“You’re such a love,” Whitney murmured Welcome to DADDY BOOM! Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“You’re such a love,” Whitney murmured

She ran her fingertips lightly over baby Troy’s crown, breathing in the wonderful baby scent. “How come someone so sweet can have such a bad-tempered man for a father!”

Troy chuckled, as if he could understand her.

“Your papa,” she continued, “is rude, arrogant...and when he was a teenager he had every girl in the valley chasing after him—except me! Luke Brannigan is a heartbreaker of the worst kind. You think I’m being too hard on him? Well, tell you what, if I can ever find something good to say about him, you’ll be the first to know. But don’t hold your breath!”

Welcome to DADDY BOOM!

Just look who’s holding the baby now! Following on from our highly popular BABY BOOM series, Harlequin Romance® is proud to introduce a brand-new series, DADDY BOOM, full of babies, bachelors and happy-ever-afters Meet six irresistible heroes who are about to discover that there’s a first time for everything—even fatherhood!

First in our series is Brannigan’s Baby by Grace Green We’ll be bringing you one deliciously cute DADDY BOOM title every other month

Look out in April for Daddy and Daughters by

Barbara McMahon

Who says bachelors and bables don’t mix?

Brannigan’s Baby
Grace Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

FOR MIKE HANNAY

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN WORD GOT AROUND that Luke Brannigan was back in town, business at Hetty’s Beauty Salon picked up within the hour.

‘Dixie Mae saw him get off the Greyhound bus, didn’t you, Dix?’ Beth Armour wriggled excitedly in her seat as Hetty worked styling mousse into her hair.

‘Sure did.’ Seated next to her, Dixie kept her eyes fixed admiringly on her own reflection in the mirror. “Course, I just saw him from the distance, but that sexy swagger...’

She shrugged. Unmistakable.

‘Where was he going then?’ somebody asked. ‘Home?’

‘Looked that way. He hiked off along the side road that winds up through the vineyards to Brannigan House.’

‘He must’ve heard his grandmother passed away.’ Patsy Smith’s voice came from under one of the dryers. ‘But if he got off that bus, he’d be too late for the funeral. He’ll be rich now,’ she went on dreamily. ‘And he’ll have every female in the valley chasin’ after him, just like before—’

‘Every female ’cept for Whitney McKenzie.‘

Dixie’s declaration was met with a moment of silence.

Then Beth said, quietly, ‘That’s right. There was no love lost between those two. And now he’s back, he’ll send her packing! Well, you can’t blame him, considering...’

Patsy sighed. ‘Cressida Brannigan made one huge mistake taking that girl into her home. Hadn’t been for her, Luke woulda never gone and taken off the way he did. He and his gran were close...real close... before...’

Begonia Bright poked her head out from under the end dryer. ‘I’d give most anything—’ her beady eyes glittered ‘—to be a fly on the wall when those two meet again.’

And though none of the others really liked Begonia, they all, without exception, felt exactly the same way.

Whitney McKenzie eased her aching feet out of her high-heeled black pumps and shifted wearily in the leather wing chair. Cressida’s funeral had been emotionally draining, as had been the long year leading up to it. She needed time alone, peace to start grieving...

And a chance to catch up on lost sleep.

Swallowing back an incipient yawn, she tried to look alert as Edmund Maxwell—senior partner of Maxwell and Maxwell, the only law firm in the nearby Okanagan town of Emerald, B.C.—extricated a document from his briefcase. He set the case on top of Cressida’s intricately carved Chinese desk, and moved his stooped figure across to the hearth.

Somberly his gaze passed over the trio seated before him in the Brannigan House library: Whitney, Alice the cook and Myrna the housemaid.

‘It is no longer the custom,’ he began, ‘for lawyers to read out wills; however, as I’m sure you all know, the late Cressida Brannigan cared not one jot for custom. So, in accordance with her declared wishes, I shall now read out to you her Last Will and—’

The door behind Whitney clicked open.

Edmund Maxwell lifted his head, and over the top of his half glasses frowned at the intruder.

Slumping back in her seat, Whitney closed her eyes. She felt exhaustion seep into her very bones—

‘What the hell’s going on here?’ A male voice, aggressive and vaguely familiar, rasped into the quiet room.

Whitney’s eyes flew open.

‘And where the devil,’ the voice challenged as it continued, ‘is my grandmother?’

Whitney shot bolt upright. Grandmother?

Aghast, she peered around the wing of her armchair—and when she saw the man standing in the doorway, her heart slammed against her ribs with such force it knocked every particle of breath from her lungs.

He was back.

Luke was back.

Her shocked gaze darted over him jerkily, snapping him, in a series of flashes, like a camera...

The straw blond hair that curled to his collar—snap!

The lean, tanned face, with its high-slashed cheekbones, electric blue eyes and thin sensual lips—snap!

The wide shoulders—snap!

The narrow hips—snap!

The long, powerful legs—snap!

At seventeen, Luke had been tall; now he was well over six feet, but the cockiness that had been his trademark as a teenager had been replaced by something more dangerous—

‘Lucas!’ The lawyer’s voice wobbled. ‘Oh, dear. I tried to contact you—I wanted to let you know—’

‘Let me know what?’

Something infinitely more dangerous. Whitney winced as she saw the steely menace in his eyes. Maturity had brought hard arrogance to the man and an aura of intensity that crackled. He’d have turned heads anywhere. Not that he was any advertisement for GQ—he most definitely was not! His jaw was stubbled, his shirt sweatstained, his blue jeans ragged, and worn almost white at the knees. But still—

A flash of movement over one of his shoulders caught her attention. Her gaze sliced up...and her mind reeled.

A baby?

He’d brought home a baby?

Oh, yes—she fought to retain her grip on reality—Luke Brannigan had indeed brought home a baby.

She could see a small fisted hand waving ferociously over Luke’s shoulder—the infant must be in some kind of a backpack; she could also now see a blue hat, rakishly askew, and beneath its floppy brim part of a small face.

‘I said—’ Luke’s tone was grim ‘—let me know what?’

He still hadn’t noticed her; hadn’t for a second removed his searing gaze from the lawyer. She swiveled around to stare at Edmund Maxwell, waiting for his reply...

Only to be met with a look of mute appeal... and a pointed nod in her direction. Dismayed, she pressed a fist to her breast. Me? she mouthed back.

He nodded.

Whitney swallowed. She wanted to shrink back in her seat; wanted never to have Luke Brannigan’s eyes find her...

But there was no way out; she was, after all, in charge here—at least until after the reading of the will, when the new owner of the estate was named. Which would, of course, be Luke. He was a Brannigan and—as far as Cressida had been aware—the last of the line; so, despite their estrangement, she’d never have left the estate to anyone but him.

Whitney wriggled her feet back into her pumps, dragged her palms down her black linen skirt and stood up.

She turned to face her old enemy. His eyes had never looked bluer; against his tan, they dazzled like sapphires. Sapphires that had been dipped in ice water.

He blinked. Looked at her blankly. And blinked again.

Whitney knew the exact second he recognized her...and knew, by the sneer that swiftly curled his upper lip, that nothing had changed.

Between them, nothing had changed.

She took in a deep breath.

‘Your grandmother,’ she said, ‘died three days ago. The funeral was earlier this afternoon. And now Mr. Maxwell is going to read Cressida’s will, so if you’ll find yourself a seat, we can continue—’

‘Dead?’ Luke’s face had paled. ‘You mean, I’m too late to—’

‘Yes, yes.’ The papers in Edmund Maxwell’s hands shook. ‘Yes, too late, I’m afraid. And now...the will. If we are all ready, shall we get on with it?’

Luke seemed too stunned to answer.

Whitney nodded and sat down. She twined her fingers together in her lap, and desperately tried to ignore the man behind her, and focus her attention on Edmund Maxwell.

The lawyer began by reading out details of bequests to Cook and Myrna, both in their early seventies. Then he read out a list of smaller bequests—to several old friends; to her church; to the Emerald Valley Elementary School.

‘And to Whitney McKenzie—’

Whitney swallowed to relieve the aching lump that had risen in her throat. Whatever bequest she received would never make up for the loss of this woman she’d loved so dearly. She blinked back threatening tears...

‘—to my beloved Whitney, I leave Brannigan House, the Emerald Valley Vineyards and the remainder of my estate.’

Her mind went blank...other than one single question that rocketed about, back and forth, in her brain, making her dizzier and dizzier by the moment: Why not Luke?

The lawyer continued to talk, but she assimilated nothing. Her mind was in overload, unable to cope with the enormity of what had just happened—

‘Miss McKenzie?’

She came to with a jump, and realized Edmund Maxwell must have finished. He was standing leaning over her.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘if you would see me to the door, I should like to talk with you...privately... before I leave.’

Somehow Whitney managed to rouse herself, even managed a weak smile as the staff murmured words of congratulation. Distantly she was aware Luke was no longer in the room. Had he taken off, as soon as he’d discovered there was nothing for him here? Oh, God, she prayed, let it be so.

She said her final goodbyes to Cook and Myrna, who had a taxi waiting and were about to leave Brannigan House for good. Once they had departed, Whitney escorted the lawyer through the front hall and out to the heavy oak door.

He stood on the stoop, his frail body bowed, his coat collar turned up against the brisk spring breeze.

‘It’s a burden,’ he said, ‘and of course Cressida herself was to blame. She’s kept the house up these past years, but as for the vineyards... well, she didn’t move with the times. There was little money coming in latterly, and I’m afraid she used up all her capital. Her death, to be blunt, was timely. After honoring the bequests she specified, there won’t be one red cent left in her account.’

‘I had no idea.’ Whitney shivered as the wind cut through her black silk blouse. ‘She was always so lackadaisical about money...I assumed she had plenty of it!’

‘At one time she did.’ He tucked his briefcase under his arm while he pulled on a pair of worn black leather gloves. ‘You must think over your options very carefully, my dear. Best to sell, but Lucas’s turning up right now ... well, that is a complication. You’ll have to talk things over with him. And let me know what you decide.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘of course.’

But even as she spoke, relief trembled through her. Edmund Maxwell had obviously not noticed that his own car was the only vehicle left in the forecourt. He’d been wrong in thinking Luke’s arrival presented a complication.

The man—thank the Lord!—had already gone.

The funeral reception had been held in the drawing room.

Whitney had replenished the fire there earlier, before going with the lawyer and the servants to the library. Now, lost in her troubled thoughts, she made her way back there. She closed the door behind her, and with a sigh, crossed to the hearth, seeking warmth and comfort from the flames.

With her arms clasped around her waist, she stared down unhappily into the leaping orange and yellow tongues.

‘Oh, Cressida,’ she murmured, ‘what have you done?’

‘What indeed!’ drawled a cynical voice from behind.

Feeling as if her body had jumped clean out of its skin, she swirled around with a loud gasp.

Luke Brannigan was getting up from a high-backed sofa, where he’d deposited his sleeping child. Tilted against the sofa was a huge, dirty-white canvas duffel bag, a jarring note, she decided abstractedly, in this elegant room.

He walked toward her, his tall frame moving between her and the doorway, blocking her means of escape—

Now why should she think she might need to escape? Oh, she knew why! His bold gaze was roaming over her with blatant male appreciation...lingeringly... as if he just couldn’t wait to get his hands where his eyes already were.

She stiffened.

‘Yes, what indeed,’ he repeated, and this time his tone was mocking. ‘But thank the Lord for codicils.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

His brows tugged together, as if she’d taken him aback... and then he gave a short derisive laugh.

‘You didn’t hear, did you! You were so wrapped up in delight at your own good fortune that you didn’t bother listening as Maxwell read out the finer points of the will.’

‘The finer points.’

‘The codicil. I guess Cressida still had a soft spot for me, despite our long estrangement—’

‘This codicil...’ Whitney’s cool tone revealed nothing of her rising sense of alarm. ‘What did it say?’

‘Pour me a drink and I’ll tell you.’

Whitney hesitated, briefly, and then with her lips compressed into a thin line, she crossed to the small buffet that served as a liquor cabinet.

‘What’ll you have?’ she asked curtly.

‘Scotch. Neat.’

She poured his drink but as she made to lift the glass, he said, ‘Are you going to make me drink alone?’

A drink might help steady her nerves, which were prickling; warning her of some danger ahead. She poured herself a rye, added a splash of ginger ale.

She placed his glass on the mantelpiece, and walked to the window. Then turned, so her back was to the light.

‘So.’ She took a sip of her drink, felt the fire of it race through her blood. ‘Tell me—’

‘Know something? I didn’t recognize you at first. The last time I saw you, you were still a scrawny twelve-year-old, with legs like twigs and pigtails the color of new carrots. But now—’

‘Yes?’ Whitney tilted her chin. She knew perfectly well what she looked like now, but it would be some sort of small revenge to have him admit how she’d changed.

How she’d...improved.

‘You’re a knockout,’ he said softly. ‘Even in that drab black outfit, you’re a knockout. Your figure, those green eyes and creamy skin, that fantastic flame red hair—lady, you’re drop-dead gorgeous...and you obviously know it. Just as you must know—’ his voice had become icy ‘—that you are the image of your late and unlamented mother.’

Whitney felt as winded as if he’d thrown her down a flight of stairs. ‘Yes.’ Somehow she managed to keep her voice steady. ‘I do look like my mother.’

‘Krystal would’ve been proud of you.’ His tone chilled her. ‘You’ve succeeded where she failed. You now own Brannigan House and the Emerald Valley Vineyards—and unlike your beautiful mother, who broke up a marriage in her unsuccessful attempt to achieve her goal, you had it handed to you on a platter. So tell me...’ He swallowed his Scotch in one gulp and rolled the empty glass between his hands. ‘What bargain did you make with the Devil, in order that you might inherit this paradise on earth?’

Because of her red hair, Whitney knew people expected her to have a temper. Which she did. But usually she managed to control it...and she was certainly not about to let this man know he was getting under her skin!

‘As you say, this house is now mine...and I’m not prepared to be insulted in it!’ She ignored an unexpected stab of compunction. Even if Luke had more right to the estate than she, she was honor-bound to respect the terms of the will. ‘I’m going up to change,’ she added cuttingly, ‘and when I come down, please be gone. If you’re not—’

His hand on her shoulder was rough, the unexpectedness of his move making her cry out as he spun her around.

‘You’re forgetting one thing,’ he said, with soft menace.

‘What?’

He smiled, and when she saw the triumph in his eyes, apprehension quivered through her.

‘The codicil,’ he said. ‘The terms of the codicil—’

‘I’m sure they don’t concern me!’

‘Ah, but they do. Grandmother’s codicil states—’

‘Edmund Maxwell left a copy of the will in the library.’ Whitney wrenched herself free. ‘I’ll read it for myself!’

The library was empty, and she hurried across to the desk. Snatching up the will, she flipped to the last page.

When she read the words typed there, she felt as if she’d stepped onto quicksand. She put a hand on the desktop to steady herself—

‘So you see—’ Luke had come up behind her ’—I’m to be living here, at Brannigan House, with you. And as long as I want to stay here, you may never sell the estate.’

‘It says,’ Whitney struggled to contain a feeling of panic, ‘that if you show up here on the day of the funeral, penniless and seeking shelter, I may not turn you away...and under those circumstances alone, I may not sell.’ She fixed him with a scathing gaze. ‘You’re now twenty-nine-’

‘Thirty.’ His eyes taunted her. ‘Just turned.’

‘You don’t expect me to believe you’ve come back after thirteen years with nothing but the shirt on your back—’

‘Not only that,’ he murmured, ‘but with a nine-month-old son to support. Cressida, bless her heart, must have known that one day I’d—’

‘Must have known you’d never amount to anything, Luke Brannigan!’ She glared at him. ‘Thank heavens your grandmother didn’t live to see this day!’

‘Now that’s where I beg to differ,’ he said mildly. ‘But right now I don’t have the strength to argue—I’ve been on the road since yesterday and I’m beat. If you’ll show me where we’re to be quartered...’ He moved across to the sofa, where he scooped up the baby, before easily swinging up his enormous bulging duffel bag. ‘I’d like to get settled in.’

Whitney put a hand to her brow, and felt her fingers tremble. Was she really stuck with this man? Was selling the estate not an option? If that was the case, how was she going to cope! Edmund Maxwell had said that Cressida had run out of money; she, Whitney, had a couple of thousand dollars in her own bank account...but that kind of money was peanuts, compared to what would be needed to make the Emerald Valley Vineyard a profitable entity again.

‘Why don’t you just take over your father’s suite.’ With a distracted gesture, she shoved back her hair.

‘I’d prefer not to use my father’s rooms.’ His jaw tightened. ‘How about the one looking down on the pool?’

‘No,’ Whitney said stiffly. ‘That’s mine.’

‘Then I’ll take the one next door.’ He raised his brows. ‘Any problem with that?’

Yes, she wanted to say. A big problem. The last thing she wanted was to have him sleeping in the next room to hers. ‘That’ll be fine. For now.’

The baby shifted, muttered and snuggled his face against Luke’s shirt. And Luke dropped an absent kiss on top of the child’s head, on the crown of the blue hat.

Something about the picture tugged Whitney’s heart; and as Luke turned on his heel and strode off, she stared after him, wondering why she felt so emotionally affected. Was it because Luke was so hard and invulnerable, while his child was trusting and helpless? Was it the tenderness of his gesture that had touched her heart? She didn’t want to think of Luke as tender; she wanted to keep believing him to be horrid and arrogant...and impossible.

Only then would she feel justified in using every trick she could come up with in order to get rid of him. Where was the mother of his child? Was she alive? Were they married? Divorced? Had they indeed ever been married? Was she still in his life?

One question she didn’t need to ask herself, because she already knew the answer. Luke still hated her...just as he’d hated her thirteen years before, when Cressida Brannigan had brought her to live at Brannigan House.

Looking at it now, from an adult point of view, she didn’t find Luke’s attitude toward her so surprising. After all, she had been the cause of all the quarrels between him and his grandmother, in particular that last ugly quarrel that had led to Cressida’s giving Luke the ultimatum that had resulted in Luke’s leaving the family home.

Whitney had always felt burdened by guilt over that, because Luke had disappeared, never to be heard from again.

Till today.

On learning of his grandmother’s death, he’d appeared shocked. Had he been? Or was he just a very good actor?

It was possible that word of Maxwell’s attempts to contact him had reached him. It was also equally possible that his arrival at Brannigan House, on this particular day, had been sheer coincidence. After all, it was a well-known fact that truth was stranger than fiction. And it didn’t really matter, did it! The bottom line was that he had turned up, like the proverbial bad penny...

Whitney frowned. He’d said he had no money. If indeed he was penniless, then he was entitled to move into this house and make it his home.

But she was not about to take his claim at face value. She had a responsibility to Cressida, to make sure the terms of her will were carried out to the letter.

She’d get Edmund Maxwell onto it immediately, have him make some investigations...and ferret out the truth.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WELL, I am impressed...’

Whitney hadn’t heard Luke come into the kitchen. His voice startled her, and she took a moment to calm herself before turning around.

‘Impressed? By what?’

He glanced at the stacks of clean dishes, and the dozens of crystal glasses, which Whitney had carefully handwashed and then polished with a linen tea towel till they sparkled. ‘By your efforts to impress.’

She put her shoulder to him, and hefted up a pile of plates. ‘Excuse me. I need to get into that cupboard.’

He stepped aside, and opened the cupboard door. ‘You don’t have to prove anything to me,’ he said softly. ‘I know exactly where you’re coming from. Relax, honey...go pour yourself another drink and let the housekeeper finish up here.’

Keeping a tight rein on her anger, Whitney crossed to collect a second pile of plates. Pretending he didn’t exist, she busied herself putting the rest of the dishes away. Then she started on the glasses, arranging as many as she could do on a large wooden tray, before carrying them out into the hall and across to the living room.

Resentfully she became aware that Luke was right behind her; a burr couldn’t have stuck much closer.

He made no attempt to help as she set the glasses in the buffet.

‘So.’ His tone was dripping with sarcasm. ‘Here we are, darlin’. Home alone.’

‘I’m not in the mood for jokes—’

‘Oh, it’s no joke. Whoever would have thought, when you arrived here as a saucer-eyed orphan, that one day we’d be setting up house together.’

‘We shall not be setting up house together. It seems, at present, that I have no option but to give you a room, but beyond that, you are entirely on your own. You can do your own cooking, and cleaning—’

‘The servants’ll look after me. That’s what they’re paid for.’

She turned on him sharply. ‘Cook and Myrna will not be looking after you! They’ve already gone—and they won’t be coming back. They were over retirement age and only stayed on as long as they did because they loved your grandmother.’

She turned on her heel and with the tray swinging from one hand, walked with purposeful steps back to the kitchen. There she began loading the remaining glasses onto the tray.

Once these were put away, she decided, she was going to soak in a hot bath and then have an early night. Her exhaustion had now intensified to the point where she knew that if she once sat down, she’d never get up again!

‘I tried to get into the attic,’ Luke’s voice came from behind, making her grit her teeth, ‘but it’s locked. Do you have the key?’

She didn’t look at him; continued to load the glasses. ‘What do you want it for?’

‘I remember my grandmother as being something of a pack rat, and there’s a faint hope that my own nursery furniture might be still up there—I know it used to be, when I was a boy. Do you happen to—’

‘It’s still there...along with an old stroller. But it’ll all be covered in dust. I’ve had no time to do any cleaning in the attic this past year, and Myrna wasn’t up to climbing those steep, narrow stairs.’

‘So...where’s the key?’

‘On the shelf above the door.’ Finally she turned. ‘You’re not going up there tonight? Even if you did bring the cot down, you couldn’t put your baby in it yet—the mattress will need to be aired, the woodwork washed down.’

He rubbed a hand against his nape, and she noticed, for the first time, that his eyes were strained, his expression weary. If he hadn’t been so arrogant and hostile, she might have felt a twinge of concern...or even sympathy.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘In the morning, then.’

‘Where will you put the baby tonight?’

‘He can sleep with me.’

Lucky baby! she thought...and immediately felt a wave of shock; where had that thought come from! She turned abruptly and reached out for the tray, but in her haste she knocked over a crystal sherry glass. It fell to the floor, shattering on the terra-cotta tiles.

With a murmur of dismay, she crouched down, but as she scrabbled to pick up the pieces, she felt a prick of pain. She bit her lip as she saw blood beading on her finger...

A strong hand pulled her to her feet.

‘Here.’ Luke’s voice was gruff. ‘Let me see.’

He held her hand in his, squeezing the finger gently.

‘No glass in there,’ he murmured. ‘At least, I don’t think so...’

She struggled against a feeling of grogginess as he walked her over to the sink. He turned on the cold tap, and held her finger under it.

He was standing right behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body against her own. She could also hear him breathing. She felt the hair at her crown stir. And heard his breathing quicken.

‘You smell like peaches.’ His voice was low, sexy, seductive.

She wanted to move, but she was trapped between him and the sink. Besides, she doubted her shaky legs were capable of taking her anywhere. Her finger under the cold tap began to feel numb. She noticed the bleeding had stopped, and she tugged her hand free from his grasp.

He swung her around, and his eyes were dark. ‘Do you taste like peaches?’

He held her right shoulder with his left hand, and with his other, brushed a finger lightly down her left cheek; trailed it across to the corner of her mouth; let the tip linger. ‘I know you’d like me to find out.’

She wanted to jerk her face back, but his blue eyes had hypnotized her into immobility. ‘You’re crazy!’

‘I know you’re attracted to me. I could tell by the way your pupils dilated, when we were discussing who would sleep where—and with whom...’

His words drew all the strength from her body. ‘You’re crazy,’ she repeated, this time in a thready whisper.

‘Am I?’ The back of his fingernail scraped across her teeth. ‘And what about you? Are you ... greedy?’ His voice had all at once become angry, bitter. ‘As greedy...as your mother was?’

He’d been playing with her; testing her...

Cheeks burning with humiliation and resentment, she shoved him away from her abruptly.

He laughed, and the harsh sound grated in her ears. She wanted to press her hands to them, to blank out the sound. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

‘If you’ll get out of here,’ she said in a glacial tone, ‘I’ll finish up. It’s been an exhausting day and I’m going to have an early night—’

‘I’ll clean up.’

‘No, I’ll clean up!’

‘You’ve already cut yourself once. You want me to have to play doctor again? You want more of that? Okay, then, go ahead.’

She couldn’t win; not with this man. But she really was all in; she felt as if she would keel over, any minute now—

Impatiently, he barked, ‘Well?’

‘All right. I’ll go.’ She hesitated. ‘But... what about...won’t you...need any help with...the baby?’

‘I can manage just fine, without having to resort to anyone...particularly a female...for help.’

‘Well, good for you! But don’t forget...I did offer.’

On her way out, she slammed the door behind her... hard.

A knockout. That’s what he’d called her.

And the image of her mother.

Green eyes dark with distress, Whitney drew the bristle brush through her glossy red hair one last time, before putting the brush down on the dresser. Then rising from the padded stool, she crossed to the wardrobe and slid open the bottom drawer. From under a pile of assorted cashmere sweaters, she extricated a silver-framed photograph.

A picture of her mother...and Luke’s father, Ben.

For the past thirteen years Whitney had kept it hidden. She’d taken it out only when she was alone...and had become adept at quickly tucking it away at the sound of Cressida’s light tap on her door.

She’d hated acting so furtively, despite doing so with the best of intentions... and even now, even knowing Cressida was beyond being hurt, she couldn’t help feeling guilty.

But there was no reason to.

She had done nothing wrong.

It was her mother who had done that. Adultery could never be excused, no matter the circumstances-

Whitney gave herself a shake and reined in her drifting thoughts. She must go to bed; she needed to get some sleep. Tomorrow, she’d have to cope with Luke.

Until Edmund Maxwell could get her the ammunition she required to get rid of her unwanted guest, she’d have to find a way to divide the house between them, so she could avoid him as much as possible. He would fight the idea, of course. He would want to have the run of the place as he had done when he was growing up. She’d better have her wits about her. He would be a crafty opponent.

Pushing herself to her feet, she crossed to the dresser and defiantly set up the framed picture.

There was no longer any need to hide it. Only one person in the world could conceivably be offended by its presence here at Brannigan House...

Luke.

And if she was sure of nothing else, she was sure of this: It would be a frosty Friday indeed before she’d ever invite that man into her bedroom!

‘Ah, you’re up.’ Luke closed his bedroom door behind him just as Whitney came out of her own room the next morning. ‘Do you normally lie in bed this late?’

Coffee. Whitney swept past him and made for the stairs. She always needed that first cup of coffee to get her going... but today, she needed it much more than she normally did, in order to be able to cope with this man.

‘One could hardly sleep with that racket you’ve been making in the attic,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I assume,’ she added, as she ran down the stairs with his heavy tread not far behind her, ‘you found what you needed?’

‘Yup. Everything’s washed down, and I have the cot mattress airing in front of the living room fire.’

Hand on the banister, she jolted to a stop, and looked back up at him with an eyebrow cocked ironically. ‘So you’re not above setting a fire and getting it going?’

‘Needs must, when the devil drives.’

‘Whom.’

‘Whom what?’

“‘He must needs go whom the devil doth drive.’”

‘So...you got yourself an education while I’ve been away. And who paid for that, I wonder?’

She subjected him to a rigid glance but wasn’t so angry that she didn’t see, before she jerked her gaze away again, that he was wearing a crisp white T-shirt and black jeans. In that one glance she’d also noticed that his hair was still damp from his shower, and that he’d shaved; the cleft on his chin was now visible—a cleft she’d forgotten was there. Thirteen years was a long time, after all...and she’d been just twelve when she’d known him before.

Known him...she smiled self-derisively as she stalked to the kitchen...now that was a misnomer. She’d never known him. They’d lived in the same house for a few months, that was all—the most awful months of her life. She’d just lost her mother; and she’d cowed in terror as Luke had fought savagely with his grandmother over the elderly woman’s decision to give a home to this girl Luke hated so viciously.

The ongoing battle had culminated in that last, dreadful row, when Luke had called her those ugly names, yelling them at her, after describing her mother and Ben Brannigan in words she’d never heard before and didn’t understand.

But Cressida had heard ... and she had understood.

Shaking with anger, she’d ordered Luke to apologize or get out.

He’d shouted that he was going to leave.

And she’d called after him not to come back, then, till he was ready to say he was sorry.

He’d never, apparently, been ready to do so.

And it wasn’t till Whitney was almost fourteen that she realized Luke’s leaving had broken his grand-mother’s heart.

‘You ought to try to find him,’ Whitney had said one day, stumblingly.

‘I have my pride, child.’ Cressida had replied, her slender back ramrod straight as always. ‘I have my pride.’

And was it pride that had kept Luke away?

But even if she knew the answer to that, Whitney reflected, what good would it do now?

‘I’m going to make coffee.’ She pushed the kitchen door open and went in. ‘And then we’ll talk. We have things to discuss.’

He leaned back against the fridge as she poured cold water into the coffeemaker. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘about my grandmother. She’d been ill for some time?’

‘She fell a year ago and broke her hip. It seemed to be taking a long time to heal so the doctors ran some tests. They discovered a tumor—’ Whitney cleared her throat of a sudden huskiness. ‘Strong coffee okay with you?’

‘Stronger the better.’

She measured eight scoops into the filter, and switched on the coffeemaker. ‘She was very weak by the time they sent her home from hospital, and for the next ten months or so, she passed most of her time in bed.’

‘And in pain?’

‘Yes.’ Understatement of the century.

‘Why the hell didn’t you try to contact me?’

‘She didn’t want me to.’

He swore vehemently.

‘You had thirteen years.’ Her tone was heavily laced with accusation. ‘Why did you never come home?’

‘She told me to leave.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, you sound like a spoiled child! All you had to do was say you were sorry.’

‘I wasn’t sorry.’ He pushed himself from the fridge and crossed to the sink. Grasping the countertop edge with white-knuckled hands, he stared out the uncurtained window. ‘What my grandmother did—taking you in—was unforgivable.’

‘Your grandmother was a warm and compassionate woman.’ Whitney fought to keep control of her emotions. ‘I know it must have been hard for you to understand her actions—after all, you were only seventeen and had been very badly hurt—’

‘I wasn’t thinking of myself!’ He whirled around and his eyes reflected more than a decade of built-up pent-up resentment at her. ‘I was thinking of my mother. Of what they—my father and your mother—had done to her—’

‘Don’t!’ Shaking, Whitney put up her hands to stop him. ‘Please don’t let’s start all this over again. I do understand why you’re so resentful, but, Luke, for your own sanity you have to put it all behind you—’

‘Don’t you think I’ve tried? Don’t you think I’ve tried to forgive? To forgive and forget? What do you think it did to me, walking away from my grandmother, the one person in the world who meant anything to me? And now—’ he swung an arm out wildly ‘—to come back to this house, and find I’m too late—my God, it’s ripping me apart!’

Taut silence vibrated through the kitchen following Luke’s outburst, a silence suddenly broken by the wavering cry of a baby.

Whitney looked around confusedly.

Luke exhaled a heavy breath, and said wearily, ‘It’s the baby monitor. Over by the bread bin.’

She saw it then, a blue-and-white gadget, with a red light flickering.

‘I haven’t seen one of those before.’ Her voice came out stiltedly, but she kept going. ‘You leave one part in the baby’s room, and set the other up wherever you are?’

‘That’s right. I’ll just go up and fetch him...’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Troy,’ he said over his shoulder, as he left the room.

Troy. Short for Troilus? The names Troilus and Cressida were indelibly linked in literature; had Luke, despite his estrangement from his grandmother, remembered the elderly woman with love as he’d chosen a name for his son?

When he returned, the coffee was ready, and she’d just filled two mugs and put sugar and cream in her own.

She’d been determined to keep any communication between them on a purely impersonal and businesslike level, but she made the fatal mistake of looking at the baby in his arms.

‘Why...he’s dark!’

‘I guess you didn’t see him without his hat yesterday.’ Luke ruffled his son’s wispy black hair, and the child chuckled and blew out a bubble. His lashes were as dark as his hair, but he had his father’s blue eyes. He was wearing a red sweatshirt, with a pair of red corduroy dungarees.

He was beautiful, adorable...and he melted her heart.

‘Could you unhitch that tray,’ Luke said, ‘so I can get him into his seat? Those catches baffled me.’

It took Whitney a couple of moments to get the hang of them herself, but she finally managed. After Luke had seated the baby, she clicked it in place again.

‘So...’ She stepped back, uncomfortably aware of his closeness. ‘What does he have for breakfast?’

‘Today, he’ll have a banana and toast, some milk...’

‘I don’t have any bananas—’

‘I’ve brought enough food to last him a couple of days. Then I thought,’ he went on as he took a brown bag from the fridge, ‘you might drive me into town and I can stock up on supplies. My credit was always good at Stanley’s corner store, so I’m sure it’ll—’

‘Jim Stanley died years ago. His store was bulldozed, and you’ll find a superstore there now. You’ll have to go to the bank, if you’ve no money...and get a loan.’

He toppled the contents of the bag on the table: a bunch of ripe bananas, a small loaf of bread, a container of wheat germ, a pint carton of skim milk. ‘To get a loan, a person needs collateral. Looks as if I’m going to be depending on you for supplies. But Troy and I don’t eat much—do we, monster?’ He grinned down at the baby, and the baby grinned back—showing two small white teeth—as if they were sharing some huge joke.

Whitney felt a violent surge of resentment. So...Luke thought he could stay on here, living off her own meager bank account.

No way.

He’d already peeled a banana and diced it. Now he dipped the squares in milk, rolled them in the wheat germ and began setting them on the plastic tray. Reluctantly intrigued—not only by the economy of Luke’s movements but by his lean, tanned fingers with their smooth rounded nails—she wanted to stay and watch. Instead she set his coffee mug on the table along with the creamer and sugar bowl.

‘I’m going through to the living room,’ she said crisply, as the baby with intense concentration picked up a banana morsel. ‘I have some phone calls to make—’

‘You’ll be calling Maxwell, I guess, and asking him to make enquiries about me. Let me save you both some time.’ After wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans, Luke dug into his hip pocket and took out his wallet. Extricating a couple of business cards, he slapped one down onto the table. ‘Dale Gregg—loan officer at the bank where I stash my money...when I have any, and—’ he tossed the second card down on top of it ‘—Elisa Thomson, a lawyer who’s done some work for me recently. They both know my current financial status. I’ll phone them as soon as I’ve fed Troy, and ask them to cooperate with Maxwell when he calls. They’ll give him all the info you need.’

Whitney picked up the cards and read the addresses.

She looked up at him. ‘You’ve been in California, all this time?’

‘Land of surf and sun bunnies.’

‘A beach burn.’

His only answer to her scornful comment was a slanting smile.

‘So,’ she went on, ‘you’ve nothing to show for your thirteen years away but a tan, an empty bankbook, and—’

‘And a baby.’

Whitney shook her head. ‘Unbelievable.’

‘Isn’t he, though?’

‘Unbelievable that someone with your potential could have screwed up so badly,’ she snapped. ‘It’s commonplace to hear about the self-willed teenage girl who runs away from home because she refuses to live by the house rules—only to come back with her tail tucked between her legs and an illegitimate baby in her arms. It’s unusual to see a reversal of roles...but your case is a perfect example—’

‘You mean—’ his blue eyes were wide and innocent ‘—someone took advantage of me and got me pregnant?’

‘—and it’s people like you who are ripping apart the very fabric of North American society—’

‘Oh, I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration! I’m only—’

‘—with your irresponsible behavior! You want to have your fun, but when things go wrong, you want somebody else to bail you out. Bad enough you behave that way when you’ve only yourself to look after, but when you have a child—’

The baby whimpered.

Whitney jerked her head around and felt a stab of dismay. His little mouth was turned down, his lower lip was trembling and his tear-filled eyes were fixed on her with a look that said better than any words: ‘How could you!’

Which was exactly what she asked herself.

How could she possibly have forgotten that Troy was in the room? She was well aware of how awful it was for a child to have to listen to grown-ups fighting, yet here she was, subjecting this one to that very thing.

‘Babies,’ Luke said quietly, ‘pick up on bad vibes. When I’m around Troy, no matter how...difficult... things may be, I’ve always tried to maintain a happy and positive attitude. I’d appreciate it if you’d make an effort to do the same. The situation we’re in isn’t easy for either of us. Let’s just try to make the best of it, mmm?’

A painful lump swelled in Whitney’s throat, and though she tried to swallow it, it wouldn’t go away.

Luke went to crouch by his son, running a hand over his dark hair, and speaking reassuringly to him. Soothing him.

Whitney picked up her mug and walked unhappily out of the kitchen.

And as she did, she swore that, however long Luke stayed at Brannigan House, no matter how he infuriated her, she’d never lose her temper with him again.

At least, she amended, not in front of the baby!

CHAPTER THREE

‘EDMUND MAXWELL has gone on holiday and he won’t be back for two weeks.’ Whitney put her coffee mug into the dishwasher. ‘That should give you a breathing space. Time to look around for a job. Once you’ve got one, you can move out.’

‘A job?’

As she heard the amusement in Luke’s voice, Whitney turned to glare at him. ‘Yes, a job. As in “a paid position of employment?” Even beach bums have to grow up someday!’

‘Not necessarily.’ He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. ‘Anyway, who’d hire me? I’m a high school dropout.’

‘You could work as a laborer at a construction site—there’s a new housing scheme going up at the end of the lake. You look fit enough—’ she avoided looking at his wide chest and muscled arms ‘—and there should be no problem getting hired on.’

‘Is there a bus service up here now from town?’ Luke scratched his head. ‘Didn’t used to be...’

‘You can eventually buy a used car.’

‘What we have here is a catch-22 situation. If I were to find a job, I’d need a vehicle to get to it, but I wouldn’t be able to afford a car till I had more than a few paychecks in my hand. Besides, there is a problem...’

Troy sputtered, and spat out a few crumbs of toast. ‘—and as you can see,’ Luke went on dryly, ‘he’s not about to be overlooked.’

‘Enrol your son in a day care center. That’s what other people in your position have to do. Why should you have to be any different!’

Troy was scowling, as he looked from one to the other.

A scowl which reminded Whitney of her vow not to fight with Luke in front of the child.

She drew in a deep breath. ‘We’ll continue this discussion later, when the baby’s asleep.’

Luke got to his feet, and taking her arm in a firm grip, led her out into the hallway, letting the kitchen door swing shut.

‘This discussion will go nowhere.’ Tension tightened his voice. ‘If you think I’d leave my son with a complete stranger, you’ve got rocks in your head.’

‘No need to leave him with a stranger.’ Whitney tilted her chin challengingly. ‘Does the name Dixie Mae ring a bell?’

‘Dixie who?’

‘Five feet nothing, blond hair fluffed out to here, and breasts out to there?’

His quick grin irritated her. As did his lazily drawled, ‘Ah, now I remember. Dixie Mae Best. She was—’

‘One of your many girlfriends.’

‘Dix’s still around?’

‘Oh, yes, she’s still around. And she runs the Best Day Care Center in Emerald. She’s had a couple of bad marriages, but apparently she’s good with children.’

‘Is she still as...?’ Straight-faced, Luke sketched a couple of voluptuous circles with his hands.

‘Why don’t you look her up, and you can find out for yourself!’

‘I may just do that. But I tell you one thing, I’ll not put Troy in day care. The kid stays with me.’

‘Well, that cuts down on your options. You really—’

He cut into her derisive response. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

‘A walk? I don’t want to go for a walk! I have things to do.’

‘When I was hiking up the road from town yesterday, I had a look at the vineyards. I want to have a closer look. And maybe you can explain why—’

‘If you want to talk business, talk to Edmund Maxwell when he gets b—’

‘The Emerald Valley Vineyard used to be one of the most profitable in the Okanagan. Don’t try to tell me it still is. What we have here is a vineyard full of baco noir, verdelet, and Seyve-Villard—grapes my father planted sixteen years ago—grapes that have little cachet in today’s varietal-driven market. Dammit, my grandmother should have seen what was happening! She should have anticipated—’

‘Your grandmother had been failing for some time before her accident. She hired a temporary manager, but he didn’t work out, and after that, she let things slide—’

‘Didn’t you take any interest in the vineyards? After all, it was Brannigan money that brought you up and has given you the high standard of living you enjoy here—’

‘Now just a minute! When I was teaching, I contributed more than my fair share to the household expenses—’

‘—and it’ll be the interest from Brannigan capital that will in the future keep you in the luxury you’re—’

‘There is no Brannigan capital! Edmund Maxwell told me that yesterday, before he left. So you see, you have nothing to gain by standing in the way of my selling.’

‘My grandmother used the capital? You’ve been living off the capital? My God, I can’t believe—’

Whitney cringed from his burning anger and outrage. ‘So you see, there’s no option but to sell. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t afford to keep up this place.’

‘Da-da-da...’

The plaintive call for attention came from the kitchen.

‘Get a jacket.’ Mouth set grimly, Luke glowered down at her. ‘I want to take a closer look at what we’ve got. But I tell you now, you can forget about selling this place. It’s not going to happen.’

Brannigan House was situated at the end of the northern tip of the Naramata bench. The vineyards, perched on the valley’s steep slopes, with a south-western exposure, climbed above Emerald Lake. The neat rows striped the rolling hills like wales in heavy green corduroy.

Whitney had thrown on a parka over her T-shirt and jeans, but although Luke had dressed the baby cosily, and tucked the blue cap on his head, he himself wore no jacket.

Perhaps the carrier cut the breeze, at least on his back, Whitney reflected as they walked together down the road that cut diagonally across the planted vines.

‘You say you’ve had nothing to do with the vineyards.’ Luke didn’t look at her as he spoke.

‘Not because I wasn’t interested,’ she said steadily. ‘It’s just that with my fair skin, I can’t stay out too long in the sun, so working outside was never an option for me—’

‘Anyway, you were an academic.’ He broke in roughly. ‘Your nose was always stuck in one school text or another. Did you stay on at Penticton High?’

‘For a year, then your grandmother sent me to boarding school on Vancouver Island. After graduation, I went to UBC...and before you start sniping, I waitressed part-time and paid all my tuition fees myself—’

‘Ah. The University of British Columbia. So you...eventually...took my place...even there.’

‘Your place was always open to you, Luke, if you’d wanted it.’ She glanced a him, sideways, and saw that Troy had grabbed two handfuls of his father’s sun-bleached blond hair and was enjoying a tug of war.

‘Then what?’ Luke asked. ‘After UBC...’

‘I took a year off to travel in Europe. And when I came home I got a job teaching English at Penticton High.’

‘When do you go back?’

‘I won’t be going back.’

He glanced at her, his expression cynical. ‘So you gave up your job in expectations of inheriting the Emerald Valley Vineyards? You thought you’d be a lady of leisure.’

‘I gave up my job a year ago in order to look after your grandmother—’

‘Didn’t they keep your position open for you?’

‘Are you completely out of touch with what’s been going on in this province? Of course they didn’t keep it open. When I left, they had dozens of applicants for the post.’

‘So...you and I are in the same situation. No job, no prospects...but at least we have a roof over our heads.’ Veering off the road, he started walking downhill, between the vines, and didn’t resume their conversation.

Which suited Whitney just fine.

She followed him, pausing behind him when, from time to time, he stopped to inspect a vine, tug out a weed, pick some dry soil and let it run through his fingers, or examine a sagging overhead trellis.

On one such occasion, Troy threw back his head, and looked at Whitney upside down.

She smiled at him. What a little love he was! She made a soft coo-coo sound, for his ears alone, and he smiled back, charming her, and then he focused his attention once again on his father’s hair.

After about ten minutes, Luke turned, so abruptly that Whitney almost walked into him.

‘Let’s go back,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen enough.’

‘I’m going to walk on down to the lake.’ At least that way she would have some time on her own to think.

Troy gave a wide yawn.

‘The baby should be in bed,’ she went on quickly, afraid Luke might say he’d come with her. ‘Do you need more blankets? You’ll find some in the airing cupboard—it’s upstairs, next to the—’

‘I don’t need a map to find my way around Brannigan House, Whitney.’ His tone was harsh. ‘I was born here. I know every nook and cranny, every cupboard, every—’

‘Point taken. Only you don’t need to be so nasty about it! You may have been born here... but I never asked to live here. At twelve years of age, I was given no choice in the matter. And—’ her eyes sparked ‘—if I’d had a choice, this is the last place on earth I’d have chosen. You were the cruelest person I’d ever met, so wrapped up in your own jealousies and insecurities you never gave one thought to—’

‘Didn’t you suggest I stop hanging on to the past?’

His icy tone had the effect of a hard slap.

She brushed roughly past him and took off down the slope, her feet making quick padding sounds on the ground between the rows of vines.

She couldn’t bear it; couldn’t bear having him around.

And she’d changed her mind about one thing: She wasn’t about to wait till Edmund Maxwell came back. After lunch, she’d drive into town, drop by his office and ask his partner to make the enquiries about Luke’s financial state.

She’d hang around till the necessary calls were made. And when she had the answer she confidently expected—that Luke had been lying about his barren bank account—then she’d drive straight home again, and tell him where to go.

And if he needed a lift to the nearest bus stop, she’d be more than willing to oblige.

It took only ten minutes to get to the lake.

Once there, she sought her favorite quiet spot, sheltered from the breeze, and sat down on the grass with her back against the trunk of a tree. Soon she became lost in her thoughts, thoughts that didn’t include Luke.

They did include his grandmother.

At the funeral reception, Jack McKay, Cressida’s doctor, had said to her, in an attempt to offer consolation, ‘She was in a great deal of pain, Whitney. For her sake, be glad she is no longer suffering.’

And Cressida’s best friends, Amelia Pitt and Martha Gray, had said, ‘It’s for the best, dear. And it’s not as if it was unexpected. You must be glad it’s all over. We know how hard it’s been on you.’

Yes, the last year had been a hard one, but though she had many times been exhausted almost beyond endurance, after sitting up with Cressida through nights racked with agony, she knew she’d never be glad Cressida was gone. Glad for Cressida’s sake perhaps, but not for her own. She was already missing her terribly.

And there, with no one to see or hear, but a couple of robins, several ducks bobbing closely by on the lake and a solitary black squirrel, at last she let the tears fall.

She didn’t return to the house till noon.

And when she saw an unfamiliar station wagon parked at the front door, she uttered a small sound of exasperation.

Visitors. The last thing she needed. But even as she decided to veer around the side of the house and slip in the back way, the front door opened, and two people came out.

Luke...and Dixie Mae Best.

At the sight of the sexy blonde, Whitney almost stumbled. She’d always known Luke was a fast mover, but this was ridiculous!

They’d both seen her, unfortunately, and stifling a frustrated sigh, she rammed her hands into her parka pockets, and walked toward them.

‘Miss McKenzie.’ Dixie had been giggling as she came out the door, but as soon as she saw Whitney, her expression sobered. ‘I was real sorry to hear about Mrs. Brannigan.’

‘Thank you, Dixie.’

‘Well.’ The blonde glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve gotta run. Luke, it was great hearing from you.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I’ll have to tell Patsy—’

‘Patsy Smith? She’s still around, too?’

‘Oh, sure...and Beth, and Liz, and Chantal McGee, and—oh, all the old gang! Laura Logan that was, and the Patterson twins and...’ She grimaced. ‘Even Begonia Bright.’

‘Good old Begonia,’ Luke said, laughing.

Dixie shook her head, and her heavily made-up eyes sparkled. ‘I can’t believe it—Luke Brannigan a daddy!’

Her hips swiveled under the thin fabric of her pink miniskirt as she walked over to her station wagon. Once inside, she rolled down the window, and as she pulled away, she called back to Luke, ‘You call me now, y’hear?’ And with a cheery wave she took off, leaving a cloud of dust in the air—and a sharper-than-ever tension between Luke and Whitney.

‘Perhaps you should have waited a day or two,’ Whitney said curtly, ‘before making yourself so at home.’

‘Oh, and why’s that?’

But Whitney didn’t answer. Suddenly aware that his gaze had narrowed and he was looking scrutinizingly at her face, she remembered her weeping bout, and wondered if her eyes were revealingly red-rimmed and swollen.

She stalked past him and ignoring his startled ‘Hey, wait up!’ marched into the house.

Making straight for the stairs, she went up to her room. She wasn’t going to wait and eat lunch after all. She was no longer hungry...and he could fend for himself. The fridge was full of leftovers from yesterday’s reception.

She was going to drive into town now, and talk to Edmund Maxwell’s partner—his older brother Charles.

If she didn’t get rid of Luke right away, she had a very strong feeling that she might come home someday very soon and find Dixie Mae Best ensconced in his bedroom...

Dixie Mae, Patsy Smith, Chantal McGee...and all the ‘rest of the old gang’...even including Begonia Bright!

‘Luke was telling you the truth.’ Charles Maxwell sat back in his swivel chair as he looked across his desk at Whitney. ‘Both his lawyer and his banker have confirmed his story.’

Whitney felt a dull sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach as she rose unsteadily from her seat.

‘So...I have to give Luke a home. And I can’t sell the house, or the vineyards—’

‘You could go to court, and contest the codicil.’ Charles’s knees creaked as he got to his feet.

‘No. It’s what Cressida wanted. I can never forget that if she hadn’t taken me in after my mother died, I’d have ended up in a foster home. She didn’t want me to turn Luke away if he needed somewhere to stay...and she would never have countenanced turning away a baby.’

She scooped up her purse from the floor, and swung the strap over her shoulder. ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Maxwell. I appreciate your getting onto this so promptly.’

‘Whitney,.’ The elderly man rounded his desk. ‘Before you go...’

She paused. ‘Mmm?’

‘Luke’s lawyer seemed to assume that I knew all about the events leading up to his present situation, and from what she said, I’ve gathered that Luke’s marriage—’

‘I don’t want to know anything about that,’ Whitney said in a rush. ‘Bad enough that I’ve had to ask you to check out the truth of his story, without... delving further into his private life.’

‘But it might help you understand Luke—’

‘It’s not necessary for me to understand him.’ She touched the lawyer’s arm, feeling the need to reassure him that if she was upset, he wasn’t responsible. ‘Now, you’ll fill your brother in on what’s been happening?’

‘Of course. And if you’ve any more questions you need answering in the meantime, don’t hesitate to call.’

As she walked out to the street, Whitney’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. She wouldn’t have been human if she didn’t have questions. Of course she’d wanted to ask about Luke’s marriage. She wanted to find out about his wife, wanted to know why she wasn’t here with him...wanted to know why she wasn’t caring for their baby. But she’d done the right thing, in cutting the lawyer off. She had to be able to face herself in the mirror each morning, and she couldn’t have done that, not really, if she’d given in to the keen curiosity Charles Maxwell’s words had ignited inside her.

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