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Baby on Loan
Liz Fielding


Patrick held out his arms for the baby. “Shall I take a turn?”
“Oh, but—”
“You look exhausted, Jessie. Go back to bed.” And he took Bertie from her. “Come on, Bertie,” he murmured. “Your mommy’s a busy lady. If she doesn’t get a proper night’s rest she won’t have any energy for house hunting in the morning, will she?”
There was a small but eloquent noise from Jessie, and then Patrick heard her climb into bed. He smiled into the baby’s soft curls, kissed them and then went back downstairs, where he stretched out on the sofa with Bertie.
He was beautiful. Big dark eyes, peachy skin, a smile sweet enough to break his heart. Which was surprising, because Patrick had believed his heart was already broken, smashed beyond repair.
Liz Fielding started writing at the age of twelve, when she won a writing competition at school. After that early success there was quite a gap—during which she was busy working in Africa and the Middle East, getting married and having children—before her first book was published in 1992. Now readers worldwide fall in love with her irresistible heroes, adore her independent-minded heroines.
Visit Liz’s Web site for news and extracts of upcoming books at www.lizfielding.com.
In 2001, Liz Fielding won the prestigious RITA
Award from Romance Writers of America for The Best Man and the Bridesmaid!

Baby on Loan
Liz Fielding


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE
‘IT’S awful. Like a mausoleum. You couldn’t pay me to live there.’
‘It’s quiet. Jessie needs to be quiet to work.’
‘No children, no pets, no music loud enough to escape through the walls. It’s not natural.’
‘Jessie doesn’t like cats, is terrified of dogs and has no children.’ Kevin didn’t add ‘lucky woman’ because, although that was the way he felt right now, he was fairly sure that lack of sleep was warping his point of view.
‘She never will have any children if she doesn’t get out from behind that computer and get a life.’
‘Is it compulsory?’
‘Don’t be flippant. Jessie thinks she’s making the right decision but we can’t let one rat of a man do this to her. And working from home doesn’t help. At least if you go out to work you’re forced to talk to people, interact with them, face-to-face…’ They exchanged a helpless look. ‘You could die in the quiet of Taplow Towers and no one would ever notice.’ The baby, who had been quiet for all of thirty seconds while he gathered breath, resumed his anguished protest against the imposition of teeth upon his tender little gums.
‘No chance of that here.’
Faye ignored her husband, murmuring soothing noises of comfort to their infant son. It made no difference. He was suffering and he intended that the world should suffer with him. ‘Did you see the look that woman in the lobby gave poor Bertie when we were leaving?’ she continued, as if she hadn’t been interrupted. ‘As if he was contagious or something.’ She paused to wipe the dribble from her darling’s mouth. Then she said, ‘I thought Jessie would be over Graeme by now. She was too calm about it, too controlled… She needs to let rip, get really angry—’
‘Fall in love again?’
‘Exactly! And the sooner the better. Cutting herself off like that isn’t normal—’
‘This isn’t normal.’ Giving up any hope of sleep, Kevin rolled out of bed, took his small son from his wife and couched him under his chin, with scarcely a break in the stride pattern that was beginning to wear a path in the carpet.
‘He’s teething. It won’t last,’ Faye assured him as she collapsed into bed.
‘You said that last week.’
‘We just need a good night’s sleep.’
‘A good night’s sleep? What is that, exactly? I have this dim recollection—’
‘Stop complaining and think while you walk. We’ve got to do something to help your sister. She’s about to sign a five-year lease on that horrible place—’
‘It’s not horrible. It’s a very nice apartment. Safe.’
‘She’s too young to want “safe’’. It won’t be good for her, Kevin.’
He caught the reflection of himself as he passed a mirror. Dark shadows, grey complexion. ‘This isn’t good for me. I need to sleep. Not just for a night. For a week.’ He turned to his wife; she didn’t look any better. ‘So do you.’
‘Yes, I do. We do.’ And then she smiled, drowsily. ‘That’s it, then. Problem solved.’

CHAPTER ONE
‘PLEASE, please, please, Patrick! Everyone’s going. There won’t be a soul left here in London—’
Patrick Dalton resisted, without much difficulty, the urge to smile. ‘Just you and the other seven million—’
‘Don’t laugh at me! I’m being serious!’
Laugh? She had to be joking. He wasn’t in the mood for laughing. Or indulging his niece. The way things were going, she’d be off the hook soon enough; meantime, it wouldn’t hurt her to behave herself for once.
‘So am I, Carenza.’ The formal use of her name was usually sufficient warning that she was pushing her luck. ‘You seriously promised to look after the house while I was away. And I seriously trusted you to keep your word or I would have used my usual house-sitting service.’
‘I thought you said they couldn’t find anyone at such short notice?’
She was so sharp it was a wonder she didn’t cut herself with her own tongue. ‘I believe I said it would be difficult for them to find anyone at such short notice.’
‘Oh, don’t be so…so…lawyerish!’
‘Don’t knock it, Carrie, it pays the bills. Quite frequently they have your name on them.’
Unabashed, she changed tack. ‘You could call the house-sitters now and ask if they could find someone. Couldn’t you?’ Even the hollow echo from the communication satellite couldn’t disguise the wheedling tone that was supposed to have him twisted around her little finger.
‘Now? Correct me if I’m wrong but, whilst it’s the middle of the day here, I’m pretty sure that it’s the middle of the night in London. I don’t think the agency—’
‘Later, then,’ she pushed, her keenness apparently undiminished by his obvious lack of enthusiasm. ‘You could call the agency later.’
‘I could,’ he agreed tersely, ‘but what would be the point?’ A fraud case that he’d put weeks of work into and was scheduled to be in court for a minimum of three months was collapsing about his ears, which left him disinclined to submit to the wheedling of his eighteen-year-old niece. ‘You haven’t got the money to go gallivanting around Europe or you wouldn’t be spending your summer in London house-sitting for me and, by the way, using my phone to call me long-distance.’
‘It’s the middle of night,’ she reminded him. ‘Cheap rate. And actually that was the other thing.’
‘What was?’
‘Money. I thought maybe you could lend me some until Mummy comes to her senses.’
‘To go backpacking around Europe for the summer? Are you crazy? Your mother would have a fit.’
‘I wouldn’t tell her if you didn’t.’ She gave a little-girl laugh that didn’t fool him for one minute.
‘Nice try, sweetheart, but forget it.’ Europe was going to have to remain a dream for her this year. ‘Get better grades when you do your resits in November and I’ll give you a nice fat cheque so that you can go skiing at Christmas. Meantime, I suggest you use the long, friendless weeks ahead of you to revise, revise, revise.’
Carrie said something very rude about revision. ‘How can you be so mean?’
‘It takes practice, angel.’ And he’d had a lot of practice. Some women refused to take a gentle hint. ‘Tell me, how are my precious, er, ficus? You’re not forgetting to spray them, I hope?’ Her response, as he had anticipated, was brief and alliterative. ‘Luke-warm water, don’t forget,’ he responded, mildly.
‘Okay,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘I’ll do it now. I’ll spray them with luke-warm water and then I’ll take them out of their pots and cut off all their roots.’ And then she hung up.
Patrick laughed, feeling a great deal better for the exchange. He certainly wasn’t worried about the wretched house plants; they had been her mother’s idea, as was the complicated care routine that she’d invented for them. His sister had prevailed upon him to ask the child to house-sit for him while he was in the Far East. What Carenza needed, Leonora had asserted firmly, was some responsibility, something to make her feel trusted, something to keep her in London and her mind on her resits. Against his better judgement, he’d agreed.
And he’d had to have someone. He couldn’t leave the house empty for the length of time he’d anticipated this case would take. But two weeks of spraying house plants had clearly taxed Carrie’s capacity for responsibility to the limit, especially now her friends were deserting her for the pleasures of Europe.
Tough.

Jessie turned off the shower. Someone was ringing her front-door bell and it appeared to be stuck. If it wasn’t stuck, someone was going to need a very good reason for making such a racket.
‘All right! I’m coming!’ she called as she reached for her bathrobe, wound a towel around her dripping hair and headed for the door. As she drew back the bolt the clangour abruptly stopped, although by now it had probably woken up half the residents of Taplow Towers which would not make her Miss Popular at six-thirty in the morning.
She slipped on the chain, turned the dead-lock and opened the door a few inches. There was no one there. Then she looked down. Looking back up at her, with eyes that could melt ice, was Bertie.
She melted momentarily, then because Bertie, clever though her adorable nephew undoubtedly was, couldn’t have rung the bell himself, she undid the chain. ‘Faye? Kevin? What’s wrong?’ she asked, flinging back the door.
Her brother and sister-in-law were noticeable only by their absence. There was just a little yellow note in Kevin’s handwriting, stuck to the gleaming woodwork. She peeled it off, held it up to her face and squinted at the words. Certain that she must have misread them, she fumbled for the spectacles in the pocket of her robe. The words leapt into bright focus. ‘Please take care of Bertie for a few days,’ she read. ‘We’ll explain when we get back. Love, Kevin and Faye.’
Get back? Get back from where? Something had to be wrong! Very wrong!
Three floors below she heard the lift door opening. ‘Kevin!’ She edged round Bertie’s buggy and headed for the stairs. ‘Wait!’ She was halfway down the first flight of stairs when she was stopped by the disapproving voice of her neighbour from the floor below.
‘Is something wrong, Miss Hayes?’
In Jessie’s ordered world nothing was ever wrong. She anticipated practical problems and dealt with them before they could develop. And these days she was careful to avoid emotional ones.
A few feet above her Bertie snuffled in his buggy, gave a little whimper and, with a horrible sinking feeling, she acknowledged that she might have been getting complacent. Far below her, the front door banged shut. This was practical and emotional and she was in deep trouble.
Taplow Towers was a haven of peace and tranquillity. No loud music, no pets and definitely no children, apart from brief visits confined to the hours of daylight.
Dorothy Ashton, chairperson of the Residents’ Association, with ears as finely tuned as those of a bat, glanced up as Bertie whimpered again, in what Jessie feared was a prelude to something much louder. ‘What was that?’ she demanded, suspiciously.
‘Nothing.’ Jessie cleared her throat, loudly. ‘I’m just a bit wheezy, that’s all.’ She gave a little cough to demonstrate. ‘I’m sorry about the noise. I was in the shower and I couldn’t get to the door in time.’ But not by chance she was certain. The reason for the early-morning visit was to ensure that she’d being wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a frown and wouldn’t be able to pursue her brother to demand an explanation.
And it had worked. Better than he could have hoped, because pursuit was now further hampered by the necessity of getting Bertie into her apartment without Dorothy Ashton seeing him.
She waved the note as evidence of her probity as she backed up the stairs. ‘It was Kevin. My brother. He left a note.’ Then, coughing again and clutching at her robe to discourage any inclination the woman might have to follow and press home her complaint, she said, ‘Please excuse me, I think I left the shower running.’ She smiled, apologetically.
Lady Ashton was not to be moved by a smile. ‘You know we will not tolerate noise nuisance, Miss Hayes. You’re still on a probationary tenancy. Your visitors on Sunday were very loud—’
‘I know and I’m sorry, but Bertie’s teething. I did take him out for a while.’ She’d offered to take him for a walk to give her neighbours a break, holding his warm body close as she’d walked the path around the little park in the centre of the square. Kevin and Faye, poor loves, had both been asleep on the sofa when she’d got back. ‘It won’t happen again,’ Jessie added, quickly. ‘I promise.’ Nothing…nothing was going to ruin her chances of staying at Taplow Towers.
It was peaceful. Quiet. Utterly predictable. Taplow Towers wasn’t the kind of place where good-looking men knocked on the door when they ran out of coffee. She should have realised that someone who could flirt as skilfully as Graeme must have had a lot of practice. And, sooner or later, would run out of coffee again.
At Taplow Towers she could work all day, and all night when she wanted to, at her computer without the slightest risk of disturbance. She’d had all the disturbance she could take…
Not that it had been easy to get in. The Residents’ Association felt safer with ladies of ‘a certain age’ but her somewhat disingenuous statement that she had ‘lost’ her fiancé had been received with a tactful change of subject and, apparently reassured that her heart was broken beyond mending, she’d been given a probationary tenancy. It still had a month to run. One false move and she’d have twenty-four hours to vacate the premises. It was in the rules and she’d signed on the dotted line without a qualm.
A little grovelling might be wise, she decided. ‘I’m truly sorry to have disturbed you, Lady Ashton.’
‘Very well, Miss Hayes. We’ll say no more. This time.’ And she finally smiled. ‘Everyone is allowed one mistake.’ Behind her the snufflings were getting louder and Jessie’s cough took on epidemic proportions as she continued to back up the stairs. ‘You should take some honey and lemon for that cough, dear.’
‘Yes.’ Cough, cough. ‘I will.’ Cough. ‘Thank you.’
The moment that Dorothy Ashton retreated into her own apartment Jessie turned, grabbed the handles of Bertie’s buggy and wheeled him inside, shutting the door very quietly behind her.
Then she turned and leaned against it, pulling the towel from her hair, swamped by warring feelings of exasperation and longing as she looked down at her infant nephew.
His little face was screwed up into a man-sized frown as he tried to focus on her and, in an attempt to reassure him, she leaned closer. ‘Well, Bertie,’ she murmured as she stroked his downy cheek with the back of her finger. ‘This is a fine mess you’ve gotten me into.’
It was a mistake. Jessie’s height and colouring was similar to Faye’s, but Bertie knew his mother’s voice. This wasn’t his mother. He opened his mouth, determined to let not just Jessie but the entire world know exactly how he felt about that.
‘Shh!’ she said. ‘Shh! Please, Bertie!’ Jessie knew very little about babies, but enough to understand that if she couldn’t keep him happy, and quiet, her days at Taplow Towers were numbered. She picked him up, put him to her shoulder. ‘I’ll find your mummy and daddy…soon. It’ll be fine. I promise.’ Bertie, for some reason, wasn’t convinced.
Instinctively she began to walk back and forth across the thick, sound-deadening carpet, the way that Faye had done on Sunday. She had a momentary recollection of her sister-in-law’s pale and exhausted face. Kevin hadn’t looked much better and he had to go to work…
And now some other nightmare must have befallen them. As she passed her desk, she grabbed her phone. She doubted that Kevin and Faye would be at home taking calls, but she could leave a message. They’d check for messages, surely? No matter what emergency had called them away?
But she didn’t have to leave a message. They had left one for her.
‘Jessie, darling, we need sleep, I mean really need sleep, and Faye thought—we thought—since you’re not just Bertie’s aunt but his godmother, you wouldn’t mind—’
Faye interrupted him. ‘There just wasn’t anyone else we could ask—’
Ask? Ask? They hadn’t asked, because they’d known what the answer would be! They knew she couldn’t have a baby at Taplow Towers!
‘I’m taking Faye away for a few days, no phones, no babies,’ her brother concluded. Then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘We’ll do the same for you one day. Promise.’
‘Fat chance,’ she snorted. Then, horrified by the enormity of her problems, she stared at Bertie. Bertie stared back for a moment before gathering himself to let rip. ‘No, Bertie!’ she begged. ‘Please, darling!’ Bertie wasn’t listening.
Everyone else was.

‘This is the final call for the British Airways flight to London, calling at…’
Patrick took his boarding cards from the check-in clerk and headed for Departure. It was Carrie’s lucky day. Thanks to his client changing his plea—he’d almost certainly been paid handsomely to do so to protect people in high places—he was going home. Since there wasn’t any chance of him sharing his house with anyone, let alone an eighteen-year-old girl, he would ‘lend’ her the money to join her friends in France in return for some serious promises regarding work. In twenty-four hours she would be free.

‘So? Will you take it?’
Take it? Jessie had one hour before she was, to all intents and purposes, homeless. She would have been grateful for anything with hot and cold running water and a roof that didn’t leak; this was beyond her wildest dreams. More importantly, it was available immediately. Now. This very minute. It seemed almost too good to be true.
‘I can move in right away?’ She needed to reassure herself that she wasn’t simply hallucinating. Twenty-nine hours without more than twenty minutes of consecutive sleep and absolutely no peace of mind could do that to you.
‘Absolutely!’ Carenza Finch seemed rather young to be a householder on this scale but Jessie was beyond worrying about it. ‘I can’t leave the house empty, and besides, I’ve got to have someone I can trust to feed my darling Mao while I’m away.’ The cat, the one fly in the perfection of the arrangement, blinked at Bertie, who was perched on Jessie’s hip. Bertie stopped grinding his gums into her shirt and stared back. ‘I was at my wits’ end.’
‘Really?’ Was there an epidemic? Could you get immunised? Was she losing her mind?
‘Absolutely. So if you’re happy, I just need the rent,’ she prompted, ‘and the place is yours, lock, stock and whatsit for three months.’ She held out a pen. ‘All you have to do is sign on the dotted line.’
Jessie fished her spectacles out of her pocket and, propping them on her nose, glanced at the lease with eyes gritty from lack of sleep. It appeared to be a standard form used by the agency she’d contacted. She signed it quickly and counted out the deposit and three months’ rent in advance. In cash. Neither of them had time to wait for a cheque to clear.
Carenza Finch countersigned with a flourish, then she handed over the keys. ‘It’s all yours,’ she said, as she gathered up the money and stowed it carefully in a money belt concealed beneath her sweatshirt. ‘You will take really good care of Mao, won’t you? He likes liver and fresh cod—you have to break it up with your fingers in case of bones—and minced chicken. I wrote it all down for you…’ Jessie made a determined effort not to shudder. For a roof over her head, she’d mince chicken. ‘Oh, and the drill for looking after the plants is on the notice-board.’
Oh, great. She’d try not to kill them, although anything tender was inclined to wilt if she went within ten feet of it. But she took her responsibilities seriously. Why else would Kevin and Faye leave their firstborn on her doorstep? They knew they could trust her.
Maybe she should do something utterly disgraceful in the very near future, something bad enough to give them second thoughts about doing this ever again.
‘Have you left the vet’s telephone number?’ she demanded, following Carenza to the door. It wasn’t that easy to be irresponsible. She was going to have to work up to it. ‘And who do I call in the event of an emergency? Have you left your contact address?’
‘I don’t plan on having one for the next three months,’ Carrie said, picking up a heavy rucksack. ‘Don’t worry, nothing disastrous is going to happen.’ Wrong. It already had. ‘See you in three months.’
Three months. Breathing space to find another Taplow Towers. Not so bad. This thing with Bertie was just a temporary situation, after all. Faye was a doting mother; Kevin loved his son to distraction. Even exhausted, they wouldn’t be able to live for more than a few days without him. And they must both know what this was doing to her life.
They would return, shame-faced and horrified at the ramifications of their actions; things would return to normal and within hours her life would be back on an even keel, running like clockwork. The only thing that wouldn’t be the same was Taplow Towers.
If they’d just phoned, explained, she could have moved into their home for a day or two. Instead they’d shipped all Bertie’s belongings to her by express carrier, along with a special delivery of disposal nappies. She knew what the parcel contained, because it was printed in large letters, all over the packaging. The porter hadn’t said a word when he’d brought it up. He hadn’t needed to. His mournful expression had been enough. She was doomed.
Lack of sleep must have been fugging their brains, because if it had been their intention to get her evicted, Faye and Kevin couldn’t have made a better job of it.
None of which was Bertie’s fault. She took a deep breath and dropped a kiss on his dark curls. Gave him a cuddle. She wasn’t sure what it did for Bertie, but it made her feel a lot better.
‘Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m going to have to put you down while I make a cup of tea.’ Bertie, his big round eyes still fixed on the cat, went into his buggy without complaint. The cat yawned. Bertie wriggled delightedly and smiled.
Momentarily astonished by this phenomenon, Jessie paused and, for a heart-aching moment, she realised that her baby nephew was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Damn Graeme.
The cat, meowing to be let out, distracted her from the yawning pit of self-pity. Bertie watched him as he sauntered down the garden, then whimpered as he disappeared into some bushes. Then howled.
‘Oh…’ She glanced at Bertie and bit back the word that sprang to her lips. ‘Mao!’ she called. But he’d gone. Suppose he never came back? Two hours ago she wouldn’t have cared, but if Bertie liked him she would buy free-range chicken from Fortnum’s and mince it to paste for the precious creature. Maybe there was a picture of a cat somewhere…

Carenza picked up a discarded newspaper, using it to shade her eyes from the glare off the sea.
‘Isn’t that your uncle’s case?’ Sarah said, turning her head upside down to read the headline. “‘FAR EAST FRAUD TRIAL.’’ Yes, look, there’s a picture of him.’ She snatched the paper and grinned. ‘Wow, but he’s sexy!’
‘Oh, puh-lease! He’s old enough to be your father.’
‘Only just.’ She sighed. ‘I remember him coming to speech day, years ago… He looked so lost. So…solitary. I fantasised for weeks about him. Comforting him, bringing him back to life…’ She pulled a face. ‘Well, you know…’
Carenza rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘I know. You and half the women in London according to my mother, silly cows. He’d lost the love of his life and his baby daughter. Getting over that kind of thing…well, I don’t suppose you ever do. It’s only work that keeps him going. Mum says if he doesn’t ease off he’ll probably end up Lord Chief Justice.’
‘What a waste.’ Then Sarah read, “‘Defendant Changes Plea’’? What does that mean?’
Carenza frowned, retrieved the paper from her friend so that she could see for herself, then groaned. ‘What it means, Sarah, is that I’m in big trouble. I’ve let his house to a woman with a howling infant…’ They exchanged a horrified glance. ‘And he’s probably on his way home right now. How on earth could I have been so stupid?’
‘You’ve had a lot of practice?’ her friend offered, helpfully.

There were plenty of pictures. A Dutch still-life over the mantle in the semi-basement dining room next to the kitchen. A series of cartoons of barristers in wig and gown on the stairs, and a Stubbs upstairs in the drawing room. ‘Look at the lovely horse, Bertie,’ she prompted. Bertie was not impressed.
There were prints of famous nineteenth-century cricketers lining the main staircase and landing; she assumed they were famous, or no one would have bothered to frame them.
No cats.
The large bedroom was richly decorated in a warm red, furnished in antique walnut. It didn’t quite go with Carrie’s image; the cargo pants, the stud in her nose and the radical hairdo.
The second bedroom was furnished as a study, with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing law books. She remembered the cartoons and wondered if it was a family thing. Maybe her new landlady had inherited the house and the books. It would explain a lot.
There was a wonderfully large desk with room for her scanner as well as the computer. She hadn’t had time to connect them, yet. Once Bertie was in bed, she promised herself, she’d make a start, try to catch up.
She hadn’t been in the third room. Carrie had whizzed past, muttering something about it being a store room, not used in years. The door was stiff, as if it hadn’t been opened in a while, but beneath the dust the room was painted in cheerful yellow and white so that it would look sunny on even the greyest of days. There were no pictures, though, just some boxes that looked as if they hadn’t been disturbed for years.
She returned to the kitchen in the hope that Mao might have come back. He hadn’t, but Bertie, overcome with exhaustion, finally dozed off in the crook of her arm.
Hungry, but anxious not to disturb the sleeping baby, she found half a packet of chocolate biscuits left by Carenza, settled carefully into a large and very comfortable armchair and tucked in to them.
She must have fallen asleep mid-bite because when Mao, miaowing and clattering his claws against the window, woke her, there were crumbs adhering to the chocolate liberally smeared down the front of her shirt; the remains of the biscuit had succumbed to gravity and were lying, chocolate-side-down on the carpet.
She let in the cat, bathed and fed Bertie and finally put him into his cot. Then she flung her crumby, chocolate-stained shirt into the laundry basket along with everything else she was wearing, pulled on a T-shirt because it was the first thing that came to hand, brushed her teeth and fell into bed.
In that brief moment before sleep claimed her, she had a momentary vision of the chocolate biscuit lying on the Persian rug in the drawing room and knew she should get up and do something about it.
And turn on the burglar alarm.
Then nothing.

Patrick dropped his bag in the hall and crossed to the alarm to punch in the code number. It wasn’t switched on. Carenza had obviously forgotten to set it. He really should have known better than to give in to his sister’s pleading and let her stay here.
Tomorrow he’d write her a cheque, she’d disappear like snow in August and everything would be back to normal.
Well, very nearly normal. It might be the middle of the night in London, but he’d slept on the plane and it would probably take days for his body clock to readjust. Right now, he was wide awake and hungry.
He just hoped there was something edible in the fridge. He snapped on the kitchen light, swallowed hard and determinedly ignored the sinkful of un-washed dishes.
It was harder to ignore a faint, disturbingly familiar scent that he couldn’t quite place. Probably because it was overlain with the smell of steamed fish.
The gritty crunch of biscuit crumbs beneath his feet distracted him, doing nothing to improve his temper. Forget a cheque. Carenza would be grateful to escape when he’d finished with her. House-sitting indeed. She couldn’t be relied upon to sit in a cardboard box.

Jessie’s first thought, as she woke up with a guilty start, was panic. It was too quiet. She leapt out of bed, peered anxiously into the cot, then groped for her spectacles and put them on for a closer look. Just to be on the safe side. A week of this and she’d be a nervous wreck.
But there was nothing the matter with Bertie. In the faint spillage of light from the landing, she could see that he was fast asleep. She touched his cheek; it was warm, but not too warm. He was just fine. Gorgeous in fact, with a peachy bloom to his cheek and his dark hair curling softly around his ears.
The cat was fine, too.
She froze, horror struck. Faye would have a hissy fit if she could see her precious infant sharing his sleeping quarters with Mao, who had curled up and made himself thoroughly at home at the bottom of the cot.
She picked him up. He protested. Bertie stirred. She forced herself to cuddle the cat, murmur sweet nothings as she stroked him, even as her skin goosed at the touch of his fur.
Mao looked at her through suspicious, narrowed eyes as if he knew exactly what she was thinking as she tiptoed towards the door.
She had just made it to the landing when she realised what had woken her. There was someone in the kitchen.

CHAPTER TWO
JESSIE had any number of choices. Call the police. Scream. Barricade herself in with Bertie and Mao and wait until the burglar had helped himself to whatever he fancied and went away. Scream. Confront the villain. Scream…
Oh, stop it! she told her wittering brain. The police. She had a mobile; she’d call the police. She pushed her spectacles down her nose and looked around. Where was it? When had she last used it? Oh, hell, it was in her handbag and that was downstairs. With the burglar. Which dealt with option number one.
And she’d thought her life couldn’t get any worse.
Screaming, seriously screaming, and giving vent to all the anguish of the last two days had its attractions.
But screaming would wake Bertie and frighten Mao and maybe the burglar wouldn’t run away. Maybe he’d come looking for her in order to shut her up. Which thought was sufficient to put a hold on screaming. For the moment.
It would have to be option number three, then. The barricade.
She put the cat down and looked around. Memory and the light spilling in from the landing suggested that the furniture was of the kind that required a minimum of three heavily muscled men to shift. With a fourth directing operations. Except for Bertie’s lightweight travelling cot, of course. Apart from the fact that it wouldn’t stop a determined flea, Bertie was in it. Asleep. And no one was going to wake up Bertie if she could help it.
But any burglar worth his salt would certainly come upstairs looking for jewellery and money.
It was time for option four. No! Not screaming! And maybe not confronting the villain; she preferred to remain defensive if at all possible. What she needed, then, was something with which to defend herself. And Bertie. And, since he was her responsibility too, Mao.
She swallowed. And if there was more than one of them?
Refusing to think about it, she opened the wardrobe door and peered into the dark interior, desperate for inspiration. She’d been too busy to unpack and now she discovered it was full of dark, heavy clothes. Really, Carrie might have emptied the wardrobe of her gothic junk before she let the place…
She didn’t have time to worry about it. What she needed right now was a sharply pointed umbrella, or… Something hard and heavy fell out and landed painfully on her toes. She bit back a yell of pain and bent to pick up the object.
It was a cricket bat. Brilliant. Odd—she didn’t quite see Carenza leading out the England ladies’ cricket team—but brilliant. She seized it and immediately felt more in control. Hefting it defensively in her hand, she crossed to the door, opened it a little wider in order to listen.
Before she could stop him, Mao shot through the gap.

Patrick opened the fridge. On the shelf inside the door, there was an open carton of milk; he sniffed it cautiously. It was fresh. He replaced it and explored further.
He took out a dish, uncovered it. It appeared to be mashed up fish. Unimpressed by Carenza’s culinary skills, he rejected it, but as he opened a box of eggs something soft and warm brushed against his ankles.
Unnerved, he stepped back. The creature let out a banshee wail as he stepped on its tail, before tangling itself between his legs as it tried to escape.
Off balance and uncertain where he could safely put his feet, Patrick made a grab for the first thing that came to hand.
It was the shelf inside the fridge door.
It took his weight for a tantalising millisecond during which he thought he’d got away with it. Then, as shelf and door parted company, milk and moulded plastic succumbed to gravity and hit the floor. Patrick and the eggs were delayed slightly, while his head bounced off the edge of the work surface.

Jessie, dithering behind the bedroom door and wondering whether in fact the bat was such a good idea after all—she might just be handing the burglar a weapon—heard Mao’s howl of outrage, swiftly followed by a horrendous crash.
Had the burglar killed the cat? Had the cat killed the burglar? Whatever was going on, it was clear that she could no longer hide upstairs. With the cricket bat raised shakily before her, she advanced slowly down the stairs and approached the kitchen with caution.
She’d been too tired to bother with clearing up before she’d fallen into bed, but, even so, the scene that met her gaze was a shock. Smashed eggs, milk spreading to form a small lake, a lake at which a perfectly content Mao was busy lapping, and in the middle of it all, flat on his back, blood oozing from a wound on his forehead, lay a man who seemed to fill all the available space. A man dressed from head to toe in burglar-black. Black chinos, a black shirt, sleeves rolled back to reveal thickly muscled forearms.
He was tall and strong and he would have disarmed her without raising a sweat.
Fortunately, he was unconscious.
Or maybe not. Even as she stood there, congratulating herself on the fact, he groaned and opened his eyes. Jessie grasped the bat tightly, swallowed nervously and croaked, ‘Don’t move!’

Patrick stared up at the ceiling. The kitchen ceiling. He was lying on the kitchen floor, in a very cold puddle, and his head felt as if it was about to fall off. And there was a wild-haired, semi-naked woman wearing spectacles two sizes too big for her, threatening him with his own cricket bat. Had she hit him with it? He began to raise his hand to his head in order to assess the damage.
‘Don’t move!’ she repeated.
The words, undoubtedly meant to be threatening—although the effect was considerably diminished by the nervous wobble in her voice—were unnecessary. He had no desire to move. He just wanted to close his eyes and hope that when he opened them again all this would have gone away.
He tried it.

His eyes closed again. Jessie ventured a step nearer. He looked horribly pale and the gash on his forehead looked nasty. Oh, good grief, he was going to die. He was going to die and she’d get the blame and go to jail. That was the way it was. You read about it in the papers all the time. Burglar breaks in, burglar dies, innocent householder goes to jail.
Kevin and Faye would be sorry then…
She gasped. What on earth was she thinking of? He might have broken in, but the man clearly needed her help. She dropped the bat and paddled barefoot through the lake of cold milk to his side.
Stretched out on the kitchen floor he seemed very large, very threatening. Even unconscious he looked very dangerous. But she couldn’t just leave him there. Grabbing a clean bib from the work surface, she knelt beside him and dabbed, tentatively, at the blood oozing from the wound on his forehead, forgetting her fear in her concern.
His eyes opened with an immediacy that suggested he hadn’t been as far out of it as she’d thought, and he grabbed at her wrist. ‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded.
‘Jessie,’ she replied instantly, not wanting to irritate him in any way. ‘My name’s Jessie. How do you feel?’ She put real warmth into her voice. She really wanted him to know that she wasn’t going to do anything bad…
‘How do I look?’ he countered.
He certainly didn’t look good. Apart from the pallor, made worse by the dark shadow of a day-old beard, there was the blood which still hadn’t stopped oozing. She put her fingers against his throat to check his pulse. It seemed the right thing to do, although she wasn’t sure why because she could see for herself that he wasn’t dead.
His skin was warm and smooth beneath her fingers, his pulse reassuringly strong. ‘Well?’ he asked after a moment. ‘Will I live?’
‘I th-th-think so.’
‘I’d be happier if you could sound a little more convincing.’
He didn’t sound like a burglar. But then, what did she know? ‘Well…’ she began. Then something about the sardonic twist of his mouth alerted her to the fact that he wasn’t being entirely serious.
‘I won’t struggle if you think I need the kiss of life,’ he said, confirming her worst suspicions.
For a moment she was tempted. He might have broken in, but if he’d been the man in black leaving a box of chocolates she had the feeling any woman would be left wearing a smile. Maybe she should offer to kiss him better…
No! For heaven’s sake, would she never learn?
And if he was well enough to joke, he was probably capable of getting up and…and maybe it would be better not to think about what he was capable of doing. Actually, she realised, as her brain stopped freewheeling and finally clicked into gear, she should stop wasting time and call the police and an ambulance. Right now.
‘What you need is a trip to the nearest A and E department,’ she said, primly, making a tentative attempt to free herself. He might be in a jokey mood, but she wasn’t prepared to risk annoying him. His fingers remained clamped about her wrist as he tried to sit up. The effort was clearly too much for him and he subsided, with a groan, releasing her as he put his hand to his head.
Her mobile. She needed her mobile. Her bag was on the work surface next to the fridge and she stood up to reach for it. That was when her burglar grabbed her ankle.
And that was when she finally stopped being controlled and sensible and did what she’d been wanting to ever since she’d realised she had an intruder. She opened her mouth and screamed blue murder.
Patrick, who had simply wanted to know what this Jessie woman was doing in his house and where Carenza had disappeared to, decided that, after all, it didn’t matter that much. Stopping her from screaming was far more important, so he tugged on her foot. Hard. The noise stopped abruptly.
Then she fell on top of him.
He muttered one brief word as the breath was knocked from him. One word was all it took to sum up his feelings. Her eyes, inches from his own, widened in shock, but before she could do or say another thing he grabbed her. ‘Don’t. Please don’t say another word. I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing here, but I give up. You win.’
‘Win? Win?’ Even to her own ears she was beginning to sound hysterical. Well, that was fine. She had every right to be hysterical. She was lying crushed against the chest of a ruthless criminal. A man who’d broken into her home. Who, even with a nasty head wound, was more than capable of taking advantage of the situation. And the situation was that while she was wearing a mercifully long and baggy T-shirt, there was little else to cover her embarrassment. Well, actually nothing else. All he had to do was move his hand a few inches and he’d discover that for himself.
She firmly resisted her brain’s urgent prompting to tug her T-shirt down as far as it would go. That would only draw attention to her plight. Instead she forced herself to look him squarely in the face and tell him to let her go. Right now.
It was an interesting face. The kind of face that, under different circumstances, she’d like to see more of. On the thin side, but with strong bones, a lot of character, and she had the strong impression that pain was not a stranger to him. Yet his mouth promised passion. Oh, good grief. And she’d thought he was rambling!
‘In what way, exactly, do I win?’ she demanded, trying to get a grip of herself, gather her wits.
‘I surrender,’ he said. Surrender? What was he talking about? She stared at him. He had the most extraordinary eyes, she thought. Grey, but with tiny flecks of gold that seemed to be heating them up. Or was that just her imagination? ‘Just don’t scream any more. Please.’
‘Do you mean that?’ she demanded as fiercely as she could, not entirely trusting him. The wobble in her voice wouldn’t scare a mouse.
‘Oh, forget it. Give me a knife and I’ll cut my own throat. It’ll be quicker than the punishment you’re dishing out.’
‘Me!’ she squeaked. ‘I didn’t ask you to break in and fall over.’
‘Fall over?’ he shouted, then winced. ‘Is that going to be your story?’ And he flung the arm that was holding her towards the cricket bat and grasped the handle. ‘Haven’t you forgotten exhibit A?’ he said as he brandished it at her.
She scrambled to her feet and put some distance between them before he decided to beat her senseless with it. ‘Just stay there,’ she said. ‘Don’t you move. I’m going to call an ambulance.’ She backed hurriedly away, ignoring the milk dripping from her T-shirt and running down her legs.
He dropped the bat. ‘You’ll have to drag me out into the street if you want it to run me over,’ he warned her blackly.
Rambling. Definitely rambling. He needed to be in hospital, and quickly, but she moved well out of reach before she extracted her cellphone from her bag, dialled the emergency services and asked for an ambulance. They wanted details. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know who he is. He broke into my house and he’s fallen in the kitchen…’
‘It’s not your house!’ he yelled. ‘It’s mine!’
‘Head injury?’ she repeated distractedly as the ambulance dispatcher probed for details. Had he been watching the house? Had he seen Carenza leave and thought it was empty? He was regarding her angrily, but he hadn’t moved an inch. Unconvinced by this evidence of co-operation, she stepped further back into the hall, leaving a milky footprint on the carpet. More mess. More bother. ‘Oh, yes, he gashed his forehead on the corner of the kitchen unit… Yes, he’s conscious, but he seems to be a bit odd…not quite making sense… I thought maybe he was, you know, on something…’ He groaned. She ignored him. ‘Would you? And you’ll inform the police. Thank you so much.’ She hung up and returned to the kitchen, standing in the doorway, unwilling to get any nearer. One close encounter had been quite enough. ‘They’ll be here soon.’
‘Tell me,’ he asked, finally managing to heave himself into a sitting position and propping himself up against a cupboard, ‘are you mad, or is it me?’ He sounded quite serious, as if he really wanted to know.
Unwilling to say anything that might agitate him further, Jessie kept her distance, although her knees were shaking so much that if she didn’t sit down soon, she’d probably collapse in a heap right where she was. ‘Just keep still. I’m sure they’ll be here soon,’ she said, with a lot more calm conviction than she felt.
‘Are you? I hope you’re right. Tell me, where did that cat come from?’
Mao, having enjoyed the free spillage of milk and toyed with the yolk of one of the eggs, was now carefully washing his face. Jessie watched him for a moment. There was something almost hypnotic about the delicate, repetitive movements… ‘I don’t know. He belongs to the owner of the house.’ She turned to him. ‘It’s one of the reasons she was desperate for someone to move in. She needed someone to look after him. It must have been a bit of shock to discover the house wasn’t empty after all.’
‘You could say that. Especially since this is my house.’
He was worse than she thought. Much worse. Jessie glanced at her watch, wondering how long it would take the ambulance to arrive. ‘This is your house, is it?’ she asked in what sounded, even to her own ears, a patronising attempt to humour him.
‘Yes, madam, it is,’ he said, sharply. ‘And you can believe me when I tell you that I hate cats. And so does my dog. So maybe you’d like to explain what you’re doing here?’ Dog? He had a dog? She glanced around nervously. That was all she needed, a burglar who modelled himself on that Dickensian prototype Bill Sykes. But there was no slavering bull-terrier waiting to tear her limb from limb and Jessie, praying fervently for the early arrival of someone to remove this madman from her home, decided that humouring him would be the safest course.
‘I’d love to—’
‘Why don’t you start by telling me—?’
Upstairs, Bertie began to cry. She could have kissed him. Would kiss him. Right now. ‘I’d love to stop and chat but I have to see to the baby.’
‘Baby?’ He looked, she thought, as if he’d been struck a second blow. ‘You’ve got a baby? Here?’
‘He’s teething, poor soul,’ she said, beating a hasty retreat, stumbling over the bag her unwelcome caller had left in the hall. It was black and expensive and clearly very heavy. He’d probably stolen it and stuffed it full of the loot at a house he’d broken into earlier. ‘Just stay put and the ambulancemen will be with you any minute.’ She turned, put the front door on the latch so that whichever of the emergency services got there first could let themselves in, and bolted upstairs.
Bertie was intermittently bawling and stuffing his fist into his mouth. Jessie threw on the first things that came to hand and then she picked him up. He needed changing. The nappies were downstairs. In the kitchen. It figured.

Baby? Patrick grabbed hold of the edge of the sink and hauled himself to his feet, doing his best to ignore the thumping pain in his head, the rush of nausea. That was the smell. Warm milk, baby cream, talc, that stuff Bella had used to sterilise bottles. That was the scent that had eluded him. How could he have forgotten it?
He’d come back after the funeral and it had seemed to fill the house. It had taken him months to get rid of it. He’d got to the point where he’d thought he’d have to move. But in the end he’d realised that the smell existed more in his head than in reality. A faint ghost of his lost family that would forever haunt him. Moving would have been pointless.
Where the hell was Carenza? He clutched onto the sink for a moment while the kitchen spun around him, determined that whatever happened he wouldn’t be sick. When he felt strong enough to risk opening his eyes, he discovered that he was being regarded suspiciously by a uniformed policeman.
‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Officer, there’s a mad-woman in my house. She hit me with a cricket bat.’
‘Why don’t you sit down, sir? The ambulance will be here in just a moment.’ He didn’t need a second invitation to sink into the nearest chair. His trousers squelched damply beneath him. ‘Maybe, while I’m waiting we could just deal with the details? If you feel up to it. Shall we start with your name?’
‘Shouldn’t you caution me?’ he demanded.
‘Just for the record, sir.’
He let it go. ‘Dalton. Patrick Dalton.’
The man made a note. ‘And your address?’
‘Twenty-seven Cotswold Street.’
‘That’s this address, sir.’
‘That’s right. My name is Patrick Dalton and I live here,’ he said, slowly and carefully. ‘This is my home,’ he added, just to make the point.
The man made a note, then turned as the front door opened. ‘The medics have arrived. We’ll sort all this out later, sir, down at the hospital.’
Patrick recognised the calming tone of a policeman confronted with a man he thinks is crazy. A policeman covering himself with excessive politeness in case he was wrong. He considered telling the man that he was a barrister, a Queen’s Counsel, and that he’d find him listed… But his head was throbbing too much to bother. Hospital first, explanations later.
Then he’d take great pleasure in telling that woman to take her baby and her cat and get out of his house—right after she’d told him where he could find Carenza.

‘Would you like to tell me what happened, miss?’ The policeman stood by impassively while Jessie tried to change Bertie with fingers that didn’t seem capable of removing the peel-back strips from the tapes of the disposal nappy.
She’d been calm, very calm under the circumstances, but reaction was about to set in and she was nothing but jelly. The policeman, seeing her difficulty, helped her out while she explained, haltingly, what had happened.
‘Mr Dalton said you hit him with a cricket bat.’
‘That’s a lie!’ Then she flushed guiltily as she saw the cricket bat still lying on the floor where he’d dropped it. ‘Dalton? Is that his name?’
‘Patrick Dalton. So he says. He has a very nasty gash on his forehead.’
‘I know. I think he must have hit his head when he fell.’ She picked up Bertie, cuddled him. ‘From the noise, I can only assume he stepped on the cat and lost his balance, although what he hoped to find in the fridge I can’t imagine.’
‘You’d be surprised. The fridge and freezer are favourite places to hide valuables. Unfortunately the villains know that, although the gentleman did say that he lives here.’
‘He said that to me, too. It’s not true, you know. I rented the house from a Miss Carenza Finch. I only moved in today.’ Bertie grizzled into her shoulder. ‘Maybe he has a concussion.’
‘Maybe.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘There’s no sign of a break-in, though. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but this wouldn’t be a domestic situation would it?’
‘Domestic?’
‘A lovers’ tiff that’s got a bit out of hand?’
‘Lovers’…’ Jessie stared at him open-mouthed, temporarily lost for words. ‘Officer, I’ve never met that man before in my entire life. And if I meet him again it will be too soon. I told you, I moved in here today,’ she explained. ‘The owner was going abroad for the summer and needed someone to make the place look lived in, to take care of her cat, her plants. Is this a high-crime area?’
‘Not particularly. Most people have burglar alarms. You have one yourself,’ he pointed out. ‘Was it switched on?’
‘Well, no. Actually, it wasn’t. I was tired, what with the baby… I just forgot. Maybe I forgot to lock the door, too.’ He nodded, understandingly. ‘Do you want to see the lease? It’s on the table in the hall. Oh, and that man left a bag out there, too. Evidently this wasn’t his first job tonight.’
The policeman glanced at the lease, made some notes and then picked up the bag. ‘I’ll leave you in peace, then, miss. Maybe you could come down to the station and make a statement in the morning?’
‘Yes, of course.’ More time-wasting, Jessie thought, with a groan. Why did the wretched man have to choose her house? She followed the policeman to the door. ‘What will happen to Mr Dalton? If that’s his real name.’ He glanced at the bag with its airline labels and flipped one over. It read Patrick Dalton, but there was no address.
‘Maybe he stole the bag,’ she said. ‘And the name.’ And if he hadn’t? If he was telling the truth? His eyes didn’t have the look of a man who lied. But then Graeme had eyes that promised the earth and she’d believed him. She was no judge.
‘Right, then. I’ll leave you to put the little one back to bed. Don’t forget the alarm, now,’ he reminded her as he headed down the front steps.
‘I won’t.’ There was no way she was going through that again, she thought as she closed the door and set the alarm.
But, supercharged with adrenalin, she wasn’t going to get back to sleep. She cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, trying not to think about her good-looking burglar with the honest eyes. Or the way his body had felt beneath her. It wasn’t easy and a touch desperately, she connected her computer and set to work.

‘I don’t know how much longer I can hold out, Kevin. I miss him so much.’
‘Me too. Weird, isn’t it? The quiet actually hurts my ears.’
‘Do you suppose it’s worked yet?’
‘I shouldn’t think so, sweetheart. They wouldn’t just pitch her out onto the street, would they? Not just like that?’
‘Wouldn’t they?’
‘We said we’d give it a week, Faye.’
‘I’m not sure I can hold out that long. Suppose she can’t cope? Suppose—?’
‘Jessie is the most capable woman I know, and she was brilliant with Bertie on Sunday.’
‘Yes, but I was there on Sunday.’
‘You left enough instructions to fill a baby book. And if she has any problems she’ll…’
‘She’ll what?’
‘She’ll do what she always does. She’ll call up someone on the internet. Come and have a cuddle.’
‘That’s what got us into this situation in the first place.’

It had been light for an hour when Bertie woke. Maybe she was beginning to get used to less sleep, or maybe it was just that she’d made serious headway with the project she was working on, or maybe it was just the fact that she had somewhere to live for a few weeks, but Jessie felt on top of the world as she bent over the cot and picked him up.
‘Hungry, sweetheart?’ He jammed his fist into his mouth and she laughed.
She put on the kettle, made a note to organise a replacement shelf for the fridge, then made tea for herself and a bottle for Bertie. There was a mark on the curved edge of the worktop. Was that where Patrick Dalton, if that was really his name, had banged his head? Had he hit it that hard? The thought made her feel queasy. Maybe she should visit him in hospital.
Oh, right. And take him some hothouse grapes while she was at it.
Maybe he was already in a police cell. The thought gave her no pleasure. He hadn’t looked like a burglar. He hadn’t sounded like a burglar either, but a good start in life didn’t necessarily mean a good end.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Dalton, but under the circumstances my officers had no choice but to take Miss Hayes’ word for what happened.’
‘I imagine her word was nothing but the truth. As she saw it.’
‘You won’t be pressing charges, then?’
‘What charges? Your man saw the lease, you said. My niece apparently let my house to the woman. I imagine she’ll insist, with some justification, that she’s the injured party.’ He touched the dressing on his forehead and winced. ‘I’ll reimburse Ms Hayes and when she’s gone I’ll find Carenza and make sure she has a summer she won’t forget in a hurry.’
‘Yes, sir. Is that your bag?’ The Deputy Chief Constable nodded to a young constable, who picked it up. ‘The very least I can do is offer you a lift home.’

The kitchen was clean; Bertie had had his bath and was taking a nap. She was going to take a shower, get dressed and, when he woke, she would put him in the buggy and walk down to the police station to make her statement. And find out if her burglar had recovered.
Not that she felt responsible. When he’d grabbed her ankle he’d frightened her out of her wits. But then, when she’d been lying on top of him, confronted by grey eyes that looked…what, exactly? Certainly not threatening. Bemused, perhaps. Shaken, maybe.
Well, she’d been feeling a little off-balance, too. And not just because he’d pulled her feet from under her.
Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t ever going to put herself through that kind of misery again. Never.
She’d be fine once she’d had a good night’s sleep.
The en suite bathroom was richly furnished, matching the bedroom, its warm colours comforting and restful. Jessie changed her mind about the shower and turned on the taps to fill the huge old-fashioned claw-footed tub.
She hadn’t had time to unpack, but the bathroom was well stocked and she helped herself to a dollop of a deliciously woody-scented bath gel. Then, leaving the door wide open so that she could hear Bertie if he cried, she fastened her hair up in a band and slipped beneath the foam.

‘You’re sure you don’t need help?’ The DCC was deeply embarrassed that his officers had arrested Patrick Dalton for housebreaking. The man was not only a well-known barrister but one of the youngest ever to have been appointed Queen’s Counsel. It had been an honest mistake, but Mr Dalton wasn’t known to be forgiving of mistakes made by the police.
‘I think I can handle it. But thanks for the offer. And as for last night, well, if you don’t tell anyone, I promise I won’t.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Mr Dalton.’
‘I know.’
Disconcerted by such bluntness, he said, ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to come in and explain the situation to Miss Hayes?’
‘I think I can handle it. And I’ve always got yesterday’s newspaper if she needs convincing.’ The headline gave him no pleasure, but the photograph had convinced the local plod that he wasn’t a villain. It would certainly come in useful if he needed to convince Miss Jessie Hayes of that fact.
Patrick tucked the newspaper under his arm and took his bag from the young constable. His head was throbbing but he walked briskly up the steps to his front door. He didn’t ring the bell. He knew that would be the sensible thing to do, but if the lady put the chain on the door and refused to let him across the threshold he would be in an awkward situation.
Somehow he didn’t think he’d ever live it down in the Inns of Court if he had to resort to the law to remove an unwanted tenant. Which was why he wasn’t going to risk it. Instead he waited until the police car had pulled away from the kerb and then let himself in.
The alarm was set this time. He set down his bag, tossed yesterday’s evening paper on the hall table and punched in the code. There was no instant cry of outrage.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’ he called.
No reply. He made his way, cautiously, down to the kitchen, which had been restored to some semblance of normality.
He took in the painfully familiar sight of soaking baby bottles and for a moment, just a moment, was transported back ten years. Then the cat stropped against his legs. Scrub normality, he thought as he grimly made his way back up through the house. But there was no sign of his tenant. Apart from a milky footprint in the hall.
Maybe she was out. Taking the baby for a walk.
He realised he’d been holding his breath for far too long and he made a conscious effort to relax as he picked up his bag and climbed the stairs, determined on a shower and eight hours’ sleep.
He was brought up sharply by the sight of the small cot standing beside the bed. Then he turned away, promising himself he’d have it folded and standing by the front door before she got back. Have a cheque and a van waiting. Maybe she’d be reasonable.
He thought about the determined way she’d been holding the cricket bat, even though she’d clearly been scared witless, and decided it was unlikely. But it was worth a try.
He kicked off his shoes, tugged his shirt over his head as he stepped through the bathroom door, tossing it with practised aim into the laundry basket. Then he turned and came to an abrupt halt.
Jessica Hayes was lying back in the bath, damp chestnut curls clinging softly around her forehead and cheeks, islands of soft foam offering nothing but the minimum of decency to cover the enticing curves of her naked body.
Last night he’d been confronted by a harridan with a cricket bat. Minus the owl-like spectacles and the frown, she looked quite different. And totally vulnerable. It was a sight to soften the hardest of hearts.
His was well known to be made of tempered steel; he found it easier if people believed that. But, even so, if a man was going to come home and find a woman in his bathtub, he acknowledged, he’d have to go a long way before he found anyone who filled it quite so fetchingly.
However, he could quite understand that, viewed from her perspective, the situation wouldn’t seem quite as pleasurable.
On the contrary, he was certain that the only reason she wasn’t screaming her head off right this minute was because she was fast asleep.

CHAPTER THREE
PATRICK took a step back. Morally, he was perfectly within his rights to be in his own bathroom. He hadn’t let his house. Jessie Hayes was the one who had no right to be there. She might have signed a lease, but he couldn’t believe she’d really thought his house belonged to an eighteen-year-old girl whose idea of elegance was purple hair and a stud through her nose. All she had to do was look around her. The evidence, to anyone with half a brain, was obvious.
Unfortunately, the tabloid press wouldn’t bother about that. The slightest hint of this situation and people would be dredging up the past and conversations would grind to a halt when he walked into a room—not, this time, because people didn’t know what to say, but because they were saying too much.
That crack on the head must have been a lot harder than he’d realised, or he’d never have got himself into such a predicament. Finding a naked woman in his bath, though, had a way of concentrating his mind on the basics, and now he had just one objective in view: to get himself out of the house without her ever knowing he’d been in it.
Except his shirt was in the laundry bin. He had others, but if she saw it—and she would see it the minute she dropped her towel in there—she’d know…
He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, not for a second, certain that even a blink would wake her. But she hadn’t stirred. She was dozing peacefully, her eyes closed—dark, sea-coloured eyes, he remembered, not quite green, not quite blue, like the Mediterranean in a good mood. Then he wondered how he’d noticed such a thing in the mayhem of last night. Through the owl-like spectacles.
Maybe while she was lying on top of him, his subconscious volunteered, helpfully. He backed away from the thought, yet with the image before him he could instantly recall the warmth of her body against his, the feel of her hair as it brushed against his cheek. It tingled now, as he remembered, and he raised his hand as if to brush away an unwelcome sensation; then snatched his fingers back before they could.
Her lips were slightly parted, soft and pink and innocent of lipstick, and her arm was draped over the edge of the bath, totally relaxed by the warmth.
The tempered-steel jacket about his heart buckled slightly.
Then, as the drifting islands of foam moved, he saw the tiny tattoo of a ladybird on her thigh. And his body stirred, responding without hesitation to an overload of stimulation. The shock of it fixed him to the spot, his mind spinning with thoughts of a warm mouth beneath his, a warm body ready for love, and he gasped out loud as he realised that it wasn’t a memory but this woman he was responding to.
She sighed softly as the cooling water began to disturb her. For a moment he remained where he was, transfixed by the image. But he really did have to move, get out of the bathroom, out of the house, before she woke and he gave her the fright of her life.

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