The Billionaire Daddy. Renee Roszel
“This is your room,” he said
Lauren tried to appear unmoved, as though the suite was nothing more nor less than she was accustomed to on a day-to-day basis. The place was wonderful!
“It seems…adequate.” She made herself turn his way, and frowned. The intensity of his gaze had a surprising seductive quality. She dropped her gaze to Tina.
Her heart swelled, and she marveled at her good fortune to have stumbled into such an extraordinary opportunity—the chance to be with her niece, and to unmask Mr. Delacourte as utterly unfit to raise an innocent child.
“Come. I’ll show you the baby’s room.” He glanced back, and with the quirk of a brow, added, “And you can show me how to change a diaper.”
Her boss’s suggestion finally penetrated. “Show you how to what?”
“Change a diaper. Is there a problem?”
Yes, there’s a problem. I can’t change a diaper! she cried mentally.
He crossed his arms and lounged against the wall, eyeing her with a furrowed brow. “If I am to raise this child, there are things I should know how to do….”
Dear Reader,
Back by popular request is our deliciously delightful series—Baby Boom. We’ve asked some of your favorite authors in Harlequin Romance® to bring you a few more special deliveries—of the baby kind!
Baby Boom is all about the true labor of love—parenthood and how to survive it! The Billionaire Daddy by Renee Roszel is this month’s new arrival….
When two’s company and three (or four…or five) is a family!
The Billionaire Daddy
Renee Roszel
To Norman V. Roszel
and
Randall Albert Roszel
You are much missed
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
DADE DELACOURTE scowled at the tiny infant wrapped in pink. As the nurse wheeled the bassinet to the viewing window for his inspection, the baby slept on, innocently oblivious to his anger and shock. Dade’s narrowed gaze moved to a card, taped to the newborn’s bed. Baby Girl Delacourte was boldly printed there for all of New York City to see.
He peered at the tiny bundle, then glanced at the picture he’d been handed. His image smiled up at him from the glossy print. Wrapped in his possessive embrace was a beautiful, smiling blonde.
Flipping the picture over, he read the scribbled writing. “Dade and Millie. It’s love!” Below that declaration was the date, March 15 of last year. The baby had been born yesterday, December 15. Nine months to the day…
He flicked his glance to the child. Sometime during the night, the newborn’s mother had slipped unnoticed from the hospital. Before her disappearance, however, she’d listed Dade Delacourte as the child’s father on the birth certificate. Her coup de grâce had been this picture she’d left behind, a telling testament to Dade’s paternity.
The situation was all very cut-and-dried. The mother, Millicent “Smith” had abandoned her child. Dade, the father of record, would necessarily take custody.
There was only one small hitch in the scenario. Dade had never seen this woman before in his life.
But saying so would repair nothing, either legally or morally. He eyed the fidgety hospital administrator and gave a curt nod. “Naturally I’ll pay the bill.” He crumpled the photo in his fist. “The child is mine.”
CHAPTER ONE
Nearly six months later
LAUREN SMITH knew she was crazy. A sane woman wouldn’t burst into the lobby of a swanky Manhattan high rise, all marble and crystal and gold. Not a sane woman wearing a bargain basement shift and carrying a battered canvas suitcase. Yet, even as deranged as she was, she realized she was a far cry from the type who belonged in these surroundings.
Since her sanity was no longer a consideration, she might as well forge on, figure out a way to dredge up the nerve to force a confrontation with the rich and powerful scoundrel who occupied the penthouse.
“You will go up to that fancy doorman and demand entry.” She stiff-armed the revolving door. The uniformed sentry eyed her with mistrust. She swallowed. “Don’t let him see your fear,” she muttered. “Tell him you’ll chain yourself to—to…” She gave the cavernous, glittering lobby a panicked examination. “To what? With what?”
Plan B.
She yanked back her shoulders and marched toward the scowling watchdog in his fancy epaulets and frippery. “Make him understand this is a matter of life and death,” she muttered under her breath. She eyed the man with bloodthirsty resolve. “His!”
The guard opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I must see Mr. Dade Delacourte immediately, on a matter of—”
“It’s about time!” He grasped her elbow and whirled her toward a bank of gilded elevators. “Get up there, girl!” He turned a key in a slot above the buttons marking the building’s eighty floors. “Mr. Delacourte is roaring like a wounded lion.”
Before she could demand or threaten or even breathe, Lauren found herself shooting upward. She grabbed the rail to avoid staggering to her knees, no longer curious about how it felt to be blasted into space. Dazed, she watched the floors zoom by—35-48-67…After soaring past eighty, the elevator kept going, though the space where the numbers had been displayed went ominously blank. “Where does this guy live?” She strangled the handrail, suddenly panicked. “Pluto?”
The rocketing conveyance came to a stop so smooth Lauren