The Millionaire and the Pregnant Pauper Page 3

  “I’m just double-checking your son’s birth certificate application, Ms. Masterson.” Deborah rattled the papers she held. “Your handwriting is understandably a little shaky this morning.”

  Michael looked from Deborah back to Beth, whose face had suddenly turned crimson.

  “It’s M-I-C-H-A-E-L, Michael, correct?” Deborah continued, a little smile quirking the corners of her mouth. “You want to name your son Michael Freemont Masterson?”

  Michael blindly punched the Down button on the elevator. Michael Freemont Masterson. He hadn’t been able to get out of Beth’s room fast enough after hearing that. Michael Freemont Masterson. She’d named her baby after him.

  He waited for the anger or, at the very least, irritation to rise. When a bachelor was caught in the daddy spot for all the world to see, the last thing he wanted was for the baby to become his namesake. Go ahead, Wentworth, he told himself. You have every right to be ticked off.

  The elevator doors slid open and Michael stepped into the hospital lobby. Between him and the doors to the parking structure sat a set of newsstands. USA Today. The Wall Street Journal. The Freemont Springs Daily Post.

  His best friend Elijah Hill was buying the last copy.

  Ah, hell.

  “Michael, Michael, Michael.”

  Not even a second to hope Elijah wouldn’t spot him. In jeans, cowboy hat and boots, Elijah was the picture of an Oklahoma rancher—exactly what he was.

  “Shouldn’t you be at home shoveling horse sh— manure?” Michael asked. If he didn’t give Elijah an opening, maybe he could avoid a grilling.

  “Ol’ Gus cut his hand this morning. Had to bring him in for stitches.”

  Michael narrowed his eyes. Ol’ Gus had hands like shoe leather. “I thought you did all the doctoring at your place.”

  “Gus needed a tetanus shot.” Elijah grinned. “Now, you’re not gettin’ all suspicious that I was following you to the scene of the crime, are you?”

  Michael wouldn’t put it past him. “Guess without Gus you’re shorthanded. Better get on home, then.”

  Elijah’s grin widened and his drawl thickened. “And miss this opportunity to give my congratulations in person? You coulda told a fella, you know. No need to leave a lyin’ message that you were stayin’ in last night.”

  Michael sighed. “It was a chance encounter, okay?”

  “You mean like fate?”

  Michael sighed again. “I mean like an act of human kindness. Lay off, will you? My grandfather already had at me this morning.”

  Elijah laughed and waved the newspaper. “Joseph got wind of this already?”

  “Would you doubt it? God, I wish he’d just come back to Oklahoma and put his nose into Wentworth Oil Works and keep it out of my business.”

  Elijah snorted. “The only way you’re going to get that old man back at his desk is if you leave yours. C’mon. That parcel of land you bought next to mine is ready and waiting. Let’s go into partnership and build the best quarter horse stable in the country.”

  Michael ran his hands through his hair. “For the damnzillionth time, Elijah, I don’t have the cash. Thanks to Grandfather, who made me agree to take my Wentworth Oil Works salary in stock and to that neat and tidy little trust fund that has my money until I’m thirty or married.”

  Elijah shook his head. “Maybe marriage isn’t such a bad idea, friend.” He brought the newspaper up, photo-to-nose with Michael. “Look at the kind of trouble you’re getting into as a single guy.”

  The picture wasn’t a half-bad shot of Beth. While the black-and-white did nothing for her pale coloring, her delicate features were clearly shown. The baby still looked like a peanut with limbs to him, though.

  The baby.

  “You want to hear what she named him?” he asked Elijah, again anticipating a rise of anger and irritation. “She named him after me. She named the baby Michael.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you think about that?”

  Elijah blinked, blinked again, and then continued staring at Michael, astonishment, puzzlement, and then amusement working across his face. “You want to know what I really think?” Elijah laughed, shaking his head. “I think you better make an honest woman of her. Hey, then you can dump the pinstripes and you and I can really rock the Rockin’ H.”

  What the hell was up with Elijah? Marry Beth? And why was he laughing when Michael was irritated, possibly even incensed, about the whole baby business?

  It took just another moment to figure it out. The moment when he caught sight of his reflection in the chrome top of the nearest newsstand. Though his rational, bachelor mind said he should be irritated, or angry, or yes, even incensed, his face had split into a loony grin—as if he were actually, truly, indeed, the proudest of papas.

  Beth placed her almost three-week-old son gently back in his crib after his 5:30 a.m. feeding just as a gentle knock on her front door sounded. It would be Bea Hansen, who invariably came from the bakery to the studio apartment upstairs with a hot cup of coffee and warm baked goods. The bakery business made early risers.

  The gray-haired woman crossed the threshold with a cardboard tray holding two steaming paper cups and two delicious-smelling muffins.

  Beth sniffed with appreciation. “You spoil me.” She smiled and gestured to the worn love seat in one corner of the apartment. “Come sit.”

  Bea scrutinized Beth’s face as they sat down on the floral cushions. “You don’t look as peaked this morning. The 2:00 a.m. feeding go well?”

  “Fine.” Beth held the coffee beneath her nose and inhaled the aroma. “Now that I’ve found the over-night news service on TV.” She nodded in the direction of her little black-and-white on the kitchenette countertop.

  Bea smiled, laughter lines bracketing the caring in her eyes. “I remember how lonely those night feedings can be.”

  “Hm.” Beth sipped the coffee. Lonely.

  Bea’s smile dissolved. “You’re worrying me again, dear. No husband, no mother—”

  “I have the baby.” Lonely. He had to be enough, because she would never have a mother. As for a husband…

  “But without family to—”

  Beth interrupted Bea again by touching the older woman’s hand. “One loyal friend is worth ten thousand relatives.”

  Bea squared her shoulders. “Then you have twenty thousand in Millie and me, but you won’t let us help you.”

  Beth had to smile at that. “What do you mean? You gave me a job and a place to live.”

  “We’re paying you just over minimum wage for counter help and bookwork.”

  “You’re giving me much-needed experience.” Beth took another sip from her cup. “And don’t forget breakfast.”

  “But we’re kicking you out of your apartment.”

  Beth waved away the concern. “This was going to be Millie’s mother’s place. You two told me that from the beginning, Bea.”

  The older woman humphed. “If only—” Bea broke off and shook her head, a familiar, speculative light gleaming in her eyes. She swung around to look at the Daily Post photo that Beth had framed and hung on the wall between the crib and her own single bed. “Yes. If only Michael Wentworth—”

  Beth’s heart bumped into her throat. “Don’t start now,” she warned the older woman. Bea and Millie, sweet gossips that they were, invented stories where there were none. And for some reason they’d latched on to an imaginary romance between Beth and Michael. “That poor man was just doing me a favor.”

  While the photo and accompanying article had garnered her and the baby boxes of donated diapers, baby clothes and baby food, Beth realized that the only thing Michael had received from the publicity was embarrassment. Bea and Millie’s bakery attracted a huge segment of the Freemont Springs population, and their customers had brought her good wishes as well as the news that Michael Wentworth was desperate to recover his bachelor reputation.

  And from the bakery regulars she’d also learned that despite her tip, the Wentworth family st
ill hadn’t found Sabrina.

  “Well,” Bea said, getting up from the love seat and crossing over to look at the photo, “I still say Michael Wentworth could use some settling down.”

  “Bea, you know I’m not interested in him—” Beth quickly shut her mouth as she spied an incriminating piece of evidence peeking out from beneath the pillows of her unmade bed.

  Michael Wentworth’s sheepskin jacket.

  She stood, too, but didn’t make any quick movements toward the bed. Bea would be sure to spy the jacket then, and Beth had told her days ago that she’d returned it.

  She’d meant to, especially after Bea had found her one day wrapped in the soft suede and sheepskin while nursing the baby. Beth had come across it on her first night home from the hospital and had thrown it around her shoulders during the 2:00 a.m. feeding. Through the thin flannel of her nightgown she’d found the soft warmth of the sheep’s wool liner comforting.

  Beth edged. closer to her bed. If Bea knew she still had the jacket, her matchmaking efforts might possibly start in earnest. As for more matchmaking conversation—definitely.

  She eyed the jacket again. Would it be better to try to stuff the darn thing completely beneath the pillows or nudge it gently to the floor on the far side of the bed?

  “Tell me again about this new place to live you found.” Bea turned away from the photo on the wall. “One half of a duplex, you said?”

  Beth stilled and willed herself not to look at the telltale jacket. “I’m lucky to get it.” She was. Inexpensive apartments in prosperous Freemont Springs were limited. “Mr. Stanley seems nice.”

  “Once you promised you wouldn’t make noise, overuse the lights or heat and have no more than one bag of garbage each week.”

  Beth sighed. There was that little concern. The crotchety man had quite a few rules that she and the baby had better not break. Goodness, she hoped disposable diapers could be crushed like aluminum cans.

  Bea’s sigh echoed hers. “You need a man, and I don’t mean Ralph Stanley.”

  Need a man? No way would Beth risk her heart again, not after how Evan had left at the first sign of responsibility. “I have the only man I need, and he’s three weeks old and sleeping like an angel.” She couldn’t help her smile.

  Bea smiled back. “Your boy is an angel.” She scooted to stand beside the crib.

  Beth edged closer to the head of her bed. The sleeve of Michael Wentworth’s jacket emerged from beneath two plumped-up pillows. Her fingers closed over the soft suede.

  “What have we here?”

  Bea’s voice made Beth jump. She whirled toward the woman, blocking the sight of the jacket with her body. In Bea’s fingers was a pacifier.

  Beth swallowed. “Oh, that was part of the New Year’s Baby bounty.” She shook her head. “The baby doesn’t like it.”

  “My husband didn’t like our children sucking on pacifiers.”

  Beth sank down onto the mattress while at the same time quickly pushing up the blankets to cover the jacket. She smiled. “At least I don’t have that worry.” Beneath the sheets, her hands slid against the soft inside fleece. By habit, she found herself twining her fingers through it.

  Bea gazed at Beth, shaking her head. “You’re braver than I ever was.”

  Beth pretended not to understand. “A widow who went on to create a successful business? Bea, you’re the one with courage!”

  Gray curls wiggled back and forth. “But I had my husband to help me raise the children. A man to love me and to love the babies.”

  Beth gripped the wool tighter. “I’m fine, Bea.” Never admit to anything but that.

  Another sigh escaped the older woman. “I have to get back to the shop,” she said reluctantly.

  With relief, Beth watched Bea adjust the sleeping baby’s blanket and then cross the room toward the door. “Goodbye, Bea,” Beth said. “I’ll be in for my shift this afternoon.”

  At the door, Bea paused with her hand on the knob. “Aren’t you lonely, dear?” she asked quietly. “It’s no sin to admit to that.”

  But it is.

  After years of practice Beth’s smile brightened automatically. “Fine, Bea. I’m just fine.”

  The door clicked shut behind the older woman.

  Involuntarily, Beth pulled the jacket from beneath the pillows and buried her face in the soft, comforting folds. It smelled like Michael Wentworth, a male fragrance that worked like a magic charm to dispel—

  She refused to think the word.

  “Loneliness.” It whispered out of her mouth instead.

  Loneliness…loneliness…loneliness. The dreaded thought echoed against the four walls until Beth wanted to slap her hands over her ears.

  She pushed the jacket off her lap and left it lying on the floor instead. Maybe the jacket was to blame for her uncharacteristic weakness. There had been doubts in the middle of the night. An emptiness she sensed inside, even when she held her much-loved child in her arms.

  The jacket had to go. Today.

  Because Beth Masterson never admitted to loneliness.

  3

  With a leery eye on the new stack of files on his desk, Michael sat down in his executive chair at Wentworth Oil Works. With one thumb and forefinger, he flicked the first couple of manila folders, causing the stack to topple and spread over the entire mahogany surface.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing hidden there. No rattles, no bubble gum cigars, no pamphlets on baby burping or baby barfing.

  Nothing baby at all.

  Another exhale whooshed out. It might have taken three weeks, but it had finally happened.

  No more daddy jokes.

  He gathered up the papers, restacking them, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Hell, where did all this stuff come from? One meeting away from the office and the paperwork and the hassles and the headaches multiplied like fleas on a dog.

  Damn Grandfather.

  The old man had taken off to Washington again, leaving Wentworth Oil Works in what Joseph termed Michael’s “capable” hands. Capable, hell. Maybe he should appreciate the confidence, but not when Grandfather refused to see how reluctant those hands were.

  The old man was blind when he wanted to be and a master manipulator all of the time. A headache started behind Michael’s eyes. Unless he could find a way to force Joseph back to his desk, he had a feeling he might be chained to this one for the rest of his life.

  He glanced at the memo on top of the stack. “To Mr. Michael Wentworth, Wentworth Oil Works.” Wentworth. Dammit, every day the name, the responsibilities, his entire family, for Pete’s sake, weighed him down like a curse.

  Bzzz.

  Michael pressed the intercom button. “Thank you, Lisa,” he said to his assistant through the speaker, “for interrupting one of the more depressing moments of my life.”

  Lisa didn’t snap back with her usual sassiness. “Uh, sir—”

  She never called him sir. “What is it?”

  A pregnant pause. “Visitors for you, sir, uh, two.”

  Lisa’s “pregnant” pause was explained when she ushered in his unscheduled visitors. Two people he wanted to see in his office only slightly less than the IRS.

  He groaned. Out loud. Because now that the daddy jokes were dying down at last, he just knew they’d be starting right back up again.

  Visitor number one: Ensconced but asleep in a dilapidated but clean-looking stroller, a snow-suited Michael Freemont Masterson. Visitor number two: Beth, in her ragged blue parka, a red woolen scarf wrapping her head and throat, Michael’s own sheepskin coat tucked under one arm.

  She smiled tentatively. “I brought your coat back. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.”

  He glanced at his watch. What if the visit lasted a mere forty-five seconds? Heck, maybe nobody would even hear of it then. He sent a glare in the direction of Lisa, who hovered in the doorway. Don’t spill a word of this, he silently commanded her, and reached out to take the coat. Now show the nice lady out.

&
nbsp; Apparently completely missing his signals, Lisa darted forward and snatched the jacket. “Sit down, sit down, Ms. Masterson. Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?”

  Michael’s jaw dropped. Lisa didn’t bring anybody anything. If he wanted coffee, he schlepped to the outer office and poured his own cup.

  Beth smiled at Lisa as though she understood the honor conferred upon her. “A cup of tea? Please. Just a little to warm my hands.”

  “You should wear gloves,” Michael heard himself say, frowning at her bare fingers. Then, in a voice still surly, he found himself adding, “I guess you can sit down.”

  He frowned again as she wheeled the stroller alongside the visitor’s chair across from his desk. How long could “just a little” tea take? Ninety seconds, tops.

  With quick movements she unzipped her jacket and pulled the scarf off her head. The parka dropped to the chair.

  Michael stared, not quite knowing what part of her made it so hard for him to look away. She’d been wearing coats or gowns or blankets when he’d seen her before. She’d been wearing a long fall of pale blond hair, too.

  “You cut it,” he said stupidly.

  “Easier this way.” She ran her hand over her close-cropped hair. Though slightly longer than a boy’s, the short style hugged the contours of her head. It swept softly around her face, making her eyes appear incredibly big and her mouth temptingly full.

  “Sit down, sit down.” Not wanting to notice anything more about her face, or what she looked like below it, he waved her into the seat just as Lisa came back with a steaming cup.

  His assistant took a moment to admire the baby before turning her attention to Beth. She handed over the tea. “You couldn’t have had a baby three weeks ago,” Lisa said with a smile. “Nobody gets her figure back that quickly.”

  Okay, so he looked then. He’d tried not to, but it was Lisa’s fault. Yeah, before Beth had worn parkas and gowns and blankets. Now it was faded blue jeans and a tight-fitting off-white ski sweater.

  Beth smiled again at Lisa. “I’ve always been on the skinny side. Believe me, some of these curves are brand-new.”