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Loren's Baby
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.The father of her sister’s baby?When Caryn lands the unexpected role of mother to her late sister’s baby, she is convinced that the absent father is Tristan Ross. But when she confronts him with the news that he has a son, she isn’t quite so sure…And yet by taking the little boy into his home, and giving Caryn a job so she could be near him, he was making it his responsibility, proving he was the father, wasn’t he?And then Caryn finds herself faced with an even bigger problem… her developing attraction to Tristan!










Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




Loren’s Baby

Anne Mather

















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




Table of Contents


Cover (#uff6f170b-09dd-597c-af8c-c95d65c3f901)

About the Author (#uacdf6d46-1589-5163-89f2-b9ee681da69a)

Title Page (#u3938068b-2f08-5fe7-8c0d-69b431826687)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u5efb46c8-4029-5693-a85a-285e6c7bd4c4)


THE road widened at the top of the hill, as though inviting visitors to Port Edward to get out of their cars and take a look at the view before plunging down the narrow, precipitous lanes which eventually ran between the whitewashed cottages of the village. Telling herself it was because she wanted to see the village too, and not because it would provide a welcome delay to the culmination of her journey, Caryn thrust open the car door and climbed out.

Below, the sun-dappled roofs of Port Edward seemed too closely woven to allow for the passage of traffic, and beyond, the mud flats of the Levant estuary were exposed as the tide ebbed. An assortment of fishing vessels and pleasure craft were beached like so many gasping porpoises at their moorings, and children beach-combed in the shallow pools left stranded by the tide.

The road to the village said ‘Port Edward only’ and Caryn glanced about her thoughtfully. The address had said Port Edward too, but she remembered once Loren had told her that the house faced a creek where Tristan Ross kept his boat. If only she had paid more attention to those fleeting references to Druid’s Fleet; but then she had never expected to have to come here. And didn’t she also remember that there were trees? A house standing among trees …

The cliffs that overlooked the estuary were not thickly wooded, but further upstream Caryn could see forests of pine and spruce clinging staunchly to the hillside. Obviously she had come too far towards the village. She would have to turn the car and go back to where the road from Carmarthen had forked across the river.

It was easier said than done, but the road at this hour of the evening was practically deserted, and she at last managed to manoeuvre herself back the way she had come. She felt tired, and half wished she had come by train, but it would have been awkward asking a taxi driver to bring her to the house and then expect him to wait while she saw Tristan Ross. Particularly when there was always the chance that he might not be at home. But Loren had said … Besides, if she was truly honest with herself she would admit that her tiredness had more to do with her mental than her physical state, and until she had this interview with Tristan Ross over, she was not likely to feel much better.

She sighed. Was she making a mistake? she wondered for the umpteenth time. Ought she to go through with this? Could she go through with it? And then she remembered Loren’s face as she had last seen her, the cheekbones exposed and skeletal in her thin face, her eyes hollow and haunted. Her features had relaxed in death, but she would always remember her pain and despair. Always.

She came to the fork that led across a narrow suspension bridge shared by a disused railway line, and drove swiftly across it, glancing at her wristwatch as she did so. It was after six, but it had taken longer than she expected, and if Tristan Ross was put out by her late arrival, there was nothing she could do. Perhaps she should have driven into the village after all and asked for directions. But she was loath to draw attention to herself, particularly in the circumstances, and surely she was on the right track now.

The village was in sight again, but across the river now, and Caryn drove more slowly, watching for any sign which might indicate a dwelling of some kind. She saw a sign that said ‘Water’s Reach’ and pulled a wry face. Why couldn’t that have been Druid’s Fleet? How much further did she have to go?

After reaching a point which at a lower level precisely matched the point she had reached on the opposite bank, she stood on her brakes and chewed viciously at her lower lip. She was getting nowhere, and not particularly fast. Where the devil was the house? She couldn’t have missed it. There simply wasn’t another house in sight.

Another three-point turn, and she was facing back the way she had come once more. Below her, in the estuary, the tide was beginning to turn, and ripples of water set the smaller craft stirring on their ropes. The sun was sinking steadily now, and a cool breeze drifted through the open window of the car. It would be dark soon, she thought crossly, and she was sitting here watching the tide come in as if she had all the time in the world.

Putting the engine into gear again, she drove forward and with a feeling of inevitability brought the car to a halt at the stone posts supporting the sign ‘Water’s Reach’. There was nothing else for it; she would have to ask directions. Surely whoever owned Water’s Reach would know where Druid’s Fleet could be found.

Beyond the gateposts, the drive sloped away quickly between pine trees, and with a shrug she locked the car and with her handbag slung over one shoulder, descended the steep gradient. She could see the roof of a house between the branches of the trees, and as she got nearer she saw it was a split-level ranch-style building whose stonework blended smoothly into its back-drop of fir and silver spruce. A porch provided shelter as she rang the bell, and she stood back from the entrance as she waited, admiring the view away to the right where the dipping rays of the sun turned the sails of a yacht on the horizon to orange flames of colour. Only the wind was a little chilly now, striking through the fine wool of her violet jersey suit.

The door had opened without her being aware of it; and she turned to face cold grey eyes set beneath darkly-arched brows. Expertly streaked blonde hair was drawn smoothly into a chignon on the nape of the woman’s neck, while the elegant navy overall she wore bore witness to the fact that she had been interrupted while she was baking.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’ Caryn hid her nervousness in a smile. ‘I wonder if you can help me.’ The woman, Caryn guessed she must be about thirty, said nothing, just continued to stare inquiringly at her, and she hurried on: ‘I’m looking for a house called—Druid’s Fleet. Do you—’

‘Who is it, Marcia?’

The impatient male voice from somewhere inside the house was vaguely familiar, and the woman turned automatically towards the sound. Caryn, half afraid she was about to close the door in her face, exclaimed: ‘I’m so sorry if I’ve come at an inconvenient moment, but—’

She broke off abruptly as a man appeared behind the woman. For a moment she was too shocked to do anything but stare at him, but perhaps he was used to the effect his appearance had on girls. And why not? Those harshly etched sardonic features, vaguely haggard in appearance, were apparently capable of mesmerising his viewers, and Loren had told her he got more mail than any other interviewer in his field. For all that, he was taller than she had expected, and his lean body showed no signs as yet of the dissipations he indulged in, and considering she knew he was at least forty, his corn-fair hair showed little sign of grey. Of course, he was deeply tanned from his last assignment in East Africa, the one Loren had kept all those cuttings about, and his hair was no doubt bleached by the sun, thus disguising any unwelcome signs of encroaching age, but in his dark mohair business suit, he didn’t look a day over thirty-five.

Recovering herself, Caryn realised both he and the woman were looking at her now, and colouring hotly, she said: ‘Mr Ross?’ annoyed to find her voice trembled a little as she spoke.

‘Yes?’ He sounded impatient now, and she felt resentful that he should. After all, she had not expected to find him here. Come to think of it, what was he doing here?

‘I—I’ve been looking for your house, Mr Ross,’ she said carefully, unwilling to say too much in front of the woman, and his expression suddenly changed.

‘Hey!’ he exclaimed, his impatience disappearing as swiftly as it had come. ‘You’re not from the agency, are you? My God! I never thought they’d send anyone so promptly.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Hell, I’ve got to be at the studios in half an hour. Can you wait till I get back?’

Caryn opened her mouth to protest that she was not from any agency, and then closed it again. Why not, if it served the purpose? She could easily explain her subterfuge when they spoke privately together.

‘Druid’s Fleet?’ she ventured, avoiding a direct reply, and he shook his head.

‘This is Druid’s Fleet,’ he explained apologetically. ‘I guess you saw the old sign on the gatepost. I keep that there to discourage unwelcome sightseers. That’s who we thought you were.’

‘Oh.’

Caryn was taken aback, and the woman, Marcia, gave Ross a curious look. Then Tristan Ross was inviting her in, and feeling only slightly guilty, Caryn stepped inside.

She found herself in a large open hall, with stairs leading both down and up. The floor was polished here, heavy wood blocks with a gleaming patina, that were an attractive foil for the skin rugs that enhanced its aura of age. There was an antique chest supporting a bowl of creamy yellow roses, and matching silk curtains billowed in the breeze beside the archway that led through to the dining room.

As Caryn followed Tristan Ross down the steps which led into the main body of the house, she was aware of Marcia coming behind her, and speculated on her relationship to the master of the house. His girl-friend, perhaps; or his mistress, she mused rather bitterly. He seemed to like to have a woman about the place. Loren had discovered that.

He led the way into a magnificent sitting room with long windows that looked out over the estuary. A padded window seat invited relaxation, or there were two squashy velvet couches, one either side of the stone fireplace, matching the heavy apricot velvet of the floor-length curtains. A coffee-coloured carpet fitted every comer, and the casual tables set around the room in no way encroached upon the feeling of space the room engendered.

Ross halted in the middle of the room and turned to face her. ‘Have you eaten?’

Caryn shook her head, but hastened to add that she wasn’t particularly hungry.

‘Nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘Marcia will see you get something that appeals to you, and I’ll be back in about two hours. I’m sorry about this, but I did warn the agency—’

‘It’s all right, really.’ Caryn didn’t want to get involved in discussions about the agency right now. ‘I—I don’t mind waiting.’

‘Very well.’ He raised his eyes to Marcia who was standing in the doorway. ‘Can I leave it to you to see that Miss—Miss—’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, you didn’t give me your name.’

Caryn thought quickly. ‘Er—Mellor,’ she got out jerkily. ‘Susan Mellor.’

She thought his eyes narrowed for a moment, but then he was walking swiftly across the room again, past her to the door. ‘Look after Miss Mellor, will you, Marcia?’ she heard him say quietly, and then she heard him mount the steps again to the front door. It closed behind him a few moments later, and she was alone with her unwilling hostess.

The silence that followed his departure was broken only by Caryn smoothing moistened palms down her skirt. Then she faced Marcia with an apologetic smile.

‘There’s really no need to go to any trouble on my account. I—er—I honestly am not very hungry.’

Marcia considered her silently, and it was unnerving. What was wrong with the woman? Caryn thought impatiently. Why didn’t she say anything?

‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked, and then realising how pointed that sounded, added: ‘I mean—it’s a very beautiful place to live, isn’t it? I love Wales. I used to come here as a child. We used to camp on the Gower peninsula …’

Marcia inclined her head, as if in acknowledgement of Caryn’s words, and then turned and walked away, across the lower hall and down two steps and through another door. Leading where? Caryn wondered. The kitchen, probably. What a taciturn creature she was! As if she couldn’t have said something!

Left to herself, she relaxed somewhat. Well, she was here, and she was within reach of her goal. Or at least within sight of it. And she had been given two hours grace to augment her defences.

She walked across to the windows and admired the view. Then her eyes dropped to the terraced garden that fell away beneath her, and to the wooden flight of steps which led down to the boathouse. Loren had said there were thirty-seven steps, and she had had plenty of time to count them. Dangerous for a child perhaps, but that was not her problem.

Dropping her handbag on to the padded chocolate-brown cushions of the window seat, she half knelt beside it, feeling the familiar pang as she remembered what Loren had suffered. Why should he get away scot free?

She had been kneeling there for some time, hardly aware of the light fading until the switching on of a lamp brought her round with a start. Marcia had re-entered the room in that silent way of hers, and in her hands she carried a tray.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered!’ Caryn exclaimed, sliding off the window seat, as Marcia set the tray down on one of the low tables nearby. But the smell of minestrone and fresh salmon was delectable, and she looked down on the meal the woman had prepared for her with undisguised gratitude.

Marcia spread her hands, and Caryn felt the guilt of false pretences colouring her cheeks once more. ‘I say—won’t you join me?’

Marcia shook her head. Her expression seldom altered, and Caryn was perplexed. Unless the woman couldn’t speak, of course. But she must be able to hear. She had answered the doorbell, hadn’t she? Yet how could she broach such a suggestion?

Marcia withdrew again, and with a shrug of defeat, Caryn seated herself on the couch beside the tray. She was hungry, she realised that now, and she remembered the old adage about fighting better on a full stomach.

But as she ate, she couldn’t help wishing she had been able to ring Bob and Laura before coming here. It was going to be so late now before she got back to the hotel in Carmarthen, and she hoped they wouldn’t worry. Still, he was in good hands, and that was the main thing.

Marcia reappeared with coffee as Caryn was finishing sampling the delights of a chocolate pudding. She had shed her overall to reveal a plain tailored grey dress, and looked more than ever like the lady of the house. Perhaps she was, thought Caryn doubtfully. Perhaps she should find out before Tristan Ross got back.

‘That was absolutely delicious,’ she said now, wiping her mouth on a napkin. ‘Did you make the minestrone yourself? I’ve never tasted anything nicer.’

Marcia nodded, and retrieved the tray after setting down the coffee pot beside it. She was about to withdraw again, and on impulse Caryn got to her feet.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t rush away on my account.’

But Marcia’s thin lips merely twitched slightly before she bowed her head and went away.

Caryn subsided on to the couch again. If Marcia wasn’t dumb she was giving a damn good imitation of being so. She sighed, and reached for the coffee pot. Oh, well! If she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to talk. And maybe it was as well. She didn’t want to get involved here—not more than necessary, anyway.

Her coffee finished, she looked about her restlessly. There was no television, which was unusual. She would have expected him to have one in every room. Was he on this evening? Was that why he had had to leave for the studios in Carmarthen? Or was it simply a pre-recording for something that was going out later?

Getting to her feet, she wandered round the large room. It was a man’s room, she thought reluctantly. There were no ornaments to speak of, no china cabinet or collection of porcelain in sealed cases. There were bookshelves, but she couldn’t believe anyone actually read such heavy, boring tomes, and she longed for the sight of a paperback or a magazine, anything to fill the time until Tristan Ross returned.

A silver trophy on the mantelshelf turned out to be an award from the Television Academy of Arts and Sciences for his contributions to the popular news programme Action World, and beside it was a bronze shield denoting Tristan Ross as Outstanding Television Correspondent for 1976.

Caryn pulled a face and put the awards down again, wondering in passing whether a silver trophy would smash if it fell into the stone hearth. It probably would, but she was not brave enough to find out. She could imagine her stammering apology: ‘I—I’m s-sorry, Mr Ross. It—it just s-slipped out of m-my f-fingers …’

Outside darkness had fallen, and she went to take another look over the estuary. The lights of the village were comforting across the water, and here and there a mooring light winked on the rising tide. A person could get delusions of grandeur living here, she thought cynically. Remote from the problems of the world outside.

The sound of a car’s engine broke the stillness, and although she hadn’t heard him leave, Caryn guessed her host had returned. She glanced at her watch. Eight-thirty. She raised her dark eyebrows. He was prompt anyway; she should be thankful for small mercies.

A door slammed, and then surprisingly, a female voice called: ‘Marcia! Marcia, I’m back! Whose car is that parked at our gate? I almost ran into the wretched thing! ‘

Caryn stiffened. Another visitor? Someone well-used to coming here anyway. Who else had a key to the door? Her lips tightened as she thought again of Loren’s waxen features. Oh, Tristan Ross had such a rude awakening coming to him!

Light footsteps ran down the stairs, and a moment later a girl appeared in the open doorway—tall, slim, almost as tall as Caryn, in fact, who always considered her five feet eight inches to be less than an advantage, with straight fair hair and smooth pale skin. She was one of the most attractive young women Caryn had seen for some time, and her orange jump suit accentuated the slender grace of her figure while exposing more of the unblemished skin than was absolutely necessary.

She stopped short when she saw the other girl, and stared at her frowningly. Competition? wondered Caryn dryly, although she felt positively gipsy-dark beside such Scandinavian fairness. She tanned easily, and her skin was already brown, its texture caring nothing for the burning at of the sun. She guessed this girl would have to be careful, or she would burn all too easily. And she probably was, Caryn conceded. She looked as if she spent some time caring for her appearance.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded now, and relieved to find someone who was not averse to speaking with her, Caryn answered:

‘Susan—Mellor. I—I’m waiting to see Mr Ross.’

The girl frowned and came into the room. ‘Why?’

It was a leading question, and Caryn hesitated. She had no qualms about evading an answer, but she was curious to know who the girl was, and antagonising her was not going to help. In consequence she gave the answer Ross himself had suggested:

‘The—er—agency sent me.’

‘The agency!’

The girl stared at her, and Caryn realised in dismay that if the next question was ‘What agency?’ she was stumped. What sort of agency might a man like Ross have contacted? Hysterical humour bubbled in her throat. She ought to be hoping it was as innocent as it sounded.

But the girl said: ‘Do you mean the Llandath Agency?’ and that was even worse.

Crossing her fingers behind her back, Caryn nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she agreed manfully. ‘The Llandath Agency.’

‘You liar!’

It was worse than Caryn had imagined. The girl was staring at her unpleasantly, and what was worse, the woman Marcia had come to reinforce the opposition.

‘Tris asked me to call at the agency,’ the girl declared, glancing round at Marcia for her support. ‘And I forgot! So what the hell do you think you’re doing here? Are you a reporter or something? Or just one of those awful groupies?’

‘I’m not a groupie!’ exclaimed Caryn, fighting a ridiculous desire to laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation.

‘What are you, then? Because I’m damn sure you’re not a secretary!’

Caryn straightened her shoulders. ‘As a matter of fact, you’re wrong. I am a secretary,’ she stated, more calmly than she felt. ‘And—and Mr Ross—rang the agency.’

Half of it was true anyway, she consoled herself, but the girl wasn’t finished yet. ‘Tris wouldn’t do that. Not when he’d asked me to call. Why should he? He knew I’d be in Carmarthen all afternoon.’

‘Perhaps you’d better take that up with him,’ remarked Caryn equably, and then started as a masculine voice said:

‘Take what up with me? Angel, what’s going on here? Why are you arguing with Miss Mellor?’

Tristan Ross came into the room. At some point on his journey home he had loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt, but he still managed to look calm and unruffled. Caryn noticed that contrary to tradition, the bottom button of his waistcoat was fastened, but his jacket was unfastened. Raking back the thick straight hair that was inclined to fall across his forehead, he regarded the two antagonists wryly, waiting for an explanation, and Caryn waited for ‘Angel’ to act entirely out of character.

‘I didn’t go to the agency, Tris!’ she declared. ‘I don’t know what this woman’s doing here, but she’s not from Llandath.’

Caryn silently acknowledged the girl’s attempt to classify her. Angel, if that really was her name, was younger than she was, but twenty-four didn’t exactly put one in the middle-aged bracket.

Tristan Ross had listened expressionlessly to what Angel said, and now he turned to Caryn. ‘Is that right? Are you not from the Llandath Agency?’

‘I never said I was,’ Caryn ventured slowly, and then when Angel began to protest, added: ‘Not to you anyway. You—just—assumed that.’

His mouth turned down only slightly at the comers. ‘All right, I’ll assume some more. You chose not to enlighten me because you wanted to get in here, is that right?’

‘Oh, I’d have got in here, Mr Ross,’ declared Caryn levelly, ‘whether you assumed I was from the agency or not.’

‘Is that so?’

She barely acknowledged the edge of steel that deepened his voice now. ‘Yes, that is so.’

‘I see.’ He glanced frowningly at the two other women. Then: ‘You sound very sure of yourself, Miss—Mellor, is it? Or is that assumed, too?’

To her annoyance, Caryn coloured again. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact it is. My name is Stevens, Caryn Stevens. Loren Stevens’ sister.’

She watched him carefully as she said her sister’s name, but it aroused no great reaction. A flicker of his eyes was all the notice he gave it, and then he shrugged and said:

‘Forgive me, but I’m afraid I don’t see the connection. Why should the sister of a girl who left my employ more than six months ago want to see me? Or are you looking to take over your sister’s position?’

Caryn gasped. ‘How dare you!’

At last she aroused some reaction, and the thin lips tightened ominously. ‘How dare I?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Come, Miss Stevens. I think this has gone far enough. Either tell me what in damnation you want or get out of here!’

Caryn gazed at the two women watching them so intently. ‘I would rather say what I have to say in private,’ she declared unevenly.

‘Would you?’ He made no attempt to dismiss their audience. ‘Well, I wouldn’t. Whatever it is, spit it out. Here! Where I have some witnesses.’

Caryn licked her lips. This was not what she had intended. She shrank from exposing her sister before two strangers. It was bad enough having to tell him. She could not bring herself to speak the words in front of anyone else.

‘I—I can’t,’ she said at last. ‘I—I won’t.’

Tristan Ross’s teeth ground together. ‘Miss—Miss Stevens: I don’t know why you’ve come here, but I should tell you that I have no secrets from either my daughter or my housekeeper.’

‘Your—your daughter!’ Caryn swallowed convulsively.

‘Angel—Angela. Angela Ross. Didn’t your sister tell you about her?’

‘No.’

‘Or about Marcia?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t have to worry about her carrying tales, or isn’t that what’s troubling you?’

So the woman couldn’t speak! Caryn felt a rush of sympathy, but then she gathered her small store of confidence about her. She straightened her spine, but even in her wedged heels he topped her by several inches, which was a disadvantage, she found. However, she had to go on:

‘Mr Ross,’ she said slowly, ‘what I have to say concerns my sister, not me. Please—’ She hated having to beg. ‘Give me a few minutes of your time.’

Impatience hardened his lean features. ‘Miss Stevens, I’ve just spent an uncomfortable half hour interviewing a man who refuses to admit that he’s a bloody Communist, and I’m tired! I’m not in the mood for play-acting or over-dramatisation, and if this has something to do with Loren then I guess it’s both—’

Caryn’s hand jerked automatically towards his cheek, and he made no attempt to stop her. The sound of her palm rang in the still room, and only his daughter’s protest was audible.

Tristan Ross just hooked his thumbs into the back waist-band of his trousers under his jacket and heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Is that all?’ he enquired flatly, but Angela burst out:

‘Are you going to let her get away with that?’ in shocked tones.

In truth, Caryn was as confused as the other girl. The blow administered, she was disarmed, and they all knew it.

With a sense of futility, she would have brushed past him and made for the door, but his hand closed round her arm, preventing her from leaving.

‘Not so fast,’ he said, and she noticed inconsequently how the red weals her fingers had left in no way detracted from the disturbing attraction of his dark features. Such unusually dark features with that light hair. The hair he had obviously bestowed on his daughter. His daughter! For heaven’s sake, why hadn’t Loren mentioned that he had a grown-up daughter? Did he have a wife, too? Was that why …

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded, and she held up her head.

‘I—I’ll write to you,’ she said, saying the first thing that came into her head, and he stared at her frustratedly.

‘Why? What have we to say to one another? If Loren has something to say why the hell didn’t she come and say it herself?’

Caryn’s jaw quivered. ‘Loren is dead, Mr Ross. Didn’t you know?’

At last she had succeeded in pricking his self-confidence. His hand fell from her arm as if it burned him, and feeling the blood beginning to circulate through that numbed muscle once more, Caryn felt a trembling sense of awareness. She was too close to him, she thought faintly. She could almost share his shock of cold disbelief, feel the wave of revulsion that swept over him.

‘Dead!’ he said incredulously. ‘Loren—dead? My God, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

‘Why be sorry?’ Angela spoke again. ‘She was nothing but a nuisance all the time she was here—’

‘Angel!’

His harsh interjection was ignored as Caryn added bitterly: ‘Why pretend to be sorry, Mr Ross? You never answered any of her letters.’

‘Her letters?’ He shook his head. ‘All right, Miss Stevens, you’ve won. We’ll go into my study. We can talk privately there—’

‘You’re not going to talk to her, are you?’ Angela’s dismayed protest rang in their ears, but Tristan Ross just looked at his daughter before walking past her out of the room.

Caryn hesitated only a moment before following him. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Why then did she feel so little enthusiasm for the task?

They went across the hall and down a passage that descended by means of single steps at intervals to an even lower level, and he thrust open a leather-studded door and stood back to allow her to precede him inside.

The room was only slightly smaller than the living room, with all the books Caryn could have wished for lining the walls. Paperbacks there were in plenty, as well as every issue of the Geographical Magazine for years past. A honey-brown carpet supported a leather-topped desk, a pair of revolving leather chairs, and several armchairs. A smaller desk in one corner held a typewriter and a pair of wire trays, with metal filing cabinets completing the furnishings. Here again, the windows overlooked the estuary, but it was dark and Ross drew the venetian blinds.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ he suggested, indicating one of the armchairs, but Caryn preferred to stand. ‘As you wish.’ He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the leather chairs. ‘But if you’ll excuse me …’

‘Of course.’

He lounged into one of the revolving chairs, behind the desk, and in spite of his informal attire he was still the Tristan Ross she knew from so many current affairs programmes. Calm, polite, faintly sardonic; using his grammar school education to its fullest potential while still maintaining the common touch that encouraged the most unlikely people to confide in him.

‘Right,’ he said, and she thought rather hysterically that all that was missing were the television cameras. ‘Suppose you tell me why you wanted to see me.’

Taking a deep breath, she decided to come straight to the point. ‘You—knew about Loren, didn’t you?’

‘What did I know?’

He was annoyingly oblique, and she clenched her fists. ‘She wrote and told you about—about the baby—’

‘The baby!’ His indolence disappeared. ‘What baby?’

Caryn suddenly found she had to sit down after all, and backed until her knees came up against the soft velvety cushioning of an armchair. She sat down rather weakly on the edge of the seat.

‘I said—what baby?’ he repeated, getting to his feet to rest the palms of his hands on the desk in front of him, leaning slightly towards her. ‘I warn you—if this is another of Loren’s tricks—’

‘I told you. Loren’s dead!’ she reminded him tersely, and his jaw clenched.

‘So you did.’

‘Why didn’t you answer any of her letters?’

‘For God’s sake! I don’t remember seeing any letters from her. And even if I had—’

He broke off abruptly and Caryn guessed what he had been going to say. ‘You wouldn’t have answered them?’

‘Look,’ he sighed, ‘Mrs Forrest—that’s the name of the woman I employed on a temporary basis to take over after—after Loren left—she had orders to deal with—well, that sort of thing.’

‘Fan mail?’ demanded Caryn bitterly, and his eyes held hers coldly.

‘Why not?’ he challenged, and she wondered how she could have thought his eyes were dark. They were light, amber-coloured, the alert eyes of a prey-hunting animal at bay.

‘She told you she was expecting your child and you ignor—’

‘She did what?’ He came round the desk towards her, the muscles of his face working tensely. ‘Say that again!’

Caryn licked her dry lips. ‘She—she was expecting your—’

‘The bitch!’

Caryn came abruptly to her feet. ‘Don’t you dare to speak of my sister like that!’

‘I’ll speak of her how the hell I like!’ he retorted savagely. ‘God Almighty, what a bloody cock-and-bull story that is! And you came here to tell me that—’

‘Not just for that,’ she got out jerkily. ‘Not just for that.’

He made an effort to calm himself, but he began to pace about the room and she was reminded of a predator once more. He moved so lithely, so naturally; with all the grace and none of the nobility of the beast, she thought fiercely.

‘Of course,’ he said coldly. ‘You came to tell me she was dead. Well, perhaps it’s just as well.’ He stopped to stare into her working features. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well. I think if she’d still been alive, I’d have killed her!’

Caryn backed off again. ‘And—and what about your son?’ she got out chokingly. ‘What about him? Do you want to kill him, too?’




CHAPTER TWO (#u5efb46c8-4029-5693-a85a-285e6c7bd4c4)


SHE saw the colour leave his face as he looked at her. Even his tan took on a jaundiced appearance, and she realised what a tremendous shock this must have been for him.

‘My—son?’ he echoed faintly. ‘You mean—there’s a child?’

‘Y—yes. A boy. He’s—three months old.’

‘Three months!’

Close to her like this, his eyes had a curious magnetic quality, the pupils dilated so that the tawny irises were almost extinguished. His lashes were thick and straight, gold-tipped she saw, like the sun-bleached texture of his hair. Impatience and confusion twisted the firm contours of his mouth, depriving it of its normally sensual curve. She wondered fleetingly if the child would be like him, and then squashed the thought as being unworthy of speculation.

The silence between them was beginning to get to her, and she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, suddenly aware of the pulse jerking at his jawline, the strong column of his throat rising above the opened neck of his shirt. In the warm room, redolent with the salty tang of the estuary, a hangover from opened windows on the sun-filled afternoon, she could still smell the faint heat of his body mingling with less personal scents of soap and after-shave. It made her aware of her own vulnerability, and she realised what a temptation he must have been to an impressionable girl like Loren.

‘Three months,’ he said again at last. Sarcasm curled his lips. ‘Why wait so long?’

‘Before coming here, you mean?’ she asked jerkily.

‘That’s exactly what I do mean.’ His fingers inserted themselves into the minute pockets of his waistcoat. ‘Or was I last on the list?’

‘You—’

Her instinctive response was to hit him once more, but he backed off mockingly, raising one hand to defend himself. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Not again. We played that little scene ten minutes ago. Melodrama was never my strong point.’

‘What is your strong point, Mr Ross?’ she demanded hotly. ‘Seducing teenagers?’

The bones of his cheeks were clearly visible as his breath was sucked in. Then, in cold denigrating tones, he said: ‘Are you aware of the laws governing slander? If you would care to repeat those words in the presence of the other members of this household, I think I can promise you you’ll find out.’

Caryn’s lips trembled, but she had to go on. ‘Do you deny seducing my sister, Mr Ross?’

He heaved a sigh. ‘Would you believe me if I did?’

‘No.’

‘Then that’s rather a pointless question, don’t you think?’

Caryn sniffed. ‘I might have known what kind of man you’d turn out to be.’

‘So why did you come here?’

‘Because that child is yours, and he’s your responsibility!’

‘Ah, I see.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘It’s money you want.’

‘No!’ Caryn was horrified. ‘You—you don’t think I’ve come here to—to blackmail you, do you?’

‘You used that word, not me.’

‘But you—implied it.’ She made a grimace of distaste. ‘Oh, you’re twisting all my words. You’re making it so—so sordid!’

‘And isn’t it?’ he snapped. ‘Coming here, telling me some crazy story about your sister dying and insinuating that it was my fault—’

‘It was!’

‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head. ‘If your sister’s dead, it has nothing to do with me.’

Caryn forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘How can you say that? You must have known there was a risk—’

‘What risk?’ he grated. ‘For God’s sake, I didn’t know she was pregnant!’

Caryn tried to be calm. ‘You must have known she might be,’ she insisted. ‘You left her to tell her family—’

‘Her family!’ He raised his eyes heavenward for a moment as if seeking patience. ‘I didn’t even know she had a family, until you came here purporting to be her sister.’

‘I am her sister.’

‘Very well. And I was her employer. Her employer! Do you understand? I seldom discuss personal matters with employees unless they impinge in some way upon the working capacity of the employee concerned. Is that clear enough for you?’

Caryn tried again: ‘But your relationship with Loren was more than that of employer-employee.’

‘Was it?’

‘Well, wasn’t it?’

‘Did she tell you that it was?’

‘I didn’t need to be told,’ Caryn declared tremulously. ‘She was made about you.’

‘Really?’ He was unmoved. ‘And I was mad about her, too I suppose.’

‘For a while …’

‘For a while!’ He brought his balled fist hard into the palm of his hand. ‘My God, I can’t believe anyone could be that—that—’

‘Gullible?’ she supplied coldly, but he snapped: ‘No! Stupid!’

‘Loren was not stupid,’ she protested, and his lips sneered:

‘Did I say Loren?’ he taunted, and her fists clenched.

‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Mr Ross?’

‘No.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘Not clever at all. I was stupid. I knew what she was the minute I saw her. I should never have taken her on.’

Caryn couldn’t permit this. ‘Loren was a good secretary—’

‘There are thousands of good secretaries.’

‘She was loyal. She worked hard.’

‘She made life impossible!’ he muttered.

‘You admit then that your relationship with her wasn’t as platonic as you would have me think—’

‘I admit nothing,’ he declared, turning his back on her and walking back to his desk. ‘Nothing!’

Caryn drew in a long breath and expelled it unsteadily. ‘So you deny that the child is yours?’

There was silence for a moment and then he turned and rested back against the side of his desk, one hand on either side of him supporting his body. ‘Tell me about the child,’ he said. ‘Tell me how she died.’

Caryn sought for words. ‘I—she—when you fired her—’ She waited for him to deny this, but when he didn’t, she went on: ‘When you fired her, she came back to London. To—to the flat.’

‘Your parents’ flat?’ he inquired.

‘No. Mine.’ Caryn hesitated, then she went on: ‘Our parents are dead. We were brought up in Maidstone by an elderly aunt, but when I was old enough, I left there to take a commercial course in London. Then when Loren was older, she did the same.’

‘And you shared the flat?’

‘Well, it was my flat really. Loren wasn’t there all the time. She had … friends …’

‘Friends?’

‘Yes, friends.’ Caryn saw no point in revealing that Loren had always preferred the company of men to women. ‘Anyway, later on she got this job, down here—living in. I—I advised her not to take it.’

‘Why not?’ He was curious.

‘Because of you. Because of your reputation,’ declared Caryn firmly.

‘What reputation?’ he pursued tautly.

Caryn was discomfited. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes, I think it does.’

She sighed. ‘You know what I mean as well as I do.’

‘You shouldn’t believe all you read in the papers, Miss Stevens,’ he retorted.

‘Obviously not,’ she flared. ‘They omitted to mention that you were married.’

‘My wife died when Angela was three. Does that absolve me from that particular crime?’

Caryn flushed. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Is any of this?’

‘Yes. I—I was with Loren when she died.’

He hunched his shoulders. ‘Go on. When did she tell you she was pregnant?’

Caryn hesitated. ‘Not for some time. She—she was so thin, you see. It—hardly showed.’

He frowned. ‘Did she get another job?’

‘No.’ Caryn was reluctant to tell everything that happened those last few months, but perhaps she owed him that, at least. ‘She—as you know, there are not that many jobs around. And—and she was—listless, without enthusiasm. She said she had written to you and asked you to take her back again.’

‘She knew I was going to East Africa.’

‘Yes. She collected all the cuttings.’

‘My God!’ He sounded disgusted.

‘But she wrote to you after you got back. As I said before, you never replied.’

‘I told Mrs Forrest to ignore those letters. I knew what Loren was like. I knew she wouldn’t give up that easily.’

‘She depended on you …’

‘She was a leech!’

‘She was so happy here to begin with. She used to write such excited letters, telling me how you used to take her with you on certain assignments—’

‘I took her once,’ he declared heavily.

‘Nevertheless, you took advantage of her.’

‘I did what?’

‘She told me how—how you used to—to pester her—’

‘What?’ He stared at her incredulously.

‘—coming home drunk after parties. Forcing your attentions upon her—’

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you believed it?’

‘Why not? Loren didn’t lie about things like that.’

‘Didn’t she?’

‘I suppose you used to get her drunk, too,’ Caryn accused him. ‘Was that how you got into her bed?’

‘Oh, my God!’ His face twisted. ‘Do you think I’d have to do that to sleep with her?’ He shook his head.

‘I don’t believe you.’

He shrugged. ‘Unlike your sister, I cannot arouse your sympathy or your trust.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘But we’re straying from the point, aren’t we? You still haven’t told me why you’re here.’

‘I should have thought that was obvious.’

‘Well, I’m sorry. It’s not.’

‘I’ve told you. The child is your responsibility now.’

In what way?’

‘You’re his father. You should support his upbringing.’

‘Financially? Or physically?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you asking for money or aren’t you, Miss Stevens?’

Caryn paused. ‘Loren—Loren told me to come to you. To bring the child to you. She said—she said you would know what to do.’

He stared at her disbelievingly. ‘And you accepted that?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘After what she had told you about me?’

Caryn shook her head. ‘That has nothing to do with it.’

‘I disagree. It has everything to do with it. What does a man like me want with an innocent child? A man who goes around seducing teenagers? A man, moreover, who you have just accused of introducing your sister to drink!’

He’s your son,’ insisted Caryn doggedly, refusing to be alarmed.

‘And your nephew. Or had you overlooked that?’

It’s nothing to do with me,’ Caryn exclaimed restlessly. ‘It’s not my child.’

His amber eyes narrowed. ‘You sound very vehement about it. Don’t you like children?’

‘It killed my sister, Mr Ross. Do you think I can forget that?’

‘Ah, I see.’ He sounded sardonic. ‘How convenient! Shift the blame—and the responsibility.’

‘I have to work for my living, Mr Ross. I don’t have time to take care of a baby.’

‘It may have slipped your notice, Miss Stevens, but I work for my living, too.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How different?’

‘You—you have money …’

‘I see. So it is money you want,’ he mocked coldly.

‘No!’

‘Why should I believe you? How do I know you’re not making the whole thing up? You’re Loren’s sister! Maybe you’re in this together!’

Her white face seemed to sober him, and he muttered a rough apology: ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You’re nothing like her, thank God!’

Caryn’s throat felt tight. ‘Loren is dead.’

‘Yes, yes, so you keep telling me.’

‘It’s true!’

‘I believe it.’ He expelled his breath on a long sigh. ‘So: where is the kid?’

‘In London. Spending the day with some friends who live in the adjoining flat to mine. Laura—that’s the girl’s name—she’s expecting a baby herself in three months.’

‘Really.’ He sounded uninterested, and she wished she hadn’t volunteered the information. She had only wanted to assure him that the child was in good hands. ‘How soon can I see him?’

‘You mean—you mean you’ll have him?’ Suddenly it all seemed totally unreal.

‘You’re prepared to give him away, aren’t you? To a complete stranger?’

‘You’re his father,’ she protested, but he shook his head.

‘You can’t prove that.’

‘You can’t prove you’re not.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that, if I were you.’

‘Oh, please!’ Caryn’s cry was ragged. ‘Will you or won’t you take him?’

‘Let’s say I want to examine the goods first, hmm?’ He paused. ‘Does he have a name?’

‘Yes.’ Caryn was reluctant to admit it. ‘Loren called him Tristan, but I—I—’

‘You couldn’t bring yourself to use it, is that it?’ he questioned dryly.

‘Maybe.’

He began to pace again, measuring the room with his lean, pantherlike strides. ‘So—where do you live?’

‘I can drive back and fetch him—’

‘No.’ He halted once more. ‘No, don’t do that. I’ll come to London. You’d better give me your address.’

Caryn was loath to do so. ‘I can easily bring him here.’

‘I’m sure you can,’ he agreed, ‘but I prefer to do it my way.’

‘You can’t pay me off!’ she burst out uncontrollably, and his lips curled.

‘I don’t intend to.’

A knock at the study door curtailed any response she might have made, and without waiting for his summons, Angela Ross appeared in the doorway. Her eyes flickered over Caryn without liking, and then she looked at her father.

‘Tris, how much longer are you going to be? Marcia’s made a pizza for your supper, and it’s going to be ruined if you don’t eat it soon.’

His features changed as he looked at his daughter. Watching him, Caryn felt a curious pang at the gentleness of his expression. Why couldn’t he have looked at Loren like that? she thought resentfully. Why should this girl feel herself so secure when he owed just as much allegiance to the woman who had borne his child, and to his son …

‘We’re almost through,’ he told Angela now. ‘Miss—er—Stevens is leaving.’

Caryn squared her shoulders. ‘If you’ll give me a sheet of paper, I’ll give you my address.’

She was aware of his daughter’s raised eyebrows, but she didn’t care. Angela would have to know sooner or later, and why should she protect her? It was up to her father to explain, if he could.

Angela hung around as Caryn wrote her address on the pad he handed to her, adding her telephone number in case it was needed. Tristan barely glanced at it as he tossed it on to his desk, and she was aware that he was waiting for her to go.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ he assured her politely, his eyes glinting, with suppressed anger. She guessed he had not cared for her referring to some future association in front of his daughter, but that was just too bad, she thought half defensively.

Outside, the air had never smelt so sweet, and she walked up to where she had left the car on legs that threatened to give out on her. Well, she had done it, she thought defiantly, and wondered why she was suddenly so doubtful …

Caryn spent the night at the hotel in Carmarthen and travelled back to London the next morning. The journey seemed so much shorter going back, but perhaps that was because she had more enthusiasm towards her destination.

Her flat was on the second floor of a house in Bloomsbury. It was not the most fashionable area of London, but it was civilised, and the tall Victorian houses had an atmosphere that was missing from the stark concrete and glass sky-scrapers that had sprung up all around them. Mrs Theobald, who lived on the ground floor, had window boxes, and at this time of the year they were bright with geraniums, and gave a distinct individuality to Number II Faulkner Terrace. Caryn had rung her friends from the hotel that morning, and when she reached the second floor the door of the Westons’ flat opened and Laura appeared with the baby in her arms.

‘Hi,’ she said, smiling, her freckled face showing sympathy for Caryn’s aching legs. ‘Come in and have a cuppa. Bob’s already gone to the studio.’

Bob Weston was a commercial photographer, working for a small agency in Notting Hill. He photographed weddings and christenings, and occasionally did spreads for small magazines, but his ambition was to move into the more lucrative world of television.

‘Thanks.’ Caryn barely glanced at her nephew as she followed Laura into the flat, a facsimile of her own except that it was much tidier. She tried never to let herself feel any attachment for the child, knowing as she did that the authorities would not let her keep him much longer.

‘He’s been so good,’ Laura exclaimed, closing the door before walking to a folding pram standing in the comer. ‘He didn’t even wake during the night.’

‘No. He’s very good.’ Caryn sounded weary and indifferent, and Laura looked at her anxiously.

‘Well?’ she ventured. ‘What happened? You were very vague on the phone this morning.’

Caryn flung herself into an armchair. ‘I told you I saw—him.’

‘Yes.’ Laura padded through to the tiny kitchen to put on the kettle. ‘But you didn’t say what was going to happen.’

‘He wants to see him.’

‘Who?’ Laura came to the door of the kitchen. ‘Tristan Ross wants to see the baby?’

‘Yes.’

Laura grimaced. ‘So when are you taking him?’

‘I’m not. He wants to come here.’

Laura ran a hand over the swelling mound of her stomach and subsided into a chair with evident relief. ‘Heavens!’

Caryn forced a rueful smile. ‘Yes. I’d better see about tidying my place up.’

‘I didn’t mean that. And besides, it isn’t so bad.’

Caryn sighed. ‘It isn’t so good. But since Loren died … and having him …’ She tipped her head towards the pram from which direction a low gurgling sound could be heard.

Laura shook her head uncomprehendingly. ‘I don’t know how you can consider giving him away,’ she burst out unwillingly. ‘He’s adorable. And so sweet …’

‘Oh, Laura!’ Caryn shifted restlessly. ‘How can I keep him? I don’t earn enough to support him, for one thing. And who would look after him while I was at work? You can’t much longer, and then …’

‘But don’t you love him?’

‘There’s not much point, is there?’ murmured Caryn bitterly, getting up and walking across the room, coming to a halt reluctantly beside the folding pram. Of course he was sweet, she thought impatiently, as she saw the quiff of feathery fair hair, the plump little hands curling and uncurling, the softly pursed lips oozing dribbles down his chin. Laura was right—he was a good baby. But she had no time for babies.

The kettle whistled and Laura got up to make the tea, and returning to her seat Caryn reflected what good friends the Westons had been to her. Without their assistance, she could never have kept the baby this long, but she had been determined not to let the social services people take him. Not after what Loren had begged her to do.

And yet it hadn’t been easy, making up her mind to go and see Tristan Ross. For one thing, she had had to find out where he lived and whether he was there at the moment. He spent quite a lot of his time travelling, but fortunately Bob had had connections in the television industry, and he had supplied the information that when Ross returned from his present trip to Canada he was scheduled to do a series of programmes for a London television company.

Laura carried the tray of tea into the living room and set it down on a table near at hand. Caryn came to join her, and they each enjoyed the reviving flavour of the beverage.

Munching a biscuit, which she confessed she should not be eating, Laura asked when Tristan Ross intended to come to the flat.

‘I don’t know,’ Caryn admitted with a sigh. ‘But I gave him the phone number. I guess he’ll ring first and make an appointment. He’s used to doing that sort of thing.’

‘What was he like?’

Laura was intrigued, but Caryn just poured herself more tea and gave an offhand shrug of her shoulders. ‘You know what he’s like,’ she said. ‘You’ve seen him on television plenty of times.’

‘I know.’ Laura gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘But it’s different meeting someone, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not a fan,’ declared Caryn flatly, and her friend’s freckled face coloured unbecomingly.

‘I know that,’ she murmured uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest you were.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Laura.’ Caryn felt contrite. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m an ungrateful creature. And after all you’ve done for me …’ She made an effort to be objective. ‘He—well, he’s taller than you might imagine, and he’s certainly—well, sexy, I suppose.’

‘You could understand why Loren was so infatuated with him, then?’ asked Laura quietly.

‘Oh, yes.’ Caryn had to be honest, although it went against the grain to find excuses for him. ‘I should think she found him fascinating. Any—any impressionable woman would.’

‘But not you?’ suggested Laura dryly.

‘Me!’ Caryn looked affronted. ‘You must be joking!’

‘Why? That’s quite a solution to your problems, have you thought of that?’

‘What do you mean?’

Laura looked uncomfortable now. ‘Well, I—I just meant—him being the baby’s father, and you its aunt—perhaps you might—’

‘Get together, you mean?’ Caryn was horrified.

Laura’s colour came and went, but she stuck to her guns. ‘Well, why not? I mean, we all know—that is, you know Loren was prone to—exaggeration—’

‘Laura, what are you saying?’ Caryn stared at her. ‘Don’t you believe Tristan Ross is his—’ she indicated the pram, ‘——his father?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Laura was quick to protest. ‘I do, I do. Only—well, maybe it wasn’t as—maybe she—wanted it, too.’

Caryn heaved a heavy sigh. ‘I see.’ She moved her shoulders wearily. ‘Okay, I’ll accept that perhaps Loren did—encourage him.’ She lifted her head. ‘What girl wouldn’t, for heaven’s sake?’

‘You said you wouldn’t,’ Laura reminded her, and Caryn looked down into her teacup.

‘I know I did. And I meant it. But anyway, that still doesn’t change things. I think he sacked her when he suspected she was pregnant. Nothing can alter that. And when she wrote and told him, he ignored her letters.’

Laura nodded slowly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Then she looked at her friend. ‘I just can’t help thinking that you’re going to regret this.’

‘What?’

‘Giving—him away. Caryn, he is your nephew!’

‘He’s Tristan Ross’s son. He can do a lot more for him than I can.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’ Laura straightened her spine, wincing at her aching back. ‘I just wish that was our baby lying in the pram there. Without all the effort of having him.’

Caryn grinned, relaxing a little. ‘You don’t mean that. You’re loving every minute of it. I’ve never seen Bob so attentive.’

Laura smiled too. ‘No,’ she agreed happily. ‘He has been marvellous, hasn’t he? Do you know he went out the other night at half past eleven to get me some fish and chips?’

‘Fish and chips! At half past eleven!’ Caryn grimaced. ‘Oh, Laura, how could you?’

Laura giggled. ‘I don’t know. I was ravenous, that’s all. I had to eat fruit and crackers all the following day before I dared go to the clinic. I have to watch my blood pressure, you see.’

‘And having junior over there isn’t helping things, is it?’ remarked Caryn dryly. ‘Let’s hope his—daddy comes for him soon.’

Laura looked at her anxiously. ‘Let’s hope so,’ she sighed, but she didn’t sound convincing.




CHAPTER THREE (#u5efb46c8-4029-5693-a85a-285e6c7bd4c4)


CARYN worked in Cricklewood, and every morning she delivered her nephew into Laura’s capable hands, collecting him again when she came home at five o’clock. It was an arrangement that had worked very well, except that Caryn felt guilty about taking advantage of Laura’s good nature. Still, she did pay for the service, and Laura insisted they could do with the extra money with the baby on the way.

However, the arrangement did not do a lot for Caryn’s social life. She worked as secretary to the Dean of Lansworth College, and during the course of her duties she was brought into contact with a lot of young men. But perhaps fortunately none of them had appealed to her seriously, and her most lasting admirer was the Dean himself.

Laurence Mellor was a man in his early fifties, still virile and attractive, with a broad muscular frame and iron grey hair. His wife had run off with a fellow colleague in his first years as assistant at Lansworth, but he had weathered the storm of gossip which had followed and had eventually been made head of the art college. His intense interest in his work had probably been responsible for the break-up of his marriage, Caryn had surmised, but since he had become Dean the pressure was off, and he had more time to think about his personal life.

Caryn had been his secretary for four years. She had come to Lansworth from a position in a typing pool with a firm of solicitors, but like Mellor himself, she had been ambitious, and he had recognised her determination as soon as he saw her. They got along well together, and on those occasions when he needed a hostess he always called on Caryn.

He knew of the affair with Loren, of course, although not all the personal details. He knew she had been Tristan Ross’s secretary for a while, but he had not connected that with her subsequent pregnancy. When she died, he was sympathetic, and he always prided himself on being open-minded about things like that. Consequently he had not connected her sister with Caryn’s request for two days’ leave of absence to visit a sick relative in South Wales.

Caryn returned to the college on Thursday, and to her relief Laurence was out of the office all morning attending a governor’s meeting. By the time he returned she was immersed in her duties and able to answer his enquiries without obvious embarrassment. Even so, she was taken aback when he came to perch his ample frame on the corner of her desk and said without warning: ‘Have you decided yet what you’re going to do about Loren’s baby? I don’t think I approve of you working all day and all night as well.’ Caryn finished fitting the wedge of typing paper into the machine to give herself time to recover, and then said casually: ‘I don’t work all night, Laurence.’

‘No.’ He fingered his tie thoughtfully. ‘But you do look after him in the evenings, don’t you? And there must be—nappies to wash. That sort of thing.’

He sounded as though such an occupation offended the fastidiousness of his nature, and she had to smile. ‘There are nappies,’ she agreed, ‘but only wet ones. There are disposable pads on the market now, you know.’

‘Nevertheless, you have very little free time these days,’ he insisted. ‘You can’t go on like this, Caryn. It’s not right. It’s not as if the baby were yours.’

Caryn looked up into his broad expressive face. He was obviously concerned for her, but she couldn’t help wondering if he had some occasion coming up when he would need her assistance, and was sounding her out about babysitters.

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t plan to keep him much longer,’ she admitted slowly, and his face brightened considerably.

‘No?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s someone—someone I know, who might—give him a home.’

‘A relative?’

‘Sort of.’

‘I see.’ Laurence looked much relieved. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m not delighted, because I am.’ He slid off the desk to stand before her, taking his watch out of his fob pocket and examining it absently. ‘As a matter of fact, something’s come up, something I wanted to discuss with you. I was hoping you might be able to have dinner with me.’

Caryn hid the wry acknowledgement of her suspicions, and frowned consideringly. ‘I don’t think I could make it tonight, Laurence,’ she said apologetically. ‘I’ve been away a couple of days, as you know, and I don’t think I ought to ask Laura to babysit again tonight. Maybe tomorrow …’

‘It can wait another day,’ Laurence agreed at once. ‘Tomorrow evening it shall be. Where shall we eat? In town—or out?’

‘Wherever you like,’ Caryn replied, quite looking forward to the break from routine, and Laurence went away saying he would think about it.

In fact they ate in town, at Beluccis in Soho, where Laurence was a valued customer. The restaurant was small, but not inexpensive, and a corner table was always found for him. The lighting was subdued and intimate, and Caryn had accompanied him there twice before.

He ordered Martinis, and then got straight to the point. ‘I’ve been invited to the United States during the summer vacation,’ he explained, and Caryn felt a twinge of interest. ‘It’s a tour of several university campuses, some lecturing, some studying. A kind of sabbatical, I suppose.’ He paused as the waiter brought their drinks. ‘But I don’t want to go alone,’ he went on, when they were alone again. ‘I want you to come with me.’

‘To the United States!’ Caryn gasped. ‘Laurence!’

‘Well, why not? You’re my secretary, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Ah, I see. You’re worried about what people will say. I don’t blame you. Colleges are notorious places for gossip.’

‘It’s not just that, Laurence. I mean—the expense …’

He put his drink aside and reached across the table to take one of her hands in his. This was something he had done before, too. When he wanted something, he could be as persuasive as the next man. But this time Caryn was disturbed by the light in his eyes.

‘Caryn,’ he said softly, ‘have you ever thought of getting married?’

‘Married?’ She shook her head. ‘Not seriously, no.’

‘Never?’

‘No.’ She tried to make a joke of it, not liking the serious turn the conversation had taken. ‘No one’s asked me.’

‘I can’t believe that.’

‘Well, no one I would want to marry,’ she conceded lightly.

‘Marry me, Caryn. Marry me!’

She withdrew her hand at once, pressing it close into the other in her lap. ‘Laurence!’ she exclaimed, realising she had been afraid of this happening. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘I am. I am.’ He sighed. ‘Is it my age? Is that the barrier?’

‘I don’t love you, Laurence …’

‘Love!’ He scoffed at the word. ‘What is love? I loved Cecily and look where it got me!’ He shook his head. ‘You think I’m too old, don’t you?’

‘Laurence, if I loved someone, I wouldn’t care how old they were. Honestly.’

He refused to give up. ‘You could learn to love me. I would teach you.’

‘Why?’ Caryn’s brows ascended. ‘Do you love me?’

He shifted restively. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t believe in that sort of emotional foolishness.’ He pressed on: ‘Caryn, we have so much in common. Our work, our liking for books and music …’

‘It wouldn’t work, Laurence. They’re not good enough reasons for getting married!’

The waiter was hovering, waiting for their order, and somewhat impatiently Laurence suggested they chose what they planned to eat. But Caryn’s appetite had been drastically reduced, and she insisted that an omelette with salad was all she wanted.

The waiter departed and Laurence returned to the attack. ‘Very well,’ he said levelly, ‘if you won’t marry me, at least come with me. I need you.’

‘You need someone,’ she corrected him quietly. ‘And that’s why I won’t marry you, Laurence. Because I’m not just someone, I’m me! I don’t want to spend my life as a cipher!’

He looked hurt. ‘I think you’re being unnecessarily harsh. If I’ve ever treated you that way, I’m sorry—’

‘I’m not saying you have—yet. But if we were married … Oh, it’s no use, Laurence. Let’s forget it, shall we?’

‘And the tour?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

He chewed at his lower lip. ‘We could pretend to be engaged. For the duration of the trip, I mean.’

Caryn laughed. ‘You make it sound like the plot for a romantic novel! Honestly, I never believed people actually went in for that sort of thing.’

‘What sort of thing?’ he asked shortly.

‘Pretending to be engaged!’ She laughed again, feeling more lighthearted than she had done for days. ‘Really, Laurence! If I wanted to come with you, do you think a little thing like gossip would stop me?’

He assumed an offended air. ‘It’s different for you,’ he maintained. ‘You’re young—and very attractive. And you don’t hold any position of authority in the college. I’m its principal. I can’t afford to behave in a way that might prove detrimental to my office.’

Caryn relented. ‘Oh, Laurence! All right. Don’t look so mortified. I know what you mean, but—well, I’ll think about it.’

‘About what?’ He was eager. ‘Marrying me?’

‘No.’ She quickly disabused him. ‘Going with you. As your “fiancée”, if necessary.’

He leant towards her appealingly. ‘Do give it careful thought, won’t you?’ he implored, but Caryn had the uneasy feeling that her association with Dean Mellor was being stretched to the limits.

It wasn’t late when he took her home; no more than ten o’clock. Laurence seldom indulged in late nights. He always said he liked to go to bed and read for an hour before attempting to go to sleep, and consequently he retired earlier to compensate.

Caryn climbed the stairs to her flat rather thoughtfully. She wasn’t sure what she ought to do about the trip to America. It was true, the idea of visiting that country was exciting, but as Laurence’s fiancée? Real or imagined? She shook her head. Somehow she was loath to commit herself to something that might prove more difficult to get out of later than she could imagine.

There was a light showing under her door, she saw as she reached the top of the stairs, and she frowned. Generally, Laura kept the baby in their flat, finding it easier that way. She did occasionally babysit in Caryn’s rooms, but that was usually when Bob was inviting some friends round to play cards, and she had not said anything about that tonight before Caryn went out. Still …

Caryn found her key and inserted it in the lock, and entered her living room. Then she stopped in astonishment. Laura was there, sitting nervously on the couch, but opposite her, his long length draped casually over one of Caryn’s armchairs, was Tristan Ross.

He came to his feet as she entered, and she noticed half with impatience how incongruous his dark green velvet evening suit looked in the apartment. Before going out she had washed some of the baby’s clothes and some nappies, and spread them over a clothes airer to dry. There were some blankets folded over the arm of one chair, and a half empty feeding bottle standing on the table, as well as a pair of her shoes and the tights she had worn for work that day strewn carelessly in one corner.

Laura stood up, too, and looked at her apologetically, making a helpless movement with her shoulders. ‘Er—Mr Ross came just after you left, Caryn,’ she explained awkwardly. ‘He insisted on waiting.’

Caryn pressed her lips together for a moment, and then met Ross’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’ She paused. ‘You should have phoned.’

He acknowledged this silently, and then looked at Laura. Taking her cue, she moved clumsily towards the door. But Caryn stopped her: ‘Don’t go, Laura …’

‘I think what we have to say needs to be said privately, don’t you?’ Tristan Ross suggested dryly, almost matching the words she had used at his house, and Laura nodded her head and made for the door.

‘He—he’s in the bedroom,’ she murmured for Caryn’s benefit, and Caryn smiled her thanks.

But when the door had closed behind her, Caryn had never felt more humiliated in her life. She despised herself for the slummy state of the room, for the obvious lack of organisation. And she despised him too for coming here and making her feel so small. Was he comparing this place to his beautiful home? How could he not do so? Still, she reflected cynically, perhaps it would persuade him that his child did not deserve to be brought up here.

Now she said curtly: ‘Have you seen—him?’

‘The boy?’ He inclined his head. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him.’

Caryn dropped her handbag on the floor. ‘And?’




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