The Butler's Daughter. Joyce Sullivan
he whispered.
Hunter closed his eyes, not caring that the dampness from her hair seeped into his pillow. He grudgingly allowed the exquisite softness of this woman he’d committed himself to marrying to register on his senses, to distract him from the headache grinding at his temples.
The faint shallow sound of her breathing gradually deepened and became regular.
She’d fallen asleep.
Hunter told himself he could leave her now, strip himself away from the forced intimacy of their joined bodies. Take some pain reliever for his headache. It would be light soon. There were numerous tasks still requiring his attention. But he didn’t move. Ross and Lexi were dead, their lives extinguished far too soon. Though Hunter never would have thought it possible, somehow, holding Juliana close to him like this made his own grief more bearable.
A MONTAGE OF PHOTOGRAPHS of Ross and Lexi Collingwood flashed on the TV screen, each looking as if it had been lifted straight out of the pages of a storybook fairy-tale romance—white teeth, stylish clothes, not a pimple to be seen or a hair out of place. There was no mention of the butler’s daughter or the baby.
A curled fist hit the desktop. Damn!
After all that careful planning, the baby had escaped his fate.
Not for long, though. Not for long.
Ross and Lexi’s killer smiled smugly and rose to thumb through the clothes hanging precisely one inch apart on the row of expensive wooden hangers. The specially chosen attire purchased for the funeral waited expectantly at the back of the closet like a gift to be unwrapped and savored on Christmas morning. The brand-new black leather shoes lined up beneath it, toes and heels aligned as if at attention. Half of the plan had been achieved. The baron of Wall Street and his oh-so-perfect wife were dead. How hard could it be to find the butler’s daughter?
The baby would be with her.
Soon, very soon, all the Collingwoods would be dead.
Chapter Three
Cort’s cries tore Juliana from sleep, uprooting her from what felt like a tangle of heavy branches until she realized that the branches flung over her torso were long and muscled—and belonged to a man.
Sunlight peeped through the partially closed drapes allowing her a glimpse of the slumbering man beside her.
He looked just as handsome and dangerous this morning as he had last night. What was Hunter doing in her bed?
A draft of cold air on her bare shoulder brought an even greater worry. How had she ended up naked in bed with him?
His eyes fluttered open, pinning her in the sights of his azure gaze. Juliana stared at him, transfixed, as his pupils narrowed to tiny dots and shifted downward to her breasts. Too late, she scrambled to pull the sheet up to cover herself, conscious of the heat that exploded in her stomach and crept over her body to sear her face.
“The baby’s crying,” she gasped. “Where’s my robe?”
Hunter blinked as if orienting himself, then threw back the covers and leaped out of bed. He was fully dressed. Memories slapped her like physical blows to the heart as she remembered the explosion. The Collingwoods were dead. Her father was in the hospital, clinging to life. And Hunter, the man she’d woken up beside this morning, expected her to hand over her freedom and her dreams and marry him to protect Cort’s identity.
“I’ll get Cort,” Hunter said gruffly, “and bring him in here while you find your robe.”
“He doesn’t know you—” she protested, searching the floor and the bedclothes for the practical toffee-colored velour robe her father had given her last Christmas.
He cut her off abruptly. “Then it’s time we got acquainted. Besides, a new father would be eager to see his son. Marquise and Valentina would expect it.”
He was right, Juliana realized, finally spotting her robe on the carpet on the opposite side of the bed. It looked like a mud puddle on the pale-blue wool—as glaringly out of place as she was in this apartment. Had Hunter climbed into her bed last night because he’d thought the servants would expect that, too?
She snatched up her robe, jamming her arms into the sleeves and hurried to the dresser to find fresh underwear and clothes. She doubted Hunter knew the first thing about diapering a baby.
Cort’s cries had stopped by the time Juliana had changed into a pair of black slacks and a sleeveless black cowl-neck sweater. Her hair was a mess, so she twisted it into a ponytail. Then she hastily brushed her teeth and splashed cold water on her face. She’d call the hospital and get an update on her father’s condition right after she’d checked on Hunter and Cort.
The deep murmur of Hunter’s voice coming from the nursery pulled at her in a curious way. She paused in the doorway, feeling both protective of her charge and uncertain of the man holding him near the window.
Cort’s blond head leaned trustingly on the biceps of Hunter’s arm as the infant cooed and gurgled up at the dark, unshaven face hovering over him. Hunter’s eyes were intent on the infant, but he glanced up as if he’d sensed Juliana’s arrival. Her heart locked solidly in her throat when she noticed moisture glimmering in the clear blue of his eyes.
“He’s beautiful,” he said simply. A muscle flexed rigidly in his jaw as if capping the pain inside him.
Juliana took a hesitant step into the room, torn between conflicting duties. The butler’s daughter would never intrude on his private sorrow. But as Hunter’s bride-to-be she supposed she should say something. Offer some comfort.
She stood there awkwardly, feeling completely out of her element, yet drawn to this dangerous-looking man who could be abrupt and cynical one moment and deeply compassionate the next. Words whispered from her, razor-edged with grief for Cort’s parents who would never know their son’s delightful nature. “He’s a bundle of joy. How did you do with his diaper?”
“No sweat. Just peel and stick. I’ve changed diapers before.”
“You have?” Why did her heart beat so fast when he looked at her like that—as if he could intuit every thought, every secret she’d ever harbored? She crossed her arms over her chest and resisted the urge to reach for Cort. Somehow seeing him so secure in Hunter’s arms seemed threatening, a reminder that Hunter had all the power to make decisions for Cort’s care.
Hunter shrugged his massive shoulders, Cort’s eyes widening at the sudden movement. “My sister, Brook, has two sons resulting from two of her three failed marriages. Both boys’ fathers work in New York and she brings them for visitation.” Juliana didn’t miss the wry curl to his tone.
“That explains the nursery. How old are they?”
“Mackensie is eight and Parrish is three. They’re rascals.” Hunter frowned, thinking of his nephews’ dubious futures and the way Juliana had her arms drawn over her breasts as if she thought he might pounce on her. Of course, she’d been somewhat underdressed when they’d awoken this morning. And the glimpse he’d had of one sleep-warmed, pearly breast and its rosebud tip had been so disconcerting he’d practically pole-vaulted out of the room to attend to Cort.
Even now, in that typical chic black New York getup, her wild tangled hair and the circles under her eyes, there was a freshness in her clear skin. An honesty dwelling in those rich brown eyes and a sweet sensuality to her curves that made the prospect of marrying her doubly alarming.
He’d never once considered taking a wife. His sister’s three disastrous marriages had cemented that resolve. And thankfully, had produced the requisite heir and a spare to the Sinclair family coffers.
Hunter had no illusions that he’d be any better than his sister or his father in choosing a soul mate.
How many times had he cautioned his clients about marrying in haste? Rushing into a relationship based on physical desire or—especially among the wealthy—an