“I can’t!” he grated. “Forgive me. I should never….”

He’d left the bed. Was picking up his shirt, sweater…shoes he’d somehow discarded.

“You can’t…go like this!” she gasped jerkily, raising herself on her elbows.

He stopped, his back to her. “I must!” he insisted.

“But…why? You wanted me!” she accused, deeply hurt, and unable to pacify her demanding body.

He remained silent, biting back an urge to tell her why he couldn’t make love to her. Pounding relentlessly into his head had come the realization that he couldn’t make love to the open and trusting Jodie under false pretenses. Either he had to tell her the whole truth of the situation or he had to leave her alone….

He’s a man of cool sophistication.

He’s got pride, power and wealth.

At the top of his corporate ladder, he’s a ruthless businessman, an expert lover— His life runs like a well-oiled machine….

Until now. Because suddenly he’s responsible for a BABY!

HIS BABY

A miniseries from Harlequin Presents®.

He’s sexy, he’s successful…and he’s facing up to fatherhood!

There’ll be another HIS BABY title out soon.

Morgan’s Secret Son
Sara Wood

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

JODIE looked around the immaculate apartment, gave a satisfied twitch to her hip-hugging skirt and went to unbolt the door.

‘Hi, Chas! Come in,’ she invited amiably.

A flurry of New York’s winter snow hurled itself past Chas’s muffled figure and settled on the newly polished wood floor.

‘You’ll have to clear that up before it stains,’ he directed, frowning at the innocent flakes. ‘Hurry up! Fetch the—’

‘No, Chas,’ she purred, very cat-got-the-cream. ‘I won’t!’

She had no intention of slaving away for him. She was waiting for his reaction to her outfit, and when it came it was highly satisfying. Startled by her refusal, he looked her up and down and then did the tour again, all the way from her high-heeled red thigh boots to her new and classy hair-style.

‘Wowee, babe! You’re a real knockout!’ he declared in surprise.

She smiled to herself, thinking of the blow she was about to deal him. ‘In more ways than one, Chas. Would you help me on with this?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Sure… Uh…are we going somewhere?’

He was more than puzzled by her assertive attitude, and his fingers hesitated on the warm amber-red jacket she’d handed to him.

‘Just me!’ she trilled.

Wonderfully in control, Jodie slipped her arms into the jacket then flung a heavy honey-gold cape around her shoulders, her once-nervy hands as steady as a rock. Then she dropped her bombshell.

‘I’m leaving. Permanently. Here are my keys. The apartment’s all yours. You go wipe the floor!’

He gaped. Jodie noticed for the first time that his teeth were rather uneven and his lips were thick and wet. She shuddered. Love really had been blind!

‘But…but you’re crazy about me!’ he protested. ‘And…I love you!’

‘No,’ she corrected, feeling contemptuous because he’d deliberately turned on his low, sexy voice. It was so gravelly it could have gritted Manhattan. But it did nothing for her. He was out of her system! She jammed her fabulous felt hat over her shiny chestnut bob and set the brim at a wicked angle. ‘You love yourself and you love the person you tried to create,’ she said, exulting in her coolness. ‘Ever since I came into your office as a junior you’ve done your best to make me into what you wanted: a cross between a domestic servant, a hard-nosed career woman and an insatiable tigress in bed. I’m fed up with being on anti-depressants because I don’t measure up, and I’m sick of trying to work out some PR promotion for you whilst scrubbing saucepans in a thong!’

‘You’re exaggerating!’ he gasped.

‘Perhaps, but you can’t deny that would have been your wildest dream come true!’ Her eyes flashed, green and sparkling, as she warmed to her theme. ‘No wonder I was a bag of nerves! No wonder this kitchen’s seen more charred remains than a fire fighter on overtime! Well, if you want Superwoman, go train someone else. I want out.’

‘You can’t!’ Chas said in desperation, as she picked up her new suede gloves purposefully.

‘Watch.’

‘But…we could have babies!’

She froze at his last-ditch, sneaky attempt to keep her, then swivelled around, her jade eyes glittering with such ferocity that Chas quailed. For the past six years she’d longed for marriage and children. Chas had refused.

‘Goodbye!’ she said coldly. ‘You can pick my car up from JFK airport!’

‘You’re not serious! Where’s your luggage?’ he scorned.

‘In the car already.’ Feeling free as a bird, she opened the door.

‘Wait a minute! Where—where are you going?’ he wailed.

‘England,’ she replied more softly, happiness lighting her face. ‘To be with my father.’

‘Whaaat? You’re mad! I know he wrote to you, but that was six months ago and you haven’t heard anything since! If he’s the sort of guy to abandon you and your mother when you were barely a year old, he’s hardly going to cheer when an emotional cripple lands on his doorstep!’ Chas bellowed nastily.

‘I’ll ignore that vicious remark,’ she said, utterly calm and collected. ‘I fully understand why he might have changed his mind about seeing me. Anyone can get cold feet over a situation like this. But I’ve realised that I have to meet up with him. He’s my only living relative and I have to try.’

Taking charge of her life was such fun! Why hadn’t she done it long ago? Seven years she’d worked for Chas! For six of those she’d been living with him! She gave the stunned Chas an amused glance.

‘You’ll find the thongs and the push-up bras in my top drawer,’ she murmured. ‘Enjoy.’

Elated, she swept out into the snow. She felt gorgeous, dressed in new and sensual—rather than uncomfortable and tacky—underwear. Over it she wore an outrageously expensive tangerine silk T-shirt, the slim-fitting amber suit with its shockingly brief skirt, a theatrical cape, hat and boots. She had become a new woman in every way—and she was setting out on an adventure.

Seemingly all legs and slim suede boots, she wriggled into the driving seat, gave a little wave to the open-mouthed Chas and giggled. Then she drove away, her thoughts returning to that moment when she’d opened the letter for the first time.

The sincerity of her father’s affection had burst upon her like a ray of sunshine and hope. Your loving father, Sam, he’d signed it, and the breath had caught in her throat when she’d read those words. Someone cared. Someone really loved and wanted her. The tears came to her eyes as she remembered and she had to hastily dash them away or end up flattened by a bus.

Her mother had died when she was small. Foster-parents had brought her up, and now she recognised that they had begun the curbing of her naturally happy, outgoing nature with their rigid rules and punishments. Love had never figured. Not true, unselfish, accepting love. But now things would be different.

Jodie beamed cheerfully at a cab driver who was trying to cut her up and she let him through with a friendly wave. She laughed out loud when the man hesitated, unable to believe what he was seeing. But she was on top of the world and in love with everyone—Chas excepted!—even cab drivers.

Soon, she thought dreamily, she’d be arriving at her father’s house in the south of England. He would have her letter announcing her arrival by now, and he could hardly refuse to see her when she’d come so far.

Just in case he did, there was Plan B. She’d booked into a nearby hotel, from where she planned to work on his heartstrings until he agreed to a meeting.

She felt sure he wouldn’t reject her. Something, someone, had dissuaded him from answering her many letters, she was sure. She understood only too well how other people could cloud one’s judgement.

It had taken her this long to realise that Chas’s advice—to forget her father—had been totally selfish. For years she’d relied on Chas, becoming increasingly dependent and subservient. But now she saw him for what he was: a bully and a control freak.

Her present confidence came from the fact that her father had been so eager for her to visit, and had even asked for her mother’s address. A pang went through her. The weeks of loneliness and bewilderment after her mother’s death had been so awful that she could recall them with crystal-clearness even now.

That was all over, though. Her eyes sparkled. This was the happiest she’d ever been in the whole of her life. No clouds on the horizon, no thongs, and a case stuffed to the brim with sizzling citrus and scarlet clothes!

‘Brace yourself, England,’ she cried with a laugh, seeing the sign for the airport. ‘Here I come!’

With Jack hooked expertly over his shoulder and his hands slippery with suds, Morgan finally succeeded in opening the door.

Why did people always call when he’d just got the baby in the bath? It was one of life’s irritating mysteries—and it was getting beyond a joke.

He grunted when the postman’s cheery, gossip-ready face hove into view. Village life in rural Sussex had its drawbacks. People expected to chat, to share information. And there were too many busybodies around trying to find out what the devil he was doing in Sam Frazer’s house.

The postman had taken a step back. Morgan realised he’d been scowling and modified the severity of his expression.

‘Morning,’ he muttered. It still sounded like a veiled threat, even to his ears. Must do better!

‘Recorded delivery,’ the postman said, warily handing over the package.

‘Thanks,’ he said, mustering a little more grace.

He signed for the letter with his free hand and gave it a cursory glance. For Sam. He dropped it onto the pile of unopened mail on the hall table which was waiting till Sam’s health improved, and made to shut the door. He had a million things to do.

‘Er…baby all right?’ enquired the postman meekly.

With a concealed sigh, Morgan mused that curiosity must be stronger than fear.

‘Fine.’

‘Must be five weeks old now. I love kids. Can I have a peep?’

It would have been churlish in the extreme to refuse, tempting though it was. Resigned to having Jack poked about by any number of strangers in the next few months, he pushed back the folds of the hooded towel which he’d wrapped around Jack’s wet body and his face softened as two tiny boot-black eyes stared back at him.

‘Like his father,’ observed the postman, making funny faces for Jack’s benefit.

‘Is he?’

How a snub-nosed scrap of humanity could look anything like an adult, he couldn’t imagine! Ironically everyone declared that Jack resembled Sam.

Guilt and resentment sucked relentlessly at his stomach. It was terrible being torn in two like this… He stared bleakly at the baby, despising himself for what he’d done, almost sick with anger and worry.

‘We were all sorry to hear Mr Frazer had been rushed into hospital again. How is he?’ persisted the postman with genuine sympathy.

‘Critical,’ Morgan jerked, all hell breaking loose in his heart.

‘That’s bad! He’s had some rotten luck since he moved in last summer.’ The postman patted his hand comfortingly. ‘It was a nice funeral you gave his missus,’ he said soothingly. ‘Lovely oration.’

Morgan winced and didn’t correct him. Teresa hadn’t been married to Sam—a fact which had virtually caused her death.

He supposed that the postman was trying to be kind, but Morgan did not want to be reminded too vividly of that terrible day when he’d stood in the driving rain watching Teresa’s coffin being lowered into the ground.

And then there’d been the expressions of sympathy to deal with. Teresa’s London friends knew his secret: that he’d had an affair with her, before she’d switched to Sam.

They had stared with open curiosity at his hollow eyes and shocked appearance, whispering salaciously behind their hands.

He had known what they were saying. He’d overheard a comment: ‘Did he never stop loving her? Is that why he’s so distraught?’

The knife twisted even more sharply in his guts. What a hypocrite he was, a sham, a fraud! God! reliving it all was unbearable. He had to get away.

‘Thanks,’ he croaked, and had to stop to clear his throat of the clogging emotion.

The postman took advantage. ‘Good on you for looking after their baby—not many men would do that. Close relative, are you?’

‘Not exactly. Excuse me,’ he said stiffly, before the relationship could be investigated—and endlessly dissected during some idle coffee morning. ‘His bath water’s getting cold.’

He shut the door with a sigh of relief and instinctively hugged Jack closer, as if that could protect him from anything bad anyone might say or do.

But danger had literally threatened. Perhaps it was just as well that Sam had been rejected by his daughter. She would have jeopardised Jack’s future. And that, Morgan thought darkly, was something he couldn’t bear.

The baby felt soft and warm against his chest and a lump came back into Morgan’s throat as emotion spilled in a flood of liquid heat through his body.

Teresa’s death had stunned him. It had been the last thing he’d expected. And now…

What had he got himself into? The deception was getting harder to maintain. Every time he visited Sam the secret of Jack’s birth burned inside him like a red-hot poker, souring his relationship with the man he admired and respected and loved more than any other.

Morgan groaned. Blurting out the truth would make him feel a hell of a lot better—but it would crucify Sam. Probably catapult him into a fatal decline.

‘I can’t do it!’ he rasped in despair.

But…he loathed deceit and despised people who were so feeble they had to tell lies.

His eyes darkened with pain as he tried to face the inevitable and make the ultimate sacrifice. The truth would have to be locked up inside him and never revealed while Sam lived, however much that went against his own wishes and desires. There were two people weaker than himself involved, and they had needs greater than his.

‘Jack… How small and defenceless you are… And yet you don’t know the trouble you’ve caused, little one,’ he said quietly to the baby, who gave him that black glass stare and rooted around with his mouth, blind instinct prompting him to search for his non-existent mother’s breast.

‘Poor little scrap,’ Morgan whispered, offering a knuckle in compensation. The small mouth clamped around it, digging in hard, and the black lashes fluttered in bliss. ‘No wonder Sam adores you,’ Morgan murmured, enchanted as always. ‘You’d make anyone’s heart soften. Let’s get to that bath and make you all clean for your…’

He couldn’t say it. Some things were impossible to deal with, and assigning fatherhood was one insurmountable hurdle he hadn’t yet come to terms with.

Morgan took the baby up to the nursery feeling like a heel. He was caught in a web of lies. Here he was, fooling Jack with a knuckle to suck instead of the real thing. And in the future he’d be deceiving the child every single day of his life.

But he didn’t want to! Stricken, he stopped in mid-stride, fighting the souring anger, desperately trying to suppress his own needs. All his paternal instincts—previously hidden even to himself—were clamouring for the truth to be known. His head told him that was impossible. Head versus heart. A soul-destroying battle. Which would prevail?

Anguish distorted his features. Emotion flooded unchecked within him, his customary tight self-control eroded by exhaustion and shock.

For a terrifying moment he felt an overwhelming need to throw back his head and let rip a primal yell of anger and frustration. Only the presence of the child stopped him. Slowly his heart rate became regular again as the anger became ruthlessly suppressed.

For Jack’s sake he gritted his teeth and continued the interrupted bath rituals, blocking out everything but the immediate needs of the tiny, dependent baby.

When he’d finished they settled in front of the log fire in the drawing room, and as Jack sucked enthusiastically on the bottle Morgan watched, his harrowed features relaxing into a deep awe. This was his compensation, the joy amid the grieving.

To him, the child was a miracle of perfection. Dark-haired, flawless skin, thick black lashes. Smiling, he touched the little hand with its long, slender fingers and minute fingernails. Jack’s hand curled around his finger in an impressive grip of possession. Morgan’s heart ached.

This was his son, and he wanted everyone to know it.

CHAPTER TWO

BLEAKLY he acknowledged the impossibility of that dream. ‘Sam will be proud of you,’ he promised with an effort.

The urgent hungry expression on Jack’s face was slowly vanishing and a soft, blissful look of repose had begun to replace it. The small features smoothed out, the impossibly arched mouth slackened with sleep.

Desperate for sleep himself, Morgan adjusted his arm so that the two of them could rest in comfort. Just a few minutes for a catnap, he promised himself vaguely. Unfortunately his teeming thoughts wouldn’t allow him to rest.

He hadn’t found a daily help yet, and the kitchen needed clearing up. After that, he had to sterilise a load of bottles, make up a new batch of feed, put the washing on and do some ironing. Some time today he had to ring the office to see if it still existed. Then he and Jack would wrap up and go to see Sam.

He groaned at the catalogue of things which needed doing. It was eleven-thirty and he hadn’t even shaved—let alone found time to grab a morning coffee! But when he wasn’t by Sam’s bed, doing essential chores or looking after the baby, he was pacing the floor night after night, and his energy levels were at rock bottom.

More to the point, his mind was consumed with guilt. He’d never done anything wrong in his life before and this secret was testing his self-respect and control to the limit.

He knew he was on a short fuse. Was it any wonder? Morgan’s black brows screwed together in a fierce frown. His big capable hands curled around the tiny baby who slept, oblivious to everything around him. Jack made Morgan feel both protective and envious.

His eyes grew hazy as he contemplated the future. For years he’d done whatever he’d wanted, gone where he’d pleased, lived as free as a bird. Now circumstances had clipped his wings and it was hard to adjust.

Once he had been free to fly to exotic sites and absorb their meaning, to discover that feverish excitement of seeing one of his designs take shape on his drawing board—and then grow in reality on the site, at one with its environment.

But in one brief moment with Teresa Frazer he had created and designed something which had turned his world upside down. For the rest of his life he’d never forget the moment when he’d turned up at the hospital and she had confessed that Jack was his son, not Sam’s. Jack had been conceived while they were still together—before Sam even knew of Teresa’s existence.

He winced, seeing again that once-beautiful face, hideously mangled by the car crash which had brought him hurrying to Sussex from his London flat. He hadn’t doubted her word for a second. She had been so desperate to tell the truth, and too aware that she was close to death to waste her time with lies.

Morgan thought of Sam’s breakdown when news of the crash had come through, how it had been he, Morgan, who’d been with Teresa for her last conscious moments before the emergency Caesarean.

It had been he who’d first held his baby, he who’d wept with unrestrained joy and amazement. He hadn’t shed tears since he was eleven, but the suddenness of fatherhood had overwhelmed him.

Emotion had filled his heart to bursting. He’d wanted this child. His child! And yet he had known even then that he’d have to surrender him for the sake of a slowly dying man. Jack must be registered as Sam’s son.

Such joy and sorrow mingling together as he had never known…

Morgan passed a shaky hand over his face. He owed everything to Sam. But this was the cruellest price to pay!

Racked with despair, he bent his weary head and gently kissed the downy forehead. The warmth of the fire and the accumulation of several sleepless nights began to blur his mind. His thoughts became less focused and finally he slept, briefly free from his troubles and the destructive, shameful deceit.

The closer Jodie came to the village where her father lived, the more breathless and excited she became. Discovering his existence had been the most wonderful thing that had happened to her. Her heartbeat quickened. She dearly wanted this to work. It must! All her hopes were resting on it.

Her eager eyes took in the scenery with its voluptuously smooth hills—incongruously called Downs, according to the map. Sheep grazed on the emerald grass of the tiny fields and swans were lazily decorating a meandering river.

And then she saw it: an old-fashioned signpost pointing the way down a country lane. She turned off the main road, her heart singing with unrestrained delight.

It was getting dark, even though it was only about four o’clock in the afternoon. In her headlights she could pick out quaint flintstone cottages strung out sporadically along the lane. Occasionally there would be a small Tudor cottage, with black and white timbers, a thatched roof and pretty garden.

As she passed each house she slowed the car to a crawl, so she could read the names, her mouth increasingly dry with nerves. At last, in the rapidly fading light, she spotted the one she was looking for: Great Luscombe Hall.

‘Be there!’ she begged in a heartfelt plea.

Nervously she headed down a long drive, her hands gripping the steering wheel in a mixture of panic and anticipation. Her forest dark eyes widened. There was a moat! Awed, she steered the car over the wooden bridge that spanned it. It had never occurred to her for a minute that her father might be wealthy!

Adjusting to this fact, Jodie brought the car to a halt in front of the house. Her heart was beating hard in her chest with anticipation. Great Luscombe Hall was a rambling, timbered manor house with a roof made from huge slabs of stone, and its façade had been constructed with enough oak beams to make a fleet of ships.

‘I can’t believe this!’ she whispered.

With trembling fingers she switched off the lights and the engine and leapt out, her body tensed in expectancy.

And then she heard a furious barking. She shrank back, terrified to see a Collie hurtling towards her.

‘Help!’ she croaked, freezing to the spot. Her terror-stricken gaze was pinned to the dog’s white fangs. ‘G-g-good, dog!’ she squeaked unconvincingly.

‘He’s friendly,’ snapped a hard male voice. ‘His tail’s wagging, can’t you see?’

Her father! Forgetting the animal, she looked hopefully towards the house, a warm, happy smile bursting forth and illuminating her eyes. It faded almost immediately. This couldn’t be him. He was too young. This was…who?

She swallowed nervously. The dishevelled, raven-haired man was glaring at her suspiciously from the shadowy doorway. Darkness surrounded him, a mere chink of light coming from the door he’d pulled to, as if he were defending his castle from intruders.

Extreme tiredness made her head swim with odd, fanciful images—the black-watered moat, the medieval manor and with its looming, jettied upper storey, and the sinister stranger.

She noted that his hair was wild and wind-tousled, his black brows thick and fierce and the angular jaw covered in five o’clock shadow. Wide-eyed with apprehension, she took in his hostile stare, crumpled crew-neck sweater and jeans and wondered if she’d come to the wrong house.

‘Great…Luscombe Hall?’ she queried shakily.

‘Yes!’ he clipped.

No mistake, then. And he was just a man, she reminded herself. Bad-tempered, unfriendly and unwittingly threatening, but nothing more. It was time her adrenaline climbed down to normal.

‘Then, hi!’ she called, rallying her spirits. When she took a step forward she felt the dog’s nose against her thigh and her courage faltered. ‘You’re sure I can move without losing a leg or two?’ she asked, worried.

Searingly dark eyes brooded on her poppy-coated lips and she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. He’d just stared, that was all. But a flash of something almost sexual had slid briefly through her body.

‘He’s eaten already,’ he dismissed. His mouth remained hard, as if hacked from granite by a sculptor who didn’t know how to do curves. ‘You want something?’ he shot.

It wasn’t the most gracious welcome she’d ever had! Jodie thought he sounded as if he’d got out of the wrong side of bed—and not long ago, judging by his rumpled state. Who could he be—the gardener? No—he’d been indoors. And the house might look grand enough for a butler, but not one who looked so untidy and…dangerous.

Handyman perhaps. He could have been under the floor-boards fixing something, hence his mussed-up hair.

Mystified, Jodie risked walking to the house. The dog bounded about her, circling as if she were a wayward sheep to be brought into line, and she smiled at its antics—though her city upbringing stopped her from trusting it enough to offer it a friendly pat.

‘Here, Satan!’ ordered the man sharply.

She hid a grin. Satan! That said volumes about his owner! She watched thoughtfully as the dog whirled around and flew over to its master, sitting to heel and gazing up anxiously. How severely had the dog been chastised till that level of obedience had been achieved? Fresh from living with a bully of her own, she felt her dislike of the man rack up a notch.

Close up, he seemed to tower over her slender frame, and she felt almost smothered by the tense atmosphere which surrounded him. It was clear from his manner that he was harassed and impatient, suggesting he had better things to do. Boilers to repair, pipes to lag, she thought with a sublime ignorance about maintenance. So she got to the point.

‘I’ve come to see my father,’ she told him briskly, though her joy suddenly shone through as she thought of their imminent meeting. Her fears vanished completely and she beamed, suddenly awash with happiness. This was a moment to cherish.

The man drew in his breath sharply and his eyebrows collided fiercely over his nose, as if she’d just confirmed his worst suspicions.

‘Your…father?’ he repeated ominously.

‘Sam Frazer,’ she confirmed, before the frown screwed up the man’s entire face.

‘Sam!’

He looked devastated. He’d gone quite pale beneath his olive complexion. Jodie took pity on him. Thinking only that she was seconds away from seeing her father for the first time, she gave an ecstatic grin and said, ‘Yes! It’s going to surprise a lot of people, I imagine. I’m pretty knocked out too—this house isn’t what I’d expected at all. I’d imagined my father in a little cottage with roses over the door, and wearing tweedy things with leather patches on the elbows. This is really grand!’

‘Is it?’

Jodie’s voice faltered a little at the contempt in the man’s eyes. But she wasn’t to be put off. ‘Sure it is. Now, if you’re wondering, I’m his long-lost daughter from New York,’ she explained. ‘You’ll want credentials, I suppose. Understandable. You can’t let anyone in, can you? Somewhere…I have his letter…’ Eagerly she scrabbled in her bag and produced it. ‘It’s a bit blurred in places because I cried over it,’ she pointed out hurriedly. ‘And it’s coming apart at the folds because—’

‘I get the picture,’ he said tightly.

He shot her an unreadable look from under his brows then switched on the porch light and bent his tousled head to study the first few lines. Jodie restrained her urge to leap about from one foot to the other and yell, Let me in—now! and contented herself with idly observing him as an exercise in self-discipline.

It surprised her to see that his hair was gorgeous: thick and silky, gleaming with the brilliance of a raven’s wing in the light. Her thick brown lashes fluttered with unwilling feminine admiration as her gaze took in his killer looks and the sheer masculinity of his angled jaw and powerful shoulders. Then her eyes widened in wonder. There were some creamy stains on his black sweater.

She was just pondering on this odd fact when the hairs began to rise on the back of her neck and she sensed that he must be studying her again, with that bone-slicing stare. She looked up and gasped. His expression was one of utter repugnance.

‘He wrote this six months ago,’ he said icily.

‘I know that! I replied immediately—’

‘Really?’

‘Yes!’ Her face went hot at his disbelief. ‘I did!’ Her brow furrowed when she realised what his doubt must mean. ‘Are you telling me that my father didn’t get my letters?’ she asked in dismay.

‘Correct.’

Exasperated by the monosyllabic responses, she drew her brows into an even deeper frown.

‘That’s impossible. I wrote several times in quick succession—and I telephoned twice—’ she said with dignity.

‘If that were true—if,’ he interrupted coldly, ‘why did you come?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Because I want to see him, of course! Something doesn’t add up here. I sent those letters. They can’t all have been lost.’

‘I agree. He had no letters from you. So you must be lying. I think you’d better leave.’

She glared and clenched her fists in angry distress, her mouth beginning to tremble. Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes. It would be tragic if this was as far as she got! So near, so far…

‘I’m not going till I see my father! I did write!’ she insisted in desperation. ‘Something’s happened to the mail. A wrong zip code, maybe. I spoke to a woman on the phone. I’m not imagining that. I asked for Sam Frazer, said who I was, and she told me he didn’t want to see me—’

‘Well, that final comment is true, at least,’ he drawled. ‘I suggest you turn around and go home.’

He’d turned and was about to shut the door when she lunged forward and jammed herself in the gap. The dog barked excitedly, its teeth snapping close to her thigh.

‘Ouch!’ she gasped. ‘Get this door and this dog off me!’

The pressure of the door was removed from her protesting flesh.

‘Leave!’ ordered the man.

Glowering, she stayed put; the dog backed away obediently. She rubbed her arm and thigh, conscious that she was deliberately being intimidated by the man’s looming bulk.

‘What did you do that for?’ he asked impatiently. And then, with a small thread of concern in his voice, ‘Are you hurt?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she dismissed. ‘But I couldn’t let you slam the door in my face. I’ve flown across the Atlantic to see my father. Surely he can spare a few moments of his time?’

‘No. He can’t.’

Her imploring face lifted to his. ‘Just a few moments… I won’t bother him for long, but… You must let me in,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘Please! You’ve no idea what it’s like not to know your father! I need to see him so badly—even if it’s just the once and never again! It’s not much to ask, surely? To see what he looks like, to hear his voice…’ Her own voice cracked up annoyingly. ‘I—I don’t even have a photograph! Let me have memories of him to take away with me, if nothing else,’ she added in a croaky husk. ‘Imagine how you’d feel in my position!’

‘Hell.’ His growl was followed by a long pause, as if he was struggling against his better judgement. Jodie waited with bated breath, willing him to relent. ‘You’d better come in,’ he muttered grudgingly, to her great relief.

Then, before she could gather her wits, he’d turned on his heel and was walking into the beamed hall beyond, the dog at his side. She stared at his daunting back with irritation. This guy wasn’t a servant to anyone. He oozed authority with every flicker of his ink-dark eyes. He wasn’t pleasant, either.

But everything pointed to the fact that he knew her father well. And the hostile welcome must be because he knew that her father had been disappointed and upset when her expected letters didn’t arrive.

No. Correction. There was another reason. This guy might be the person who’d dissuaded her father from going ahead with the reunion. If so, she had to persuade the guy that he had nothing to fear from her.

Jodie gave a feeble smile. Fear! He wouldn’t be afraid of the devil himself if he came calling!

Suddenly she started, remembering the recorded delivery. That must have arrived—proof enough! She would call his bluff.

In seconds she crossed the dark oak floor and caught hold of the man’s arm. It felt hard and muscled as it tensed beneath her fingers. His whole body became stiff and taut, as if she’d invaded his space. Crushed by his cold dislike, she let her hand slide away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘But I had to stop you before you reported back to my father. I want you to know I’m not lying. I can prove that I had the right address and that he must have had my letters.’

The hard, uncompromising gaze pierced into her brain and she felt giddy.

‘How?’

With an effort, Jodie pulled herself together. She might be tired and woozy, but this was important.

‘I sent a letter by recorded delivery to say I was coming. It must have been safely delivered into the right hands; it’s guaranteed! And if that arrived, then so did all the other letters!’ she said in triumph.

‘Ah.’

She followed his gaze to a circular table which groaned under a pile of unopened mail. Her letter lay on the top. Her mouth opened in amazement that anyone could be so cavalier. ‘How can you claim the rest of my mail’s gone astray?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘It’s probably all lurking beneath that heap!’

‘No. That’s just ten days’ worth,’ he said curtly.

‘Ten…! But you can’t leave mail unopened! And where are my previous letters, then? In a landfill site?’ she spluttered, aghast.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! All his earlier mail has been dealt with. So will this when… You look hot,’ he said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘Let me take your cape.’

He came up behind her and his hands were on her shoulders before she could move. But his touch seemed tentative, as if he would have preferred to avoid contact. The pure wool cape slid away, slithering across her firm breasts in a shimmer of gold.

‘Your hat,’ he ordered, appearing in front of her and holding out his hand.

He looked her up and down, and then again—perhaps startled by the vibrancy of her colour scheme, she thought with a flash of amusement. She let a smile sneak out, her hopes rising—she’d got this far at least. What did she care what had gone wrong in the past? This was now and she was here, and somewhere in this house was her own dear father.

Jodie removed her hat with a flourish, giving her head a little shake as she did so.

‘Let’s not get twitchy over what happened. There’s obviously been a muddle. The important thing is that I see him now,’ she said happily, silky brown hair still swinging around her delighted face.

His lips tightened into an uncompromisingly grim line. ‘Come into the study,’ he ordered.

She was left with her mouth open in astonishment as he strode away. This, she decided angrily, was another control freak. He told women to jump; they asked How high? Chauvinist!

She followed, the dog prowling alongside her, but she paused on the threshold of the lamp-lit room he’d entered. Her father wasn’t there. Her hands curled into angry fists as she checked the room again.

The stranger stood with his feet planted firmly apart in an attitude of domination. He leant, squire-like, against a carved beam which spanned an enormous recess…an inglenook, she decided, raking around in her mind for her limited knowledge of medieval houses.

Logs the size of small tree trunks crackled and blazed in a massive iron basket, filling the timbered room with the sweet aroma of pine. Books lined the walls and a desk, chaotically littered with papers, sat squarely in a mullioned bay window, its deep window seat backed by a dozen or so scarlet cyclamen in oriental pots.

‘You’re busy, I’m in a hurry, so I won’t hold you up any longer,’ she said, her chin high. ‘You know why I’m here. Tell me where my father is!’

Her face went hot. He was examining her in intense detail and warmth was creeping through her as he did so.

‘Sit!’ he ordered.

‘Good grief! What do you think I am—a dog?’ she declared indignantly.

‘I was talking to Satan. He’s just behind you in the doorway. Perhaps you’d like to sit down as well, though?’ he suggested, a faintly dry humour briefly appearing in his eyes.

She grinned. At last he was beginning to unbend a little. ‘Sorry!’ she said blithely. ‘I’m not used to orders being barked at dogs.’

His eyebrow rose at her implied criticism. ‘Collies are intelligent and powerful. He knows he’s not allowed in the reception rooms, though he tries it on every now and then. You rule them, or they rule you. All dogs need a pack leader.’

‘And you’re it?’ she said with a smile, wondering if his philosophy extended to women.

‘For the moment. Please, make yourself comfortable.’

The cream leather armchair he’d indicated looked as welcoming as a warm bed and she sank into it in relief. ‘That’s better! It’s been a long journey,’ she confided, stretching her long limbs luxuriantly and giving a little wriggle to ease her stiffness. ‘I’ve been driving on the left side of the road for the past four hours and my brain has been protesting every inch of the way. I suppose I could have stopped overnight somewhere, but I kept going because I longed to be here.’

Misty-eyed again, she ventured a smile, but received nothing in return.

‘I’ll get you some tea,’ he drawled. ‘Stay!’ he ordered.

Jodie wasn’t too sure if this had been directed to her or the dog. ‘I’d rather see my father straight away,’ she said hurriedly. But not quickly enough. His long jean-clad legs had swallowed up space so quickly that he was almost out of the room. Balked again, she called, ‘And if it’s no trouble, I’d prefer coffee… Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she fumed in exasperation.

Morgan strode to the kitchen, and once he was there and out of sight he stopped dead, knowing he had to gather his composure before he faced Jodie again.

He needed space. Time. A brain that wasn’t fuzzy with exhaustion and which could deal with the problem her arrival had created.

Focus. He must concentrate… Cursing softly to himself, he ruthlessly shut out everything but the alarming situation.

He had a choice. To refuse Jodie any access to Sam, or—when Sam’s health improved—he could coax Sam to see his daughter. He closed his eyes, fighting for objectivity.

If he could persuade her to go then life could continue as before. And one day Jack would return to him.

He felt dark emotions swirling inexorably in his mind, denying him clarity of thought. Because he knew with a gut-wrenching pain that if Jodie was ever reunited with Sam then he could lose his son for ever.

Jodie was Sam’s next of kin. When Sam died, which the doctors said would be within a year or two, she would automatically be responsible for Jack’s future welfare.

And he, Morgan, would be out on his ear.

A devil was driving him, whispering in his ear wickedly that he could eliminate all danger by stating the cold, unvarnished truth: that her father had rejected her utterly. It would be so simple—and he wanted his son so badly that he tortured himself by listening to the voice in his head even though he knew he should, in all honour, endeavour to bring father and daughter together.

But Sam had been adamant. ‘She’s like her mother!’ he’d declared with wild conjecture, when he’d given up all hope of hearing from Jodie. ‘Selfish, flighty and heartless! If she knew I was rich she’d be here quick enough! Morgan, she’s broken my heart! I never want to see her—even if she turns up in rags and trailing ten children in her wake, do you hear?’ he’d raged.

‘I hear,’ he’d said quietly, hoping some day to dissuade him.

But that had been before Morgan knew he was Jack’s father. And now Jodie was here, in dazzling scarlet and trailing fire and passion and a steely determination in her wake.

Common sense told him that he should send her away with a photo after a cup of tea. But could he live with himself, knowing that Sam had had the opportunity to enjoy the last year or two of his life in his daughter’s loving company?

‘God!’ he muttered. ‘What a choice!’

Hard on himself, as always, he forced himself to go through the motions of making tea, but his fingers were constantly stilled by the strangely haunting image of Jodie’s face.

What was it about her? Some element of Sam, his honesty, his goodness? It would have been easier if she’d been an out-and-out cow—selfish, flighty and heartless, as Sam had suggested.

But Morgan’s lasting image of her was of her transparent, innocent joy, which had cut through his suspicion and shock like a sword of light.

He stared into space, seeing the blinding smile which had lit up her extraordinary jade eyes till they’d sparkled like gemstones. She’d seemed almost vulnerable in her eagerness to tell him about herself.

Morgan thought of her passion when she’d begged for a crumb, the right to see what her father looked like because she had no photographs of him. Her words had sliced through his heart like a knife through butter. He understood that terrible emptiness of being somehow unfinished because of an unknown parent.

All his life he’d wanted to know who his father was. His rootlessness, his avoidance of committal and his dangerous hunger for love had undoubtedly been a consequence of that empty gap in his life. In that instant he had felt a visceral stab of compassion for her. And so he’d weakened.

Of course she was lying about the letters. But it was like the lie of a vulnerable child who can’t bear to be in the wrong. A greedy child, perhaps, he reminded himself with a frown, before he became too indulgent. Maybe she’d done some research on the Internet and had discovered that Sam Frazer was one of the most prestigious architects in the country.

He rubbed a thoughtful hand over his stubble. With Sam owning half the village and the lucrative practice, she’d be in line for a huge inheritance. And custody of Jack.

Morgan’s hands shook as he filled the kettle. Where would that leave him? Visiting occasionally. Looking on while she brought up his son.

‘No!’ he muttered vehemently. ‘Never in a million years!’

Sam only had a short time to live. Morgan had planned to adopt Jack when the older man died. But if Jodie was on the scene she would be firmly entrenched as Jack’s carer by then.

There’d be a legal tussle which could go on for years, with Jack in the middle—and by that time Jodie would to all intents and purposes be a mother figure to Jack. He couldn’t take his son away under those circumstances. It would be too cruel.

No! Better if he never let that situation arise. He sucked in a harsh breath. That settled it. He’d keep her at arm’s length and respect Sam’s explicit wishes. Tea and sympathy, then pack her off home.

CHAPTER THREE

JODIE sat fuming and twiddling her fingers. She flicked through an elaborately illustrated book about buildings in Brazil, which normally would have interested her, but she had one thing only dominating her mind: her father.

She knew she was ready to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion—but before she did she must see him. Over tea—coffee!—which would revive her and give her the boost her system needed, she’d ask this man if…

No, she’d demand. She was no collie dog. She would not be ruled by him.

Wearily she hauled herself from the chair and followed the sounds of movement, finding herself in the doorway of an enormous farmhouse kitchen fitted out with limed wood units in the country house style.

Unobserved and unheard in her rubber soles, she temporarily forgot why she’d come because he was wearily dumping leaf tea into a pot like a zombie on sedatives. Intrigued, Jodie counted six spoonfuls before he paused and then uttered a brief expletive.

Each one of his movements was slow and laboured as he emptied the pot and then carefully recounted the correct amount of tea in a voice which betrayed his irritation with himself.

After adding boiling water to the brew, a deep sigh welled up from the depths of his body. His head tipped back in an attitude of despair.

Jodie was fascinated. He seemed more than tired. It was as if life itself had become untenable. Why? What was going on here?

Not daring to let him know she’d seen him in an unguarded moment, she tiptoed away and made the approach again, ensuring that she made enough noise on her way to the kitchen to serve as a warning.

When she entered, he was back in control of himself again: stiff, erect, and poker-faced.

‘I thought I’d see if I could help,’ she began crisply. ‘And—’

‘It’s done,’ he said, before she could ask for a coffee. ‘Now that you’re here, we might as well have tea in here instead. Milk or lemon?’

‘Whatever.’ Jodie was too eaten up with curiosity to pursue her preference and she sat down at the scrubbed pine table expectantly. Tea was a stimulant, anyway. And she needed revitalising before she started making waves. ‘Now,’ she continued amiably, hoping to disarm him, ‘tell me who you are.’

‘Morgan Peralta.’

‘Unusual name,’ she said, encouraging him to open up.

‘I have Colombian parents,’ he replied grudgingly.

It explained a good deal: his dark good looks, the sense of lurking volcanic passions, the Latin cheekbones and bred-in-the-bone sensuality. He had a magnificent body: just muscled and lean enough for her taste. Beside him, Chas would look a slob. So would most men.

She looked at his hands, always a give-away, and thought that there was something very sensual in the way his slender—almost graceful—fingers dealt with slicing the lemon. He’d be good with women, she mused. Delicate in his touch. Tantalisingly exploring… She blinked, startled by where her thoughts had taken her.

Feeling warm from the heat of the kitchen, Jodie unbuttoned her jacket. She would have removed it but Morgan’s hooded gaze had honed in like a guided missile on the tangerine shirt beneath and she felt a sudden frisson of sexual danger as something indefinable sizzled briefly between them.

Stupid. How could he possibly be interested in her? It was her over-developed imagination. Static in the air. Besides, he was hardly going to jump her. Not over tea!

She hid a smile at her caution but decided she’d feel more comfortable if she kept the jacket on. The T-shirt fitted snugly and she didn’t want Morgan counting her ribs. Or anything else…

She was astonished to feel a blush creep up her entire body, and she let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Morgan slanted an odd look at her from under his brows then sat opposite her, immediately picking up the teapot and pouring out a thin, almost gold-coloured liquid into their cups and slipping in a slice of lemon. Jodie accepted the offered cup doubtfully. It didn’t look like any tea she’d ever seen.

‘I’m Jodie,’ she offered, anxious to be accepted. ‘Jodie Frazer.’

‘I know.’

He was close to her father, then. She took a deep breath and plunged in.

‘I imagine my father was upset when he didn’t hear from me,’ she ventured.

‘Devastated.’ His expression was uncompromisingly hostile.

‘That’s awful. I wish I’d known.’ She leaned forward earnestly. ‘But you’ve heard my explanation. You must understand that I wouldn’t want to hurt him for the world.’

She took a sip of the surprisingly refreshing tea and looked at him over the rim of her cup. He seemed to be having a mental struggle over something. Hopefully she was coaxing him round.

‘He’s been through a lot recently. I won’t let anyone disturb his peace of mind,’ he stated flatly. ‘Your rejection—’

‘But I didn’t reject him!’ she cried in frustration.

‘He thinks you did.’ Stern and forbidding, he leaned forwards. ‘I’ll find you some snapshots of him to take away. Don’t give yourself grief by pursuing this. He won’t see you. Accept that and get on with your life.’

‘I can’t!’ she persisted. ‘He’s only upset because he was hurt when he didn’t hear from me. When he knows what happened—’

‘He won’t hear about it because I’m not telling him your story. Frankly, I just don’t believe that you answered him straight away.’

Incensed, she jumped up. ‘Then I’ll go look for him and tell him myself!’

His arm snaked out to stop her and he rose in one swift and graceful movement, coming to stand menacingly in front of her.

‘And I will be forced to prevent you,’ he said, very softly.

Jodie squeezed her eyes tightly, to prevent herself from crying in sheer helplessness.

‘Please hear me out!’ she begged, opening her eyes and staring miserably at his blurred face.

There was a long pause. She stopped breathing. She could hear his breath rasping loudly, feel it hot and quick on her mouth.

‘I’ll listen,’ he muttered. ‘But that’s all. Sit down. Sell yourself to me if you must.’

She sank gratefully into the seat. A brief reprieve. The next few minutes were crucial. Feeling oddly hot and flustered, she began to tremble.

‘You’re…being protective,’ she began croakily. ‘I understand that. It’s good to know someone’s been looking out for him. But, like you, I swear I only want what’s best for him.’

He grunted and slanted her a cynical glance. ‘I wonder. Would you surrender your own needs for his?’

‘Can you explain that remark?’ she asked in a guarded tone.

‘If you really cared for him,’ he said quietly, ‘you’d do what was in his best interests, not yours.’

She raised one eyebrow. ‘And his best interests are…?’ He didn’t answer and dropped his gaze with a frown. Jodie felt a spurt of hope. ‘You’re not sure, are you?’ she cried shakily. ‘He’s insisting that he doesn’t want to see me—and you’re now wondering if he’s making a mistake! Morgan, think about this! You can’t in all decency stand between us! You’d have it on your conscience all your life if you didn’t at least try to persuade him to change his mind! You know that. I can see it in your face. Oh, please give me a chance!’

Morgan drew in a long, hard breath, his eyes betraying the doubts in his mind. Jodie’s pulses raced and she twisted her hands together nervously.

‘I need some time to think about it,’ he growled.

She beamed in delight. ‘That’s wonderful! Thank you!’ she cried passionately.

‘I’m only taking time to consider the situation. Nothing’s fundamentally changed. Don’t build up your hopes,’ Morgan warned.

She flung back her head and laughed, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’m an optimist. I have to hope! I want to hold my own father in my arms so much that I ache with longing!’

‘Then protect yourself from that hope. You could be badly hurt if I decide you must not see him,’ he said, his voice low and thick.

Jodie felt a tremor run right through her body. ‘It would break my heart,’ she breathed.

‘Better than you breaking his,’ Morgan observed.

‘But…why would I?’ she asked, bewildered. ‘How could I?’

‘Do you know anything about him?’ he shot.

‘No, nothing! That’s what’s so awful—’

‘You know he lives in a large house,’ he pointed out cynically.

She drew herself up, insulted by the implication. ‘You think I care about his money? That’s not why I came! If you can’t identify truth and honesty and real affection when you hear it, then I feel sorry for you!’

His eyes flickered. ‘You’re making it very difficult for me, Jodie,’ he said, almost to himself.

She bit her lip, hardly able to bear the suspense which hung in the air between them so tautly she thought it almost crackled with tension. He seemed unable to tear his gaze away from her—and she found herself locked in his thrall.

‘Just…what is your connection with him?’ she asked, sobered by the power he could wield over her future.

‘I’m his right-hand man. He trusts me and my judgement.’ The dark eyes continued to bore remorselessly into hers.

She gulped, her head swimming. Tiredness. She had to push this on. ‘You could sway him, then?’ she said with difficulty.

‘If I wanted.’

‘Please want!’ she pleaded.

He jerked back a little, as if startled by what she’d said. There was a brief, hot melting of that intent gaze and she felt that at last she was getting somewhere.

He wasn’t as hostile. A faint warmth was emanating from him, an imperceptible softening of his hard-hewn face as he contemplated her, weighing her up, assessing everything about her.

She flushed, her mouth drying as his thick lashes fluttered and his downward gaze wandered to her bare throat, her breasts, and then to her legs, which she’d hooked over one another. She wanted to tug down the suddenly embarrassing short skirt to hide an inch or two of slender thigh, but that would have drawn attention there.

And now he was studying her parted lips, and she could actually feel them plumping up in some odd biological response. Hastily she sipped her tea, to occupy her wayward mouth and to avoid his scrutiny.

‘I stick to the bargain,’ he said huskily. ‘Try convincing me some more.’

She moistened her lips again before starting. ‘I’m twenty-four. I’ve spent all my working life in an advertising agency where I was on promotions. It was my job to persuade clients in any way I could to take up our ad campaigns—’

‘I bet you were very good at your job,’ he said, a curl of amusement lifting the corner of his craggy mouth.

‘I was!’ She furrowed her brow. ‘What else? I help two evenings a week at the retirement home nearby—’

‘Oh, please!’ he mocked. ‘You’re going too far—’

‘It’s true!’ she said indignantly. ‘I’ll give you the phone number and you can check!’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Good—’

‘I suppose you’re kind to children and animals?’ he drawled.

‘No, at every opportunity I boil them up in oil—what do you think?’ she cried crossly. ‘I’m just an ordinary sort of person who tries to keep on the straight and narrow and live a decent life—’

‘Not that ordinary. You have a boyfriend?’

‘Is that relevant?’ she asked in surprise.

‘Could be,’ came the enigmatic answer.

She shrugged. OK, so be it. She’d tell him her bust size and weight if it helped her cause.

‘The answer’s no. I’ve just dumped him,’ she said with a grimace. ‘He was an arrogant controller who’d tried to mould me into his version of the perfect woman!’ Her mouth quirked at his raised eyebrow.

‘Did he fail?’ Morgan asked, clearly doing his best to hide his amusement.

‘Dismally. My problem is that I’m highly allergic to thongs!’ she said with a giggle.

As she’d expected, he did a double-take, and for a second or two she thought his eyes showed a flicker of genuine interest. Then the impenetrable shutters came down again.

‘So when your relationship broke up,’ he drawled, ‘you decided to give your father in England a whirl, for want of something better?’

‘No! It wasn’t like that at all!’ she said, bristling. ‘Hearing from my father was the catalyst for change. My boyfriend’s attitude to a reunion with my father was unsympathetic and obstructive. OK, I took my time realising this, but eventually I did—and saw my boyfriend for what he was. A selfish, manipulative, bullying brute!’ She pinned Morgan with a determined stare. ‘I’ve spent the last seven years being walked over. I won’t be pushed around any more—not by anyone,’ she said meaningfully.

‘I think you’ve made that apparent,’ he murmured.

Had she gone too far? She looked at him edgily. ‘So what’s your verdict?’

‘The jury’s out,’ he drawled.

A sudden feeling of hopelessness washed over her. He was playing with her, leading her on. Fatigue and disappointment made her limbs leaden and her brain ragged as she tried to keep up the pressure on him.

‘Look. I’m shattered. I haven’t the energy to joust with you but I am desperate to see my father,’ she said, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘If it makes it any easier for you, I totally understand that if he eventually decides that he wants to live his life without me—then that’s his choice to make and I will have to accept his decision.’

Morgan nodded in approval. ‘Good! That’s settled, then,’ he murmured with satisfaction.

She saw tension ease from him and felt her own nerves tighten. It looked as if he was going to send her away with a flea in her ear! Annoyed, she fixed him with her brilliant green eyes and grimly set about persuading him to plead on her behalf.

‘However,’ she said sweetly, ‘I’m sure you’ll agree that it should be his decision, based on personal knowledge of me. It would be wrong if he didn’t even see me face-to-face, so that I could explain that there might have been a mix-up with the mail,’ she added, being generous about her suspicions concerning Morgan’s part in the ‘mix-up’.

‘He still might not believe you,’ he suggested cynically.

‘Oh, yes, he would! He’d look into my eyes and find the truth there!’ she insisted stubbornly, passion pouring from her blazing eyes. ‘You have seen his letter and read his sentiments. He must still care about me deep down! I’m convinced he’ll be overjoyed that I’ve turned up! You may not have read enough of his letter to me to know that he mentioned he’d just moved house—and that he had something special to tell me. I’ve been consumed with curiosity ever since. You can’t deny me the right to see my own father, not when he was initially so anxious that we should be reunited! He must want me, mustn’t he?’

Morgan scowled at his tea. His mouth tightened and then he gave a small exhalation of breath. Jodie waited, tense with anticipation.

‘Perhaps,’ he hedged reluctantly.

Jodie gasped and clasped her hands in delight, drawing his dark, assessing gaze. ‘So I’m close to passing muster?’ she asked with a relieved laugh, her eyes spangled with deep jade lights.

‘You’re persuasive,’ was all he’d say.

It was enough for her. The moment had come! She jumped up eagerly. ‘Let me ask him! Lead me to him! I just can’t wait any longer, Morgan. I’ll burst if you keep me dangling in suspense!’

He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s…not that simple—’

‘Why not?’ she cried in exasperation.

He leant back in his chair, studying her expressionlessly. ‘He’s not here.’

Jodie’s jaw dropped in dismay and she gave a little gasp of disappointment.

‘Not…here! But I imagined…hoped… Oh, when’s he coming back?’ she wailed.

‘Not…today,’ he dissembled.

She slumped back into the chair, totally depressed. ‘None of this is working out as I expected,’ she said morosely. ‘This means I’ll have to get back into that wretched car, battle my way along the wrong side of the road and search for the hotel.’ Her head lolled back and she heaved a heavy sigh. ‘It’s not a prospect I relish. I feel shattered. I’ve been living on adrenaline for days. You can’t have any idea what this meeting means to me, Morgan!’

‘Have a piece of cake,’ he suggested gruffly.

‘Keep my strength up?’ Dejectedly she took the plate and picked at the fruit cake in a desultory fashion as her thoughts came tumbling out. ‘It’s my fault, I suppose,’ she mused. ‘I should have waited for a reply to the recorded delivery. But I was mad keen to see him.’ She met his gaze, her eyes clouded with sadness.

‘Why is it so important to you?’ he asked quietly.

‘Because he’s the only family I’ve got now. He and my mother separated when I was a year old. Mom and her boyfriend took me to New York and we lost touch with my father. Mom died when I was six—’

‘Your mother is dead?’ he broke in sharply.

‘Yes,’ she replied, too engrossed in her own problems to pay much attention to his alerted state.

‘God!’ he groaned. ‘Eighteen years ago! If only Sam had known!’

A film of tears washed over her eyes at the implication that her father would have contacted her sooner.

‘Mom wasn’t much of a mother, but she was better than my foster-parents. All this time I thought I had no living relative in the whole world! W-when my f-father wrote—’ She broke off, a lump filling her throat.

‘I don’t need to hear this,’ Morgan rasped.

‘You do!’ she cried passionately, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. ‘I want you to know what this means to me! I discovered that my father was alive! It was the most wonderful present I could ever have been given. He was in England, walking, breathing, sleeping… I couldn’t think straight. I went around the apartment in a daze, bursting into song…’

Unable to stop herself, she flung her arms in the air in an impassioned gesture as she relived those first joyful hours. His eyes flickered with a strange, glittering light and she faltered, bringing her arms down quickly, lest he think she was mad. But he had to know the intensity of her feelings!

‘Morgan,’ she explained fervently, ‘you had to be there to see me! I danced, I hugged myself breathless, ate a whole tub of ice cream…! Oh,’ she cried, husky with the memory, ‘I was so happy I felt delirious. I grinned at everyone I met. New York reeled! For days I walked on air—and then every so often I’d burst into tears. I felt so far away from him, you see.’

There was a long silence. Morgan seemed to be finding it difficult to speak. Once again, tension spun a thick blanket between them, crushing the air from her lungs. Jodie clasped her hands anxiously, scanning his face. Her heart turned over. Something was wrong!

Numbed by Morgan’s look of pity, she waited, a prey to her imagination. Her father was dead, she thought immediately, her eyes rounding in horror!

‘Look…you mustn’t get your hopes up. You can’t see him now, or in the foreseeable future.’

She blinked, trying to puzzle this out. ‘Why?’ she asked, her face pale.

The breath caught sharply in her throat. Something akin to anguish had slashed across his well-deep eyes before vanishing again. But it was obvious to Jodie that he was profoundly disturbed about something. She noticed that he’d clenched his jaw hard and balled his hands into fists till the bone shone white through the skin over his knuckles.

Her pulses went into overdrive as fear skittered through her. Her cup clattered to the saucer, freed unwittingly from her jittery fingers. Tea spilled across the blue check tablecloth but neither of them gave the stain more than a cursory glance.

‘My father…? He’s not…not…?’ she whispered desperately, and choked on the terrible lump which blocked her throat.

‘No!’ Morgan cried quickly, interpreting her distress. ‘He’s not dead! I didn’t mean that!’

In a surprising, reassuring gesture, his hand reached out to hers and held it tightly when she let out a small groan of relief.

‘What, then?’ she breathed.

‘He’s unwell—in hospital,’ Morgan replied, sounding strained. ‘He’s been ill for some time—’

Jodie trembled. ‘Was…was he ill when he wrote to me?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘He sounded idyllically happy—’

‘He was—but his health was poor even then. That’s partly why he contacted you. And now…’ His jaw tightened. ‘I have to tell you that he’s taken a severe turn for the worse—’

‘What do you mean?’ She stared, aghast, her eyes wide and horrified. ‘How much…worse is he?’ she croaked. Breaking free, she leapt to her feet in agitation. ‘Tell me the truth. I must know!’ she demanded hysterically.

His mouth became grim. ‘You need to sit down—’

‘Answer me! I want to know!’ she wailed, ignoring his suggestion.

‘Very well. The stark truth. He has pneumonia,’ Morgan said quietly. ‘He’s fighting for his life.’

It was his pained whisper which drained all her body of its strength. The stark gravity of his expression told her—far more than his words—that her father’s condition was perhaps more serious than he was letting on.

Stunned by this unexpected development, she swayed as the room whirled around her and a roaring in her ears drowned out anything else he might have said.

With a feeble moan she grabbed weakly at something, anything, found the chair and collapsed into it, her mind in turmoil.

‘No! No!’ she moaned.

Hot, stinging tears welled from her eyes and poured unchecked down her face. Distraught, shocked beyond belief, she hugged her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, weeping without restraint.

So near and yet so far.

She could have been here months ago! But Chas had told her he couldn’t release her from work to go to England. And then there’d been the failure in the mail service—or, worse, Morgan had blocked her letters! And Chas had persuaded her that her father hadn’t replied because he’d had second thoughts…

She groaned. All this time she could have been comforting her father, getting to know him, fussing over him… And now he might be close to death.

‘Oh, God! My poor father! I—I didn’t expect any…anything l-like this!’ she mumbled raggedly through her sobs.

The soft folds of a handkerchief touched her hand. She snatched it and pressed the linen against her tear-stained face. He could have caused this situation. She scrubbed her eyes hard and looked at him accusingly.

‘I have to ask you this—did…did you hide m-my letters?’ she asked bluntly.

‘No!’ he answered, obviously shocked by the suggestion. ‘I couldn’t have. I only came to live here a few weeks ago!’

She took a huge, shuddering breath. Her letters had gone astray, then. No wonder Morgan had been so hostile. He’d known that her sick father had written to her, knew how vital it was that she should reply. When no answer had come, Morgan and her father must have hated her for being callous and unfeeling.

She groaned with frustration. But she did care! More than she’d known, more than she could have ever believed! To get so close to being reunited—and then to have that longed-for moment cruelly snatched away—was a worse blow than anything she’d ever known.

This had been her chance to love and be loved unconditionally. To know the purest, most lasting love between a parent and a child.

Her poor father. Dangerously ill…she thought numbly. Her leaden arms dropped and came to rest on the table. She bent her head, too shattered to hold it up any more, and her burning wet cheek found comfort in the soft fabric of her jacket sleeve. Her sobs racked her body till her ribs ached and her throat felt raw.

Dimly, somewhere in the background, she registered an odd crackle, as if someone was brushing a hand across a microphone.

‘Excuse me. I have to go!’ Morgan muttered.

His chair scraped hastily back and she heard his brisk footsteps crossing the tiled floor rapidly, as though her tears irritated him and he couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

Miserably she lifted her head a fraction, suddenly wanting the company of someone, anyone.

‘Don’t!’ she sobbed. But his blurred image was already disappearing through the door.

Her lip trembled uncontrollably. He wasn’t giving her the benefit of the doubt. He believed she was a liar and blamed her for upsetting a seriously ill man.

He knew Sam. Cared about him. But she was part of Sam too! She was upset and alone and in a strange country. He knew how she felt about seeing her father!

How could he walk out on her? Maybe he was upset himself. But didn’t he feel anything for her own grief? She banged her fists on the table. Why were so many men so utterly selfish? Why didn’t they feel the hurt of others?

A flood of anger and resentment welled up like bitter bile in her mouth and she began to sob as if her heart would break, crying for her father and for herself, hating the cold-hearted Morgan and his lack of humanity.

Her misery intensified. Now she knew where she stood. Entirely alone.

How he’d got out of the kitchen he didn’t know. He stuffed the portable baby alarm deeper into his pocket, ravaged by the rawest of emotions.

It had been worse than he’d imagined.

He’d grabbed a bottle from the fridge and picked up the automatic bottle-warmer; grimly he took them to the drawing room, where Jack lay in the rocker-seat uttering plaintive squeaks of protest.

‘You pick your moments,’ he said quietly. ‘Hold on. Just need to plug in this…then we’ll undo these straps and you’re safe, here with me…’

How safe? came that insistent voice again. When you’re tussling with your conscience, toying with the idea that this woman should take her rightful place in this family? When you’re close to deliberately handing over your own flesh and blood to a total stranger?

Morgan ground his teeth together, ignoring the maelstrom of his mind, walking up and down with Jack, soothing him with his voice and trying to regain his own equilibrium.

‘Hush, little man. Nearly ready,’ he muttered. He bent his head and put his cheek to Jack’s, desperate for human contact. ‘This is tearing me to pieces,’ he said bitterly. ‘Sam, you, her…’

His brows met in a deep frown as he reined in his ragged thoughts. He didn’t want to go through anything like the last few minutes ever again. Jodie’s heart-rending sobs had torn through all his defences, getting under his skin more than he could have believed possible.

He should never have asked her in. Damn his sense of morality and fair play! Listening to her had been fatal. She came over as vulnerable, too open and trusting for her own good. Or was she? He’d been fooled before. Badly.

He frowned, feeling keenly his past failure to protect Sam. The repercussions had been disastrous. A shudder of anger and repulsion ran through him. That meant he must do everything in his power to ensure that this woman wouldn’t hurt Sam in any way whatsoever.

Jodie was a mass of contradictions: brightly dressed and assertive, yet emotional and sensitive. Morgan grunted. Fascinating she might be, but that could be a deadly combination for a sick man who needed peace and a hassle-free life.

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