Dear Reader,

We’re constantly striving to bring you the best romance fiction by the most exciting authors…and in Harlequin Romance® we’re especially keen to feature fresh, sparkling, warmly emotional novels! Modern love stories to suit your every mood—poignant, deeply moving stories; lively, upbeat romances with sparks flying; or sophisticated, edgy novels with an international flavor.

All our authors are special, and we hope you continue to enjoy each month’s new selection of Harlequin Romance novels. This month we’re delighted to feature The Baby Bonding, a highly emotional novel with all the edge and issues that surrogate motherhood raises. Caroline Anderson has a tear-jerking writing style that also brings a feel-good factor to anyone’s day.

We hope you enjoy this book by Caroline Anderson—and look out for future intensely emotional stories in Harlequin Romance. If you’d like to share your thoughts and comments with us, do please write to:

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Happy reading!

The Editors

Caroline Anderson has the mind of a butterfly. She’s been a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, has run her own soft-furnishing business and now she’s settled on writing. She says, “I was looking for that elusive something. I finally realized it was variety, and now I have it in abundance. Every book brings new horizons and new friends, and in between books I have learned to be a juggler. My teacher husband, John, and I have two beautiful and talented daughters, Sarah and Hannah, umpteen pets and several acres of Suffolk that nature tries to reclaim every time we turn our backs!” Caroline also writes for the Harlequin Medical Romance® series.

Books by Caroline Anderson:

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3756—WITH THIS BABY…

3728—ASSIGNMENT: SINGLE MAN*

3732—ASSIGNMENT: SINGLE FATHER*

3697—THE BABY QUESTION

3674—A SPECIAL KIND OF WOMAN**

The Baby Bonding
Caroline Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

IT COULDN’T be him.

Not now, surely, when she’d got over him at last, stopped thinking about him every minute of the day, finally stopped caring if he was alive or dead.

No. She hadn’t stopped caring. She’d never stop caring about that, but she’d stopped obsessing about it.

More or less.

And now here he was in front of her, as large as life and handsome as the devil, his face creased with laughter as always, and the sound of his deep chuckle sent shivers running through her. His long, rangy body was propped up against a pillar by the desk, and his pale blue theatre scrubs hung on his frame.

He’d lost weight, she thought with shock. He’d never been heavy, but now he was lean, and amongst the laughter lines there were others that hadn’t been there before. Deeper ones that owed nothing to humour.

He’s older, she reminded herself—three years. He must be nearly thirty-five. He was a little less than two years older than her, and she’d be thirty-three soon. How time passed. Gracious, she’d only been twenty-eight when they’d met, thirty the year Jack had been born.

Jack.

She swallowed the lump. Some things you never got over.

He shrugged away from the pillar and turned towards her, and for a moment he froze.

Then an incredulous smile split his face and he strode down the ward towards her, arms outstretched, and she found herself wrapped hard against the solid warmth of his chest.

‘Molly!’

The word was muffled in her hair, but after a second he released her, grasping her shoulders in his big, strong hands and holding her at arm’s length, studying her with those amazing blue eyes.

‘My God, it really is you!’ he exclaimed, and hugged her again, then stood back once more as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

Her defences trashed by the spontaneous warmth of his welcome, she smiled up at him. ‘Hello, Sam,’ she said softly. She could hardly hear her voice over the pounding of her heart, and she felt her smile falter with the strength of her tumbling emotions. She pulled herself together with an effort. ‘How are you?’

So polite, so formal, but then they always had been, really. It had been that sort of relationship, of necessity.

His mouth kicked up in a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and her heart stuttered for a second. Was something wrong? Something with Jack?

‘OK, I suppose,’ he said lightly. Too lightly. Something was wrong. ‘Busy,’ he added, ‘but, then, I’m always busy. Goes with the territory.’

‘And—Jack?’ she asked, hardly daring to say the words.

The grin softened, his eyes mellowing, and she felt the tension ease.

‘Jack’s great,’ he said. ‘He’s at school now. Well, nursery, really. He’s not old enough for school yet. And you? How are you? And why are you here?’

She smiled a little unsteadily, the relief making her light-headed. ‘I work here—I’m a midwife, remember?’

He looked at her then, registering her uniform as if for the first time, and a puzzled frown pleated his brow. ‘I thought you worked as a community midwife?’

‘I did, but not now. I only ever wanted to work part time, and it’s easier to do that in a hospital, so when this job came up, I applied for it. But what about you? I didn’t know you worked here—how did you keep that a secret?’

He laughed, his eyes crinkling again. ‘No secret. I wasn’t here until a few days ago, and I had no idea you were here, either. You used to live the other side of Ipswich, so you must have moved, too, unless you’re commuting.’

‘No, I’m not commuting, we’ve moved. We live in Audley now—near Mick’s parents, so they can see Libby. I’ve been working here for six months.’

He shook his head, his eyes bemused. ‘Amazing—but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. There aren’t that many hospitals, and it’s not the first time I’ve run into someone I know.’ He glanced up and checked the clock on the wall. ‘Look—are you busy now?’

She gave a tired laugh. ‘I’m always busy—it goes with the territory,’ she said, quoting his words back at him. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Coffee? Lunch? I don’t know—just a chance to catch up.’

Her heart hitched against her ribs. She wasn’t sure she wanted to catch up. She’d worked so hard to put Sam and Crystal behind her, and she’d battened down her heart around her memories of Jack. ‘Catching up’ sounded like the perfect way of ripping it all open again, exposing the wound and prodding it just for the hell of it.

‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly, not wanting to hurt him, but not willing to hurt herself again, either. ‘I’m not sure I want to, Sam. It was a long time ago—a lot of water under the bridge.’

His face became shuttered, and she could feel him withdrawing, all that glorious warmth pulling away from her and leaving her cold and lonely and aching.

‘Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so thoughtless. Well, it’s lovely to see you looking so well. No doubt I’ll see you again.’

And turning on his heel, he strode away, leaving her standing there in a daze.

Idiot, she chastised herself. You fool! You should have talked to him. You’re going to have to work together, how can it help you to have this cold and awkward distance between you? And there’s Jack…

Jack’s not your son, she told herself. Let it go.

She dragged in a deep breath and stared blindly out of the window. Count to ten, she told herself. Or twenty.

Or ten zillion.

Or you could just go after him.

She went, freeing her feet from the floor with a superhuman effort and then, once she’d started to move, almost running after him down the corridor.

She reached the lobby just as the lift doors were sliding shut, and called his name.

A hand came out, blocking the doors, and they hissed open and he stepped out, his expression still guarded.

He didn’t say anything, just stood there waiting, watching her. The lift doors slid shut again behind him, but still he stood there. Oh, lord. She looked down, unsure what to say, then abandoned subterfuge and pretence. She’d never been any good at it, anyway. She let her breath go on a little whoosh.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so cold. I’d love to have coffee with you.’

He was silent for a second, then nodded slowly. ‘Now? Or later?’

She shrugged. ‘Now would be fine for me. I was going to take a break now anyway, and nobody’s doing anything exciting at the moment. If things change they’ll page me. How about you?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve finished in Theatre. I only had a short list this morning, and we’re all done. I was just going to change and do a bit of admin. You’ll be doing me a huge favour if you take me away from it.’

She laughed, as she was meant to, and, instead of calling the lift again, he ushered her towards the stairs. They went down to the little coffee-shop at the back of the hospital, the one, she told him, that members of the public hadn’t really discovered, and he bought them coffee and sticky gingerbread slices and carried them over to a sofa. It was by the window, tucked in a corner overlooking a courtyard, and it was the closest thing they’d get to privacy.

For a moment neither of them said anything, and Molly wondered what on earth she was doing here with him. She must be mad.

He’d leant forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers interlinked and apparently requiring his full attention, and she wondered what he was thinking. Then he looked across at her, catching her with her guard down, and his eyes seemed to spear right through to her soul.

‘So—how are you?’ he said, his voice low. ‘Honestly?’

She shrugged, suddenly swallowing tears. ‘I’m all right. Still the merry widow.’ Her laugh was hollow and humourless, and he searched her face with those piercing blue eyes that missed nothing.

‘Ah, Molly,’ he said gruffly, and, reaching out, he gave her fingers a quick squeeze. ‘I had hoped you’d be married again by now, settled down with someone worthy of your love.’

‘I am with someone. I’ve got Libby.’

‘A man, I meant.’

‘We don’t all need to be in a relationship, Sam,’ she pointed out softly. ‘Sometimes it’s better not to be.’

She looked away, not wanting him to read her eyes, but he was looking down at his hands again anyway, staring fixedly at his fingers as they threaded and unthreaded through each other. When he spoke, his voice was gruff.

‘I’m sorry I reacted like that—assuming you’d be as pleased to see me as I am to see you. It was crass of me. I apologise. I should have realised you’d moved on.’

‘I am pleased to see you,’ she told him, unable to lie, unable to let him believe anything less than the truth. ‘It’s just—I found it so hard, three years ago. I didn’t think I would, but it’s been really difficult, and I didn’t want to stir it all up, but now it is, anyway, and—well, I’ve longed to know how he is.’

He looked up and she met his eyes, and she saw sorrow and compassion in them, and an amazing tenderness. ‘He’s wonderful, Molly. Beautiful. Jack’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s brought me more joy than I could ever have imagined—and I owe it all to you.’

She swallowed again, shocked at how readily the tears seemed to form. She was always so grounded, so sensible, so dispassionate.

But not about Jack.

‘I’d love to see a photo,’ she said, wondering if she was just opening herself up to heartache but unable to deny herself this one small thing.

‘A photo?’ He laughed softly. ‘I’ve got hundreds—and videos going back to his birth. You’re welcome to them. Why don’t you come round? Then you can meet him, too.’

An ache so large it threatened to destroy her built in her chest. ‘But Crystal didn’t want us to stay in contact.’

‘And I never did agree with her. Besides, it’s irrelevant,’ he added, his voice curiously flat. ‘Crystal’s dead, Molly. She died two years ago.’

Molly felt shock drain the blood from her face. ‘Dead?’ she echoed silently. ‘Oh, dear God, Sam, I’m so sorry.’

His face tightened. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said, but she could feel his pain, could remember her own when Mick had died, and she ached for him.

She reached out, her hand covering those interlinked fingers, and he turned his hands and caught hers between them, renewing the bond that had been forged three years ago in blood and sweat and tears.

‘So—how do you manage?’ she asked, her voice surprisingly steady. ‘About Jack, I mean? Who looks after him?’ Oh, lord, she thought, tell me you’re not married again. Tell me someone else isn’t bringing him up.

‘I have a couple who live in the house—Mark’s disabled after an accident and can only do very light work, and Debbie needs to be around to look after him, but between them they look after the house and the garden and take Jack to and from nursery. They do it in return for their accommodation and a small salary, and because they live on the premises it gives me cover when I’m on call for the night or the weekend or whatever, and it’s much better than having an au pair. Been there, done that, and this is streets better.’

‘Gosh. You were lucky to find them. Do you think they’ll be all right? Does Jack like them, or is it too soon to tell?’

He smiled. ‘Jack loves them and, yes, I was lucky, but it’s not a new arrangement. They’ve been with me for a year now, and so far it’s been brilliant. Mark’s a tapestry designer—he’s a great big guy, an ex-biker with multiple piercings and the most unlikely looking person with a needle and thread, but he’s amazingly gifted, really successful, and Debbie’s just a miniature powerhouse. She makes me tired just watching her.’

‘Didn’t they mind moving up from London?’

‘Didn’t seem to, but it’s early days. We only moved three weeks ago, and I’ve only been in this job three days.’

While she’d been on her days off, of course, which was why she hadn’t known he was here.

A pity. It might have given her a chance to prepare.

Or run.

His bleeper summoned him and, standing up, he drained his coffee and shot her an apologetic smile.

‘Later—we’ll talk some more. Perhaps over dinner.’

She smiled and gave a noncommittal nod. ‘Perhaps,’ she said silently to his retreating back, and wondered what hand fate, with her twisted sense of humour, would deal them this time.

It wasn’t too late to run…

So many memories.

Crystal, determined and focused, her gimlet mind fastened on this one idea to the exclusion of all others, one last attempt to rescue the tatters of their marriage.

‘I want a child,’ she’d said. ‘What about a surrogate mother? You’re in the business—can’t you find one?’

And then he had, by a miracle, by sheer coincidence, because a patient of his had had a baby for someone else, and he’d talked to her, told her about Crystal’s idea.

‘You need to talk to my friend Molly,’ she’d said, and then Molly had been there, coming through the door behind him, warm and generous and full of life and laughter, filling the room with sunshine and making him glad to be alive. His first impression of her had been that he’d could trust her with his life and with that of his child, and nothing she’d ever done had taken that away.

They’d become friends over the next few weeks and months, and she’d been a rock during the endless procedures, the meetings, the conversations, the dealings with the solicitors. He remembered how calm she’d been, how in control, how understanding and gentle with Crystal.

The pregnancy had seemed to last for ever, such a long wait until the phone call came to say she was in labour, and he could remember every moment of the drive to the hospital, the waiting again, and then being there, holding Molly, supporting her while she’d given birth to Jack—the son he and Crystal had thought they’d never have.

Their son, carried for them by Molly, who’d generously agreed to act as a host mother to their embryo. A tummy mummy, she’d called herself, and their son had been loved and nurtured and protected by her body until the time had been right to hand him over to them.

And then Jack—tiny, screaming, enraged by the insult of birth, only calming when the midwife had taken him from the panic-striken Crystal and given him to Sam.

Then Molly had let out a long, ragged breath and smiled tearfully at him and nodded, and it had been all right.

Or so he’d thought, for the last three years.

And now he’d seen her again, and she’d admitted she’d had problems, and the doubts had come back to plague him. Had it been the right thing to do, to ask another woman to make such stupendous sacrifices for them, so Crystal could have what she wanted?

He nearly laughed out loud. What she’d thought she wanted, anyway. What was that saying? Be careful what you wish for, you might get it?

‘So—is it possible?’

Matt Jordan, the A and E consultant, stood beside Sam with his hands thrust into the pockets of his white coat, watching as he examined their patient. It was the first time he’d met the big Canadian, and he liked him instinctively—not least for calling him so quickly on this somewhat puzzling case.

‘She could be pregnant, yes. Certainly looks possible.’ Sam gently palpated the distended abdomen of the unconscious woman in Resus and shook his head thoughtfully. ‘I think you’re right, I think she is pregnant, but I can’t be sure without a scan or a pregnancy test. It could be all sorts of things—a tumour, an ovarian cyst, fibroids—without a heartbeat it’s anybody’s guess, and I can’t pick one up on the foetal stethoscope. It could just be fluid, but it doesn’t really feel right for that. What do you know about her?’ he asked Matt.

‘Very little,’ he was told. ‘She was brought in a few minutes ago after collapsing at the wheel of her car. The police are working on it, but it doesn’t seem to be registered to a woman, so they don’t know who she is. They’re checking with the car’s owner.’

He nodded.

‘Well, the first thing we need is an ultrasound to check if there’s a live baby, and we’ll go from there. In the meantime do nothing that would compromise the baby if you can avoid it. Once we know if she’s carrying a live foetus, we can get a proper scan to work out its gestational age and decide if it’s viable if we need to do an emergency section for any reason. I don’t suppose you can hazard a guess as to what’s wrong with her?’

‘No. Not diabetes, we’ve checked that, and her heart seems fine. Pupils are a bit iffy, so it could be drugs or a bang on the head. Could it be anything obstetric?’

Sam frowned and shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. It’s hard to tell without more information. I want that scan, fast. If she’s twenty-eight weeks or more and remains stable and unconscious, we can remove the baby to give her more chance, if necessary, but the baby’s chances will decrease with every week less than that. And, of course, there are other complications. She’s a smoker, for a start, so it might be small for dates, and starting from a disadvantage. Still, there’s no point in speculating till we get the scan and know if she is pregnant and the baby’s still alive. If she is pregnant, we’ll take her down to the big scanner and have a better look if you think she’s stable enough.’

The young nurse beside him frowned in puzzlement. ‘How do you know she’s a smoker?’

He shrugged. ‘She smells of smoke—and her teeth are stained.’

His eyes met Matt’s. ‘She’s a heavy smoker, I’d say, so watch her lungs, too, with the added stress of pregnancy. She might have breathing difficulties—and if she shows signs of respiratory distress or hypovolaemia, call me. She might get an amniotic fluid embolus or an antepartum haemorrhage as a result of the impact.’

‘We’ll watch for that. She’s got a wedge under her left hip to take the pressure off her aorta and vena cava. Anything else specific we should be doing?’

He shook his head. ‘Not really. Some answers would be good. Bleep me again if you need me, and when you get the results of the ultrasound. I’ll be in my office.’

Sam walked back up there, unable to do any more without further information, and at the moment at least she seemed stable. He’d worry about her once he knew a little more but, in the meantime, other thoughts were clamouring for his attention.

With each step, the young woman faded further from his mind, crowded out by an image of Molly that blanked his thoughts to anything else.

She hadn’t changed at all—well, not enough to notice. She’d got her pre-pregnancy figure back, of course, but apart from that she seemed no different. Her eyes were still that same warm, gentle shade of brown, her hair a few tones darker and shot through with gold, and her smile…

He felt choked, just thinking about her smile. She smiled with her whole face, not just that gorgeous, mobile mouth that was so amazingly expressive.

He growled under his breath. So she was an attractive woman. So what? So were lots of women. Hell, he worked with young, attractive women all day, both staff and patients, and he managed to cope. So why had he picked on Molly, of all people, to be so acutely aware of? She was the last woman in the world he could entertain those sorts of thoughts about.

His relationship with her was hugely complex because of Jack, and absolutely the last thing it needed was any further layers added to it!

‘Keep breathing, nice light breaths—that’s it, that’s lovely. You’re doing really well.’

Liz, her young patient, sobbed and shook her head. ‘I can’t do this…’

‘Yes, you can,’ Molly told her calmly, recognising her panic for what it was, a sign that she was moving into the transitional phase between the first and second stages of labour. ‘You’ll be fine.’

‘I bet you’ve never had any babies, midwives never have,’ she said with no real venom.

Molly gave a soft laugh. ‘Sorry—I’ve had three.’

‘You’re mad. I’m never having another,’ the girl moaned, leaning against her partner and biting her lip. ‘God, I hate you! How could you do this to me, you bastard? I never want to speak to you again.’

He met Molly’s eyes over her shoulder, panic flaring in them, and she squeezed his hand as it lay on the girl’s shoulder and smiled reassuringly at him.

‘She’s getting closer. Tempers often fray and it’s usually the father who gets it. She’ll be fine.’

‘Going to be sick,’ Liz said, and promptly was, all down his front.

To his credit he didn’t even wince, just led her back to the bed and wiped her mouth, then looked at Molly. ‘I could do with cleaning up,’ he said softly, and she nodded.

‘We’ll get you some theatre pyjamas to wear. Just sit with her for a second.’

She slipped out, grabbed the scrubs from the linen store and was about to mop up when Liz’s waters broke.

‘OK, let’s get you back on the bed and check you. I reckon it’ll soon be over now,’ she said encouragingly. When she examined her patient, though, she found that the cord had prolapsed down beside the baby’s head, and when she checked the foetal heart rate, it was dipping alarmingly.

It would be over soon, but not for the reason she’d thought!

‘Liz, I want you to turn on your side for me,’ she said, pressing the crash button by the head of the bed and dropping the backrest simultaneously. ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem with the baby’s cord, and I want to get your head down and hips up a bit, to take the pressure off. It’s nothing to worry about, but we need to move fast, and I’m going to get some help.’

‘Need a hand here?’

Sam’s deep, reassuring voice was the most wonderful sound in Molly’s world at that moment.

‘Prolapsed cord,’ she said quietly. ‘Her waters went a moment ago, and she had quite a lot of fluid. Watch where you walk, by the way. Liz, this is Mr Gregory.’

‘Hello, Liz,’ he said, moving in beside her and throwing her a quick, reassuring smile before he lifted her hips effortlessly and slid a pillow under them. He met Molly’s eyes. ‘What’s the previous history?’

She shook her head. ‘None. First baby, full term—’

‘And the last,’ Liz groaned. ‘What’s happening?’

‘The cord’s got squashed between your cervix and the baby’s head,’ Sam told her calmly. ‘We’ve got a choice under these conditions. We can deliver the baby as quickly as possible the normal way, with the help of forceps, or give you a Caesarian section. I just need to take a quick look at you to help me decide which is the best option, OK? Gloves, Molly.’

She handed him the box, and he snapped them on and quickly checked the baby’s presentation and the extent of the prolapse of the cord. As he straightened, he met Molly’s eyes again, his own unreadable. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Want to try?’

She shrugged, not wanting to argue with him on their first shared case, but deeply concerned because it was a first baby and it was still a little high for comfort. If she had problems…

‘We can try, I suppose, if you want to—but we haven’t got long.’

He nodded agreement, and approval flickered in his eyes. ‘I know. Let’s go for a section. Push that head back, Molly, until the cord’s pulsating again, and hold it there until she’s in Theatre. I don’t think we can get the cord back up, there’s too big a loop, so we just have to keep the pressure off. I’m going to scrub.’

The room had been filling up while they talked, people responding to the crash call, and he turned to his SHO. ‘Get a line in, please, and give her oxygen, and terbutaline to slow the contractions if we can. Cross-match for two units as well, please. I’ll see you in Theatre, Liz. Don’t worry, we’ll soon have your baby out.’

He squeezed her partner’s shoulder on the way out, and Molly thought how like him that was, sparing a thought for the shocked young man standing paralysed on the sidelines, even in such a chaotic moment. He’d always seemed to have time for things others often overlooked.

Within a very few minutes Liz was on her way to Theatre, Molly’s gloved hand firmly pushing the baby’s head back away from her cervix, keeping the pressure off the cord to prevent the baby dying from lack of oxygen.

They didn’t have much time, but as long as she could keep that cord pulsating, the baby stood a good chance of coming through this unharmed.

Sam was waiting, and he wasted no time in opening Liz up once she was under the anaesthetic. Her partner, David, was hovering outside Theatre and had looked scared to death, but Molly didn’t really have time to worry about him.

All her attention was on holding that baby’s head back, during the shift across to the operating table, positioning Liz ready for surgery with the head of the table tilted downwards, and trying desperately to ignore the cramp in her arm and back from the awkward position she was in.

Finally she felt the pressure ease, and looked up to meet Sam’s eyes as he lifted the baby clear and handed it to the waiting nurse.

‘It’s a boy,’ he told Molly, throwing a quick smile in her direction before returning his attention to Liz. ‘Time of birth fifteen twenty-seven. He’s all yours, Molly.’

She straightened and flexed her shoulders, then, after clamping and cutting the cord, she took the baby immediately over to the waiting crib and sucked out his airways. His cry, weak and intermittent until that point, changed pitch with indignation and turned into a full-blown bellow, and she felt the tension in the room ease.

‘Apgar score nine at one minute,’ she said, and glanced up at the clock on the wall. She’d check again at fifteen thirty-two, by which time she was sure the slight blueness of his skin would have gone and he would score a perfect ten.

Relief made her almost light-headed, and she smiled down at the screaming baby, his colour improving and turning pink as she watched. His heartbeat was strong, his cry once he’d got going was good and loud, and his muscle tone and response to suction had been excellent.

It was a pity things had gone wrong so Liz had missed his birth, she thought, wrapping him up in heated towels and taking him out of the Theatre to David, but trying for a normal delivery would have been too risky. She’d known doctors who would have taken the risk, others who would have gone for the section without a second thought regardless of the circumstances.

Sam, thank God, didn’t seem to fall into either of those categories. He’d rapidly weighed up both options in the light of his examination, and had made what she felt had been the right decision. She felt able to trust his judgement—and that was a relief, as she was going to have to work with him.

She pictured his eyes again over the mask when he’d smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. She’d always loved that about him, the way he smiled with his eyes…

‘Is everything all right?’ David asked, and she nodded, putting the baby in his slightly tense arms.

‘So far, so good. I’ve done a quick check and all the obvious bits are present and correct, and Liz is doing really well.’ She smiled up at David, but he didn’t notice. He was staring down in frank amazement at his son.

‘We’ve got a baby,’ he said, his voice faintly incredulous. Lifting his free hand, he stroked one finger gently down the baby’s translucent, downy cheek, still streaked with blood and vernix. The little head turned towards the finger, his rosebud mouth pursing, and Molly smiled, an all-too-familiar lump in her throat.

‘He’s hungry. She can feed him just as soon as she comes round, but in the meantime he just needs a cuddle from his dad. Just hold him and talk to him for a minute. He’d recognise your voice, he will have heard it from the womb. He’s a bit messy, but we won’t wash him until Liz has woken up and seen him, or it could be anybody’s baby.’

He nodded, and she took him through to Recovery to wait for Liz while she herself went back into Theatre to check on her.

‘Apgar up to ten?’ Sam asked, checking on the baby’s progress even as he worked on Liz.

‘Yes—he’s fine now. His colour was a bit off, but it’s not surprising.’

‘You did a good job,’ Sam said softly to her, and she felt her skin warm.

‘You aren’t making too big a fist of it yourself,’ she said with a smile, and he chuckled quietly under his breath.

‘You’re too kind. The placenta’s there, by the way.’

She studied it carefully, making sure no parts of it were missing and likely to cause the mother future problems, and nodded. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Good. Now, could you do me a favour, Molly, if you’re happy with the baby? Can you phone down to A and E and ask about the young woman who was brought in a couple of hours ago—query pregnant, no ID, unconscious in the car?’

‘Sure.’

She used the theatre phone, and discovered that the woman had regained consciousness and discharged herself.

Sam frowned, his brows drawing together in disapproval. ‘Did they scan her?’

She shook her head. ‘Not that they said. She came round just after you left her, and wouldn’t stay another minute. The police think she’d stolen the car, apparently.’

‘How bizarre. Oh, well.’ He shrugged and carried on with closing Liz while Molly checked the baby again. He was snuggled in his father’s arms, blissfully asleep now, and, judging by the look on David’s face, he wasn’t the only one feeling blissful.

Through the glass she saw Sam straighten up and flex his shoulders. He said something and the anaesthetist nodded, and he stepped back, handing Liz over to the anaesthetic team. Stripping off his gloves and mask, he came out to join them.

‘All done, and she’s fine. She’ll be with us in a minute.’ Looking down at the baby, he ran a finger lightly over the back of his tiny hand.

‘Hello, little fellow,’ he said softly. ‘Has he got a name?’

‘I don’t know. Lucy.’

Sam met David’s eyes and smiled. ‘That may not be appropriate, under the circumstances.’

David chuckled, his shoulders dropping with the easing of tension. ‘Perhaps we’d better think again. I don’t know, we were sure she was having a girl. Something about the heartbeat, Liz said. Probably an old wives’ tale.’ He pulled a face and swallowed hard. ‘Um—thanks, by the way. I’m really grateful to you all for getting him out safely. Liz would have been gutted—’

He broke off, and Sam laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Any time,’ he said. ‘They’ll bring her through to Recovery now, and she can hold him and feed him, then Molly will take you all back to the ward once they’re happy she’s stable. This little fellow seems to be fine, but a paediatrician will come and check him in due course, just as a matter of routine. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with Molly. She’ll look after you both.’

He threw Molly a smile and went to change, and it was as if the lights had gone out.

Oh, damn. And she’d really, really thought she was over him…

CHAPTER TWO

‘HE’S been such a good boy today, haven’t you, Jack?’

The little dark head bobbed vigorously, a smile lighting up his face like a beacon. ‘I did painting, Daddy—see!’

There was a slightly tattered piece of grey sugar paper held to the fridge door with magnets, and Sam studied the wild, multicoloured handprints on it and felt his heart contract with pride. He grinned a little off-key and ruffled his son’s hair.

‘So you did. Well done. What else did you do?’

‘Um—singing, and played in the sandpit. We had fish fingers for lunch—I’m hungry,’ he added, tipping his head back and looking hopefully up at Debbie.

She laughed softly. ‘You’re always hungry. Come on, sit down at the table and you can have your tea while you tell your dad all about your day, and I’ll make him a nice drink. Cuppa, Sam? Mark and I are just having one.’

‘Thank you, Debbie, that would be lovely.’ He shrugged out of his jacket and glanced across at Debbie’s husband. ‘Hello, Mark.’

‘Hi. You good?’

He smiled tiredly. ‘I’ll do. Yourself?’

The big man nodded from his seat by the window. ‘Good. The latest effort’s coming along—what do you think?’

He held up a large square of canvas, and even from across the room Sam could see the wonderfully subtle colours and almost three-dimensional quality of the tapestry Mark was creating. It was a study of leaves, but close up and personal. There was nothing pretty-pretty about it, but there was a vigour in the composition that was the trade mark of all his designs, and this one was no exception.

‘You’re getting a bit good at this,’ Sam said, genuine admiration in his voice, and Mark lifted a shoulder, awkward with the praise.

‘I thought I’d do apples and pears next—you know, a sort of orchard theme. Maybe some plums, or autumn leaves. The country’s really inspired me—let something loose inside. I just hope they sell.’

‘Of course they’ll sell. They always sell. The shops love your designs,’ Debbie said pragmatically, sliding a mug of tea across the table. ‘Sam, take the weight off. You look done in.’

‘Busy day,’ he said. Busy, and emotionally exhausting. He sat down at the big, scrubbed pine kitchen table that filled the centre of the kitchen and leant back in his chair with a sigh. His mind was whirling with thoughts of Molly, and all he could see was her face. He wished he’d got her number, but he hadn’t, so he couldn’t ring her—unless she was in the book?

He reached for it, conveniently at arm’s length on the dresser behind him, and flicked through the pages. Hammond. There. He ran his finger down the list, and found only a few, none of them Molly.

Unless her initials didn’t start with an M. Chewing his lip thoughtfully, he ran his finger down again, and paused. A.M.?

Yes, of course. Annabel Mary, she’d been christened. He remembered now. He remembered a lot of things…

He shut the book. Perhaps he’d ring her later.

But then Jack would be in bed.

Now, then?

He needed to sort out the videos, dig out the photos. Heaven only knows what’s happened to them, he thought. They were probably in the boxes in the loft and they’d take him ages to find.

But Jack was here, now, and Molly’s eyes, when he’d talked about the boy…

Picking up his mug, he got up and went into his study and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Molly stared at the phone warily, hope warring with common sense.

Of course it wouldn’t be Sam. He hadn’t got her number, unless he’d looked her up in the book, but her first initial wasn’t M., so he probably wouldn’t find her automatically.

Then again, he’d known her full name all those years ago, seen it enough times on the endless paperwork, so maybe…

‘Oh, just answer it,’ she muttered to herself, and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Molly?’

Her heart lurched and steadied again, and she closed her eyes briefly. ‘Sam.’

‘Hi. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. Um, about you seeing Jack—I meant to say something earlier, but I didn’t get round to it. Are you busy this evening? I mean, it’s not very much notice, but I thought, if you’d like…’

Her heart lurched again, and she threw a quick glance at the door. Libby was on the other side of it, scraping on her violin, trying to get to grips with a difficult passage. She’d done her homework, and now she was grappling with this. She’d been at it for nearly half an hour, but she wouldn’t give up until she’d got this bit right, at least. Molly just hoped it was sooner rather than later, for all their sakes.

‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked cautiously.

‘I wondered if you’d like to come over. I mean, don’t worry if you’ve got other plans, or you’d rather not, but I just thought—’

‘I haven’t got plans,’ she said quickly—too quickly. Slow down, she told herself, and drew a deep, steadying breath. ‘Tonight would be fine,’ she went on, deliberately calming her voice despite the clamouring of her heart. ‘I need to check with Libby, of course, but I’m sure there won’t be a problem. She’d like to see him, too, I’m sure.’

‘Fine. Whenever you’re ready—the sooner the better, really, because he goes to bed at about half-seven.’

‘That late?’ she said, and could have bitten her tongue for the implied criticism. It was none of her business…

‘He has a nap when he gets home from nursery, and Debbie lets him sleep as long as he wants. That way I get to see him when I get in,’ he told her, and she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined a mild note of reproof in his voice. ‘Whatever. I think in any case we could make an exception tonight—apart from which, he’s as bright as a button today, so I don’t suppose he’ll be in any hurry to go to bed. He’s full of it.’

She closed her eyes against the image, the ache of longing growing with every word. ‘We’ll come now,’ she said. ‘If that’s OK? It was the first day of the new term today, and Libby goes to bed at eight on school nights. I try and stick to it if I can,’ she added, trying not to sound so pathetically eager and ending up sounding like a school matron instead. Oh, grief, he was going to think she was obsessive about bedtimes…

‘Now’s fine. I’ll give you directions.’

She scrabbled around for a piece of paper on the table and found an old envelope. ‘Fire away,’ she said, jotting down the address—surprisingly in the country, not in the town as she’d first thought. ‘I didn’t realise you lived out of town,’ she said, studying the directions and trying to place the road in her mind. ‘Will it take long to get there?’

‘No. It’s easy to find, and it’s not far out. Ten minutes from the hospital, tops. I’ll see you soon—and, Molly?’

‘Yes?’

‘He doesn’t know—about you carrying him for us. I haven’t told him. I’m still trying to work out how, but in the meantime I’d be grateful if you and Libby could be careful what you say.’

‘Sure. Don’t worry, we won’t say anything. I’ll see you soon.’

She cradled the phone, then sat for a moment gathering her ragged emotions. The scraping had finished, a sweet, pure sound now pouring through the door—well, mostly, she thought with a motherly smile as another tiny screech set her teeth on edge. Still, Libby wasn’t quite ten yet. There was plenty of time.

The door opened and Libby bounced in, the image of her father, blonde hair bobbing round her shoulders, her pale blue eyes sparkling with achievement.

‘Did you hear me?’ she said. ‘I did it!’

‘I heard,’ Molly said, her heart swelling with pride. ‘Well done, your father would have been proud of you. And talking of fathers, I meant to tell you, I saw Jack’s father today. He’s working at the hospital.’

Libby’s head tipped on one side. ‘Jack’s father? Your baby Jack?’

She nodded. ‘Well, not mine, but yes.’

The girl’s eyes sparkled even brighter. ‘Cool! Can we see him? I only saw him that once when he was born, and it was ages ago.’

‘Three years—and, yes, we can see him. Tonight—in fact now. If you’re OK with it?’

‘Sure. Can we go?’

Molly laughed and stood up. ‘Yes. Brush your hair, it’s a mess, and make sure you’ve put your violin away properly.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ she teased, but she bounced out and reappeared a moment later, her hair sort of brushed and the violin case in hand. ‘I’m ready.’

Molly picked up the directions, read them through again and put them in her pocket. ‘OK. But, remember, he doesn’t know anything about me being his tummy-mummy, so don’t say anything.’

Libby’s eyes widened. ‘He doesn’t know? How weird. Laura knows, she talks about it all the time.’

Molly thought of her other surrogate child, with whom she had an affectionate and loving relationship, and smiled gently. ‘Yes, I know—but Jack doesn’t, and it isn’t really our place to tell him.’

‘It’s OK, I won’t say anything,’ Libby promised.

‘There’s another thing you ought to know—his mum died.’

Libby’s face fell. ‘Oh, poor baby,’ she said, her soft heart so typically responding to his loss. ‘Still, he can have you now,’ she suggested, her face brightening again.

If only, Molly thought, the ache returning. Libby would love to put the world to rights, but unfortunately it just wasn’t that easy.

The drive, however, was easy, his house simple to find and really not at all far from the hospital, as he’d promised. It was a lovely house, a simple, red-brick cottage-style farmhouse, with a porch in the middle and windows all around. A rambling rose, intertwined with a late-flowering honeysuckle, scrambled over the porch, and tacked on one end of the house under a lower section of roof was what looked like another little cottage, with its own white front door, and she guessed this was where Debbie and Mark lived.

Bathed in the sunshine of a late summer evening, it looked homely and welcoming, and just the sort of place she could imagine him living in. Nothing like their London house, but she’d never felt that had been him.

The garden was bursting with colour and scent, a real cottage garden, and as they walked up the path she bent to smell the last of the roses, just as Sam opened the door.

She straightened and laughed. ‘Sorry. I can’t resist roses.’

‘Nor can I. They’re why I bought the house.’ His gaze dropped and he gave her daughter a friendly smile. ‘Hello, Libby, nice to see you again. How are you?’

‘OK. I like your garden, it smells lovely.’

‘It does, doesn’t it? I can’t take any credit for it. It was like this when we moved, and Debbie does all the gardening anyway. Come in, Jack’s in the kitchen, “washing up” with her.’ He held up his hands and drew speech marks in the air with his fingers as he spoke, and his face said it all.

‘Oh, dear,’ Molly said, biting her lip at the laughter in his eyes, and they exchanged a smile that made her knees go weak. Oh, lord, this was such a bad idea. She was going to get herself in such a mess.

She followed him down the hall, Libby at his side, and as he ushered her into the kitchen she came to an abrupt halt, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, her eyes filling.

No. She wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t.

‘Jack, come and say hello to some friends of mine,’ Sam was saying, but she couldn’t move, she just stood there and devoured the little boy with her eyes as he climbed down off the chair and ran over to them.

He was so tall! So tall and straight, and the image of his father, with those same astonishing blue eyes filled with laughter, and a mop of soft, dark hair that fell over his forehead, just like Sam’s.

He tipped his head back and looked up at her, examining her unselfconsciously. ‘Hello. I’m Jack,’ he said unnecessarily, and she crouched down to his level and dredged up an unsteady smile.

‘Hi. I’m Molly, and this is Libby, my daughter.’ She looked at his sodden front and resisted the urge to gather him to her chest and squeeze him tightly. ‘I hear you’re helping with the washing-up.’

He nodded, his little head flying up and down, grinning from ear to ear. ‘I do spoons, and we make bubbles.’

‘We’ve got a dishwasher, but it’s not as much fun, and this way the floor gets washed, too,’ Sam said, laughter in his voice.

She chuckled at the words and straightened up, her gaze finally going past Sam and meeting the clear, assessing eyes of a woman in her late twenties. Her hair was spiky and an improbable shade of pink, and she was dressed in faded old jeans and an orange T-shirt that clashed violently with her hair. She looked like a tiny and brightly coloured elf, but, despite being so small, she radiated energy.

‘You must be Debbie,’ Molly said.

The woman nodded, and tipped her head towards the window. ‘This is my husband, Mark.’

She turned her head and saw him for the first time, sitting quietly in a chair in front of the long, low window, one leg propped up on a stool and a cat curled up on a riotous heap of wool in his lap. The sun glinted on an armoury of piercings, and there was an elaborate tattoo running up one arm and disappearing under his sleeve.

The unlikely tapestry designer, of course.

She smiled across at him. ‘Hi, there. Nice to meet you. Sam’s told me a lot about you both.’

‘Oh, dear, sounds ominous,’ Debbie said, laughing and scooping Jack up to sit him on the table and strip off his soggy T-shirt. ‘I think you’d better put something dry on, don’t you? You’ll catch a cold—and don’t tell me it’s an old wives’ tale,’ she said, levelling a finger at Sam.

He threw up his hands in mock surrender and pulled out a chair. ‘Molly, have a seat,’ he said, and she sat, quickly, before her suddenly rubbery legs gave way.

‘Thanks,’ she said, shooting him a grateful glance, and he smiled down at her understandingly.

‘Any time. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Only tea or coffee, as I’m driving,’ she said, her eyes fixed on Jack’s small body, taking in the strong, straight limbs, the sticky-out ribs so typical of little boys who didn’t sit still long enough to gather any fat. The need to hug him close was an overwhelming ache, and she had to fold her arms and lock them to her sides to stop herself.

‘I’ll make coffee,’ Sam was saying. ‘Mark? Debbie?’

‘Not for me. I’ll have one when I’ve finished in here,’ Debbie said, tugging a clean T-shirt over Jack’s head, and Mark shook his head, too.

‘Another ten minutes and I get my pint,’ he said with a grin. ‘I think I’ll hold on for that.’

So Sam made coffee for Molly and himself, and poured juice for the children, and then, because it was such a lovely evening, they went out into the garden and sat amongst the scent of the roses and honeysuckle and listened to the droning of the bees while the children played in the sandpit a few feet away.

‘What a gorgeous spot,’ Molly said, delighted to know that Jack was living in such a lovely place. She and Libby lived in a very pleasant house with a pretty garden, in a tree-lined street convenient for the hospital and Libby’s school, but it was nothing like this. Sam’s house was only ten minutes from the hospital, fifteen from the town centre, and yet the peace and quiet were astonishing. They could have been miles from anywhere, she thought with a trace of envy, and then quickly dismissed it.

It wouldn’t have been nearly so convenient for them, particularly not for Libby, and Molly didn’t want to spend her life driving her daughter backwards and forwards every time she wanted to see a friend or visit her grandparents. It was hard enough fitting in Libby’s schedule around her own work timetable without having to factor in being a taxi service.

No, living in the town suited them, but she was still glad for Jack that he would grow up with the song of the birds drowning out the faint hum of the bypass in the distance.

‘So, what do you think of him?’ Sam asked softly, and she dragged her eyes from the little boy who wasn’t her son and smiled unsteadily across at him.

‘He’s gorgeous. Bright and lovely and…’

She broke off, unable to continue, and she looked away quickly before she disgraced herself.

‘It’s OK, Molly. I feel the same about him, so I do understand you.’

‘Do you?’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not sure I do. He’s not my son. Why do I feel like this for him?’

‘Because you gave him life?’

‘No. You and Crystal gave him life. I just incubated him until he was big enough to cope alone.’

‘Don’t underestimate your part in it. Without you he wouldn’t be here. I think that gives you the right to feel emotional the first time you see him in three years.’

She closed her eyes against the welling tears. ‘I’ve thought about him so much,’ she confessed softly.

‘You should have seen him,’ Sam said, his voice gruff. ‘I should have kept in touch, no matter what Crystal said. I wasn’t happy with it. I always felt she was wrong, and I should have done something about it. I’m sorry.’

Molly shook her head slowly. ‘She was his mother. She had the right to make that choice,’ she pointed out, determined to defend the dead woman’s decision even though it had torn her apart, but Sam made a low sound of disgust in his throat.

‘She didn’t want to be his mother,’ he said, his voice tight and dangerously quiet. ‘She went back to work when he was four months old, because she was bored at home. Seven months later she went off with her boss on a business trip to the Mediterranean, and she never came back. Her son wasn’t even a year old, and already she’d turned her back on him.

‘She wanted a life in the fast lane, and that was how she died—with her lover, on a jet-ski, late one night. They smacked into the side of a floating gin palace that was just coming into the harbour at Antibes and they were killed instantly. They’d both been drinking.’

Molly stared at him, shocked at the raw emotion in his voice, the anger and pain that had come through loud and clear even though his voice had been little more than a murmur. Without thinking, she reached out to him, laying her hand on his arm in an unconscious gesture of comfort.

‘Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry.’

He looked down at her hand, then covered it with his and gave her a sad, crooked smile before releasing her hand and pulling his arm away, retreating from her sympathy. ‘So was I. It was a hell of a way to find out my wife was being unfaithful to me.’

‘Didn’t you know?’

He shifted slightly, moving away as if even that small distance made him less vulnerable. ‘That they were lovers? I suppose I should have done. The signs were clear enough, although she’d never told me in as many words, but, no, I didn’t know. She’d been itching to get back to work from the moment Jack was born, apparently, but she’d never really said so. Like everything else, she just let me find out.’

‘But—why?’ Molly asked, stunned that anyone could keep secrets in a marriage. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to keep anything from Mick.

‘Just her way.’ He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘I suppose the first hint I had that things weren’t all sweetness and light was when I came home one day and found an au pair installed—so we’d have a resident babysitter, she told me. She wanted to go out at night to glitzy restaurants where you pay a small ransom for a miserable little morsel of something unpronounceable, when I was coming home exhausted from work and just wanted to fall asleep in front of the television with my son in my arms.’

‘So who won?’

He gave a sad, bitter little laugh. ‘Who do you think? Crystal wanted to go out—and what Crystal wanted, Crystal got. She said she had cabin fever—said she could understand how women got postnatal depression.’

‘And did it make any difference?’

Again the low, bitter laugh. ‘No, of course not. Then a few days later I opened a letter addressed to her by mistake. It was a credit-card bill, and in three weeks she’d run up thousands—and I mean thousands, literally. I went upstairs and looked in her wardrobe, and tucked in amongst the clothes she already had were loads of new things I’d never seen—sexy little dresses, trouser suits, skirts, tops, all designer labels, all from the big Knightsbridge stores—the sort of thing you’d wear if you wanted to seduce your boss.’

‘And it worked, I take it.’

‘Oh, yes. I confronted her about the clothes, and she cried and said she was miserable at home, and of course she loved Jack, but she just wanted to get back to work, she missed it. They were work clothes, she said. She had to look the part. So I paid the credit-card bill, and she went back to work, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

She wanted to reach out again, to comfort him again, but he’d withdrawn from her and she couldn’t. Instead she concentrated on watching the children, wondering how much this fractured upbringing had affected Jack.

Would she have had him for them if she’d known what had been in store? She’d had doubts about Crystal, but only when it had been too late, towards the end of her pregnancy. Had it been a mistake to hand him over at birth?

And then she heard Jack laugh, and saw the happy smile on his face and the love on Sam’s as he watched his son play, and she knew it hadn’t been a mistake, any of it.

Mick had died, too, although their stories couldn’t have been more different, but the result was the same and Libby was now in the same boat as Jack. Molly could never have said that having her daughter had been a mistake, or regretted her birth for a moment.

No, she had done the right thing for Jack. It was Crystal who had failed him, not her, and Sam was certainly making a good job of parenting him now, as she’d known he would.

She looked at her watch. ‘It’s getting late,’ she murmured, and Sam nodded.

‘Yes. I suppose they both ought to go to bed soon. Have another coffee before you go—just a quick one.’

And so she did, just because he didn’t seem to want her to leave and Libby and Jack were getting on so well, and in any case, given a choice she would have sat there all night watching Jack and absorbing every little detail about him.

She followed Sam back into the kitchen, deserted now that Debbie and Mark had gone to their own rooms in the little cottage on the end of the house, and as Sam made the coffee, she watched the children through the window.

‘Penny for them.’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing, really. It’s just so good to see him. I just want to hug him…’

Molly broke off and turned away, but before she could move far she was turned gently but firmly back and wrapped in a pair of strong, hard arms that gathered her against his chest and cradled her in his warmth.

The sob that had been threatening since she’d arrived broke free, and he shushed her gently and rocked her against his body, and gradually she felt her emotions calming, soothed by the comfort of his arms.

‘OK now?’ he asked, his voice gruff, and easing back from her he looked down into her eyes.

She nodded, dredging up a watery smile, and Sam lifted his hands and carefully smudged away the tears with his thumbs.

‘That’s better,’ he said, a smile hovering round his eyes, but then something shifted in their clear blue depths, and she felt her heart thump against her ribs. His brows drew together in a little frown of puzzlement and he eased away, releasing her abruptly and stepping back, busying himself with the coffee.

‘Um—about the photos. I’m not sure where they are. I’ll ask Debbie to dig them out. They know who you are, by the way, so you don’t have to worry about what you say in front of them if Jack’s not there.’

She nodded, willing her heart to slow down and her common sense to return.

If she hadn’t known better, she could have sworn he’d been about to kiss her and had then thought better of it.

No, not better. She couldn’t think of anything better than being kissed by him, but he obviously didn’t agree, to her regret.

Still, he was probably right. Their relationship was complicated enough without throwing that particular spanner in the works, however much she might want him to, and of course he had no idea how she felt about him—how she’d felt about him for years.

They went back out to the garden and drank their coffee and talked about the hospital—nice and safe and neutral, but there was a tension between them that could have been cut with a knife, and it was almost a relief when Sam put his mug down and stood up. ‘Right, time that young man went to bed, I think,’ he said briskly. ‘It’s nearly eight.’

Molly almost leapt to her feet, quick to follow his lead. ‘Good grief. I didn’t realise it was so late,’ she lied, and hustled Libby off the swing and towards the car.

Sam scooped Jack up, and just as she was about to get into the car, he leant over in Sam’s arms and held out his arms to her.

‘Kiss!’ he demanded.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she hugged him gently and received his wet little kiss with a joy that brought the emotion surging back.

‘Night-night, Jack,’ she said unsteadily, and met Sam’s eyes. Her own must be speaking volumes, she realised, but he would understand. ‘Goodnight, Sam—and thank you.’

‘Any time,’ he said, his voice gentle, and the concern in his eyes nearly set her off again. She got hastily into the car, fumbled with her seat belt and drove away, eyes fixed on the road.

‘Are you OK?’ Libby said, seeing straight through her as usual, and with a little shake of her head she pulled over, folded her arms on the steering-wheel and howled.

Libby’s little hand came out and squeezed her shoulder, and Molly wrapped her hand firmly over her daughter’s and squeezed back.

‘Poor Mummy—you’ve missed him, haven’t you?’ she said with a wisdom way beyond her years, and Molly laughed unsteadily and nodded.

‘Yes. I miss Laura, too, but at least I see her. Still, I’ll be able to see Jack now, so it’ll be OK. It was just such a lot all at once. I’m sorry, darling. I’m all right now.’

She pulled herself together with an effort, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, and then swapped grins with her darling daughter. She was so like Mick, so sensible, so good at understanding her, hugely generous and loving.

Crazy, but even after all this time, she still missed him. He’d had the best sense of humour, the sharpest wit, the most tremendous sense of honour.

And dignity. Despite the accident that had left him in a wheelchair, and with all the resultant dependence on others for his most intimate bodily functions, Mick had never lost his dignity, and she’d been unfailingly proud of him.

She wondered what he would have made of her decision to be a surrogate mother. She’d always thought he’d have been supportive and understanding, but he would have worried about her. She could never have done it if he’d still been alive, but he wasn’t, and it had been something to do to fill the huge void that his sudden and unexpected death had left behind.

In those black months after the pneumonia had claimed him, she’d been lost. She’d cared for him for years, and suddenly there had been only her and Libby, and she’d felt useless.

She’d needed to be needed, and because of a chance remark, she’d been given an opportunity to do something to help others who were unable to have children naturally. Because of Mick’s paraplegia they’d only been able to have Libby with the help of IVF, and it was only one step further to imagine the anguish of a fertile mother who, due to a physical anomaly, was unable to carry her own child.

She couldn’t have done it except as a host, but neither of the two children she’d carried had been genetically hers. They’d both been implanted embryos, so handing them over hadn’t been like handing over her own child. That would have been too big a wrench.

Handing Jack over and knowing she wouldn’t see him again had been bad enough. It had taken her years to get over the pain, and she realised now that she had never truly recovered. If he’d been her own child, it would have destroyed her. It had nearly destroyed her anyway, but now, by some miraculous stroke of fate, he was back in her life, and she didn’t intend to let him out of it ever again.

The fact that Sam would also, by definition, be part of her life as well was something she would have to deal with—and so would he.

CHAPTER THREE

‘YOU’RE needed in A and E, Mr Gregory.’

He frowned. He was covering one of the other firms because the consultant was on holiday and the registrar was off sick, and, frankly, being on take again for the second day running was the last thing Sam and his registrar Robert needed. He hadn’t got round to any of that paperwork yesterday afternoon, and he’d hoped to get some done this morning before his afternoon clinic. There were urgent letters…

‘Can’t Robert do it?’ he asked, but the ward clerk shook her head.

‘Sorry, he’s already in Theatre, and it sounded quite urgent. The girl you saw yesterday—the one in the car who was unconscious and discharged herself?’

He was already on his way to the lift by the time she finished speaking. That girl had been a crisis brewing, and he’d been mulling her case over in his mind all night—in between remembering the look on Molly’s face when she’d seen Jack, and when the little tyke had kissed her goodbye. It had haunted him all night, racked him with guilt. He should have contacted her when Crystal died—should have insisted, even earlier, that they kept in touch.

Don’t go there, he told himself firmly, striding down the corridor to A and E. He palmed open the door and went through to the work station, where he was directed to Resus.

‘So what’s the story today?’ he asked, going in.

‘The same, except this time she was picked up in the street,’ Matt Jordan said tersely. ‘Drugs, possibly, or some bizarre form of epilepsy, but we’re getting some pretty confusing results. Positive pregnancy test, though, and we picked up a heartbeat for the baby, but it was pretty erratic. We’re getting a portable ultrasound down here now, and the neurologist is on his way.’

‘Still no ID?’

Matt shook his head. ‘No, nothing, but the car she was found in yesterday was stolen, and she hasn’t washed or changed her clothes since then, so I would guess she lives in a squat. That makes the drugs more likely, but I’m almost certain there’s something else as well.’

Sam nodded. That made sense. If only he could know what was making her black out, he could make a better assessment of the baby’s needs. Just then the portable ultrasound machine arrived, and within moments the baby’s existence was confirmed.

‘Well, she’s pregnant with a single foetus, and there’s a heartbeat, although it’s rather weak,’ the sonographer said to them. ‘I can’t tell you any more without the big machine.’

Just then the alarm on the heart monitor went off, and Matt swore softly under his breath.

‘Damn, she’s arrested.’

The team moved smoothly in to start CPR, but Sam was unhappy. After two minutes of frenzied activity, she was still showing no signs of recovery, and the baby was bound to be suffering from lack of oxygen by now, even with their best attempts to support her circulation.

‘How’s it looking?’ he asked tersely.

‘Lousy. I can’t worry about the baby, I’m going to have to shock her,’ Matt said. ‘There’s still a chance we can get her back, and if this is drugs, the baby’s chances are pretty slight anyway.’

Sam nodded agreement and stood back, watching grimly as they fought—and failed—to save her.

He checked the clock on the wall and sighed. They’d been working on her for nearly half an hour, and there was no way the baby was still viable, he didn’t think.

He took the business end of the portable ultrasound and ran it over her abdomen, but the heartbeat they’d detected before was gone, just a shadow remaining to show the position of the heart. The baby itself was motionless.

‘Damn,’ he said under his breath, then straightened up. ‘OK, forget the baby. We’ve lost it.’

And not only the baby. Despite the continuous external cardiac massage, shocking her, ventilating her, injecting her heart with adrenaline, still they were unable to get her back.

With a muttered oath Matt Jordan stripped off his gloves and looked up at the clock. ‘OK, everybody. That’s enough. Agreed?’

They nodded. ‘Time of death ten thirty-eight,’ he said, and scrubbed a tired hand through his hair. ‘If only she’d stayed in yesterday, given us a chance to assess her.’

‘She didn’t. You can’t hold people against their will,’ Sam pointed out. ‘There are too many damned if onlys in this job.’

He stripped off his gloves and gown, and after attending to the necessary paperwork he headed back towards Maternity, sick with the tragic waste of two young lives. Maybe the post-mortem would reveal why she’d died, but in the meantime he needed to get back to the paperwork on his other patients, finish those letters off.

Then maybe he’d have time for coffee with Molly, if she was free.

He growled under his breath. Molly. She was all he could think about, all he could focus on. It was going to drive him mad, if he wasn’t there already.

‘Mr Gregory?’

He paused and turned, and there behind him was a man of his own age, the badge on his white coat declaring him to be Mr Nick Baker, Accident and Emergency Consultant. He’d seen him in Resus a few minutes ago, dealing with another patient. Now he’d followed him, for whatever reason.

‘Mr Baker—what can I do for you?’

‘It’s Nick.’

‘Sam.’ He shook the man’s hand, his eyes making a rapid inventory while he waited for him to come to the point. Slightly shorter than Sam, his hair was rumpled as if he’d run his hands through it, and he had laughter lines bracketing extraordinary blue eyes, but there was no laughter in evidence now. His smile was taut, and didn’t reach his eyes.

‘It’s about my wife—she’s a patient of yours. She was under Will Parry, but he moved away, so you’ve inherited her. I don’t know if you’ve seen her notes, but I just wanted to fill you in.’

‘Sure—of course. Is there something I should know?’

He nodded. ‘She—we—lost a baby eight, nearly nine years ago. She had a congenital heart defect, and she was born at thirty-two weeks. This is our first child since, and—uh—’

‘You’re worried.’

His smile was wry. ‘Yes—just a bit. Sally’s thirty-five weeks now, and she’s been scanned in London because of the problems the other baby had, and everything seems fine with this baby’s heart, but—well, you know what it’s like once you’ve had a setback of any sort, and seeing that girl in there just now…’

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