Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed

Dear Reader,

Who was it who said “You make your plans and then life happens?” Certainly that’s true of my life.

It’s also true for Nick and Lydia in this story. By the end of this book they’ve learned a great deal about themselves…and each other. For Nick, full-time parenting is something of a challenge. And Lydia—well, she has to sort out what her dreams really are before she finds her happy ending. Just like all of us!

The British sign language Nick’s daughter, Rosie, uses to communicate is a particular passion of mine.

It all began for me when I was in an open-air production of Much Ado About Nothing, which was “signed” once a week. Sitting in the bushes waiting for my next entrance, I had a perfect view of the interpreter—who was amazing. I fell in love. Not with the man himself, although he was quite gorgeous, but with the language.

I’m now a qualified communicator—and in a few years I’m sure Nick will join me.

With love,

Natasha

NATASHA OAKLEY

told everyone at her primary school she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her plan was to stay at home and have her mum bring her coffee at regular intervals—a drink she didn’t like then. The coffee addiction became reality, and the love of storytelling stayed with her. A professional actress, Natasha began writing when her fifth child started to sleep through the night. Born in London, she now lives in Bedfordshire with her husband and young family. When not writing, or needed for “crowd control,” she loves to escape to antiques fairs and auctions. Find out more about Natasha and her books on her Web site—www.natashaoakley.com.

Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed
Natasha Oakley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Silhouette Romance® is thrilled to bring you

a sparkling new book from British author

Natasha Oakley

Her poignant and emotional writing

will tug on your heartstrings.

“Her words shoot straight to your heart just like Cupid’s

arrow. Ms. Oakley has a special talent for making you

fall in love with her characters.”

—writersunlimited.com

“One of the best writers of contemporary

romance writing today!”

—cataromance.com

“Emotional, romantic and unforgettable,

Natasha Oakley aims straight for your heart with

richly drawn characters, powerfully intense emotions

and heart-stopping romance!”

—cataromance.com

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

THERE was no one there.

Lydia Stanford set her heavy briefcase down and banged again on the dark blue front door of the cottage, stepping back to look at the top floor windows that peeked sleepily out of a roof of handmade tiles.

It was picturesque, but she wasn’t here to admire the view and it all looked ominously quiet. There was no glint of movement in the upstairs rooms. No sound of radio or television in the background. Nothing.

Well, nothing except the half-open window above the ramshackle single brick addition at the back. She lifted the brass plate covering the letterbox and peered inside. ‘Ms Bennington? Are you there?’

Total silence.

‘Ms Bennington? It’s Lydia Stanford. We have an appointment at ten.’

Had an appointment at ten, she corrected silently. It was now nearly twenty past. Damn and blast the woman. Where was she? Lydia straightened and shook back her hair. What exactly was she supposed to do now?

Was it possible Wendy Bennington had forgotten their meeting? Lydia wrinkled her nose and stared at the closed door as though it held all the answers. It didn’t seem likely she’d have forgotten. The woman was in her late seventies but had a mind so sharp she made politicians quake at the knees the minute she opened her mouth. She’d lay money on her not forgetting a thing. Ever.

Which was why she’d grabbed at the chance to write an authorised biography of Wendy Bennington. It was the kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity which meant she’d broken off her first holiday in five years. Why she’d got the first flight back to London and had immersed herself in researching the inveterate campaigner’s astonishing life.

So where was she? Lydia peered round the empty garden as though she expected to see Wendy Bennington walk up the path. Just yesterday the older woman had sounded so enthusiastic about the project; surely she wouldn’t have gone out? And leaving a window open? No one did that any more.

Lydia sucked in her breath and considered her options. She could, of course, get back in her car and drive back up the motorway to London. Or she could go and get a coffee in Cambridge and come back in an hour or so. Either one would be an irritating waste of her time.

She pushed the bell and rattled the letterbox. Even though it didn’t seem worth doing, she bent down and shouted loudly, ‘Ms Bennington?’ Through the narrow opening she could see the green swirly patterned carpet, but nothing else. The cottage seemed completely deserted.

She half closed the plate, her fingers still on the brass. It wasn’t a voice or even a definite noise that made her pause. Perhaps it was a sixth sense that something was wrong. She called again, ‘Ms Bennington, are you there?’

Silence. And then a soft thud. Almost.

‘Hello? Hello, Ms Bennington?’

She couldn’t be absolutely certain, but she thought she heard the sound again. Not a footstep or someone falling…nothing that obvious. But something. She was almost sure of it.

Lydia straightened and shifted her briefcase into her other hand. Of course it could be nothing more exciting than a cat knocking over a waste-paper basket, but…

But if that soft noise had been the elderly lady’s attempt to attract attention she wouldn’t thank her for walking away and leaving her. Would she? She’d expect her to use her initiative…and do something. Which meant…

What?

Lydia chewed gently at the side of her mouth. It had to be worth a try at getting into the cottage through the open window. If Wendy Bennington had been taken ill…

It was possible. She might have fallen. Accidents in the home were very common, after all. If anything like that had happened, trying to get into the cottage would be the right thing to do. She glanced down at her watch, now showing twenty-five minutes past the hour.

With sudden energy, Lydia quickly walked round to the back of the cottage and stared at the small upstairs window. It was tantalisingly open. If she could just climb on to the flat roof, reaching the window would be child’s play. It didn’t look that difficult.

She glanced over her shoulder. There was no one around. No one to ask if they’d seen Wendy Bennington that morning.

There was no choice…

Lydia carefully concealed her briefcase beneath a large rhododendron and stood back to consider her options. It really wasn’t going to be difficult—as long as the flat roof was strong enough to take her weight.

She took a moment to pull a black velvet scrunchie from her jacket pocket and twist her long hair into an untidy topknot before pulling the dustbin up against the wall. Then, holding on to the drain pipe, she hoisted herself up the first few feet—just high enough to get a grip on the roof.

Easy. Well, perhaps, not easy…but easy enough. And if Wendy Bennington wasn’t home it would be just as straightforward getting out again. No one need know.

With the dexterity of the county-level gymnast she’d once been, Lydia swung her leg up and pulled herself on to the roof. If nothing else she could tell the elderly woman her home was a security disaster. Anyone could break in. Where she lived in London no one would dream of doing anything as foolish as going out and leaving a window open. You didn’t even leave your car unattended in Hammersmith for five minutes without careful thought.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

A man’s voice shot through the silence. Lydia’s hand paused on the open window, her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.

‘Get down! Now.’

Startled, she turned and looked at the man standing below on the crazy paving. Tall. Handsome…in a scruffy, rough kind of a way. Mid-thirties, maybe late. It was difficult to tell.

And angry. Definitely angry. No doubt about that at all.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he repeated.

Lydia moved away from the open window. ‘Getting in. I thought I heard a noise.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ she fired back, irritated by the heavy sarcasm in his voice. How many burglars did he know who went out on a job dressed in a genuine Anastasia Wilson jacket? It was time he took a reality check. ‘I had an appointment with Wendy Bennington at ten—’

‘It didn’t occur to you to wait until she answered the door?’ he asked with dangerous politeness, his accent at odds with his very casual clothes. Lydia looked at him more carefully. Whoever he was, he certainly wasn’t the farm labourer she’d thought he might be.

And he wasn’t as handsome, either. He had a hard face and an arrogant stance that made her want to explain the principles of feminism—very slowly—because he’d probably never grasped the concept of equality.

‘It occurred to me, yes—’

‘So, what changed your mind?’ he asked, still in that same supercilious tone of voice.

Lydia struggled to hang on to her temper. ‘Forty minutes standing about in the garden is probably what did it. I’m going to climb in and see if she’s hurt. If that’s all right with you?’ she added, turning her back on him.

‘It isn’t.’

She looked round. ‘Pardon?’

‘I said, it isn’t.’

‘Don’t be so…stupid. I had a ten o’clock appointment. I’m sure Wendy wouldn’t have forgotten, it was too important. She might be lying hurt inside. Have you thought of that?’ Lydia turned and pushed the tiny window open.

‘I’d rather you used the key.’

‘What?’ She swung round in time to see him open the back door. ‘H-How did you do that? The door was locked. I checked—’

‘She keeps a spare key under the pot.’

Lydia watched him disappear inside with a sense of disbelief. Damn it! This couldn’t be happening to her. It had been a very long time since anyone had managed to make her feel so completely foolish.

Logically she knew there was no reason for her to have known Wendy Bennington kept a key hidden. The idea that a formidable campaigner of human rights would keep her back door key under a terracotta flowerpot seemed, frankly, incongruous. But clearly she did…and the local populace all knew about it.

At least this particular member of it did. Who in…blazes was he anyway? Arrogant, sarcastic, supercilious…The words flowed easily. It didn’t help knowing she might have reacted in a very similar way herself if she’d discovered someone about to break into a neighbour’s upstairs window. Presumably he was a neighbour?

Gingerly Lydia lowered herself down, careful not to scrape her jacket on the brickwork. She brushed herself down and picked up her briefcase from under the rhododendron.

‘Tall, dark and sarcastic’ had left the door open, no doubt expecting her to follow him. She wiped her feet on the worn doormat and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. The small cottage window ensured the kitchen would always be dark, but the situation was made so much worse by the heavy net curtain hung on plastic-coated wire.

Lydia let out a low whistle. Even though the outside of the cottage was looking frayed around the edges and the garden was hopelessly overgrown, she honestly hadn’t believed anyone lived like this any more.

The kitchen looked like something out of a nineteen-forties movie. There were no fitted kitchen units at all. Just a freestanding gas cooker that looked as if it ought to be consigned to a museum and a thickly painted cupboard with bakelite handles. The orange and cream marmoleum floor tiles had begun to lift and the whole room was dominated by a floor-standing boiler.

It was, frankly, grim.

She hadn’t been aware that she’d had any preconceptions about what she’d expected Wendy Bennington’s home to be like—but, clearly, she’d had many. She stepped over the twin bowls of water and cat food respectively and tried to ignore the faint odour of animal and stale cigarettes.

This had been a mistake. She should have stayed in Vienna, marvelled at the Stephansdom, eaten sachertorte and enjoyed the opera like any other sensible person. What the heck was she doing here?

She’d given up her holiday…for this. Crazy. She was crazy.

And there was still no sign of Wendy Bennington. The house was completely quiet except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the further recesses of the cottage. She placed her briefcase down by the rusting boiler and looked across at the man as he flicked through the mail on the kitchen table.

‘I’m Lydia Stanford,’ she said with pointed emphasis, waiting for him to look up and acknowledge she was there.

‘I know.’

‘You know?’ He said nothing. ‘And you are?’

‘Nick.’ His eyes were still on the sheaf of letters in his hand. ‘Nick Regan.’

Which told her absolutely nothing.

‘Do you live nearby?’ If he’d looked up he’d have seen her head indicate the direction of the only other house within a mile or so of the cottage.

‘No.’

No? ‘You’re not a neighbour?’

He looked up at that. Very briefly. The expression in his brown eyes made it absolutely clear he’d no intention of assuaging her curiosity. ‘No.’

Nick Regan.

Had she read his name anywhere in connection to Wendy Bennington? She was fairly sure she hadn’t. All those hours on the Internet? All those pages of notes? Was it possible she’d missed something vital?

His accent spoke of an expensive private school education and his assurance indicated he was very used to being in the cottage. Comfortable, even.

Her eyes took in the expensive watch on his wrist and the soft leather of his shoes. Her mother had always sworn you could tell everything about a man by looking at his shoes. If she was right, this one had a bank account to be proud of, despite the worn jeans and faded jumper.

So who was he?

Someone Wendy Bennington had hidden from the public spotlight for over thirty years? A secret son?

She half smiled and pushed the thought aside. It didn’t seem likely—which was such a shame because it would have made a great story.

It didn’t fit, though. From all she’d learnt of Wendy Bennington so far, she’d have been more likely to announce it proudly. Her whole life had been characterised by a complete disregard for social conventions, so the absence of the ‘father’ wouldn’t have deterred her. She’d have told the world that her son’s father was an ‘irrelevance’ and no more than a biological necessity.

‘Should your name mean something to me?’

He looked up and then back at the letters in his hand. ‘No.’

Lydia frowned, irritated. What was the matter with the man? This kind of information was hardly highly classified. His behaviour was bizarre, to say the least. And rude.

‘How do you know Wendy Bennington?’ she persisted, moving closer.

He threw the pile of letters back on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve known her all my life.’

‘Really? How’s that?’

His dark eyes flicked momentarily across to her and then he walked out of the room.

Lydia let out her breath in one long stream and just about managed to bite down on the expletive which was on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps he hadn’t fully understood that she was the one with the appointment.

Pausing only to shut the back door, she followed him out into the narrow hallway.

‘Wendy?’ Nick Regan opened the door immediately to his left and glanced inside.

‘Is she there?’

He brushed past her. ‘I’ll check upstairs.’

Lydia gave in to temptation and swore softly as he took the stairs a couple of steps at a time. Even allowing for the possibility that he was genuinely worried, there was really no excuse for his attitude towards her. Much more of it and he was going to get the sharp edge of her tongue.

Her hand was on the newel post as he shouted down to her, ‘Get an ambulance.’

Ambulance?

‘Quickly.’

Dear God. No.

Despite everything, she hadn’t really expected that. For all her dramatic attempt at breaking and entering, she hadn’t anticipated anything other than the elderly woman had popped out to get some milk.

Her mind played havoc as she pictured Wendy Bennington lying bleeding…or dead, even…She reached into her handbag and fumbled for her mobile phone while she ran up the short flight of stairs. ‘What’s happened?’

In the doorway she saw a figure, instantly recognisable despite the flamboyant caftan and grey flowing hair, slumped in the doorway. It wasn’t the way she’d imagined she’d meet Wendy Bennington.

Every picture she’d ever seen had shown Ms Bennington to be a highly capable and formidable woman. Her energy and strength had radiated from each and every image. This woman looked simply old. Her face was filled with fear and complete bewilderment.

Lydia flicked open her mobile and glanced across at Nick, for the first time grateful she hadn’t made this discovery alone. Presumably he would know whether Wendy Bennington was prone to bouts like this and whether she was on any kind of medication.

‘I think she may have had some kind of stroke,’ he said quietly, his long fingers smoothing back a lock of grey hair. ‘Wendy?’

Lydia watched as the woman on the floor frowned and struggled to articulate what she was feeling—but what came out of her mouth was incomprehensible. Her words were slurred and her frustration mounted as she realised she was communicating nothing.

‘Wendy, can you touch your nose for me?’ Nick asked.

Again that frown, two deep indentations in the centre of her forehead, and yet there was no discernible movement. Nick looked over his shoulder. ‘Have you rung?’

Lydia tapped out the emergency number and waited for the operator’s voice. It was only a matter of seconds, but it seemed an age before there was an answer. Her hand gripped on to the mobile until her knuckles glowed white and she forced her mind to stay in the present.

The last time she’d telephoned for an ambulance it had been for Izzy. Lydia felt her eyes smart with the effort of holding back the emotion those images unleashed. She’d never been so frightened as she’d been then. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive had been the longest fifteen minutes of her life.

It had seemed like every minute, every moment, had been stretched out to maximum tension and it was etched on her memory. The feeling of complete helplessness. The guilt. The regret. The panic. And the mind-numbing fear. A whole hotchpotch of feelings she hadn’t even begun to unpack yet. All there. All reaching out towards her like fog in a nightmare.

But this was different, she reminded herself. The circumstances were completely different. She forced her breathing to slow and tried to focus on the questions she was being asked.

Nick looked over his shoulder. ‘Tell them to take the left hand fork at the top of the lane. It’s a confusing junction. They could lose five minutes or more if they take the wrong turn.’

Lydia gave a nod of acknowledgement and reached into her jacket pocket for the piece of paper on which she’d written the directions to the cottage. Wendy had been very thorough.

She watched Nick disappear into one of the bedrooms and return with a pillow and satin eiderdown. He used the pillow as a cushion and wrapped the elderly woman gently in the apricot-coloured eiderdown.

‘Yes, the last cottage on the right.’ The voice on the other end was precise and calming. ‘About half a mile out of the village. Yes. Thank you.’ Lydia finished the call and clicked her mobile shut.

‘Well?’ Nick turned to look at her.

‘An ambulance is on its way.’

‘Is there anything I need to do while I wait?’

Lydia shook her head. ‘You’ve already done it. She said not to move her and to wrap her in something warm as she might be in shock.’

He smiled grimly and settled himself back down on the floor, taking Wendy’s hand between his own. ‘It won’t be long now.’

Lydia watched the shadow pass across the elderly woman’s face as she struggled to speak. She seemed so confused. Frightened. So unlike anything she’d been expecting to find in such a formidable woman—and yet would anyone be otherwise?

Her knowledge of strokes was woefully scanty, but she knew the consequences of them could be devastating. It didn’t seem right. A woman of Wendy’s courage couldn’t be struck down like this. It wasn’t fair.

But life wasn’t fair, was it? It wasn’t fair that her parents had died when they were so young. Or that her sister Izzy had miscarried her baby. Life had a way of kicking up all kinds of unpleasant surprises. She ought to know that by now.

Lydia put her phone back in her handbag, taking more care than usual to fasten the stud. ‘Do you want me to put together an overnight bag? Or s-something…?’ Her voice faltered as he looked up, his expression conveying exactly what he thought of her suggestion.

‘I’ll do it later,’ Nick said curtly, ‘and take it when I go to the hospital.’

What was his problem? He looked as though she’d told him she’d ransack the entire room instead of offering to gather together a few toiletries and a nightdress. Her eyes shifted to Wendy’s hugely swollen ankle, visible beneath the eiderdown. ‘I’ll get some ice.’

‘Sorry?’

‘For her ankle. Whether it’s broken or just sprained, ice will help it.’

He followed the line of her gaze. ‘Right.’

Lydia turned and started down the stairs before she thought to ask, ‘Does she have a freezer?’

‘In the old scullery. She keeps a chest freezer out there.’

Lydia continued down the stairs. As she reached the bottom she jumped as a warm furry shape twisted round her legs. ‘Hello,’ she said softly. The cat mewed loudly and pushed that little bit closer. Lydia stooped and ran her hand across the sleek black fur.

Stepping to one side, Lydia carried on to the kitchen. Two concrete steps led down to the old scullery, the ancient copper wash tub in one corner. The freezer stood, large and white, on the far wall. Spots of rust discoloured the surface and the lid seemed to have slightly bowed.

There was so much about Wendy Bennington’s house that made her feel unutterably sad. It was as though the elderly woman did no more than camp here. She’d certainly made no effort to make the place feel comfortable…or even like a home.

The freezer was in desperate need of being defrosted and Lydia struggled to lift the lid. She chipped off huge chunks of ice and lifted out the top basket.

Inside there were countless boxes of pre-prepared meals for one, half-opened packets of stir-fry and frozen vegetables. Surely more than enough to feed a single person for several months? Lydia lifted out a small packet of peas and headed back upstairs.

Nick turned as soon as she got there. ‘Have you found something? Her ankle seems to be bothering her now.’

‘You’ll need to wrap this in a towel. It’s very cold.’

But even as she spoke he’d pulled out a pillow from its pillowcase and tucked the frozen packet inside. She watched as he carefully held it up against the swelling and heard Wendy’s small moan of pain.

‘Is there anything else I can do? I’d like to help.’

Nick glanced up. ‘If you want to be useful you could take your car down to the village and point the ambulance in the right direction.’

‘I’m sure there’s no need for that. I found my way here without a problem.’

‘But it’s a single track road and if they miss the junction there’s nowhere to turn for a couple of miles.’

Lydia frowned, uncertain what to do. What he was saying about the junction was true—but it was more than that. He so clearly wanted her to leave.

She heard the elderly woman mumble incomprehensibly and wondered whether he wished her to go because he knew how much Wendy would hate being seen this way. If the situation was reversed, if she were the woman lying on the floor, she would prefer there were no strangers to see it.

And there was no doubt that Wendy trusted Nick implicitly, not once had she glanced across in Lydia’s direction. Her eyes searched out his as though they would be her salvation.

It felt intensely private. His strong hand calmly held Wendy’s frail agitated one in his. Lydia didn’t think she’d ever seen a man so gentle or so eminently capable of managing a situation alone.

‘I’ll wait in the village.’

Nick scarcely noticed she’d spoken; his mind and energy were focused entirely on Wendy Bennington.

As it should be, she reminded herself. Of course, he should be totally concerned about the sick woman.

Lydia reached inside an inner pocket of her handbag and pulled out a business card. ‘Would you call me? I’d like to know how Ms Bennington is doing.’

He turned, his expression unreadable. If he wasn’t a poker player, he ought to be. She couldn’t tell whether he thought it reasonable that she wanted to know what happened to Wendy or whether he thought it an intrusion.

‘Please?’

His face didn’t change, but after a short pause he reached out and took her card. ‘Make sure you leave the front door open,’ he said, tucking it in the back pocket of his jeans.

Lydia supposed she had to take that as an agreement that he would call her. Whether he would remember to actually do it or not was a different matter.

Quietly she walked down the stairs and into the oppressively gloomy kitchen. Her briefcase was still by the rusting boiler where she’d left it. Lydia bent and picked it up, before taking a last opportunity to glance about her.

Sad. It was a truly sad place.

Slowly she walked along the hall and carefully put the front door on the latch. It was strange that Nick Regan let Wendy Bennington live in such a way. He so obviously loved her. It was in the way he’d brushed her hair off her forehead and held her hand.

So who was he? Why was he so concerned about Wendy Bennington? It surely went beyond being a mere friend, but his name hadn’t appeared in her research. As far as she’d been able to ascertain, Wendy had no family at all. Not even a nephew. An only child of only children.

She walked down the narrow front path, mulling over the possibilities. At the gate she stopped, mouth open in disbelief. His car was parked immediately in front of her own—and her mother’s wealth barometer had been spot on. Nick Regan drove a top of the range sports car. So who the heck was he?

Lydia opened her car door, feeling vaguely ashamed. There was something in her which made it impossible to switch off ‘the journalist’. Why couldn’t she merely be pleased that Wendy had someone who loved her? Wendy had lived her life entirely for other people; it was right that when she needed help herself there should be someone to give it. Someone who cared because they chose to, rather than doing so out of a sense of duty.

She tipped the front seat of her more modest car forward and slid in her briefcase. Perhaps she hadn’t been so far adrift in thinking he was behaving like a son? It had to be a possibility because what else was there?

The engine purred into life and Lydia took a last glance back at the cottage through her rear-view mirror. He was the right kind of age. Thirty-four, maybe as much as thirty-eight. Certainly no more.

Perhaps he was the result of a passionate affair? She let her imagination soar. An affair with a married man? Or the husband of a friend? Or was he a sperm donor baby? Or…

She was getting ridiculous. If Wendy Bennington had ever been pregnant someone somewhere would have written about it. She glanced up again at her driver’s mirror and groaned at the image she presented. Her hair was still bunched up in a childish topknot. Hardly the look of an award-winning journalist.

Damn.

She ripped out the scrunchie and let her hair fall softly around her shoulders. Nick bloody Regan probably thought she was some kind of tea girl rather than the woman his…friend…had chosen as her biographer.

It shouldn’t matter. Lydia crunched her car into first gear. It didn’t matter—at all. But…but this was not turning out to be a good day.

Nick heard her leave. First her footsteps on the stairs and then the sound of her car pulling away. He let out his breath in a steady stream and tried to settle himself into a more comfortable position on the floor.

He hadn’t expected Lydia Stanford would give up so easily. Her kind always stayed to the last. They circled overhead, waiting for the kill, like the scavengers they were. The wonder was that she hadn’t whipped out her camera and taken some photographs as ‘background colour’—or whatever she called it to salve her conscience.

Nick rested his head against the wall. There were other journalists, with far better credentials than Ms Stanford, who would have been more than anxious to write an authorised biography. Some he would have trusted to do a fair and balanced job of it.

But Lydia Stanford…