Change of Heart p.6 Read online

  But to Frank’s surprise, he had wanted to hold the baby. The feeling had so shocked him that he’d left his brother’s house right away.

  As he drove home, he wondered if Eli was the cause of these new feelings or if it was the other way around. Had Frank begun to change so that he noticed a kid skulking around his office?

  Frank glanced over at Miranda, lying on the bed. He was ashamed of himself for what he’d assumed about her. His family had often said that his incessant business dealings had made him lose touch with the real world. While it was true that his life consisted of doing his best to win deals, he did have a social life. In fact, right now he had a girlfriend, Gwyn. They went to one charity gala after another. He owned an entire wardrobe of tuxedos, all of which got frequent wear.

  It was his sister-in-law Samantha who’d said, “But that’s not real. Seeing each other at your best has nothing to do with actual life. You need to love a person at three a.m. when the baby has spit up on you and you haven’t had any sleep and you’re angry and crying and he puts his arms around you and says, ‘Go to bed. I’ll do this.’ Charity balls are the dessert, not the meal.”

  At the time, Frank had dismissed what she’d said, but since he’d met Eli two years ago, he’d thought about it. A few months ago he’d been up all night working on a contract with some Russian businessmen. There’d been vodka and a lot of cigarettes. He was to meet Gwyn later that day so he’d planned to take a nap and clean up, but he didn’t. Instead, when she arrived at his apartment, he’d been unshaven, sweaty, and stinking.

  She had graciously and charmingly told him she’d return when he was presentable.

  Frank got up to use the poker to move the logs around. This woman, this Mrs. Stowe, wouldn’t do that. She would probably have straightened up the apartment while Frank took a shower. Or maybe he would have rubbed his whiskers on her neck, made her laugh, and they would have taken a shower together.

  He liked that idea. In fact, he liked everything about her. He had treated her abominably. Horribly. But she’d returned his actions with kindness. Well, maybe she’d been a bit sassy in calling him Mr. Billionaire—the memory made him smile—but she’d fed him, undressed him, taken care of him.

  When he’d told Gwyn that he’d broken his arm, she’d said, “Oh dear, how awful for you. You’ll miss the museum gala. But I’ll send you photos so you won’t feel left out.” Photos were Gwyn’s idea of kindness.

  What would Miranda have done in that situation? Made chicken soup?

  One of the reasons Frank was so very successful was because he could make decisions quickly. In seconds, he could see down the road to where his decision would lead him, then say yes or no.

  As he looked at Miranda’s sleeping form, he could see where a liaison, a merger so to speak, with her would lead. There was a possible end to the deep loneliness of his life. Perhaps with someone like Miranda in his life he could at last give up hiding what was inside him.

  He’d been angry at the thought of his siblings playing a joke on him, but maybe they hadn’t. Maybe they’d realized what Frank needed and had helped him find her.

  But, he thought, how to present what he had in mind to her? Should he lie and say he’d fallen in love with her? She wouldn’t believe that. Tell her he was overcome with lust? She’d go running out the door again. Perhaps he should suggest dating? What a waste of time! He’d made up his mind so why dally?

  That she had a son she wanted to take care of was to his advantage. What if he presented it all as a business deal? He could point out that they had things the other wanted, so let’s do it. Yes, he thought, that was the way.

  Miranda didn’t know how long she’d been asleep before a man’s voice woke her.

  “Mrs. Stowe.”

  Startled, she looked up at Frank Taggert, wearing just his underwear, his arm in its heavy cast, standing there looking at her, his dark eyes serious. Only the fading firelight lit the room.

  I’ll bet this is how he looks when he makes one of his million-dollar deals, she thought, and she wondered what he could possibly want of her that he needed to wake her in the middle of the night.

  “Yes?”

  “I have a proposition to put to you. A merger of sorts.”

  Pushing herself upright, she leaned against the head of the bed, unaware that the gown showed every curve of her upper body. But Frank didn’t seem to notice, as his eyes were intense.

  “Ordinarily,” he began, “the things you said to me would have no effect on me. My relatives have said everything you have and more. However, it seems that when a man reaches forty and—”

  “A billion,” she interrupted.

  “Yes, well, there does come a time when a man begins to consider his own mortality.”

  “Midas,” she said, referring to the story of the man who turned everything, including his beloved child, into gold.

  “Just so.” He hesitated, glancing down at her bosom for the briefest second. “Contrary to what people think, I am human.”

  At that Miranda pulled the covers up to her neck. She was not a one-night-stand type of person. In fact, she wouldn’t even read romances in which the heroine had a multitude of lovers. “Mr. Taggert—” she began.

  But he put up his hand to stop her. “You do not have to concern yourself about me. I do not force myself on women.”

  She knew he was telling the truth and let the covers go. Besides, she didn’t see herself as a woman who drove men to uncontrollable acts of lust. “What is it you’re trying to say to me?”

  “I am trying to ask if you’d consider marrying me.”

  It took her a full minute to recover herself enough to speak. “Marriage?” she asked, her eyes wide. “To me?”

  “Yes.” He was serious. “I can see that you’re shocked. Most of the women I meet are tall, statuesque blondes who train horses and wear couture. I don’t usually come across short, plump—”

  “I understand,” she said quickly. “So why aren’t you married to one of these horsey women who spends her life trying on clothes?”

  Her cattiness was acknowledged with a tiny bit of a smile. “I’m afraid that it’s as you say—they care only for my money.”

  “Mr. Taggert,” she said, looking at him hard, “I’m not interested in your money or you.”

  He gave a little smile. “Surely there are things you want that money can buy. I would imagine you live in a house with a mortgage, and I doubt that your car is less than three years old. Does your ex-husband pay you any support? You’re the type who would never take a person to court for nonpayment of debt. How long has it been since you’ve had any new clothes? There must be many things besides an education that you want for your son.”

  That he’d described her life perfectly made her angry. “Being poor is not a social disease. And since slavery was outlawed some years ago, I don’t have to sell myself to get a new car.”

  “How about a white Mercedes with red leather interior?”

  She almost smiled at that. “Really, Mr. Taggert, this is ridiculous. What’s the real reason you’re asking me to marry you? If you still are, that is.”

  “Yes. Once I make up my mind, I never change it.”

  “I can believe that about you.”

  Again he gave her a bit of a smile, making her wonder if any of the tall blondes in his life had ever contradicted him. “My life is too perfect,” he said, “and it’s beginning to bore me. Everything is perfectly in order as my servants are the best. There’s never so much as a hairbrush out of place in any of my houses. For some time now I’ve thought it might be pleasant to have a wife, someone familiar to me. I like familiarity, which is why the contents of each of my houses are exactly the same.”

  Blinking, she thought about this for a moment. “Same towels, same—”

  “Same clothes in exactly the same arrangement, so that no matt