rather than softening, however, her expression hardened. Apparently, she was.

Still, Morgan asked, “Would you like to have children someday?”

Britney wrinkled her nose. “God, no! Though I suppose accidentally getting pregnant can wind up being the ticket to the good life.”

Morgan felt sucker punched. “What do you mean by that?”

The other woman snorted. “Take a look around and you’ll figure it out.”

“You think I’m after money?”

“Yes,” Britney said baldly. “And I doubt I’m the only one to reach that conclusion. I suggest you don’t get too comfortable with the Caliborn lifestyle. Bryan’s noble sense of obligation aside, ultimately, you’re not his type.”

Two things occurred to Morgan then. First, Britney didn’t know that the baby was Dillon’s, and second, the young woman had a serious crush on her boss.

Well, Morgan wasn’t going to clarify the situation if Bryan hadn’t. Though she longed to assure Britney the brooding businessman wasn’t her type either, she kept her mouth closed.

“The bedrooms are this way.” Britney click-clacked out of the kitchen, once again leaving Morgan to follow in her wake. “The one at the end of the hall is Mr. Caliborn’s. You’ll be using the guest suite.”

Britney swung open the first door they came to, revealing a large and neatly furnished room. The queen-size bed was outfitted in a taupe duvet. The walls were a couple of shades darker in the same color. A crib, changing table and glider-rocker were set up against the far wall. The pastel-blue bumper pads and comforter provided the only color.

Before Morgan could ask about the nursery furniture, Britney said, “Mr. Caliborn ordered furnishings for the baby. They’re top-of-the-line, of course.”

“But I have a crib and changing table.” They’d belonged to her friend Jen, who had given them to Morgan as a shower gift. For the time being they were in storage with the rest of her belongings.

Britney shrugged. “Now you have two. You’ll find diapers, wipes and all that sort of thing in the drawers of the changing table.”

“He’s thought of everything,” Morgan murmured, finding it impossible not to be touched by his efforts, no matter what their motivation.

“Yes. He always does.” Britney glanced at her watch, clearly eager to be gone. “My cell phone number is programmed into the telephone. You may call me at any time.”

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