Baby for the Billionaire - By Maxine Sullivan Page 0,101

from the fun she’d had with her godson. They’d played peekaboo and she’d tickled Dylan’s tummy. They’d been to the beach, where she’d dipped Dylan’s toes in the shallows while he squealed in ecstasy. They’d even shared an ice-cream cone—granted, most of it had ended up over Dylan’s face, plus a few smears down Victoria’s favorite Kate Sylvester T-shirt.

So she’d willingly offer to do it again. Her godson was adorable. A memory of his loud, growling screams in the middle of the night made her amend that statement. Mostly he was adorable.

The throaty roar of a powerful motor pulling up outside her town house unit made her pause in the act of retrieving a miniature sock from under the coffee table.

She checked the slim gold watch on her wrist. Too early for Michael and Suzy.

The doorbell rang in a long, insistent buzz. Victoria leaped to her feet, a quick glance showing that Dylan hadn’t stirred. The bell buzzed again. She shot across the room and, without pausing to look through the peephole, yanked the door open before whoever it was could lean on the doorbell again.

“Connor!”

Connor North, Michael’s best man, stood on her doorstep.

To Victoria’s annoyance her pulse kicked up, but with practiced ease she avoided Connor’s gaze. He wore a white T-shirt that stretched across a broad chest, and a pair of jeans that molded the lean hips.

“I probably should have called.”

His voice was gravelly, all male, full of edges with no smooth sweetness. Victoria knew she should reply, should agree that it would have been better for him to have called first—and then hope like blazes that he would go.

Instead, unable to answer him or steel herself to meet his unsettling pale gray eyes, Victoria fixed her gaze on the hard line of his mouth. Mistake. It had been two years since he had kissed her at Michael and Suzy’s wedding. By rights she should’ve forgotten all about the texture of his lips against hers, the desire that had spun dizzily within her.

She hadn’t.

Victoria swallowed.

The memory of the taste of him, the hardness of his body against hers, was so immediate it could’ve happened yesterday. Despite her every effort to pretend it had never happened at all.

“Connor …” she croaked, wishing he was a million miles away.

Why had he come? They didn’t have the kind of relationship that allowed for casual drop-ins. To be honest they didn’t have any kind of relationship at all.

Since the wedding the two of them had developed an unspoken pact of practicing avoidance: when one arrived at the Masons’ home, the other departed within minutes. The passage of time had not dulled the hostility that crackled between them. A dislike that they both colluded to conceal from Michael and Suzy—and Dylan.

She tried again. “Connor, what are you doing here?”

Carefully, with immense composure, she raised her gaze from that hard, tight mouth and met his gaze. To her astonishment he didn’t look anything like his usual arrogant, assured self. He looked …

She took in his pallor, the dull flatness in his gray eyes. He looked shattered. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Victoria—” He broke off and shoved his hands in his pockets.

At least he seemed to have no difficulty remembering her name these days, Victoria thought wryly. But it wasn’t like Connor to be at a loss for words. Usually the sarcastic quips rolled off his tongue. She frowned. “What is it?”

“Can I come in?”

Victoria hesitated. She didn’t particularly want him in her home. But he was … he wasn’t himself. “Sure.”

Leading him into the living room, she felt a flare of embarrassment at what he must see. Toys. Baby blankets. Dirty plates. She would’ve preferred Connor to see her home as it normally looked. Elegant. Immaculate. “Excuse the mess.”

He didn’t even glance sideways. “Victoria …” That soulless gaze was focused on her face with an intensity that was awfully disconcerting.

The need to fill the awkward silence made her blurt out, “Can I fix you a cup of coffee? Not that it’s anything like Starbucks, but I was about to make myself—” she stopped before she could reveal that one small human had reduced her to a caffeine-craving wreck “—a hot drink.”

“No.”

“Tea?”

He shook his head.

She moved toward the kitchen, which opened off the living room, flipped the kettle’s switch and opened the fridge.

“I don’t have beer. Would you like a cola?” she offered with reluctance as his footfalls sounded on the tiles behind her. She wished he’d waited for her in the living room. There wasn’t