Bought by a Millionaire (5 page)

Burke ran his hand along the length of her arm, the one without the IV, and slid his fingers between her own. “Then I'm glad I showed up when I did. The doctor seems to think you're going to be just fine, but I don't mind admitting that you scared ten years off my life this afternoon.”

Her lips curved in the hint of a smile. “Sorry.”

“You can apologize,” he said, returning her small grin, “by getting better. Fast.”

 

They spent a few more hours in the hospital, until Shannon was feeling significantly better, sitting up in bed and chatting—albeit raspily—with both Burke and Dr. Cox. After a couple shots were added to the saline drip and the IV drained out, the doctor released her with a few more instructions for taking care of herself once she returned home.

Even though she protested, the hospital required her to ride to the parking lot in a wheelchair, and Burke pushed her out of the building, then lifted her from the chair to the back seat of the limo. She'd have probably tried to argue about that, too, he thought, but he didn't ask permission; he just scooped her up before she had time to react and deposited her on the
black leather seat. Shannon, he was learning, was about as independent as they came.

But that was her bad luck, because he just happened to like taking care of people—or one particular person, at least. And for the next little while, he fully intended to take exceptional care of her.

Back in her pajamas and huddled beneath the blankets he'd carried her from her apartment in, she curled up against the car door, her feet tucked up on the seat. The tip of her nose was red from her cold, her cheeks brighter than usual, and her hair a mass of tangled auburn curls.

Most women of his acquaintance wouldn't be caught dead—or might
only
be caught dead—in such disarray. But Shannon seemed either not to notice or not to care. She was sick and hadn't given a second thought to her appearance. She hadn't run to apply makeup the minute she woke up in the hospital, hadn't demanded someone run out and buy her a new outfit so she wouldn't be seen in her old flannel pajamas as so many other women he knew would have.

He liked that about her. Maybe more than he cared to admit.

“Feeling any better?” he asked, studying her from the opposite side of the car.

“Much. I'm still tired, but it will probably take a couple days to really bounce back.”

“We'll be home soon. You can climb into bed and sleep for a week, if you want.”

A small smile curved her lips, even as her eyes drifted shut. “I just might.”

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and cradle her as he had when she was nearly unconscious. He didn't think she'd be quite so acquiescent about it this time around, however. And since he planned to carry her up to his penthouse when they arrived, whether she
liked it or not, he might as well save his strength for that particular battle.

“Do you drive?” she asked, out of the blue. Her eyes remained closed, but she was apparently awake and in the mood to chat.

The question caught him off guard and he found himself wondering what she was talking about. “Drive what?”

Her lashes fluttered open at that and one corner of her mouth quirked upwards. “A car, a motorcycle, a scooter…anything.”

His brows pulled together. “Of course I drive. What kind of question is that?”

“I was just curious. You always seem to travel in a limousine, so I wondered if you ever drove yourself anywhere or even owned a car.”

“For your information, I own several cars. A Mercedes, a Jaguar convertible, the Town Car I sent over to your place…I use the limo most of the time, though, because it's convenient. It allows me a certain amount of privacy, and I can concentrate on work instead of the road.”

“I've never seen you working.”

He shot her a surprised glance. Her tone and expression claimed innocence, but the glint in her eye told him the question held more than a little devilment. “That's because when I'm with you, you're my only job.”

Her attempted chuckled turned into a cough. Burke slid across the seat, offering her a tissue from the nearby console as he slipped his arm around her back and tugged her close.

“In that case,” she said when she could speak again, “you deserve a raise. I'm supposed to be working for you, making your life easier. Instead, I've been nothing but trouble.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but didn't know what to say. The truth was, she'd been anything but a problem. He'd
felt more alive in the past month than he could ever remember. Accompanying her to doctor appointments, envisioning his child's birth and first days, looking forward to their frequent phone conversations so he could not only find out how her pregnancy was progressing, but also hear the soft, feminine lilt of her voice.

Even tonight, when he'd had to break down her apartment door and rush her to the hospital, he couldn't find it in him to care about the meetings he'd missed or the work he hadn't accomplished. His only regret was that he hadn't reached Shannon sooner, before she became so sick.

“You can make it up to me by not arguing about this,” he told her as he felt the limo ease to a stop in the underground garage of his Michigan Avenue office building, which also housed his personal penthouse apartment.

“About what?” she asked blankly.

The driver opened the door and Burke lifted her into his arms, exiting the car and heading for the elevator.

“Where are we?”

“My place.”

“What?” Her voice rose until it cracked, her head swinging back and forth as she glanced around. “Why are we here? Why aren't you taking me back to my apartment?”

“Because your apartment is substandard. The heat has been broken so long, you got sick. There's no one there to take care of you; and unless my people have taken care of the problem already, you're still missing a functioning door.”

The last part caught her attention and she quit wiggling around in his hold. “What happened to my door?” she wanted to know.

“You didn't answer when I knocked, so I broke it down.”

Shannon watched Burke closely, his face only inches from her own. She noticed the five o'clock shadow lining his jaw
from a long day spent in the emergency room with her. His dark eyes were storm-gray and focused straight ahead as he walked. His arms around her were warm and comforting.

She should probably be outraged about the destruction of her door, she thought, but couldn't seem to work up enough energy for a good mad. And to be fair, he'd done it out of concern for her well-being.

But as grateful as she was to him for taking her to the doctor and helping her get treatment for a cold she didn't realize had gotten out of hand, she didn't think staying at his apartment was a good idea. She should go back home and deal with both her illness and lack of heating on her own.

For the first time in a long time, though, she couldn't think of how to broach her concerns. He'd said she could pay him back for causing him so much trouble by not fighting. What kind of person would she be to argue with him now, after he'd done so much for her and asked her specifically not to argue?

“Um, Burke…”

His gaze darted in her direction, then back to the closed elevator doors as it whisked them silently skyward. “It's killing you, isn't it?”

“What?” she asked, concentrating on the muscles of his jaw. She swore she'd seen them twitch.

“You don't want me taking you up to my penthouse, and it's killing you not to say so.” His glance met hers for a long, drawn-out moment. “Am I right?”

The wind went out of her sails and the tension out of her bones. “Is it that obvious?”

“Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “I've figured out quite a bit about you in the past couple months, Shannon Moriarty.
Stubborn
and
independent
are vying for first place on your list of personality traits.”

“I'm not stubborn,” she insisted.

“But you are independent.”

She shrugged a shoulder, letting her fingers twist aimlessly on the soft material of his camel hair coat. “That's not necessarily a bad thing,” she mumbled.

“Of course not. But it's also not a bad thing to let other people help you out once in a while.”

The elevator doors whooshed open and Burke carried her across the hall and through a single doorway into a pristine, professionally decorated penthouse apartment. The sunken living room and part of the kitchen were visible from the small foyer area, and both reminded her of his office. Stark design, a lot of chrome and black, and very few personal items on display. To her, the apartment felt like an expensive hotel suite, where different guests could stay every night and never have any real impact on their surroundings.

Unlike her apartment, where every nook, cranny and free space was filled with some little trinket or piece of decoration she'd either picked out or designed herself.

But the view was amazing. Wide, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of the main living area, looking out over Lake Michigan. City lights twinkled in the darkness like a star-filled sky, and moonlight glinted off the huge black surface of the water.

“I'm pretty independent myself,” Burke continued. He carried her down the single step into the sitting area, behind a long, L-shaped leather sofa and to a closed door on one side of a short hallway.

“I also have a very strong sense of responsibility, and for the next seven months or so, I consider you a very high priority.”

Bending at the knees, he freed one hand from the blankets surrounding her to twist the knob and push the door open. “So try to relax and let me take care of you, will you, please? It will do my ego a world of good.”

“I don't think your ego needs any further stimulation,” she deadpanned as Burke carried her into a neat, well-arranged bedroom.

He chuckled. “You're probably right. But humor me for a while, okay?” Stopping beside the bed, he grabbed the edge of the white eyelet comforter and folded it back. Then he peeled away the layers of the mismatched blankets from her much smaller bed at home, laid her down on the soft, thick mattress, and tucked her up to her chin against the pillows.

He retreated a step, hands on hips as he studied her. “Now, what do you need?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, I'm fine.”

“Well, we both know that's not true. And I have the release papers from the hospital to prove it. Besides, you're in a strange room, in a strange apartment, with none of your own things to make you feel comfortable.”

Shrugging out of his long coat and suit jacket, he draped them over one forearm and started to loosen his tie. “It won't be for long, though. I asked someone to bring your things over here after the door is fixed and your apartment secured.”

Shannon swallowed, trying to comprehend exactly what that meant. Did he expect her to move in here, or would he have her belongings carted all the way over only to have them carted back in a day or two when she was feeling better?

“That's not necessary,” she managed, licking dry lips that had nothing to do with her sore throat or cold symptoms.

“Of course it is. I want you to feel at home while you're here.”

A flash of panic stole across her skin and caused her heart to pound, even though she wasn't exactly sure why. It wasn't as if Burke were threatening to hold her hostage. He'd come to her aid today when she'd been too sick to care for herself. He'd been nothing but attentive and kind. And she was car
rying his child; she'd invited him into her life the minute she agreed to become a surrogate for him.

But she had an apartment. She had a job, and a life, and classes to attend. As soon as she got rid of this cold, she'd be back to all of them, and she didn't think it would be smart to be living in Burke's penthouse at the same time.

She didn't think it was smart to be living in Burke's penthouse at any time. The idea made her uncomfortable just lying in his guest room.

They were doing nothing more than having a simple, innocent conversation, yet her eyes strayed to the play of muscles rippling beneath his crisp, white dress shirt. To his strong forearms with their sprinkling of dark hair, visible now that he'd rolled his cuffs to the elbows.

Could she sleep under the same roof and actually expect to get a moment's rest? She would toss and turn all night, imagining him in his own bed.

Wearing a pair of boxer shorts—or worse, nothing at all—he'd be stretched across a king-size bed, all bronze skin against white sheets. Or maybe black sheets. Sleek and satin. With the top sheet covering him only to the waist, leaving his smooth, wide chest and tight, flat abdomen bare.

Shannon inhaled sharply and held the breath in her lungs until they burned. Blood raced through her veins, and a thin sheen of sweat dotted her brow and upper lip. She wanted to blame those physical reactions on her low-grade fever, but knew better. It was the image of a half-naked Burke Ellison Bishop that had her hot and bothered.

Oh, no, she couldn't remain here, this close to the man who was quickly becoming an undeniable temptation.

“But I won't be staying,” she tried again. “The doctor said I would be fine in a couple days, and after that, I'll be moving back to my own apartment. There's no reason to have
my things brought over, only to turn around and have them taken back.”

“That won't be a problem,” he said, yanking his tie all the way off and loosening the first few buttons of his shirt. “Because I want you to stay here longer than just a few days. I was hoping you'd stay for the remainder of your pregnancy.”

B
urke watched her green-and-hazel eyes widen and sensed a mixture of alarm and astonishment emanating from her pores. He shouldn't have sprung it on her like that.

He hadn't meant to. He'd planned to have her stay a few days until she was feeling better, slowly raising her comfort level and getting her used to being around him. Shannon was no pushover, so he hadn't expected it to be quite that simple, but he did have the means to make her life easier—at least, until the baby came. The question was, would she let him?

He saw the wheels in her brain turning as she considered how best to continue her side of the argument, and thought it prudent to beat a hasty retreat.

“Let's not talk about that now,” he said. “I'll make you some toast and tea, then you can get some rest.”

With luck, she'd forget the stickier points of this conversation, get over her discomfort with the situation, and he
could go back to his original strategy of charming her over to his way of thinking.

Before she could respond or tell him again she had no intention of staying once her cold passed, he left the room, closed the door behind him and headed for the stainless steel, gourmet kitchen.

He rarely cooked, but he did know how to boil water and fry the occasional egg. Besides, the kitchen came with the penthouse apartment. The best of everything, as usual, for one of Chicago's wealthiest entrepreneurs. Never mind that he took most of his meals at the office, in the car or standing at the marble-topped island before heading for a night of work in his home office.

He turned on water for tea and threw two slices of multi-grain bread into the four-slice toaster before walking down the hall to his bedroom. His doorway stood adjacent to Shannon's, which meant he would be close by in case she needed him during the night.

Kicking off his shoes, he stripped out of his work clothes and changed into a pair of worn jeans and a loose chambray shirt. He tucked in the tails and rolled the cuffs halfway between his wrists and elbows, but didn't bother with socks or shoes.

Padding back out to the kitchen, he flipped off the burner and went in search of teabags. He was a coffee drinker himself, but he knew Margaret kept his cupboards well-stocked, so he was sure he'd find something. At the back of a shelf, behind boxes of crackers and cereal, he found a fancy metal container of herbal tea.

With the plate of dry toast balanced atop the mug of hot tea, Burke tapped lightly on Shannon's door before entering. She was sitting up more than when he'd left, her back propped by pillows, the covers folded to her waist.

“Tea and toast,” he announced. He set the plate on her lap and handed her the steaming cup of tea. “Careful, it's hot.”

She brought the ceramic mug to her lips and blew to cool the light brown liquid.

“It's chamomile. I hope that's okay. And caffeine-free. I made sure of that, since all the books say pregnant women should avoid caffeine.”

A small, thoughtful smile touched her lips. “I'm sure it's fine, thank you.”

He stood to her side, watching as she nibbled the toast and sipped the tea. Her color looked better than it had when he'd found her, he noted. And her appetite seemed healthy enough. Maybe he should make her something else.

“Do you want a bowl of soup? Or a sandwich? Or…I don't know…anything?”

“This is plenty,” she said with a shake of her head and took another bite.

Checking his watch, he realized she'd probably drift off soon. It was a little early for bed, but she'd been sick and was weaker than usual. She needed her sleep.

She needed a few other items, as well. Without a word, he marched out of the room and started gathering everything he could think of. Tissues, cough drops, Tylenol, sore throat spray, bottled water and bottled orange juice. Returning to her room, he set them on the bedside table.

The toast was nothing but crumbs and her cup was nearly empty.

“If you need anything during the night, help yourself. Or call me. I'll be right next door.” His brows drew together for a moment, and he added, “Or in my office, on the other end of the living room. Sometimes I work late, so if I'm not in bed, I'm probably there.”

She nodded, apparently resigned to staying with him for a few days, at least.

“Well, if there's nothing else…” He let the words trail off,
trying to figure out why the heck he was so nervous all of a sudden.

“No, I don't think so.” Her gaze darted to the nightstand. “It looks like you've thought of everything. I appreciate it, thank you.”

He inclined his head and backed slowly out of the room. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

On the way to his office, he stopped in the kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine and nuke a single-serving frozen casserole. All of this was new to him: taking care of—and caring for—another human being. He supposed he should get used to it; after all, he'd be a father in only seven more months. Then, he would be responsible for feedings, diaper changes, immunizations…everything involved in raising a child from infancy to adulthood.

And yet none of that scared him nearly as much as having Shannon asleep in the next room. He was beginning to feel things for her that he shouldn't.

If he'd wanted to become emotionally involved with the mother of his child, he'd have gone about the task from a whole different angle. He'd hired a surrogate specifically because he
didn't
want the romantic attachments of a wife or girlfriend.

But Shannon made him imagine what it might be like to be having a child with a woman he loved. To live with someone for the first time in his adult life and start a family with that person. All things he had never wanted before.

And he didn't want them now.

He didn't.

Just as soon as the baby was born, he and Shannon would go their separate ways, and he'd forget about her. She'd likely move on with her life and forget about him just as quickly. It
was only his growing attachment to the notion of being a father that had him thinking he was also experiencing genuine sentiments toward Shannon.

Taking a sip of the smooth red wine, Burke watched the turntable inside the microwave going around in a slow circle.

He had seven months, he thought. And in seven months, he could convince himself of almost anything. Even that.

 

When Shannon awoke the next morning, she felt a thousand times better. She still had a bit of a cough and her throat hurt a little, but the headache and intense lethargy that had dragged her down for more than a week seemed to have fled completely.

Whatever Dr. Cox had given her in the emergency room really worked. Not to mention the mini-pharmacy Burke set up for her on the nightstand.

Throwing back the covers, she sat up and looked around, realizing she was still in her flannel pajamas from the night before, with nothing else to change into. Ah, well. With any luck, Burke would be at his office already and she'd be able to search his apartment for a robe or something to put on so she could take a quick shower.

She padded across the bedroom in her bare feet and slowly opened the door, listening for any sign of Burke's presence. When only silence met her ears, she eased into the hall, thinking to make her way toward the kitchen for a bite of breakfast. Before she stepped foot in the living room, though, she heard people moving around and the low hush of voices.

Or rather one voice, issuing orders.

“Be careful with those,” Burke told them in an undertone. “I don't know what's in them, but it could be fragile.”

He stood to one side of the doorway while two other men moved half a dozen boxes from a wheeled metal cart into the
penthouse foyer. Wearing black chinos and a dark blue dress shirt, he looked even better than he had in a suit or tight, crumpled jeans. If that was possible.

The shirt molded to his arms and back in a way that made her want to run her hands over the sinewy muscles rippling beneath. His slacks, too, fit like a second skin, and she thought his tailor—whoever the man was—deserved a hefty raise.

She shouldn't be thinking these things. It was hard not to, when confronted with such a fine masculine specimen, but her life was too full, too busy for stray sexual thoughts or keyed-up hormones.

Maybe it was the pregnancy causing these frequent bouts of lust that sent butterflies skittering through her nervous system. She was only eight weeks along, but already she'd noticed a change in her appetite and food preferences, a slight tenderness in her breasts…and an almost overwhelming attraction to the baby's father. That wasn't part of the deal, but the baby—and her libido—didn't seem to care.

“Good morning.” Finally spotting her at the edge of the living room, Burke turned and started toward her. “I hope we didn't wake you.”

“No.” She shook her head before looking back at the moving men. “I thought you'd be at work.”

“I didn't want to leave until you were settled,” he said. “I had them bring your things up from the parking garage. I'm not sure how they're packed, but I'd be happy to carry the boxes back to your room and help you unload them.”

Judging by the number of cardboard boxes sitting inside the door, he'd had them pack up and bring over everything she owned. A change of clothes and her toothbrush would have been enough for the limited amount of time she intended to stay at his place.

“That wasn't necessary,” she told him, even though she'd
said the same thing last evening, to no avail. “I won't be here more than another day or two.”

His only response was a softly spoken, “We'll see.”

After the last box was brought in, he tipped the moving men and closed the door behind them. “Let's get you something to eat before we start to unpack.”

Shannon was either too tired, too sick or too stunned to protest as he spun her around by the shoulders and guided her into a small, sparkling clean kitchen. Pulling a stool away from the marble island, he urged her onto it.

“I hope you're hungry,” he said, opening and closing the refrigerator, opening and closing cupboards. “I had Margaret go shopping this morning and stock up on the healthiest foods she could find. Otherwise you'd probably be stuck with something left over from the deli down the block.”

He poured a glass of orange juice and a glass of milk, and set both of them in front of her. Emptying a container of precut mixed fruit onto a plate, he grabbed a fork and set that in front of her, too.

“You don't have to wait for me. I already ate,” he told her, gesturing to the small chunks of cantaloupe, pineapple, strawberries and red grapes. “I'm going to make my first attempt at cooking oatmeal from scratch.”

A grin tickled the corners of her lips as she watched him study the directions on the back of the instant oatmeal packet. He looked so intense, determined to do it right, without a single mistake. She didn't have the heart to tell him that using the microwave wasn't exactly making oatmeal “from scratch.”

She picked at the fruit slowly, nibbling on the corners before finishing what was left of the cut squares in one bite. And while she ate, Burke poured the packet's contents into a bowl, added water, and nuked it until done. He took it out, stirred the oatmeal until it steamed, and then brought it over for her approval.

“I hope you like the peaches-and-cream flavor. It sounded healthier than brown sugar and cinnamon.”

Holding back another smile, she said, “I love peaches and cream.” Even though brown sugar and cinnamon
was
her favorite.

She knew what he was doing—force-feeding her foods that were good for the baby. Milk for calcium, orange juice for folic acid, fruits and vegetables for the vitamins and minerals they contained. No sugarcoated breakfast cereal for her; it had to be hearty oatmeal.

And she would let him, because she was a guest in his home, because it was his child, and because if she were back at her own place, she'd probably only grab a slice of toast or a granola bar on her way out the door. Not the healthiest eating habits, especially while she was pregnant, but it was fairly typical of her.

“What are your plans for today?” she asked, trying to make conversation while she waited for the oatmeal to cool.

“This is it,” he said, holding his hands out at his sides and rocking back on his heels. “I'm here to look after you. You still don't look a hundred percent, so you should probably take it easy. You can take a nap on the sofa while I unpack the boxes from your apartment, or lie on the bed and tell me where you want things.”

“You're going to an awful lot of trouble for a temporary houseguest.”

Avoiding her gaze, he busied himself wiping the counters with a damp dishcloth and taking away her empty orange juice glass. “Maybe I'm hoping your stay won't be so temporary.”

She didn't know what to say to that. From last night's conversation, she understood he had hopes of her staying longer than just a day or two. He'd even gone so far as to suggest she stay the entire length of her pregnancy.

But that wasn't possible. Even if she had nowhere else to
go, she didn't think spending the next several months living with Burke was a good idea.

She was smart enough and realistic enough to admit—if only to herself—that she was attracted to him. That had been crystal clear from their first meeting, but she'd thought the feelings that had cropped up at the sight of him would go away. He was Chicago's most eligible bachelor—gossiped about, sought after, photographed more than most movie stars—and she'd been duly impressed.

But instead of lessening, the way the emotions of a starstruck moment should have, her feelings toward him seemed to be increasing.

She'd grown to dread his phone calls, because she knew that just the sound of his voice would send her pulse skittering. She'd imagine him on the other end of the line, raven hair and smoky-gray eyes, more handsome than any man had a right to be. And even though his conversation always centered on the pregnancy and concerns for the baby, there were times when she let herself fantasize that the tone of his words or a certain question about her health stemmed more from his regard for her than for the child she carried.