The Boss and the Baby Read online

  Table of Contents

  So Molly Matthews had a little girl

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Copyright

  So Molly Matthews had a little girl

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Copyright

  So Molly Matthews had a little girl

  Three years old maybe? Molly had done exactly as he’d predicted she would. She hadn’t learned a thing from her infatuation with him. Hurt by what she’d seen as Luke’s rejection, she’d simply turned to another man to soothe her wounded pride. And now she had a child.

  Luke felt no satisfaction at being proved correct. He’d done what he’d known was right. if, instead, he’d taken advantage of what she’d so trustingly offered him, all those years ago...

  That little girl might have been his.

  From boardroom...to bride and groom!

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to the latest book in our Marrying the Boss miniseries, which is also a special story for Mother’s Day. We hope you’re enjoying our series of tantalizing stories about love in the workplace, from some of your favorite Harlequin Romance authors.

  Falling for the boss can mean trouble, so our gorgeous heroes and lively heroines all struggle to resist their feelings of attraction for each other. But somehow love always ends up top of the agenda. And it isn’t just a nine-to-five affair.... Mixing business with pleasure carries on after hours—and ends in marriage!

  Happy reading!

  The Editors

  The Boss and the Baby

  Leigh Michaels

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  MOLLY MATTHEWS straightened the lapels of her jacket and took a deep breath as she looked herself over in the guest room mirror. Her suit was stylishly cut, but the neutral beige wool didn’t scream for attention. The pale yellow blouse was softly feminine, but it was neither lacy nor revealing. Her jewelry was limited to tiny gold earrings and the slightly splashier pin nestled in the geometric pattern of the scarf tucked casually around her throat. Her hair was swept back and up into a neat twist, revealing a slim, straight neck...

  And a bruise on the left side of her jawline, halfway between chin and ear.

  Molly sighed. She’d done the best she could to camouflage the yellowing stain with makeup, and she’d just have to hope that the casual observer would think the shadow on her jaw was no more than a reflection of the darkest color in the brilliant scarf.

  She gave a final pat to the folds of the scarf and turned away from the mirror. As job applicants went, she was as well turned out as it was possible to be—tasteful instead of high-fashion, with nothing about her clothes or manner that could create a bad first impression with an interviewer. “Unless he’s put off by someone who looks so seriously vanilla,” she told herself, and tried to laugh. But this appointment was too important to make into a joke. The job she was seeking...

  Though, to be technical, she wasn’t interviewing for a job at all, she was vying for a contract. And she wasn’t an applicant, exactly. She was a business proprietor contacting a prospective client who had indicated an interest in her skills.

  If Warren Hudson liked her ideas and was impressed enough with her abilities to give her this assignment, she’d have a few months of work ahead of her. Enough, perhaps—if she was careful—to build a foundation under her new small business.

  Matthews and Associates was, at the moment, very new and very small. Molly could see the whole of it, in fact, from where she stood. The bed in her parents’ guest room had been pushed aside to leave room for a folding table, which held a telephone so newly installed that Molly hadn’t yet memorized the number and a computer with the sales stickers still attached. Under the table was a box of office supplies in untouched wrappings and a bag containing business cards on which the ink was barely dry.

  She had bought carefully and frugally, but that corner of the room represented a good chunk of her worldly resources. Which was why it was so important for Molly Matthews and her fictional associates to impress Warren Hudson this afternoon.

  That was the truly frightening part, Molly thought—being so very clearly on her own. Always before, even during a few weeks when she’d been between jobs, she’d had a safety net of sorts. But this time, instead of using her last paycheck as a cushion while she sought another corporate position, she’d invested it in her future. And—of course—Bailey’s future, too.

  Remember Bailey, she told herself. You’d take a bigger risk than this for her sake.

  Molly picked up the dark brown calfskin portfolio that contained the best examples of her work, tucked it under her arm and closed the guest room door behind her.

  From the kitchen, Bailey called, “Mommy! Come and see!”

  Molly paused in the arched doorway between kitchen and hall. For a moment her eyes rested on her daughter, kneeling on a kitchen chair so she was tall enough to work on the tabletop, industriously wielding a blue crayon. Bailey’s dark brown hair, a couple of shades deeper than her mother’s, was combed into twin ponytails today, each adorned with a big pink bow that matched her corduroy overalls.

  Bailey looked at her mother and grinned, and Molly’s heart turned over. Yes, she thought. I’d take a much bigger risk than this—for Bailey.

  “What a pretty picture, darling,” she said.

  From across the table came a light, almost brittle laugh. “Since no one could possibly guess what it’s supposed to be, I’d say that’s a safe comment.”

  Molly moved the crayon into a position where Bailey had better control and looked levelly at her sister. “Hello, Megan. It’s good to see you.”

  Her sister, she noted, had pushed her chair well back from the table. Molly wasn’t surprised that Megan Matthews Bannister would maintain a safe distance between her creamy white cashmere sweater and Bailey’s crayon. If Bailey had chosen paints this afternoon, Megan would probably have retreated all the way to the deck, despite the crisp breeze coming off Lake Superior.

  Megan tossed her head. The golden highlights in her light brown hair almost shimmered with the movement. Though it was only April, the streaks in her hair and the tone of her skin made it seem as if she’d spent weeks in the sun.

  But of course she had, Molly remembered. Their mother had written, in her dutiful once-a-month letter, about Megan’s winter vacation in the Caribbean.

  “I dropped by to ask Mom some last-minute questions about the anniversary party,” Megan said. “I’ve been gone so much that everything’s been on hold, but the details have to be wrapped up this week.”

  Of course you wouldn’t be coming to visit me, Molly thought. Even if we haven’t seen each other in years. Even if you’ve never met your niece before. Even if we’ve been home only a few days...

  She was startled at the bitterness she felt—though the reaction was really nothing new. Even in their teenage years, Megan—popular, beautiful and graceful—had never had much
time to spare for a younger sister who had still been gangly and awkward, an unwelcome tagalong. And now that they were adults...

  Megan’s still the socialite, Molly reflected, almost wryly. Megan had married a wealthy man from a good family. She belonged to all the best clubs, went to all the best parties, worked for all the best charities, vacationed in all the best spots, knew all the best people.

  While I... Molly’s gaze rested thoughtfully on the top of Bailey’s head. The part that separated the child’s ponytails was crooked, and one of her bows had slipped, but when Molly tried to straighten it, Bailey squirmed away, more interested in her drawing than her appearance.

  Molly gave up and looked around the kitchen. “Where is Mother, by the way? She said she’d watch Bailey this afternoon while I go to my appointment.”

  Bailey’s lower lip crept out, and her chin trembled. “Don’t want Gramma,” she said. “I want you to stay, Mommy.”

  Molly’s heart twisted. Of course she doesn’t want Gramma The child hardly knows her. It’s only been four days—

  She leaned over Bailey and dropped a kiss on her hair. “I know, darling, and I’d stay here with you if I could. But remember we talked about my new job? I have to go see a man—”

  Megan drew a breath that sounded like a sharp hiss. “What happened to your face? You look as if you’ve been in a brawl.”

  Molly’s hand went automatically to the dark spot on her jaw. “Oh, this. It’s nothing, really.”

  Her mother spoke from the doorway. “Nothing? She says Bailey kicked her.” Alix Matthews’s dark tone implied that she had her doubts about the explanation.

  “Kicked—” Megan’s tone was speculative.

  Alix nodded and walked briskly across the kitchen. “In my day a child who did that—if, of course, she really did...”

  “I told you it was a somersault that went wrong, Mother. Bailey didn’t mean to hurt me, it was an accident.”

  Bailey frowned. She held up her drawing to look at it and then put her blue crayon down and selected a green one.

  Megan didn’t look convinced.

  Alix’s gaze skimmed over Molly. “That suit’s all right, I suppose. At least it fits. You’re not going to wear a ring?”

  Molly wanted to groan. Instead, she said dryly, “Remember, Mother? I’m divorced.”

  “I still think that a discreet little gold band...”

  Molly didn’t want to listen to any more. “I don’t expect to be gone for more than a couple of hours, Mom. Thanks for taking care of Bailey.”

  Alix didn’t answer, but she looked at her watch.

  Molly leaned over the little girl, and the scent of baby shampoo tickled her nose. Bailey was almost four, but she was small for her age, and her wiry little body still fit perfectly in her mother’s arms. “I’ll come back just as soon as I can, Bailey,” she said. “You be good for Grandma, all right? And maybe tonight we’ll go get ice cream.”

  Bailey’s eyes lit. “Pink ice cream?”

  “Bribing a child,” Alix said, “is never a good idea.”

  Molly bit her tongue. The tip of it was beginning to feel sore after four days of Alix’s advice, but she absolutely would not argue with her mother about how to raise her child as long as she was living under the woman’s roof. And if Molly pointed out the fact that she’d been doing quite well on her own, Alix would probably just sniff and say that opinions differed—so why bother to say it?

  One more reason, Molly told herself, that I have to do well in this presentation. If Warren Hudson liked her work enough to give her a contract to produce his company’s publications, then before long she and Bailey could move to a place of their own.

  And that day couldn’t come fast enough for Molly.

  Her father had warned her that Warren Hudson’s business had changed a great deal in the years since she’d left Duluth. Still, Molly wasn’t fully prepared for Meditronics’ complex of sleek new buildings, nestled close together and tucked almost into the side of the steep and rugged hill that pressed the city close to Lake Superior. And she certainly wasn’t prepared for the security post at the main entrance.

  There had always been a gate house, of course. In the days when her father had been a line worker in Meditronics’ factory, building medical machinery, there had been around-the-clock guards who checked each employee and visitor in and out. Now, in a well-sheltered niche at the side of the main drive was what looked like a parking-lot ticket machine with a keyboard attached. Molly lowered her car window and eyed the machine, which beeped, clicked and said, in a pleasant—though mechanical—masculine voice, “Please enter your name, last name first.”

  Molly obediently tapped the keys. The machine digested the information and said, “Please enter the name of the person you wish to visit, last name first.”

  “I liked the old days better,” she murmured as she started to type. “All the guards knew me, and there was never any fuss about getting inside where it was warm to wait for the end of Dad’s shift.”

  The machine ignored her protest and with an asthmatic whir thrust a card down a chute in its front, announcing, “While you are inside the plant, please wear this identification badge at all times. You will find Mr. Warren Hudson in the administration building, to your left at the first intersection.”

  Molly picked up the card. Its laminated surface was still warm. Under the plastic coating was her name, along with Warren Hudson’s, an elaborate bar code and a small photograph of her with her mouth open and her eyes half shut, obviously taken just moments before.

  “That’s what you get for talking back to the machine,” she muttered. “It exacted revenge.” She fastened the card to her jacket lapel with a clip, which the machine had thoughtfully dispensed, and let her car creep up the main drive to the parking lot outside the administration building.

  It isn’t too late to back out, said a little voice in the far corner of her brain.

  She shook her head almost in surprise. Of course it was too late to cancel this appointment, and she wouldn’t back out even if she could. She needed this job, this client.

  There are other clients, the voice murmured. You don’t have to go in there and face Warren Hudson.

  That was crazy. There was no reason not to go, she told herself. The only thing Warren Hudson knew about her was that Bernie Matthews was her father.

  Are you sure about that?

  “Of course that’s all he knows,” she said to herself. “He’d hardly be interested in the fact that you used to have a terrific crush on his son.” Molly rubbed her temples and dragged her portfolio from the back seat. She was only suffering from last-minute butterflies. There was always this breathless sensation right before a presentation, when it was too late to do another thing to make the package better.

  She was five minutes early when she walked into the executive office suite, and Warren Hudson, his secretary said, was waiting for her. Molly wondered uneasily if that was a good sign or a bad one. Was he simply eager to talk to her because he was excited about this project? Or...

  There wasn’t time to speculate. The secretary tapped on the half-open walnut door and said, “Ms. Matthews, sir.” She stood aside to let Molly pass and added, “Shall I bring the coffee tray in now?”

  Molly’s gaze went straight to the massive desk set at right angles to the window, which framed a view of the aerial lift bridge and the lake beyond. The water looked gray today, under a halfhearted April sun, and mist hid the far side of the lake.

  But Warren Hudson wasn’t at his desk. He was seated in a wing chair in a little conversation area nearby, with the Wall Street Journal open on his knee. He stood up, folded the newspaper and laid it aside and held out a hand to Molly. “Your father tells me you’re just what I’m looking for. Come in, my dear, and let’s talk.”

  He was as big and gruff as Molly remembered, though his hair was entirely silver now, his shoulders stooped a bit, and there was a tremor in his outstretched hand. He waved her to the chair
that matched his, and Molly set her portfolio on the deep gray carpet at her feet.

  Warren Hudson settled into his chair once more. “So you’re back in Duluth. You know, all the time I hear people saying they can’t wait to leave this town. The funny thing is how many of them end up coming back here. You’ve been in Chicago the last few years, right?”

  She’d started to wonder when—or if—he was going to let her get a word in. “Most of the time. I worked for a couple of corporations in their publications divisions, doing product brochures and catalogs and annual reports.”

  “But with downsizing—” he prompted.

  Molly nodded. She wasn’t surprised he knew how she’d lost her job. Her father would have told him, just to make it clear that she hadn’t been fired for incompetence. “The company decided to eliminate the division and farm out the work to independents.”

  “So you elected to start your own business.”

  “I’d been thinking about it for a while, and this seemed the right time to give it a try.”

  The secretary came in with a delicate china coffee service, and Warren waved a hand toward Molly. The secretary set the tray on the low table in front of her and disappeared once more into her office. Molly noticed that she left the door half-open, and told herself not to fret about it. This conversation was hardly top secret.

  Warren said, “Would you pour? I’d appreciate it. I’m a clumsy old soul since I had a stroke a few months back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Not a severe one, I hope?” The scent of the rich, dark brew rose from the china cups as she poured, tugging at Molly’s senses.

  “Oh, I’m doing all right.” He put out his left hand for his cup and saucer and sat back, frowning. “I’m still not sure I understand, though. You had contacts in Chicago. People in the business who knew your skills. A possibility of actually doing the same work for the same people, though under a different set of circumstances. Here, you’ll have to start from scratch.” There was a challenge in his voice. “So what really brings you back to Duluth, Molly Matthews?”