Baby for the Tycoon: The Tycoon's Temporary Baby / The Texas Billionaire's Baby / Navy Officer to Family Man. Emily McKay

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      She gave a playful shrug, smiling, either because the topic amused her or because she was relieved he’d stopped looking at her like something he wanted to lick clean, he couldn’t tell which.

      “That’s me, I guess.” She imitated his hushed tone, obviously no more willing to wake Peyton than he was. “A fan of things witty and subversive.”

      “Yeah, I get that. What I don’t get is how I never knew it until now.”

      “Oh.” She gave another shrug, this one self-effacing.

      “For five years, you’ve dressed like the consummate, bland executive assistant.” Whispering in the dark as if this made the conversation far more intimate than the topic was. “Bland clothing in a neutral palate. Demure hair. Now I find out you’ve been hiding a love of violet nail polish and eighties indie punk rock.” He nodded toward her boxers. “Not to mention the Turtles.”

      She frowned. “Punk rock?”

      “The Replacements T-shirt you had on the other day.”

      “You recognized them?” She gave him a pointed once-over. “And yet you don’t seem like a fan of eighties alternative.”

      “I’m a fan of Google. And you couldn’t possibly have been old enough to attend the concert where that T-shirt was sold.”

      “I’m a fan of eBay. And of defying expectations.”

      “Which brings me back to my original question. Why didn’t I know this about you?”

      She paused, seeming to consider the question for a long time. Then she sank back and stared at the ceiling. He watched her, lying there with her eyes open as she gazed into the dark, long enough that he thought she wasn’t going to answer at all.

      Finally she said softly, “Working at FMJ…” Her shoulders gave a twitch, as if she was shrugging off her pensive mood. “I guess it’s been the ultimate rebellion for me. When you’re from an old oil family, what’s worse than working for a company that’s made their money in green energy.”

      “We do a lot of other things too,” he pointed out.

      “Well, sure.” She rolled back to face him. “But even then, it’s all about innovation and change. My family is all about tradition. Maybe when I was working for FMJ, I never felt like I needed to rebel.”

      He felt his heart stutter as he heard her slip. When I was working for FMJ, she’d said. Not now that I am working for FMJ, but when I was. But she didn’t seem to notice, so he let it pass without comment.

      “Working at FMJ,” she continued, her voice almost dreamy, “I felt like I had direction. Purpose. I didn’t need to define myself by dying my hair blue or getting my navel pierced or getting a tattoo.”

      The image of her naked belly flashed through his mind. The thought of a tiny diamond belly-button ring took his mind into dangerous territory.

      “A tattoo?” He was immediately sorry he asked. Please let it be somewhere completely innocuous, like her… nope.

      He couldn’t think of a single body part on Wendy that didn’t seem sexy.

      She gave a little chuckle. “One of my more painful rebellions.” Then—please God, strike him dead now—she lifted the hem of her white tank top to reveal her hip and the delicate flower that bloomed there.

      He clenched his fist to keep from reaching out to touch it. For a second, every synapse in his brain stopped firing. Thought was impossible. Then they all fired at once. A thousand comments went through his brain. Finally, he cleared his throat and forced out the most innocent of them. “That doesn’t look like it was done in a parlor.”

      As lovely as it was, the lines were not crisp. The colors weren’t bright.

      Wendy chuckled. “Mine was done by a boyfriend.” She held up her hands as if to ward off his criticism. “Don’t worry, his tools were all scrupulously sterilized and I’ve been tested since then for all the nasty things you can get if they hadn’t been.” She gave the tattoo a little pat and then tugged her hem back down. “I was eighteen, had just finished my freshman year at Dartmouth and I wanted to study abroad. My parents refused and made me come home and intern at Morgan Oil. So I dated a former gang member who’d served time in county.”

      Jonathon had to swallow back the shot of fear that jumped through his veins. She’d obviously survived. She was here now, healthy and safe, but the thought of her dating that guy made his blood boil.

      He unclenched his jaw long enough to say, “And you wonder why your parents worry about you.”

      She gave a nervous chuckle. “Joe was actually a really nice guy. Besides, after spending the weekend with my family—”

      “Let me guess, now he works for Morgan Oil? Interns for your uncle in Washington?”

      “No. Even better. He went on to write a book about how to leave the gang life behind. He teaches gang intervention throughout Houston and travels all over the U.S. working with police departments.”

      “You sound almost proud,” he commented.

      She cocked her head and seemed to think about it. “I guess I am proud of Joe. He turned his life around.” Then she gave a little laugh. “Maybe my family should start a self-help program.”

      “Tell me something. What’s with all the cautionary tales?” “What do you mean?”

      “This is the second boyfriend you’ve told me about whose life was changed by meeting your parents.”

      “I’m just warning you.” Her tone was suddenly serious. “This is what they do. They’ll find your weakness—or your strength or whatever—and they use it to drive you away from me.”

      “No,” he said. “That’s what they’ve done in the past. That’s not what they’re going to do to me.”

      “Don’t be so sure of that.” She looked at him, her expression resigned. “Can you honestly tell me you haven’t considered how helpful my uncle could be in securing that government contract?”

      “That contract has nothing to do with this.”

      “Not yet. But they’re doing it already.”

      “I don’t—”

      “You were up late drinking scotch with my dad and uncle, weren’t you?”

      “How—”

      “I can smell it on your breath. And you don’t drink scotch.”

      “How do you know that I don’t drink scotch?”

      “You never drink hard liquor.” Her tone had grown distant. “Never. You keep very expensive brands on hand at the office—and I assume here—for associates who do drink. You read Wine Spectator magazine, and can always order a fabulous СКАЧАТЬ