Cathy looked across at Pearce and her heart twisted 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 CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN Copyright

Cathy looked across at Pearce and her heart twisted

She had fallen for him but how it had happened she didn’t know. All she knew was that she loved him with every fiber of her soul. She needed to tell him the truth about herself. Her article for the paper was unimportant, compared with the depth of feeling inside her.

If she told him now, what would his reaction be? she wondered. Obviously he would be livid to begin with, but whether he would forgive her or not was down to how much he felt for her.

He was watching her silently and she knew that her confusion—her indecision—was there for him to see.

Dear Reader,

A perfect nanny can be tough to find, but once you’ve found her you’ll love and treasure her forever. She’s someone who’ll not only look after the kids but could also be that loving mom they never knew. Or sometimes she’s a he and is the daddy they are wishing for.

Here at Harlequin Presents we’ve put together a compelling new series, NANNY WANTED!, in which some of our most popular authors create nannies whose talents extend way beyond taking care of the children! Each story will excite and delight you and make you wonder how any family could be complete without a nineties nanny.

Remember—Nanny knows best when it comes to falling in love!

The Editors

Look out next month for:

A NANNY NAMED NICK by Miranda Lee

(#1943)

The Love-Child

Kathryn Ross

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE French Riviera shimmered in blistering heat. Cathy lay on a sun-lounger next to the pool at her hotel and tried to gather up the energy to move into the shade.

This was really quite blissful, she told herself dreamily. Coming away on holiday on her own wasn’t as awful as she had feared; it was a chance to recharge her batteries. London and her job at the newspaper had been getting very hectic, very stressful.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she was interrupted by a waiter, telling her there that there was a phone call for her.

‘For me? Are you sure?’ She frowned and swung long shapely legs over the side of the lounger, drawing admiring glances from two men who were sitting at the pool bar.

‘Definitely for you, Mademoiselle Fielding,’ the waiter said patiently.

‘OK, merci.’ Brushing her long blonde hair back from her face with impatient fingers, she took the cordless phone from him.

‘Cathy, it’s Mike. Have I got news for you,’ a cheerful voice boomed down the line, sending ominous shivers down her back.

It was her editor, Mike Johnson. Forty-five, crusty and as hard as nails. He sounded far too cheerful for her liking. ‘Only if the premises have burnt down or the Prime Minister has run off with a nun can this phone call be justified, Mike,’ she told him straight. She didn’t want to be reminded of work...it wasn’t fair. Everyone was entitled to a vacation.

‘Come on, Cathy, I’ll lay money on the fact that you are bored to tears and just dying to get back to work,’ her editor shot back quickly. ‘I know you. You’re a damn good journalist and you are never happier than when I give you a good assignment. You’d rather be in the pouring rain with a good story than sunning yourself in the South of France.’

‘Dream on,’ Cathy murmured abrasively.

Mike continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve got a real scoop and it’s right on your doorstep.’

There was a brief pause while Cathy fought with herself not to ask. She bit down on her lip but the words refused to be held back. ‘So, what is it?’

‘Pearce Tyrone is staying at his villa ... just down the road from your hotel.’

‘So?’ Cathy frowned. ‘What’s the big deal? He’s a successful writer; I’m sure he stays at his French home a lot.’

‘Jody Sterling’s child has been sent to him. It’s all strictly hush-hush and as yet none of the other papers are on to it—’

‘How reliable is your information?’ she interrupted swiftly.

‘Very.’ He emphasised the word heavily. ‘I have it on good authority that little Poppy arrived at the Tyrone house early this morning.’

Cathy felt a flicker of interest. Jody Sterling had been all over the newspapers recently, having had a near-fatal car accident. She was a phenomenally talented actress. Blonde and beautiful, she was frequently the centre of a lot of media attention, but never more so than when she had given birth to an illegitimate child nine months previously and had refused to name the father.

Speculation had been rife. Cê Va magazine had featured the actress on the arm of prominent, married politician Jonathan Briars and the scandal had deepened to almost ruin the man’s career. The other name to be linked with the actress was Pearce Tyrone.

Pearce was an enigma. No one knew much about the thirty-seven-year-old except that he was an exceptionally successful author, persistently in the bestseller list. Cathy had seen his photograph on only a few occasions when someone had surreptitiously managed to snap him leaving a restaurant or hotel.

The man shunned interviews and refused to let a journalist within striking distance. He held his privacy like a dark protective cloak around him. There was no information about his life on the covers of his books, and no photograph—even though he had the fabulous dark looks of an Adonis. The more he refused to be drawn into giving an interview the more interested the public became in him.

Was he the father of Jody Sterling’s baby? The question hovered tantalisingly in Cathy’s mind.

‘Well are you interested?’ Mike’s gruff voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘It’s certainly juicy,’ Cathy murmured. ‘But it’s hardly my line, Mike. You know I like harder news...scandal and tittle-tattle are more up Linda Hardman’s street.’

‘Linda’s in New York. You are on the spot.’ Mike’s voice rasped harshly, all hint of amusement gone. ‘And, anyway, the French air-traffic controllers went out on strike last night; I can’t get anyone there quick enough. You’ll have to step in. Get down there and interview him before the other papers get wind of it.’

‘Hey, give me a break!’ she howled. ‘This is a guy who thinks that even a book-signing session is an invasion of privacy. How will I get an interview?’

‘Use your initiative; you’re good at that.’ Her boss’s voice brooked no argument. ‘Oh, and don’t forget to take pictures.... I’m relying on you.’ Then, in a deeper, more sinister tone, he added, ‘Your job’s relying on it.’

The line went dead at that.

Oh, wonderful, Cathy thought as she put down the receiver. There was nothing like finishing with an ultimatum. Totally unnecessary, she decided with a shake of her head, but, then, that was Mike all over—he liked the forceful approach. He would be laughing with glee now at the thought of her sitting outside Pearce Tyrone’s gates, desperate to get in.

Just under an hour later Cathy drove her hire car along the Corniche in search of Pearce Tyrone’s villa.

She had asked at the hotel and one of the receptionists had told her that it was along here somewhere, hidden behind huge gates with stone lions on pillars at either side. She slowed down, scanning the abundant greenery that covered the mountainous slopes. No houses were visible from the road; they were all well hidden behind a profusion of trees and shrubs.

She rounded a very sharp bend and then suddenly saw the gates up ahead. There was no mistaking them, tall and imposing with lions at either side, looking proudly out across the blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

She pulled the car in to the side of the road and sat looking at the gates, her heart thudding nervously. Now she had to fathom out how to gain access.

One good thing was the fact that there was nobody else around. Either the other members of the press hadn’t got wind of the developments here or Mike’s information was wrong. She studied the gates with anxious eyes. They were obviously electronically operated and there were cameras pointing down from either side of the pillars. That didn’t bode well for an easy entry.

Cathy bit down on the softness of her lips. She could drive up there and try the direct approach—‘I’m here to interview Mr Tyrone’—then get sent away with a curt ‘get lost’ ringing in her ears. Or she could try the more devious tactic of a woman in distress. Not a very virtuous ploy but it might get her through the gates. She turned the rear-view mirror and checked her appearance.

Cool emerald-green eyes, fringed with long dark lashes, stared back at her from a heart-shaped face. She put a hand to her honey-blonde hair, wondering if she should take it out of the rather severe plait that held it back from her face. Her hair was her crowning glory, long, thick and naturally blonde; it always got her noticed. At the office they had nicknamed her ‘Barbie’ because of her hair and shapely figure. It was a nickname that irritated Cathy intensely; sometimes she felt that because she was blonde with long legs her work was not taken seriously enough.

However, there were times when looking glamorous had its advantages and this could be one of them. She could effect a pouty and breathy helplessness at the gates and say that there was something wrong with her car, then ask to use their phone. Her hand paused on the velvet tie that held her hair neatly in place, and suddenly she thought better of the idea. No, she wouldn’t stoop so low...she would get this interview fair and square.

With determination, she put the car into gear and moved slowly forward towards the gates. As she’d suspected, the cameras were immediately trained on her as she stopped and wound down her car window.

‘Please state your business,’ a male voice ordered in broken English over a crackling intercom.

For a fraction of a second she hesitated and then stated with perfect confidence, ‘I’m here to see Mr. Tyrone.’

There was a moment’s silence and then, to her absolute amazement, the voice issued the command for her to enter and the large gates ground slowly open in front of her.

There you are, she told herself crisply as she drove through; honesty is always the best policy. Even as she spoke the words she had the feeling that something wasn’t right here. This was just too easy.

Cautiously she proceeded up the long winding driveway and when the pretty pink villa came into view, with its dark green shutters still tightly closed against the heat of the sun, she drew in her breath with delight. There was nothing ostentatious about the place, yet it was simply perfect—an oasis of peaceful beauty, surrounded by trees and beautiful flowers. Terracotta pots filled with bright red geraniums lined the steps up to a front door which had been left invitingly open.

What more could I ask? Cathy thought with glee as she parked the car and stepped out into the warm air, fragrant with geraniums and lavender. She ran a smoothing hand over her white linen sun-dress as she slowly walked towards the door. Now all she had to decide was what track her interview should follow. Should she start by asking Tyrone outright if he was the father of Jody Sterling’s child? Or should she word the question differently—just ask if the actress had officially named him as the child’s next of kin? Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Pearce Tyrone himself on the front steps.

Hell! He’s gorgeous! Cathy’s business-like thoughts disintegrated as her gaze met with flint-like sapphire-blue eyes. It was totally out of character but her mind went completely blank and her senses were sent into chaos as she noted the powerful breadth of his shoulders, the elegant cut of his summer suit.

He was nine years her senior at thirty-seven, and six feet two with ruggedly handsome good looks and jet black hair. The few photographs she had seen of him had prepared her for the fact that he was attractive, but what she hadn’t expected was the magnetising power of his looks. But there was something else as well. It was really very strange, but she almost felt as if she knew him—as if they had met before somewhere. Yet she knew for certain that they hadn’t.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he rasped angrily. ‘I’ve been expecting you for hours.’

Cathy could do nothing but stare at him, totally taken aback by his sudden outburst.

His eyes raked her face impatiently. Then suddenly he frowned. ‘You are from the agency?’ His voice deepened ominously and his eyes moved, taking in every detail of her shapely figure in the white dress.

The tone of his voice left Cathy in no doubt that if she didn’t just say yes he would throw her bodily back out onto the road.

She gave a slight nod, although what she was agreeing to she had no idea. All she could think of was that she didn’t want to spoil her chances of getting through his front door.

‘Thank heaven for that.’ He waved a hand rather imperiously for her to proceed with him into the house. ‘The child hasn’t stopped crying for hours.’ His voice grated with a mixture of anxiety and annoyance.

Cathy searched for something intelligent and noncommittal to say...nothing came to mind. All she could think of was that he had verified that there was a child here. Silently she walked ahead of him and then stood aside as he closed the front door behind them and pulled a heavy bolt across it.

Too late, Cathy found herself thinking sardonically as she glanced around the gracious hallway. The stranger from the press had already entered the lion’s den. She shivered as she glanced back and met those deep blue eyes head on again. She just hoped that the lion wouldn’t eat her alive when he discovered the truth.

‘Did the agency fill you in with the details?’ He glared at her.

Nerves twisted and spiralled as she wondered what on earth he was talking about. She gave a brief nod.

‘Good. I’ll take you straight up to Poppy,’ he said grimly. ‘We can get down to business later.’

Better and better, Cathy thought as she followed him up a curving staircase with wrought-iron banisters. Or perhaps she should say curiouser and curiouser. Mike Johnson wasn’t going to believe her luck. And obviously her editor’s information had been quite correct. Jody Sterling’s child was here.

Pearce led her swiftly down a long corridor and it was then that she first heard the muffled cry of a child. As they approached the room at the end the crying grew louder until—when he opened the door—the full wail of the infant’s lungs ripped the air apart.

The room was primrose-yellow, the sprigged white muslin curtains moved gently in the soft breeze from the open window and in the centre of the room a middle-aged man was bending over a cot, trying to soothe a distressed child. When they entered he turned towards them a relieved look on his lined face.

‘Au secours, ça suffit!’ He spoke in deep rapid French, his eyes darting from Pearce to Cathy, his manner clearly agitated.

‘Don’t worry, Henri. You did what you could and I am most grateful. But the nanny is here now, and she will take care of things.’

Pearce’s voice was rich, dark and hypnotically authoritative. Cathy looked behind her to see where the nanny was. Anyone who could quieten this child had her full admiration. Suddenly her spirits sank as reality dawned. He was talking about her! Somehow he had mistakenly taken her for the child’s nanny!

‘Well don’t just stand there.’ Pearce Tyrone’s voice lifted derisively as the child seemed to bellow even more furiously, her breath catching painfully.

It crossed Cathy’s mind to just come clean with the truth—tell him that she didn’t know anything about babies and that she was from the press.

She looked into Pearce Tyrone’s eyes. They seemed to have darkened to deepest midnight, his lips set in a grim, uncompromising line. Maybe the truth could wait, she countered hastily. Once told, her feet wouldn’t touch the ground, and before leaving she should at least try to find out something about this situation. Get some angle for a good story.

As the older man left the room, still noisily bemoaning his failure with his charge, Cathy moved over to the side of the cot and looked down at the child—trying to guess what was causing her so much distress. Perhaps she was hungry or needed to be changed?

Cathy racked her brains. She had done an article on modern-day child care not so long ago; she had done a lot of research for it, but unfortunately it had been more theoretical than practical.

‘She has cried almost continually since she arrived today,’ Pearce informed her, an edge of strain clear in his voice. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’

Cathy glanced at him, an expression of genuine sympathy in her eyes. She remembered her sister telling her how distressed she had felt when her young daughter had suffered from colic and had cried almost continuously.

The infant let out a particularly loud wail and Pearce Tyrone crossed to stand next to her at the cot. ‘I’ve tried holding her over my shoulder, feeding her, changing her, and still she cries.’ He raked a hand through the thickness of his dark hair. ‘I’ve never felt so damn helpless.’

Cathy’s eyebrows lifted a little. It was amazing that one small baby could reduce such a powerful, dominant male into making such a statement. She was willing to bet her last franc on the fact that nothing had ever made Pearce Tyrone feel helpless before.

Tentatively Cathy put out a hand and gently stroked the infant’s brow. Magically the sobbing lessened as though the child had recognised the touch of her hand. Quick to press her advantage, Cathy leaned down and crooned close to her ear. ‘What’s the matter, then, sweetheart?’

The little face turned briefly to look at her. It was red from crying and Cathy felt a rush of tenderness that almost choked her. Almost at once the child started to cry again with renewed vigour, pushing the back of her small dimpled hands into her eyes.

Poor little thing, Cathy thought sadly. She had expected to see her mother and instead she had found another stranger.

‘Would you like to come out of that nasty cot and have a little cuddle, then?’ Cathy coaxed gently and reached in to gather up the wriggling flurry of cherubic arms and legs. Carefully she supported the child’s back and head until she had her safely in her arms. The crying stopped almost immediately and a pair of speedwell-blue eyes, fringed with dark curtly, lashes, looked up into Cathy’s face in astonishment. The relief of silence was heady.

‘What was all that noise about, then?’ Cathy asked softly, placing a playful finger under the baby’s chin. She was only about nine months old and very beautiful. Immediately the child’s small fingers encircled Cathy’s and held on for dear life, as though frightened she was going to be left alone once more.

For a moment the importance of getting a story from Pearce Tyrone paled under the awful fact that this child might lose her mother. Jody Sterling was in a coma in hospital in Paris and might never recover. Perhaps this was a contributing factor to Tyrone’s obvious distress.

She had obviously caught the man in a rare unguarded moment of stress, otherwise she would never have got past the front gate. With a bit of luck she could admit to him now that she wasn’t really a nanny and he would be so grateful to her that he would grant her a full interview.

‘Poppy seems to have taken a liking to you, Miss...?’

Cathy hesitated just a fraction of a second before giving him her real name. ‘Fielding ... Cathy Fielding.’

He frowned and the handsome face took on a very stem expression, the sort of look that—in Cathy’s experience—preceded being forcefully ejected from a situation.

‘That’s not the name the agency sent... I was expecting someone called Mabel ... something or other.’

There was the briefest pause before Cathy found herself lying blatantly. ‘Mabel is my real name, but I never use it.’ She opened her eyes in a wide, coquettish way. ‘I don’t think it’s very attractive, do you?’

He looked at her as if she had suddenly grown two heads. ‘Frankly, I haven’t the inclination to ponder on things of such magnitude,’ he told her derisively.

His tone, his expression, was like a cool slap across the face. Feeling totally put down, Cathy felt a flare of anger rise. This man took himself far too seriously.

‘All I care about is whether you are as highly qualified as the agency has led me to believe,’ he continued briskly.

Qualified to write a story that would open the public’s eyes to the real Pearce Tyrone, she told herself firmly. Given just a little time inside this house, she might gather enough information to warm Mike’s heart. A gleam of devilment lit the wide beauty of her eyes. ‘Oh. I’m very highly qualified,’ she assured him.

The baby wriggled slightly in her arms and then reached up one little hand and grabbed at a loose tendril of Cathy’s hair with a grip that was surprisingly strong.

‘Ow!’ It took a moment to gently extricate herself and then Poppy reached her arms towards Pearce, a sweet smile on her little face.

Looking over at Pearce, Cathy noticed that the remote countenance with which he had regarded her had softened to tenderness as he studied the child.

‘So, why didn’t you behave for me and Henri?’ he asked Poppy playfully. ‘How come you only respond to a woman?’

The child chuckled and looked as if she understood every word that he spoke.

Cathy smiled and then risked commenting, ‘Perhaps I remind her of her mother? We’ve got the same colour hair, haven’t we?’

Cathy knew at that moment how Pearce had got his name. Those eyes seemed to slice through her. He made no effort to reply and the silence and the way he was looking at her was very unnerving.

Was this the moment when he threw her bodily from the premises? she wondered. Well, she wouldn’t go without giving this her best shot. ‘I ... I know I’m not as glamorous as Jody Sterling; she’s very beautiful. Poppy looks a little like her, though, don’t you think?’ She rocked the child gently and then cut straight to the bottom line. ‘Or perhaps you think she looks more like you?’

Cathy tried very hard to glean something from his expression, but it was hard to tell what was going on behind that cool mask of indifference. His lips curved and she imagined there was a faint, barely discernible hint of contempt. Then he merely shrugged and answered laconically, ‘If you say so, Ms. Fielding...if you say so.’

She frowned. ‘But what do you think?’

One dark eyebrow lifted. ‘I think that I haven’t got time to stand discussing such nonsense with a member of staff.’

Now she knew that she hadn’t imagined that look of contempt. The tone ... the manner were all very definitely condescending. Obviously Pearce Tyrone didn’t just keep the media at bay; he kept himself loftily apart from most people ... depending on their social standing, of course. He was a snob, an arrogant snob who erected social barriers ... who would never be found fraternising with staff! Fury blazed through her at such pomposity.

‘Your bedroom is through there.’ Pearce waved a hand airily towards a connecting door. ‘Shall I get Henri to bring in your luggage from your car?’

This succeeded in bringing her senses sharply back to the situation in hand. It seemed that the nanny was to live in and if Tyrone discovered she had no luggage his suspicions would be aroused. ‘Uh ... no.... I can manage perfectly, thank you.’ Her heart thudded uncomfortably as she wondered how long she could possibly get away with this and where the real nanny was.

‘OK.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Attend to Poppy and then come down and see me in my study...say, ten minutes.’ It wasn’t a question, more a command. ‘It’s at the bottom of the stairs, first on the right.’

As he strode towards the door Cathy sank down on the chair beside her. Her legs felt decidedly shaky. She didn’t like this one bit ... she should never have let it go so far.

She was not a devious, underhanded type of person and this whole situation was way out of her usual league. She had never before pretended to be someone else in order to get a story. But it had just seemed so deliciously irresistible to follow this game wherever it might lead... Curiosity burnt inside her.

Cathy looked down at the baby, who was staring up at her with mesmerising blue eyes.

The child gurgled happily.

‘Well might you laugh.’ Cathy shook her head. She should have owned up; told the man who she was... Deceiving a man like Tyrone was asking for trouble. But she was inside his home...inside Pearce Tyrone’s sacred domain where no reporter had walked before. The dramatic words rattled around her mind, making her smile.

She placed Poppy down on a changing mat on the floor and then reached into her handbag. A few quick photos were in order. It seemed very likely that the real nanny would turn up at any moment so she had better get what she could—and quickly.

CHAPTER TWO

THE room was very well equipped. Everything a baby could possibly need was there. With the imminent threat of discovery weighing heavily over her head, Cathy worked quickly. Several shots of the child, looking up at her in an adoring fashion. A few of the toys and the new clothes that filled the cupboards. They were all from the same, very chic, expensive shop in Nice, Cathy noted.

A noise in the corridor made her fling her camera back into her bag. She was only just in time. A few seconds later Henri came into the room.

‘Having difficulty, mademoiselle?’ he asked as he saw her standing beside the open cupboards.

‘Just familiarising myself with everything,’ she answered breezily.

He didn’t look impressed. ‘Mr Tyrone wants to see you in his study. I will watch Poppy.’

He sat on the chair just inside the door and crossed his arms. Watching her from beneath hooded eyelids.

Cathy found him a little disconcerting, but the scent of a promising story made her linger.

‘Mr. Tyrone has been very busy,’ she remarked nonchalantly, nodding towards all the cupboards. ‘Did he go out and buy all these things when he heard about Ms Sterling’s accident? Or did he have them here from the moment the child was born?’

Silence met the question and she turned enquiring eyes on the man. He just shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say, mademoiselle.’

Couldn’t say, or wouldn’t say? Irritated, Cathy moved further around the room and opened the connecting door.

Her eyes widened at the sight of a luxuriously beautiful bedroom. White carpets and turquoise silk covers on the four-poster bed gave it a very opulent air. Large picture windows gave panoramic views out over the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean.

She could see an en suite bathroom through another door beside the built-in wardrobes.

‘Mr Tyrone believes in keeping his staff in luxury,’ she murmured in total surprise.

‘It is a guest room,’ Henri murmured.

‘I see.’ Cathy turned and with a carefully polite smile she asked, ‘Is this where Jody Sterling sleeps when she visits?’

The man looked at her sharply. ‘This is a large house, mademoiselle; I do not know.’ Then he glanced pointedly at his watch. ‘You should not keep Monsieur Tyrone waiting.’

With a sigh, she turned from him. It was obvious that Henri wasn’t going to be forthcoming. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll just freshen up,’ she told him and headed into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Taking out her camera, she weighed up the possible photos she could take of the room. Then, before taking them, she walked across to the bathroom and turned on the taps in the wash basin, just to cover the sound of the camera’s shutter.

At least she would have something to give Mike, she thought with some satisfaction a few moments later as she pushed the camera back in her bag and then went to turn the water off. Now all she had to do was try and get some unguarded comments from Tyrone himself.

She glanced at herself in the mirror and noticed that strands of her hair were in untidy straggles around her face where Poppy had managed to pull it free of its ties. She grimaced. It might help matters if she looked reasonably tidy before facing the tyrant in his den.

Quickly she pulled her blonde hair free from its plait and drew a brush through its silken length.

Better, she smiled at her reflection. Pearce Tyrone would be easy, she told herself confidently.

She heard Tyrone’s voice before she could see him. She followed the deep booming sound of his displeasure down the stairs. He sounded formidable, and with every step towards his office door she could feel her confidence faltering.

‘Well, your agency assured me of a prompt service,’ he was saying in an irate tone.

Somebody had well and truly rattled the man’s cage, Cathy thought as she stopped in the doorway to his study. Her eyes scanned the room with professional interest, trying to store every detail while he was otherwise occupied.

He was sitting behind an enormous desk in a very beautiful room. The walls were covered in bookshelves and French doors looked out over a picturesque garden, lit by the rosy hue of evening. Beside him there was another desk with a computer and fax machine on it, and angled to one side was a coffee machine.

Pearce didn’t see her immediately. His head was bent and he was raking one hand through his dark hair in an angry way as he listened to whoever was at the other end of the line. Cathy didn’t envy whoever it was. She wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of Peace Tyrone’s temper—he sounded most indomitable. She only hoped that she could get her story and be out of here before he discovered her deception.

‘It’s just not good enough. I pay good money and expect—’ Pearce broke off as he looked up and caught sight of Cathy in the doorway.

His eyes moved over her from her shoes right the way over her body, studying her intently with a blatantly male interest. The in-depth scrutiny made her feel extremely self-conscious and there was the strangest feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she had just stepped off a high diving board.

‘Never mind.’ Pearce continued abruptly now. ‘Leave it. I’ll phone you back.’ Then he slammed down the phone.

‘Problem?’ Cathy asked with an innocent lift of one eyebrow.

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ Pearce’s voice was crisp and businesslike, his expression remote and distinctly unfriendly, making Cathy wonder if she had imagined his earlier look of approval. ‘You look different,’ he said.

‘Different?’

‘Your hair,’ he said curtly. ‘You’ve left it loose.’

The way he spoke was almost like an accusation. ‘Oh.’ She put a hand awkwardly to the long honey gold length and tucked it behind her ears. ‘Poppy had pulled it and I just thought I’d tidy up before coming down here.’

‘Come in and sit down.’ He cut across her rambling explanations and waved a hand imperiously towards the chair opposite him.

Feeling a bit like a child who had transgressed and had been summoned to the headmaster’s office, Cathy obediently took her place opposite him. For a moment he didn’t say anything—just looked at her. It took all of her self-control not to squirm uncomfortably under that probing stare.

He was examining her as a scientist would study something under a microscope, she thought angrily, as his eyes swept over her lightly tanned complexion, the heavy thickness of her hair and the scoop neckline of her white dress with deep contemplation.

‘So,’ he spoke sharply, ‘you are Ms Cathy Fielding, nanny extraordinaire?’

‘Well...I...I try my best.’ She held his gaze with difficulty, trying not to feel intimidated by him. No one had ever made her feel so on edge before but, then, she had never pretended to be anything other than what she was before.

‘Can you type?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Yes.’ She inclined her head.

‘Excellent.’ He smiled at her, a warm smile that did very weird things to her pulse rate. His swings of mood were dizzying, she thought hazily. ‘As you just overheard, my secretary has let me down. I’ve got a deadline to make with a book and I need someone to type up my notes.’

‘That’s no problem,’ she assured him. In fact, it was probably the only thing that he needed that she was qualified to do.

‘Right, let’s take a look at your references.’

Her heart gave a double beat and she was just opening her mouth to make a feeble excuse for not having them with her when he leaned across to the filing cabinet next to him. ‘They faxed them to me yesterday but, to be honest, I haven’t had a chance to study them in depth.’

She watched, wide-eyed, as he pulled out a paper folder. ‘The agency did speak very highly of you,’ he told her.

‘Did they?’ She sounded as breathless as she felt. She waited helplessly as he pulled out the pages inside, knowing full well that as soon as he looked at them he would know that she was an impostor. For one thing, the wrong surname would be at the top of the page.

She coughed and then caught her breath. ‘Do you think I could have a drink?’ she asked in a desperate attempt to forestall him.

‘Certainly.’ He swivelled his leather chair towards the coffee machine behind him. ‘Black all right?’

She didn’t get a chance to answer because at that juncture the shrill ring of a bell split the silence of the house.

‘Damn, someone is at the gate.’ Pearce hesitated and then stood up. ‘Excuse me a moment. I’d better see to it as Henri is watching Poppy for us.’

‘Of course.’ Cathy felt her blood rushing through her veins in hot waves as she wondered if this would be the real nanny.

Well, what could she expect? she told herself with a sinking feeling. It stood to reason that she couldn’t get away with this for very much longer.

As soon as Pearce left her she got up and wandered around the room. She flicked idly through a pile of papers at one side of his desk. They were just normal household accounts. Her eyes moved quickly over the references Pearce had spread out over the desk—from an agency called Elite Nannies of London. Cathy pulled a face as her eyes moved down over it. Any moment now she would probably be confronted with an indignant Mabel Flowers and an absolutely furious Pearce Tyrone.

Frantically, she opened a couple of drawers in his desk but found only paper and discs. What she was looking for, she couldn’t have said; she was just desperate for something...anything...she could use for her story before she was bodily thrown from the building.

She was in the process of closing the drawer when the telephone rang next to her. It rang and rang and Pearce didn’t come to answer it.

Impulsively, Cathy snatched it up. ‘Pearce Tyrone’s residence,’ she said in an efficient tone.

A woman with dulcet English tones asked to speak to Mr Tyrone.

‘I’m afraid he isn’t available at the moment,’ Cathy said without hesitation. ‘Can I take a message?’

There was the briefest pause before the woman asked to whom she was speaking.

‘Mr Tyrone’s secretary.’ Cathy bit her lip. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. Tyrone had asked if she would do some typing for him.

‘This is Janet Mercer of the Elite agency in London. I’m afraid the nanny we are sending you, a Ms Mabel Flowers, has run into some difficulty getting out to you. It’s this French air-traffic control strike.’

Cathy’s eyes widened; she could hardly believe her luck. ‘We were wondering where she had got to.’ She managed to sound slightly disapproving as she darted nervous glances towards the doorway in case Pearce should suddenly arrive.

‘Yes, I know you wanted her right away and I did promise, but it’s been chaotic trying to make other arrangements. The best we can do is book a train and the first available one is Monday next week, I’m afraid.’

‘Dear me.’ Cathy had difficulty keeping the glee from her voice.

‘If you’d like to cancel our contract and get someone closer to home then we would understand.’

‘No, leave it as it is,’ Cathy told her nonchalantly. That would give her a week’s grace to get her story, not that she intended to stay that long. She’d probably be out of here tomorrow morning with enough information to make Mike’s year.

‘Well, that’s very good of you,’ the woman said with evident relief.

Isn’t it? Cathy thought, mentally patting herself on the back.

She was just putting down the phone when Pearce came back through the door.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked with a frown, noting her hand on the receiver and the fact that she was standing behind his desk.

‘The phone rang.’ Cathy hoped that her skin didn’t look as hot as she felt. ‘And, as you said you were short of a secretary, I dealt with it for you.’

‘I’d rather you hadn’t.’ Pearce came further into the room and she sidled around the desk back to her own chair, feeling suitably chastised.

‘I’m sorry, I was just trying to help.’

‘Who was it?’ He sat down and met her eyes. The directness, the unwavering way he seemed to look into her very soul, filled her with apprehension.

‘Uh...they wouldn’t say, actually.’

‘Wouldn’t say?’ He barked the words with barely concealed impatience.

‘Well—’

‘Was it the hospital?’ He leaned across towards her, his gaze searing.

Now she understood his irascible manner. He was worried about Jody Sterling, probably on tenterhooks waiting for news from the hospital.

‘Oh, no,’ she assured him swiftly, relaxing again. Then, thinking quickly, she added. ‘Actually, I thought it might be a reporter. He was asking odd questions. Wanted to know if Jody Sterling’s child was here and if you were the father of the child.’

The look of contemptuous disdain on Pearce Tyrone’s face was awesome. Cathy shrank back in her chair as he made a very derisive statement about members of the press.

‘What did you tell them?’ He fixed her with a perishing glare.

‘Nothing.’ Cathy batted wide blue eyes at him. ‘What should I have said?’

‘You should have told them to mind their own damn business and that if they printed one word of a lie in their filthy rags I’d sue them from here to eternity.’

Pearce Tyrone was not a person to cross. She had known it from the first moment she had set eyes on him. His words now confirmed it even more. If she had any sense she would get out of here p.d.q. This charade would end in tears and they were most likely to be her tears.

‘Sorry.’ Pearce leaned back in his chair and smiled suddenly at her. ‘I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.’

‘I ... no ... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have answered the phone.’ His smile did very strange things to her senses.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He waved a hand airily. ‘Now, where were we?’

Remembering the references for Mabel Flowers spread before him, Cathy felt her apprehension growing. ‘Actually, you were just about to pour me a black coffee,’ she told him, an idea born of desperation forming in her mind.

He turned and poured two cups, then handed one across to her.

As she took it from him she moved awkwardly, and pretended to lose her grip on the china saucer so that the cup tipped down on the desk, spilling hot black liquid all over the references.

‘Oh, no... I’m so sorry.’ Trying to sound horrified, she picked up the crockery and watched the black stain creep further over the papers. Pearce said nothing, just calmly reached for a box of tissues and started to mop up the mess.

Cathy watched anxiously, hoping that she would at least have succeeded in obliterating the name at the top of the page.

‘Not much damage done,’ Pearce said easily.

‘Here, let me help.’ Cathy sprang to her feet and, taking a couple of tissues, she rubbed very hard at the top of the page where the name was. She rubbed so hard that the weakened paper tore.

Pearce’s hand closed over hers. ‘Ms Fielding.’ His voice took on a brusque edge. ‘You are making matters worse.’

‘Am I?’ The touch of his hand against her skin was most disconcerting. She tried to ignore it and her hand closed in a tight fist, effectively scrunching up the tissue and taking the torn piece of the reference with it. Then she made to pull away from him.

He didn’t release her and she looked at him, trying hard to keep her expression innocently questioning. Their faces seemed very close across the desk. She noticed that his eyes had darker flecks in them. His skin was smooth and healthily tanned. She could smell the faint, subtle tang of an expensive cologne. It was extremely pleasant, as was the whisper-soft feeling of his breath against her skin. Her nerve-endings seemed to prickle with consciousness.

‘Is ... is something wrong?’ It took all her resources to keep her voice level.

His expression was hard and unyielding, just like the hand that held her. ‘You’ve got a piece of the reference in your hand.’

‘Have I? Oh, dear... I am sorry.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. It was more a nervous reaction than a conscious effect.

Pearce’s lips slanted in an unamused line. Very coolly and deliberately he uncurled her fingers and took the soggy paper from her.

She watched as he opened it and only when she saw that it was just a soggy mess did she relax slightly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she muttered again, sitting back in her chair.

He regarded her steadily. ‘I hope you are not normally so clumsy, Ms Fielding.’ The censure in his tone was unmistakable.

‘It was an accident. I did apologise.’ A note of annoyance crept into her voice, but her anger was directed at herself. She felt guilty for this deceit...yet she felt compelled to keep it up. It was the dogged reporter in her, she supposed. The scent of a story holding her almost against her will.

He swept the wet pages to one side. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered. ‘I have work to get on with. I’ll ask the agency to fax over new copies later.’

‘Shall I get back to the nursery?’ It would almost be a relief to get away from his presence for a moment. Every time she met his eyes she felt overwhelmed by him. She supposed it was her guilty conscience. She wasn’t used to lying—it certainly didn’t come naturally to her.

‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered in a clipped voice.

He pulled out a clean piece of paper and picked up a pen. He didn’t write anything, just tapped the pen on the page from time to time.

‘I might remind you,’ he said sternly, ‘that my standards are high. That is why I contacted the Elite Agency.’

‘Of course.’ She hoped that her demure tone didn’t sound sarcastic.

‘I told the Agency to send me no less than their best person.’

Cathy said nothing to that. She was too busy wondering what his requirements were. She didn’t have to wonder long.

‘The agency tell me you are a cordon bleu cook,’ Pearce continued, watching her steadily.

Cathy tried not to blanch; she could barely boil an egg.

‘As I stated in my telephone call to Mrs Roberts...uh, it is Mrs Roberts at the agency, is it not?’

Cathy hesitated and then ventured boldly, ‘Well, actually, I have only ever dealt with Janet Mercer.’ She felt rather pleased with herself as Pearce nodded.

‘Oh, yes, I spoke to Mrs Mercer the first time I contacted the agency. I told her I wanted someone to run the house, cook, clean and take very good care of Poppy.’ He reached for his coffee and took a sip.

Cathy noticed that he hadn’t offered her a fresh cup. Probably afraid of what she would do with it.

‘And, as I want you to do some typing for me in your spare time I think we should draw up a timetable and get organised.’

Cathy tried not to pull a face. She was very glad that she wouldn’t be staying around here for too long. Cooking, cleaning, baby-minding ... typing! Even Mary Poppins hadn’t had it that hard.

‘Would you like to say anything?’ Pearce leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily.

Something about his flint-like expression made her temper simmer. There were a few things she would have liked to say, but nothing would be gained from airing her views about him being a slave-driver. Wait until Mike heard about this, she thought grimly.

Instead she asked coolly, ‘How much are you going to pay me?’ Of course she had no intention of hanging around to be paid, but it might make interesting reading.

He frowned. ‘Hasn’t the agency told you?’

‘Yes.’ She shrugged, and tried to look nonchalant. ‘But now you want me to do extra duties, such as typing.’

One eyebrow lifted. ‘You are direct, Ms Fielding. A quality I admire.’ He paused for just a moment. ‘Let’s round your salary up, then.’

He proceeded to name an amount that nearly made her fall off the chair. It was no wonder that Pearce expected a lot—he was paying a small fortune. Her theory about him being a slave-driver had been way off the mark; he was paying for a top service. ‘Is that acceptable, Ms Fielding?’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’ She tried to make her tone flat so that she didn’t sound as stunned as she felt.

‘And you can have Friday off.’

‘Fine.’ Again her voice was neutral. She wouldn’t be here until Friday; she had no intention of lingering a moment longer than was necessary. ‘But I do need to go into Antibes this evening,’ she ventured. She needed to get back into town, phone her editor and collect some clothes from the hotel. ‘I’ve ... I’ve got an appointment and—’

‘You waste no time. Hot date, is it?’ Pearce’s voice was dry.

‘No ... no.’ Cathy shook her head vehemently, perhaps too vehemently because Pearce Tyrone was watching her with a look that could have cut glass at twenty paces.

‘Ms Fielding, I asked for a nanny who could dedicate herself to Poppy for a while. The child needs good quality care to help her adjust to her new surroundings. I don’t want or need a nanny who is panting with desire to escape into the arms of her lover every evening. If that is your calibre then you had better leave now.’

Cathy’s mouth dropped. ‘Panting with desire?’ Her voice trembled with fury. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

‘Oh, I dare anything, Ms Fielding,’ he assured her solemnly. ‘My priority is Poppy. I need to know she is well looked after. So we may as well be up front about this. You will not go to Antibes tonight. If you feel you cannot dedicate your time exclusively to this baby and this house for the time I have hired you then you had better tell me now, and we needn’t waste any more of each other’s time.’

‘You are also very direct, Mr Tyrone.’ There was an edge of derision in her voice. ‘Now I know why you admired the quality so much.’

‘So, we understand each other?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Good.’ He drawled the word and leaned back into his chair again, a small smile of satisfaction playing around his strongly sensuous lips.

Her eyes moved over his strong profile thoughtfully, and she mentally penned what she might write about him. He was autocratic, with very little warmth, though fantastically good-looking, like a movie star.

She was very attracted to him. The thought flew in from nowhere and she tried to dismiss it. All women would be attracted to Pearce Tyrone—he had a kind of animal magnetism. It was a type of fatal attraction—at the same time as being drawn to him almost against your will, there was the fear that could just devour you.

‘So...’ Pearce drawled thoughtfully, jolting her back to reality. ‘All that remains is for me to draw you up a timetable for tomorrow. You needn’t bother with dinner tonight—coffee and a sandwich will do. I want to get on with my work.’ Pearce scribbled on the paper as he spoke. ‘But for tomorrow, let’s see... For breakfast, I think, French toast and coffee.’ He glanced up at her in that unnerving way of his. ‘Breakfast, seven o’clock sharp. I like punctuality. I hope that’s not a problem?’

‘Not if it isn’t with Poppy,’ Cathy answered sweetly. Inside she was wondering if this guy was for real. And what the hell was French toast, anyway?

‘Lunch at one sharp, something light; you can surprise me. I’m sure with your talents for cooking you can be quite imaginative.’

Oh, she could surprise him all right, Cathy thought grimly. And with a bit of luck she could give him heart-burn into the bargain.

As she listened to him her mind veered towards the article she was expected to write. It struck her that it might take her longer than she had first anticipated to get the necessary information. It was not going to be easy to break through Tyrone’s businesslike reserve. She could hardly start asking pertinent questions when all he wanted to talk about was the daily running of the house. She needed to approach this cautiously.

She would have to get into town and phone Mike and pick up some of her belongings from the hotel. It was imperative.

She cleared her throat and cut across him. ‘What about the shopping?’ She asked the question in a wild attempt to get away from the house for a while. ‘You haven’t allowed me any time for getting ingredients for dinner and so on.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Henri will probably see to it...or we’ll have whatever you need delivered.’

Silence stretched for a moment as she searched her mind for a way to get around him and out of here. ‘Actually, I prefer to pick my own ingredients for cooking. I’m rather selective when shopping for dinner.’

‘So is Henri.’ Pearce was unmovable, his eyes firm.

‘Yes, but I have to go into town tomorrow anyway... I need to collect the rest of my luggage,’ she said as desperation started to creep in.

‘Where is your luggage?’ He leaned forward. ‘I thought you just flew in from London early this morning?’

‘Well, I... No...’ She felt her skin go red and blotchy with discomfort as she searched around for a good excuse to explain why her clothes were in Antibes. Hell, she was no good at telling lies.

‘There must be some misunderstanding, I have come straight from working for another family in Antibes... Their daughter is going away to school so they no longer need me.’

‘So why leave your belongings in their house?’ His voice was arid, his eyes watchful.

‘Well, it’s...’ She shook her head, willing herself to think quickly. ‘It’s a precaution.’ She almost gasped the words in relief as the excuse came to her in a rush. ‘I like to make sure everything is above board and suitable before I move into someone’s house...especially when that someone is a single male.’

There wasn’t a flicker of emotion in the cool blue eyes as they swept over her heated face. ‘I see. Well, you have nothing to fear from me, Ms Fielding, I can assure you of that.’

Somehow his words sounded more like an insult than reassurance. OK, so she probably wasn’t his type. Jody Sterling was exceptionally beautiful, as well as talented. But there was no need for him to sound quite so disdainful. She wasn’t ugly. Her skin burned with bright, angry colour but she forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘Well, that is a considerable relief.’ She was pleased by the way she was able to match his cool tone. ‘I wouldn’t like there to be any misunderstanding.’

‘Neither would I.’ He fixed her with a level stare. ‘I never fraternise on a personal level with my staff.’

She had to hand it to Pearce Tyrone, Cathy thought grimly. He got ten out of ten for being able to put her back up. ‘Very commendable,’ she said sugar-sweetly.

He smiled and for a moment amusement lurked in his blue eyes. What was so funny about being an insular snob? Cathy thought furiously. He wouldn’t be laughing when he read the article she was going to write about him. The thought was enough to lighten her spirits.

‘As it happens, I have to go into Antibes tomorrow so we may as well go together,’ Pearce continued smoothly.

Cathy frowned, her moment of pleasure dissolving. How would she get her clothes from the hotel and phone Mike if Pearce insisted on tagging along? To top it all he was going to expect her to go directly to somebody’s house and she didn’t know a soul in Antibes. This was getting to be too complicated by far. ‘But what about Poppy? I mean, we can hardly all—’

‘We can take Poppy with us. We shouldn’t be long.’ Pearce glanced at his watch. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Cathy gritted her teeth.

‘Perhaps you would put my supper on a tray and bring it in here for me?’

His tone was dismissive, as if he had taken all he could of inconsequential talk. She had a wild urge to say something flippant like, Yes sir, three bags full, sir. Instead, she bit her lip.

Her chance to be irreverent and glib would come later when she poured her story about the real Pearce Tyrone out onto paper. He was going to make a very interesting subject.

CHAPTER THREE

AS CATHY came out of Pearce’s study Henri was coming down the stairs with Poppy in his arms. ‘I think it is time for Poppy to be fed now, mademoiselle,’ he said as he handed the child across to her.

Talk about being left holding the baby, Cathy thought sardonically as she looked down at the child.

Poppy gave her a smile, her chubby cheeks dimpling in a cute way. She was wearing a hand-smocked dress and a pair of knitted booties, and she looked adorable. There was something about her that made Cathy’s heart contract.

‘Before I go home, mademoiselle, I must show you how to operate the security gates.’ Henri beckoned for her to follow him.

He brought her into the kitchen. It was a large room with a farmhouse-style refectory table, oak cupboards and a gleaming terracotta tiled floor. At the far side there was a TV monitor which showed the front gates, illuminated by floodlit security lights.

‘Just switch here and here.’ Henri flicked the controls on a panel next to the screen and she saw the gates opening and closing. ‘Always ask who is out there before admitting anyone. Monsieur only lets people in who have an appointment. He is a very busy man.’

‘Yes, I understand’ She had been very lucky to get in here, she thought wryly.

‘I shall go now and perhaps you will close the gates as I drive through?’

She nodded. ‘I take it you don’t live in?’

‘No. I have a cottage a few miles away.’

Well, that was good news, Cathy thought happily. If Pearce was working in his study she could have a good look around the house later on without any interruptions.

She wondered if she dared to ring the newspaper from here.

Poppy moved fretfully in her arms. ‘I had better feed this little one,’ she said, smiling at Henri as she placed the child in a high chair by the table.

Henri turned and opened one of the kitchen cupboards. ‘I think you will find everything you need for Poppy’s meals in here,’ he said.

Relief was overwhelming as she saw the jars of baby food and the packets with clearly written instructions. ‘Thank you, Henri,’ she said, her tone perhaps a little too heartfelt.

He nodded. ‘I go now, mademoiselle. Do not forget to lock up after me.’

‘I won’t.’ He was quite a kindly type of man, she decided. It was just a pity that he didn’t seem inclined towards a bit of gossip. She decided to try again with him. ‘So, what do you do around here, Henri?’ she asked in a friendly tone.

‘I look after the garden, clean the pool.’ He shrugged. ‘Just keep the residence in good order.’

‘And do you find Monsieur Tyrone a good person to work for?’

Henri nodded. ‘My wife and I have worked for him for over twelve years.’ He paused then, a look of sadness on his face. ‘My wife, Sophie, died five months ago.’ There was a wealth of sorrow in the older man’s voice and Cathy immediately felt sad for him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she told him sincerely.

He patted her shoulder as he saw the genuine sympathy on her face. ‘We had thirty years of marriage and I have a lot of good memories. Now I have my grandchildren and my job.... Monsieur Tyrone has been very understanding.’ He paused for just a moment, before saying, ‘But, then, the Monsieur knows what it is like to love someone and lose them.’

‘Does he?’ Before Cathy could ask about this Henri cut across her, his manner suddenly agitated. ‘I am talking too much.’ He moved away towards the door. ‘Don’t forget to close the gates when I have gone.’

Cathy watched him leave with a feeling of acute disappointment. Just a few more moments and she could have learnt so much more. To whom had he been referring? Whom had Pearce loved and lost?

The sound of Poppy crying cut across her thoughts and she turned to see to the child.

By the time Cathy brought Pearce’s supper in to him on a tray she was starting to feel tired. She hadn’t had a spare moment to look around the house—her time had been completely taken up with Poppy.

Looking after a baby was very hard work, but she had surprised herself by handling it quite well. In fact, there was a part of her that had enjoyed the experience. Poppy was a lovable child.

Pearce barely looked up as she came in. He was sitting in front of the computer terminal, his hands busy on the keyboard.

Cathy put the tray on the table next to him.

‘How is Poppy?’

Without being invited, she sat down on the chair opposite him. ‘Asleep at last. She took a while to settle.’

Pearce looked up, an expression of concern on his handsome features. ‘Do you think it is because she is in unfamiliar surroundings?’

Cathy shrugged. ‘If she was a bit older I’d say she was missing her mother. Is there any news about Ms Sterling’s condition yet?’

He shook his head. ‘I rang earlier, there is no change.’

He sounded worried and Cathy’s heart went out to him. It was a dreadful situation. ‘Poor little Poppy,’ she said softly.

Pearce looked over at her and his lips slanted in a half-smile. ‘I noticed that you and Poppy were having quite a conversation in the kitchen earlier.’

She felt her skin flare with colour. While she had been spoon-feeding Poppy her dinner she had been talking to her, trying to encourage her to eat up. She recalled now that she had got quite carried away, talking in a singsong gentle way in babyish rubbish.

‘I put my head around the door, just to see how you were getting on,’ he said in answer to her questioning look.

‘I didn’t see you.’ Her skin felt as if it were on fire. He must have thought she was completely daft.

‘No, you were absorbed with Poppy, so much so that I didn’t like to disturb you.’

She had been absorbed. She had felt a deep tenderness for the little girl. The power of the feeling had taken her by surprise. She wondered if it was because she had lost her own mother when she’d been just a baby. Whether, deep down in her subconscious, this was why she felt such empathy for the child.

‘Don’t look so embarrassed,’ Pearce said. ‘You don’t know what a relief it was to see you acting so naturally with Poppy, so gently. She is going to need a lot of extra love and attention to help her through this period.’

His sensitivity and concern for Poppy touched her. So much so that she found herself saying nothing, just staring at him and taking in everything about him—the way his dark hair gleamed like midnight under the overhead light, the chiselled strength of his features.

He returned her gaze. For just the briefest interlude there was a silence, tinged with some kind of emotion that Cathy couldn’t quite define.

She was the first to look away. She was supposed to be asking him questions, concentrating on her story. She shook her bead, trying to dispel the warm fog that had invaded her brain like cotton wool.

‘I’m sure you are right.’ Her voice became brisk, businesslike. ‘So, tell me, are you working on a new book?’ Abruptly she switched the subject to something less emotive.

His expression altered, became harder. ‘Yes.’

From the bluntness of the reply she took it that now they were no longer discussing Poppy Pearce was now waiting for her to leave him in peace. She could sense the sudden tension in him, feel his impatience. But despite this. or maybe because of this, she deliberately lingered. Her eyes moved around the room and lighted on a shelf that was filled with his books.

‘You’ve been very prolific, haven’t you?’ She got to her feet and wandered over to have a closer look. She noticed his latest book, Theory of Murder, and took it out. ‘I haven’t read this,’ she murmured, her eyes scanning the blurb on the back. ‘They’ve turned it into a film, haven’t they?’

He nodded. ‘Take it, if you want,’ he offered casually, perhaps in an endeavour to be rid of her quickly.

‘Thanks.’ She smiled at him, but made no attempt to leave. ‘I have a confession to make—I have only read a few of your books.’

‘Murder stories and political thrillers aren’t everyone’s idea of an entertaining read.’

‘Oh, I did enjoy them,’ Cathy told him sincerely. ‘It’s just that I don’t get much time for reading, so I tend to choose light novels.’

‘Let me guess...romance?’

She shrugged. ‘Yes, I like romantic fiction. Pride and Prejudice is one of my favourite books.’ She fixed him with a direct look. ‘You don’t seem to put much romance in your stories... Why is that?’

It was a question she would have asked had she been interviewing him and she waited, feeling pleased that she had managed to inject it in so easily.

‘Love is a powerful emotion. I do use it occasionally. Clarissa, for instance, in, Hell Hath no Fury was driven by desire. It blinded her; it changed her from an ordinary woman into a cold-blooded killer.’

‘Yes, I read that book.’ She shivered as she remembered it. ‘I found it quite terrifying. Your hero, there was no love interest for him—’

‘He had a few flings.’ For just a moment Pearce looked amused.

‘Yes, I know there is sex in the book.’ Cathy felt herself colouring up, for some reason feeling suddenly embarrassed. ‘But that’s hardly the same thing, is it?’

‘Isn’t it?’ There was definite amusement in his blue eyes now and she felt her composure slipping.

‘Well, he doesn’t fall in love with anyone...there’s no happy ending for him.’

The brief moment of amusement faded. ‘No, but that is life sometimes.’

Cathy remembered how Henri had told her that Pearce had loved and lost somebody. ‘That’s rather a sad statement,’ she said gently.

One eyebrow lifted. ‘Is it? I think it is a realistic statement.’

‘Basically what you are saying is that you are not a romantic?’

‘I’m a writer, Ms Fielding, and I enjoy my work... when I’m allowed to get on with it.’

She knew that he wanted her to leave but she was loath to go. She batted wide beautiful eyes. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ Something made her lower her voice to a soft husky tone. Why she spoke like that she didn’t know; it was some kind of feminine instinct that just seemed to take over.

For a moment his eyes moved downwards to the soft curves of her body. The movement caused a quiver of awareness to steal over her from absolutely nowhere. ‘In a word...yes.’

The sound of the telephone cut the sudden tense silence that fell between them.

Pearce snatched up the receiver immediately, a frown etched very clearly on his handsome features.

Cathy stood where she was, unashamedly watching him. Obviously it wasn’t the hospital because he relaxed immediately on hearing whoever was at the other end of the line.

‘No, John, there is no news yet. I rang the hospital a little while ago and her condition is unchanged.’ He raked a hand in a distracted way through his hair. ‘I know ... it’s terrible, and to add to everything we’ve got a damn air strike. I had planned to fly up every day to see Jody...now I don’t know what to do. It’s a long drive and I’ve got Poppy to consider...’

Pearce flicked a glance up at Cathy, then covered the mouthpiece. ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’ he asked her curtly.

‘Yes, of course.’ She moved towards the door very slowly so that she could hear as much of his conversation as possible.

‘Poppy is fine. I’ve got—’ He covered the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand for just a moment and his voice boomed over towards her. ‘Ms Fielding, please pick up your feet and leave.’

Pearce Tyrone certainly didn’t waste time trying to be polite, she thought wryly. She cringed as she remembered the flirtatious way she had spoken to him a moment ago.

She shook her head, wondering what on earth she had been thinking of. Trying to flirt with Tyrone was like trying to play with a panther. She must never ever do that again, she told herself crossly.

She closed the door behind her and went upstairs.

She was no sooner in the nursery door than Poppy started to cry.

‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’ Cathy leaned over the cot. The child looked hot, her cheeks were flushed and she cried fretfully. Cathy put a soothing hand to her forehead and was relieved to find she didn’t have a temperature. Gently, she reached in and picked her up.

‘Let’s change you into something a little cooler and check your nappy,’ she murmured as she put the baby down on a changing mat on the floor.

Poppy stopped crying as soon as Cathy took off her nappy. It didn’t need changing but she decided to put on a fresh one anyway.

Poppy seemed to like the cool freedom of being without it because she kicked her legs in vigorous delight.

Poor little mite, Cathy thought as she watched her. She hoped and prayed that Jody Sterling would make a complete recovery. She stroked a stray curl from the little girl’s face. At least Poppy had a caring father. She had very little doubt that Pearce was Poppy’s father. Why else would the child be here?

‘You like being without that nappy, don’t you?’ Cathy said in a gentle voice. ‘Yes, you do.’

What was it about babies that made you talk in that ridiculous tone? Cathy wondered with a wry smile as she lifted the child and gently patted her dry with a towel before reaching for some cream and some talc. Even so, it was quite fun—like going back to a second childhood, she told herself as she hummed a little song to Poppy. Not the same kind of fun as lying in the sun with a gin and tonic ... but it was engagingly rewarding.

You didn’t feel self-conscious, acting silly with a baby—it was like letting all your inhibitions down and just being yourself.

She turned the talc container upside down to lightly dust the child’s skin. Unfortunately she didn’t realise how fast the talc would come out and white powder flew everywhere.

‘Oh, wonderful,’ Cathy remarked drily as she surveyed the chalk-white little legs. ‘Just wonderful.’

Poppy gurgled happily, as if sharing the joke. ‘Well might you laugh at me—’

‘Everything all right, Ms Fielding? Pearce Tyrone’s curt tone interrupted the proceedings abruptly.

Cathy looked around, dismayed to be caught in such a mess. She was sitting in the middle of the floor, Poppy’s things spread around her like a bring-and-buy sale and talc everywhere. A man like Pearce Tyrone would not be amused.

‘Yes, fine, thank you.’

‘I though I heard Poppy crying.’

‘She was a little hot, that’s all. I’m just going to put her in a cool cotton vest.’ As she spoke she dusted the child down lightly with a towel and then reached for a new nappy. She had hoped that Pearce would go. She felt nervous with him watching her. However, instead of leaving he came further into the room to stand over her.

She pulled open the sticky tapes on the disposable nappy and pressed them down into place but infuriatingly they sprang open again.

Poppy kicked her dimpled, chubby legs in delight as once more she felt herself free.

Acutely aware of Pearce watching her, Cathy tried again but still the nappy wouldn’t fasten.

‘You’ve got cream on the sticky tape,’ Pearce remarked calmly. The next moment he was kneeling beside her.

‘Come here, little honey.’ He pulled the changing mat closer to him and took another fresh nappy from the pack.

Cathy watched with a mixture of annoyance and admiration as the nappy went on perfectly for him.

‘There, nothing to it.’ He sat back on his heels and grinned at Cathy.

‘I was managing perfectly until you came along,’ she told him primly.

‘Yes ... so I noticed.’ He smiled at her, his eyes moving over her features with a kind of absorbed fascination. The way he was looking at her made her heart beat crazily against her ribs.

He was sitting very close to her, she realised suddenly, and there was a warmth in his eyes that really threw her.

‘You’ve got talc on your nose,’ he said, a humorous note in his voice.

‘Oh!’ Embarrassment swept through her. She had thought that he was looking at her admiringly and instead of that he had probably been thinking that she looked an utter mess.

Before she could lift up a hand to rub the offending talc away he reached out and did it for her. The touch of his hand against her skin sent a shooting sensation through her.

‘There, that’s better. You’ve got a very pretty nose.’ The dark blue eyes swept over her again, then seemed to linger on the soft curves of her tips.

She felt a dizziness inside her that she had never felt before.

‘A pretty face, too,’ he murmured, and for just a moment all hint of humour was missing from his expression and he was studying her very seriously.

For a second she thought he was going to say something else...something deeper.

Cathy moistened her lips. She didn’t understand the tension that had suddenly sprung up between them. It was thrilling... It was ludicrous... She was here to get a story, she told herself staunchly; she couldn’t feel any kind of attraction for him...it wasn’t right.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.