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Reluctant Father
Elizabeth Oldfield
The father of her child… So what was Gifford doing here in the Saychelles? Was he really arrogant enough just to walk back into Cass's life after ignoring her for eighteen months? He soon made it clear that he still wanted Cass.But how could he sit there and not even mention his son? Well, Cass wasn't about to let him get away with it. She decided to wheel in the star of the show… his baby.



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u46e07a98-6404-51ac-892d-65aa802217a8)
Excerpt (#u97cbb926-6ce6-5b9e-8007-a642c2718199)
About the Author (#ueef9c85d-c8af-53df-8d56-d049add2f454)
Title Page (#u56f0a004-a3e1-5b40-afe5-7489167ecaa1)
CHAPTER ONE (#u149576e1-d55e-5d6a-9494-e22903171ead)
CHAPTER TWO (#u42a1f1cf-6dd5-526f-bf72-fc2e1be93888)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Gifford gazed at the child.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I have a son, and yet for nine months you conceal his existence. You don’t bother to inform me that I’m a father. How dare you?” he raged. Jack began to cry.

“Shh, popcorn, shh.” Cass rubbed the baby’s back and rocked him against her. “I did tell you,” she said, speaking in a fervent whisper. “I wrote two letters. Remember?”

“I never received any letters.” “You didn’t tear them up?” “No.”

“Are you sure?” she challenged. “Positive.” He grated out the word. “Well, I sent them. Shh,” Cass said again, rocking the baby.

“We can’t talk now. Come to the villa tomorrow morning.” Gifford frowned at the bawling child. “And bring him.”
ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and a son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance accepted In 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. They live in London, and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the background of her books.

Reluctant Father!
Elizabeth Oldfield



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

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5a67313b-587c-5424-98ec-12bafcb49aed)
THERE was the rasping of a chair on wooden floorboards.
Cassandra Morrow sighed, uncrossed her eyes and let the held-taut strand of wheat-blonde hair drop back over her brow. She made a face at the Afghan-hound reflection which she saw in the mirror. Her haircut must wait. The noise signalled that a customer had arrived—an unexpected, out-of-the-blue customer whom—frustratingly—she would have to send away.
Jettisoning the scissors, she went to peer around the open door of the ladies’ restroom. Her glance swept across the thatch-roofed, open-sided restaurant. Yes, a dark-haired man in a navy polo shirt and faded denims was sitting at a table at the far end. With his chair half turned to accommodate the stretch of his long legs, he was gazing out at the sun-sparkled sapphire of the Indian Ocean.
‘Hard luck, mister,’ Cass murmured regretfully,
‘you’re about two hours too early.’
She hoicked the blonde straggles out of her eyes, tugged at her pink skinny-rib top and hastily thumbnailed two dots of dried something—baby muesli?—from her crumpled khaki shorts. A trickle of perspiration was wiped from her chin. The Forgotten Eden guest house and restaurant might not be the London Savoy with its Grill Room, but she didn’t want to look too disreputable.
Closing the door of the sparkling-clean restroom behind her, Cass threaded a path between the cluster of batik-clothed tables. Her smooth brow crinkled. She hated the idea of turning down trade, so why should she? The opening hours were not carved in stone. Besides, plugging in the percolator or prising off a bottle top was easy. No catering skills were required there. Nor for depositing a slice of home-made coconut cake on a plate.
And if her service was extra obliging and ultraefficient perhaps the customer might feel inclined to return for a meal on some other occasion. It would be good to hear the cash till ring.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, smiling a bright, welcoming smile. ‘Strictly speaking the restaurant doesn’t open for non-residents until twelve—and today we’re serving one of our specialities which is a delicious Creole-style fish casserole. However, I’d be very happy to get you a cup of coffee or a glass of cold beer if you—’
As the man turned his head to look up at her, her smile collapsed and the sentence unravelled into silence. A stunned silence. She had heard of shock rocking people back on their heels, and now she felt herself sway. The man gazing up with narrowed grey eyes was Gifford Tait, hot-shot business tycoon, Mr Don’t-Fence-Me-In, and—her mind flew to the baby who had been wheeled off earlier in his buggy—the errant father of her ninemonth-old son.
Reaching blindly out, Cass clutched at the back of the nearest available chair. Once she had doted on his looks and every aspect about him, so why hadn’t she recognised the head of thick, dark hair, the broad, flat shoulders, his air of calm male confidence? Because she had long ago abandoned any idea that Gifford might instigate a get-together and it had never even entered let alone crossed her mind that he would seek her out in the Seychelles!
How had he known where to find her? Why, after eighteen months when he had remained resolutely incommunicado, had he decided to make the long-haul flight? she wondered, a blizzard of questions starting to swirl in her head. A fit of conscience about his offspring must have finally struck—but what did he have in mind?
To make coochy-coo, forgive-me noises over the cot? Or simply to check that the baby was thriving? Maybe the thought of ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes had inspired a desire to become a dedicated parent Her blue eyes darkened. No—never that.
Letting go of the chair, Cass stood up straight. Whatever form it took, his show of interest had come cruelly and callously late. If he expected her to toss out the red carpet or blubber her gratitude, he could think again. She was no damsel in distress about to press thankful kisses to the feet of her saviour.
And how dared he arrive unannounced? What right had he to saunter into the restaurant and take her by surprise? And pick a time when she was pink-faced from floor-mopping, hound-dog shaggy and out of shape. Furtively, she pulled in her stomach. It wasn’t that she wanted to impress him—no chance—but if she had looked halfway decent she would have felt more poised and less wrong-footed. Not so disastrously thrown.
‘I don’t—’ she started, with some heat, but he got there first.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Gifford demanded, in a low, gravelly voice with an American accent.
As he had flown from the States to Europe, and on from Europe to the middle reaches of the Indian Ocean, he had been thinking about Cassandra Morrow. He had been thinking about her and their past involvement with an irritating frequency for God knew how long. His lips compressed. Thinking about her always made him uneasy and provoked regrets—and to be confronted by her now felt as if someone had punched him hard and low in the gut.
Cass blinked. She had, she realised, got it wrong. All wrong. His question, plus the narrowed gaze, showed that he was just as astonished to see her as she was to see him. And a tightness around his mouth indicated he was not exactly jumping for joy, either. Gifford Tait had not decided to get in touch. There had been no upsurge of finer feelings. As if! she thought bitingly. His presence was sheer coincidence—a coincidence orchestrated by a peculiarly mischievous twist of fate.
‘I’m helping Edith to run the Forgotten Eden,’ she replied, and was surprised when the words emerged more or less normally.
With her mouth gone dry and her nerves giving a fair imitation of jangling piano wires, she had expected a puerile croak. But she had, she recalled, managed to play it cool to wondrous effect on one memorable occasion in the past, and apparently the knack had not deserted her.
‘You work here?’ Gifford said sharply.
She nodded. ‘As general dogsbody. For example, this morning the cleaner has a dental appointment so I’ve been cleaning.’
His eyes trailed from the top of her tousled head, over her sweat-dampened top and creased shorts, and down the length of her legs to her thonged feet When he had known her before she had worn smart, city-slicker suits and high heels, and had had her pale hair swept back in a smooth chignon. She had been elegance with a capital E. The only time she had looked tumbled was when they had been in bed. But she looked evocatively tumbled now. He frowned, remembering how good their lovemaking had been. How good they had been together in so many ways.
‘So I see,’ he muttered, making Cass feel even more conscious of her rumpled appearance. ‘And Edith is—who?’
‘She was my uncle Oscar’s girlfriend. He died three months ago. Of cancer.’
Gifford lowered thick straight, dark brows. ‘This is your uncle’s place?’ he queried. ‘I remember you telling me how he owned a guest house and restaurant on Praslin—you spent holidays there—but I thought he’d sold it last year.’
‘Oscar thought so, too, but at the very last minute the sale fell through and it’s taken until now for another buyer to appear.’ Cass hesitated, frowning. ‘Though the deal’s still to be finalised. Edith is a lovely lady, but not too worldly-wise,’ she continued. ‘When my uncle visited London last winter, he’d realised his days were numbered. He knew Edith would be out of her depth when it came to handling a sale, so he asked if I’d be willing to keep a long-distance eye on things.’
‘Because he was aware that you are super-efficient?’
‘Because I’m the only member of our family who’s the least bit organised,’ she countered, wondering if his comment should be interpreted as sarcastic. After all, she had been anything but efficient eighteen months ago.
‘I was happy to agree,’ she went on. ‘But Edith took my agreement to mean hands-on help, and when the second purchaser surfaced she phoned to ask if I’d fly out. She was desperate for some support, and a change of scene suited me, so—’
Cass broke off. She was talking too much; it was an unfortunate tendency whenever she felt flustered. But there was no need to give him chapter and verse. Nor was there any reason to feel flustered. He was the villain of the piece and the one who should be weighted down with embarrassment, not her.
‘So you’re taking a sabbatical?’ Gifford said.
‘I suppose you could call it that. What about you? Are you holidaying here or—’ she offered up a silent prayer ‘—have you come over from Mahe for the day?’
Although only seventeen miles long and, at its widest, five miles across, Mahe was the largest of the one hundred-plus islands of the Seychelles archipelago and the home of the only town and capital, Victoria. Quiet and unspoilt like all the islands, it boasted the most hotels, the widest variety of watersports and the best choice of boats.
A keen sportsman who thrived on action, Gifford would want to sail, water-ski and snorkel. Yes, he would be based there. Please. If she was to regain her equilibrium, she needed some distance between them—and a distance filled by deep blue sea would surely help to restrict his visits.
‘I hate to dash your hopes,’ he said curtly, ‘but I’m staying on Praslin.’
Her stomach churned. ‘At Club Sesel?’ she asked, naming the only nearby hotel, which was a couple of miles along the beach to the east and hidden behind a headland.
She had, Cass realised, heard no sound of a car, and for him to have arrived on foot it seemed he must have come from there.
Gifford shook his head. ‘No.’
‘No?’ she said, puzzled yet giving thanks for small mercies. Almost all of the island’s other hotels were situated on the opposite coast. True, they were only seven or eight miles away, but it was better than nothing.
‘I’m not booked into a hotel, I’m renting a house. I arrived yesterday evening.’
‘A house? Where’ she demanded.
He jerked a thumb. ‘Thataway.’
Her thoughts hurtled in the same westerly direction, travelling around a small deep-water cove and up to a sprawling white bungalow which was surrounded by tall, flamboyant trees and bushes of pink and purple bougainvillea. Luxuriously furnished, the bungalow came with a wide rear terrace which provided panoramic views of the sea, and had a barbecue pit and a small indoor gym. It ranked five stars in the rental market.
‘Maison d’Horizon?’ Cass asked, and this time she did croak.
He gave a terse nod. ‘I decided to spoil myself rotten.’
She glanced out of the restaurant to the wooden cottage where she was installed. ‘But—but that makes you my neighbourl’
‘Yup,’ he said crustily. ‘I’m the boy next door.’
Cass swallowed. Gifford Tait was not a boy, he was a man. A mature, experienced male who had done some serious damage to her heart, then strolled away and stayed away, leaving her to deal with the consequences.
‘How long are you here for?’ she enquired.
‘Two months. Don’t blame me,’ he said, when she looked at him, appalled. It’s your fault that I decided to come to the Seychelles.’
‘My fault?’ Cass protested.
‘I remembered you saying how life here was peaceful and relaxed, and—’ stretching out long fingers, he realigned the position of the white ceramic pepper pot ‘—I’m in need of relaxation.’ His gaze swung to the vivid blue sea, along the arc of silvery coral sand, to green, shiny-leafed palm trees which were stirred by the balmy breeze. ‘You also waxed lyrical about the beauty of the islands, and you didn’t exaggerate.’
So coincidence was not responsible for this visitation; the culprit had been her and her big mouth! And now they were destined to live with only a metaphorical garden fence between them. Her insides hollowed. It was much too close for comfort.
‘The fourteen-hour days finally caught up on you?’ she enquired, thinking that, as he played hard, so he worked hard, too.
‘No, though I was overdoing it. For years I’ve been far too work-orientated.’ Gifford poked at the pepper pot again. ‘I’ve been…unwell, so I’m here to convalesce,’ he said, and paused, plainly unwilling to go into detail. ‘You couldn’t find me something to eat in addition to coffee?’
Cass blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
All the time they had been speaking, a thought had been hammering at the back of her mind—when would Gifford mention the baby? He might have ignored his existence this far, but he could not ignore it now. Yet she was damned if she would make things easier for him by referring to their son first.
‘The rental agency was supposed to lay on a box of start-up groceries, but they’ve forgotten. They’re sending one later, but I had nothing to eat last night and I’m starving.’
‘Edith does the cooking, and she’s out,’ Cass said flatly.
His brows had lifted in an upward slant of appeal, but she refused to respond. She was no longer the adoring escort who rushed to obey his every request. The days of being charmed stupid were over. And if he fainted dead away from hunger, tough!
‘It doesn’t have to be something cooked. Bread and butter will do. Or fruit. You must have some fruit? If there’s a packet of stale Cheezy Doodles or whatever lying around, I’ll take that,’ Gifford declared, with an air of stark desperation.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘After travelling for damn near two days and crossing half the globe, I’m in no mood to be given the runaround,’ he rasped, his grey eyes glittering. ‘We both know the larder can’t be completely bare, so—’
‘How about scrambled eggs?’ Cass suggested stiffly.
Being too uncooperative was not a smart move. Like it or not, there could be times in the future when she might need his goodwill, so she must bank down her hostility and keep things civil between them. It would not be easy, but…
‘Scrambled eggs sounds great.’ He flicked her a dry look. ‘You aren’t planning to poison me?’
‘And risk the health authorities closing down the restaurant?’ Her smile was razor-thin. ‘Not worth it.’
‘You’ve forgotten something,’ Gifford said as she swung away.
She stopped and turned back. ‘What?’
‘You greeted me with “Good morning, sir” and now
it should be “Not worth it, sir”.’ A dark brow rose a fraction. ‘You must’ve heard of establishing good customer relations—or don’t you aim to win the employee of the month award?’
‘I’m not an employee, I’m a volunteer,’ Cass told him crisply.
‘Whatever your status, I am a customer,’ he responded. ‘Which entitles me to a little…courtesy.’
Her full mouth thinned. He was deliberately baiting her. Once she would have found his sardonic humour amusing, but not now. Now she felt tempted to tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier—or something far coarser—but instead she slitted her eyes at him.
‘In your dreams,’ she said.
His lips twitched. He had always liked her verve and had enjoyed the cut-and-thrust repartee which they had often shared.
‘Sassy as ever, I see.’
‘You better believe it,’ she responded, and stalked away.
In the kitchen, Cass swung into action, collecting eggs from the fridge, locating a pan, setting a tray. She had always imagined that when they did meet again—at her bidding, and at her choice of location—Gifford Tait would leave her cold, she reflected as she worked. Stonecold. Alas, it was not so. With his thickly lashed grey eyes, features which were a touch too strong to be described as handsome, and lean, muscular physique, he continued to be disruptively—and alarmingly—virile. He also had undeniable charisma.
Reaching for a whisk, she beat the eggs fiercely. Snap out of it, she ordered herself. The dynamic Mr Tait may possess more than his fair share of sex appeal, but when it comes to caring and sharing and common-or-garden decency he rates a whopping great minus. Any charisma is superficial.
Gifford had been unwell. What did that mean? she wondered. She shrugged. He had not wanted to tell her and she would not ask.
The eggs were scrambled, sprinkled with chopped herbs, and arranged on a plate with triangles of hot, buttered toast. Lifting the tray, Cass steered out through the saloon-style swing doors which separated the kitchen from the restaurant. When she drew near, she saw that her customer was tapping the pepper pot up and down on the table in a sombre distracted rhythm. He looked uncharacteristically tense, like a man with a lot on his mind. As well he might, she thought astringently.
At the pad of her rubber-soled thongs on the plank floor, he glanced round.
‘Quick service,’ he said, as though she had caught him unawares in his introspection and caught him out.
‘You’ll be writing a letter of commendation to the Tourist Board?’ she enquired.
‘And faxing copies to the Prime Minister and President of the Seychelles,’ he assured her, deadpan. As she served his food, a slow grin angled its way across his mouth. ‘Do you finish off by bobbing a curtsy?’
‘Don’t push it,’ Cass warned. ‘You may be getting a kick out of this, but I have my limits.’
‘A generous tip won’t persuade you to curtsy?’
‘I wouldn’t curtsy if you sank to your knees, clasped your hands together and begged.’ She tilted her head.
‘Or perhaps I might. Going to try it?’
‘Not my style,’ Gifford replied.
‘I thought not.’
He noticed that she had put down two cups and saucers. ‘You’re joining me?’
She nodded. They had to talk about the baby.
‘I’m ready for a break,’ she declared, thinking that what she really needed was a lie-down in a darkened room with cold compresses on her eyes and complete silence. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, a touch belligerently.
‘Be my guest,’ he said, and, lifting his knife and fork, he began to eat.
As Cass poured the rich, dark, steaming coffee, she studied him from beneath her lashes. She had not noticed it when she had been looking down, but sitting directly
across from him she saw that his face was leaner than she remembered and his high cheekbones were more sharply defined.
He had lost weight. Gifford also looked drawn—which could be due to jet-lag, or to the shock of being confronted by her and the knowledge that he must soon meet the child whom they had both created.
‘The restaurant may not open until noon, but everything seems remarkably organised,’ he said, indicating the surrounding tables which were neatly set with gleaming cutlery and sparkling glasses.
‘I was awoken at the crack of dawn, so I was able to
get a good start,’ Cass explained, and waited for him to ask about who had woken her up so early.
‘Monday is a busy day?’
‘Er—no. The busy days are Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, when we provide a buffet lunch for tour parties of around twenty or so. The rest of the time, it’s quiet The road outside is unmade and full of potholes—’
‘I noticed when I was in the taxi,’ he cut in, frowning, and briefly placed a hand on his thigh.
‘And the prospect of such a bumpy ride puts people off. We get a few holidaymakers wandering down from Club Sesel, and the occasional determined backpacker, but it’s the tour lunches which keep the place ticking over.’
‘What do the tours take in?’
‘They start off with a nature trail through the Vallee de Mai, which is an eerie and rather forbidding place, thick with palms, in the heart of Praslin. It’s a World Heritage site. Next they come here for lunch, and then they drive up to Anse Lazio, a beach on the northern tip of the island which is great for swimming and snorkelling. You should go there some time.’
‘Maybe,’ Gifford said, frowning. He ate a few more mouthfuls. ‘Your uncle was happy for things to just tick over?’
‘Yes. Oscar was an ex-hippy who just wanted enough to get by on, and to “hang loose”.’ Cass smiled, thinking fondly of her pony-tailed and somewhat eccentric uncle. A member of the peace-and-love brigade, he had been so laid-back as to be almost falling over. There’s no word for “stress” in the Creole dictionary, so when he decided to live here he came to the perfect spot.’
‘What about paying guests?’ he asked.
‘Oscar rarely advertised or did much in the way of repairs, so unfortunately those who managed to find their way here were not inclined to come again. The food is good—Edith’s an excellent cook—but the accommodation’s in urgent need of updating.’
‘What is the accommodation?’ Gifford enquired.
‘Just the cottages,’ she said, gesturing across the restaurant and out over an oval lawn of thick-bladed grass to where three pale blue wooden cottages sat in the dappled shade of stately palm trees. Tricked out with pointed arches and gingerbread eaves, they possessed a shabby, fairy-tale charm.
Gifford turned to look. ‘No one’s in residence?’
‘I’m in the nearest one, but the others have been unoccupied since I arrived, and there are no forward bookings. Edith lives in the main house here, in a flat above the kitchen,’ she added.
He set down his knife and fork. The plate was clean.
That was ambrosia,’ he told her.
Thanks.’
‘Thank you. I feel a darn sight more human now,’ he said, and, easing back his chair and splaying his legs, he stretched lazily.
As he raised his arms, his shirt pulled up to reveal a strip of firm, flat midriff above the waistband of his jeans. Cass felt her heart start to pound. Her erstwhile lover was human; he was six feet three inches of powerfully constructed male. She could remember running her fingers over the hairy roughness of his chest, across that smooth midriff and down. She could remember the burn of his skin and—
Are you here on your own? he enquired.
She flushed. She had, she realised, been staring. Had Gifford noticed her fascination? Probably. He did not miss much.
She took a sip of coffee. Was she here alone? At long last, he had worked around to Jack. Alleluia! But what did he think she had done? Parked the baby with someone and swanned off unencumbered to the tropical sunshine? Come on! Yet by avoiding a direct question Gifford was playing games. She shot him an impatient glance. OK, she would play games, too.
‘On my own?’ Cass repeated, all innocence.
‘There’s no man around?’
She opened her blue eyes wide. If he wanted to be obtuse, she would also be obtuse.
‘Man?’ she enquired.
‘Is Stephen with you?’ he said, and heard the curtness of his voice reflect his distaste for the idea.
‘Stephen?’ She gave a startled laugh. ‘No.’
Stephen was Stephen Dexter, head of the Dexter sports equipment company which had been bought out the previous year by the vigorously expanding Tait-Hill Corporation. She had worked for the young man, first as his secretary, then as his personal assistant, and later in the upgraded role of business aide.
‘Does Edith do all the cooking or do you lend a hand there, too’ Gifford asked.
Cass looked blank. She had been thinking how Stephen had been a loyal and generous friend, but hopeless when it came to trade. It had been his incompetence which had hastened the family firm’s decline, made it ripe for a take-over and thus brought Gifford Tait into her life.
‘I help with minor tasks sometimes—like peeling vegetables—but Edith plans the menus and makes all the dishes. I wonder what’s happened to her?’ she carried on, inspecting the slim gold watch which encircled her wrist. ‘She’s gone to visit her sister and take—’
Cass bit off the words. She had been on the brink of saying that Edith had taken Jack along in his buggy to be fussed over and admired—all the Seychellois seemed to love children—but she refused to open up the subject. The lengthy months of silence had made it clear that Gifford regarded her pregnancy as her fault and the baby as her responsibility—a responsibility which she had willingly accepted. But it was now a point of principle that he must refer to their son first.
‘Edith should be back at any moment,’ she said.
He drank a mouthful of coffee. ‘Whoever’s buying this place must believe they can drum up customers from somewhere,’ he remarked.
She balled her fists, the knuckles draining white. He was a perverse so-and-so. His refusal to speak of Jack—innocent, adorable, fatherless Jack—made her want to
throw things at him. Hard. In the past, Gifford had exhibited a straight-arrow approach to problems—an approach which could be ruthless, as she knew to her cost—so why was he avoiding this issue now?
Cass shot him a look from beneath her too long fringe. Could he be embarrassed by his failure to respond to her letters, make contact and offer help? He was far too urbane an individual to visibly squirm, but did he feel ashamed? Might he want to say sorry, yet be tonguetied by thoughts of his abysmal behaviour?
‘Apparently,’ she said, thinking that when he did pluck up the courage to apologise she would take immense satisfaction in watching him grovel.
‘Has the guy run a hotel before?’
‘Yes, in South Africa.’
‘What made him decide to come here?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Cass said impatiently. Once upon a time they had spent hours avidly discussing business matters, but the pressing topic for discussion now was Jack. Her darling Jack. ‘Edith had the first dealings, and although I met him when he called in a couple of weeks ago basically all I know is that his name is Kirk Weber and he comes from Johannesburg.’
‘What’s he like?’ Gifford asked.
‘In his forties, good-looking, friendly. Edith thinks he’s the bee’s knees and calls him Mr Wonderful.’
‘You said he’s yet to close the sale.’
She nodded. ‘It was supposed to go through a month ago, but Kirk’s been having difficulty transferring his funds, and since then—zilch.’
‘Perhaps he’s changed his mind.’
Her brow crinkled. ‘I don’t think so. He insists the money is on its way and rings every few days to check that no one else has been to look at the property.’
‘Edith always tells him no?’
‘Yes.’
‘An error.’
‘Could be,’ Cass acknowledged.
‘Is. Damn.’
As Gifford had spoken, he had slashed out a hand in emphasis and knocked a spare knife from the table, sending it flying and clattering to the floor a couple of yards away.
She waited for him to rise and, with the athletic grace which she remembered so well, retrieve the knife, but when he didn’t she pushed back her chair. Collecting fallen cutlery had, it seemed, been designated as the waitress’s work. Cass bent, picked up the knife and polished it on a napkin.
She thrust it towards him. ‘May I return this?’ she said.
‘You’re too kind.’
‘It’s all part of the service.’
Amusement quirked in one corner of his mouth. ‘And you’ve resisted the urge to carve me up into little pieces.’
She shone a saccharine smile at him. ‘Just.’
As she handed him the knife, their fingers touched. Cass stood rigid. The brush of his skin against hers seemed to create an electric current which tingled in her fingertips and shot up her arm.
‘You look…different,’ Gifford said, his grey eyes starting to move over her in a slow inspection.
Once again, she drew in her stomach. Since arriving on the island a month ago she had exercised every day, and soon she would be firm and trim—back to her original figure. But right now her belly remained a touch flabby.
‘I’ve put on weight which I’m trying to shed. Though it’s hardly surprising. Is it?’ she challenged.
‘You mean because you’re living alongside a restaurant, day in, day out?’ He pursed his lips. ‘I guess not.’ Cass glared. He was so infuriating, so frustrating. I mean because I’ve had a baby! she yelled inside her head.
‘Your breasts are fuller,’ he murmured, and lifted his gaze to hers.
Her heartbeat quickened. She still attracted him. She could see it in the smoky depths of his eyes and hear it in the sensual purr of his voice. She sank down onto her chair. Half of her was pleased, smug even—but the other half, the sensible half, insisted that, from now on, their relationship must be strictly neutral and strictly business. It had been the sexual draw which had caused so much havoc before, but she would not make the same mistake twice.
She was on the point of telling him that she did not appreciate such personal comments when she noticed that Gifford was frowning. He, too, seemed to regret his observation. And no doubt regretted that she still appealed, Cass thought drily.
‘Me and Phyllis were so busy chattin’ the time went flyin’ by,’ someone announced into the silence, and they both jumped and looked round.
A plumply handsome black woman had pushed out through the kitchen doors. Her lustrous dark hair was piled into a bun on the top of her head and she wore a floral button-through dress. She was in her mid-fifties.
‘Hello, Edith,’ Cass said, smiling, then she frowned. Where was Jack?
‘His lordship’s flat out on the verandah,’ the new arrival advised, as if reading her mind. She nodded at Gifford. ‘Bonzour.’
‘Good morning,’ he replied.
‘Cassie opened up early and made you something to eat? You must be special,’ Edith declared, her brown eyes twinkling.
Cass gave a strained smile. Should she say that they knew each other? If so, how much did she reveal? She had told the older woman that Jack’s father was not around, and as man/woman relationships in the Seychelles often seemed to be casual and temporary—en passant was the local term—her statement had been accepted without question. Gifford had not been named.
“This is Mr Tait,’ she said. ‘He’s moved into Maison d’Horizon.’
Edith chuckled. ‘You are special,’ she declared, in her rolling, molasses-rich Creole-accented English. She turned to Cass. ‘Have you asked if—’
‘No, and I’m not going to,’ she cut in hurriedly.
‘Aw, honey, Bernard didn’t mind, and I’m sure Mr Tait—’
‘Please call me Gifford,’ Gifford said, with a smile.
Edith smiled back. Some people you took an instant liking to, and Edith obviously liked him. ‘I’m sure Gifford,’ she adjusted, ‘won’t mind, either.’
‘I mind,’ Cass insisted, shooting the older woman a fiercely pleading ‘keep quiet’ look.
‘Mind about what?’ Gifford enquired.
‘Us asking a couple of favours,’ Edith told him. ‘Bernard was the French gentleman who rented Maison d’ Horizon before you. He was gettin’ on, in his seventies, and came out here to take a break from his evernaggin’ wife and to make drawings of the birds—the parrots, mynahs and such. The island is full of them. He was so obliging.’
Cass gritted her teeth. She knew what was coming next.
‘Look, I—’ she started to protest, but the woman refused to be deflected.
‘Bernard used to come in for meals and a drink at the bar most evenings, and when he heard how we’ve been waiting for a delivery of water glasses since kingdom
come—’ Edith rolled despairing eyes ‘—he brought over two dozen. Don’t know who it was who stocked the villa, but they sure went to town on glasses. Went to town on most everything, like the exercise machines, as you’ll have seen. Bernard never used the machines, but—’
‘Gifford is a keep-fit fanatic and be will,’ Cass inserted, at speed. ‘Yes?’
His brow furrowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Even so,’ Edith continued blithely, ‘you’re not going to be exercisin’ all of the time. Cassie here’s hung up on slimming down her figure. though Lord knows why because she looks more than slim enough to me. Real shapely.’
His eyes moved over Cass again. ‘True,’ he agreed, and his frown cut deeper.
‘Bernard was happy for her to work out whenever she wished, so—’
‘You want to borrow the glasses again, and Cass would like to make it burn?’ Gifford enquired, in a slightly terse summing-up.
He had chosen the Seychelles for his recuperation because the islands were a very long way from home. He had wanted to be anonymous, living alone and keeping himself to himself, with no visitors. He had never imagined he would meet anyone he knew, least of all Cass.
The black woman grinned. ‘Please.’
Frowning, he considered the proposition, then he nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘There you are,’ Edith said, swinging Cass a triumphant smile. ‘Must go now and start on lunch.’ She reverted to her native Creole. ‘Orevwar.’
‘Au revoir,’ Gifford said.
‘Edith was speaking out of turn,’ Cass began as the swing doors dovetailed shut. ‘We can manage with-out—’
‘There’s no need to manage. Give me a ring to let me know when you’re coming and you can have the glasses,’ he told her. ‘We can also fix a time for your aerobics sessions.’
She dithered. His agreement had been reluctant and, call it foolish pride, but she did not want to be the recipient of his largesse. Yet she was keen to lose those few excess pounds.
‘Thanks. Will do.’
‘Fitting out the gym must’ve cost an obscene amount of money,’ Gifford remarked. ‘Take the computerised exercise bike. The only place I’ve ever seen a machine like that before was in an exclusive sports club in Aspen. It…’
As he talked on, Cass drank the rest of her coffee. He had failed to make any mention of Jack. How could he? She felt so hurt, so wounded, that he had not immediately demanded to see her—his—child. Didn’t he care about him just a little? Didn’t he feel any curiosity? Or compassion? The answer had to be a resounding no.
Her hurt hardened into a cold, stony anger and, clattering her cup down onto her saucer, she rose to her feet. Gifford might resent being landed with a son, but she would make him acknowledge and accept him.
‘Back in a minute,’ she said, and marched away.
Passing Edith, who was dicing sweet potato in the kitchen, she went through the wedged-open side door and out onto the verandah. There, in the shade, stood a navy-upholstered baby buggy. Walking quietly over, Cass looked down. With his thumb fallen from his mouth and his dark lashes spread on peach-smooth cheeks, Jack was fast asleep. She felt a catch in her throat. She loved him so much.
Her forehead puckered. She had always known that he looked like Gifford, but until she had seen them together—almost—she had not realised how strong the resemblance was. Their dark hair grew in the same way, they had the same broad brow, the same determined chin. But she would, she thought fiercely, do her damnedest to ensure that Jack grew up with a far softer heart.
Releasing the brake, she took a grip on the push-bar. Like it or not, the unwilling father was going to meet his son—now.
Cass wheeled the buggy through the kitchen and, holding one of the swing doors aside, strode forward. She stopped dead. The table was empty. A sheaf of notes in payment for his meal was tucked beneath a saucer, but Gifford had gone.
The prospect of coming face to face with his offspring must have been too much to take, so he had fled the restaurant. Was he also intending to flee from the bungalow and from the island? By the end of the day, would Gifford Tait be flying back to the States? She tossed her head. She could think of nothing which would suit her better.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_fb39e70f-7c51-55b1-a218-327adca76253)
THE hair stylist smiled down into the buggy. ‘Doesn’t your mama look as pretty as a princess?’ she enquired.
The baby grinned, blue-grey eyes smiling and a dimple denting one round cheek, then he pursed his rosebud lips and blew a raspberry.
Cass laughed. ‘He may not be too thrilled, but I think
it’s a big improvement.’ She took a final, appraising look at herself in the mirror. Thanks a lot.’
Gifford’s arrival the previous day had had one plus, she thought wryly as she steered the pushchair out of the salon and started off along the spacious marblefloored lobby of Club Sesel. The interruption had made her think twice about wielding the scissors.
Past experience had shown that she was a ‘chopaholic’, so chances were her hair would have wound up looking as if it had been sheared by a lunatic with a chainsaw. Instead, her fringe was softly feathered, while the fall of burnished wheat-gold hair ended in a straight line at her shoulders. Cass tweaked at the silky black top which she wore with stone-coloured chinos. Today she looked stylish. Stylish enough to be mistaken for a hotel guest.
Club Sesel—Sesel was the Creole word for the Seychelles—catered for the wealthy. Guests stayed in individual granite bungalows which were discreetly sited amidst landscaped hillside gardens full of tropical blooms, ate in a chandeliered dining hail and could browse in the designer outlets which lined the lobby. She swung a look around. The lobby and shops were currently deserted. In general, there seemed to be few guests.
Reaching the gift shop, Cass stopped to study a window display which featured exclusive beachwear and mother-of-pearl jewellery arranged around a pair of polished coco de mer nuts. The huge nuts, which had a suggestively intimate female shape, were reputed to grow only in the Seychelles. These days restricted numbers were sold as expensive souvenirs, though in the past their kernels had been regularly ground up and used as an aphrodisiac.
A shadow clouded her blue eyes. There had been no need for aphrodisiacs when she and Gifford had met. Like their emotional rapport, the sexual attraction had been instant and compelling. And when they had made love it had been a passionate explosion of feeling which—
Her gaze swung sideways. A door bearing the word ‘Manager’ in gold letters had been opened, drawing her attention, but the man who had started to come out had swivelled and was disappearing inside again. As the door clicked shut behind him, Cass frowned. With wellgroomed fair hair, and wearing a silver-grey gabardine suit, he had looked suspiciously like Kirk Weber. She did not know where the South African stayed when he came to the island—nor had she been aware that he was here now—but Club Sesel would be handy for him.
Setting off again, she negotiated the buggy down a couple of shallow steps and out into the dazzling sunshine of the paved forecourt. Could Kirk’s presence mean he was about to finalise his purchase of the Forgotten Eden? she wondered as she slid on her dark glasses. She crossed mental fingers. She hoped so.
‘Yoo-hoo, Cass!’ a voice shrilled, and when she turned she saw a woman with short, gel-slicked auburn hair and wearing a gold lamé swimsuit waving at her from the far side of the small kidney-shaped swimming pool.
‘Hello, Veronica,’ she called back, smiling, and waited as the redhead teetered towards her on high goldsandalled heels.
Over the past two weeks, Veronica Milne had become a regular visitor to the Forgotten Eden. She would arrive in her hire-car around midday or in the evening, pick at her meal, then switch to sit at the bar where she would make eyes at Jules Adonis, the Seychellois barman who, with clean-cut looks, long, sun-lightened dreadlocks and a beguiling white smile, lived up to his surname. A surname which was surprisingly common in the islands.
If the baby happened to be around, she also made a big fuss of him.
A thin, twittery woman who talked non-stop, Veronica was hard going after the first five minutes—but Cass felt sorry for her. Behind the determinedly bright expression, she sensed a lost soul.
‘Just thought I’d tell you that I shall be along for lunch today,’ Veronica said. ‘Will Jules be there?’
‘He should be, though he has been known to sleep in and not wake up until it’s too late. Or forget which day it is,’ she said ruefully.
‘He’s such a heartthrob. Like this little fellow,’ the redhead declared, stretching down a hand to tickle the baby’s tummy.
Jack wriggled and giggled.
‘Do you have children?’ Cass enquired.
Veronica straightened. ‘No. I run my own fashion boutique—we sell only the best names-and there’s never been time to fit in a family. And now I’m divorced; the decree absolute came through last month. This is the first time I’ve been on holiday on my own. The first time I’ll go back to an empty house.’ She looked down at her noticeably denuded wedding-ring finger, though her other fingers were banded with rings of all shapes and sizes. ‘Of course, I could always marry again and have a baby. I’m only just into my forties, so it isn’t too late.’
‘I suppose not,’ Cass said, and hoped she did not sound doubtful.
‘I think Jules fancies me,’ Veronica declared, and lowered her voice into a giggly, conspiratorial whisper. ‘I fancy him, too.’
Cass felt a stab of concern. The woman might sport a trendy elf-in-a-rainstorm hairstyle and wear glamorous clothes, but rather than ‘just into’ her forties she looked more in her mid-forties, if not heading towards fifty. Jules was twenty-five.
He was also a happy-go-lucky Romeo who flirted with females—any female—out of habit and on autopilot. She had assumed this was glaringly obvious, but perhaps Veronica preferred not to see? Newly divorced, she could be feeling adrift and eager for male attention. Too eager.
‘Jules has a girlfriend,’ Cass said gently, not wanting her to get hurt. ‘In fact, he has several. I must go. I look forward to seeing you later. Goodbye.’
‘Bye, bye,’ Veronica trilled; but she was smiling at Jack and waving.
Cass pushed the buggy up the hotel’s sloping drive and out onto the hard-baked red earth of the road. She had spent most of last night tossing and turning and thinking about Gifford, and as she set off for the Forgotten Eden her mind returned to him again.
Yesterday, her reaction to his exit from the restaurant had been, Good riddance! But it had been a knee-jerk reaction. And he had not fled the island. A distant glimmer of lights from the bungalow the previous evening, plus the slam of a door this morning, had indicated that he remained in residence.
She frowned. Whilst becoming a single parent had never featured in her scheme of things—heaven forbid!—she had coped with all the various traumas and got her life back on track. Plans had been made for the future. But now Gifford had appeared and thrown everything into confusion.
‘I was going to send your daddy photographs of you on your first birthday, she said, speaking to the baby who sat in the pushchair. ‘And if he didn’t reply I was going to send another batch when you reached two. Then, if that failed to produce a response, I intended to take you over to the States, plop you on the middle of his office desk and say, Hey, buster, I’d like to introduce your son and heir. That would’ve concentrated his mind, yes?’
Jack clapped small, starfished hands—his latest trick.
‘I don’t expect him to be an every-day daddy,’ Cass continued, becoming grave, ‘but I believe that every child has the right to know its father, and I want him to show a respectable amount of care and consideration. Like remembering your birthdays and taking you on the occasional holiday when you’re a big boy, and being available at times when you particularly need a dad.’
‘Blah.’ her listener said.
‘I was going to tell him all this when you were two. When you’d be starting to realise that other children have daddies and wondering where yours had got to. Only he’s turned up now.’
The baby stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked noisily.
There could, of course, be a second reason for Gifford’s abrupt departure from the restaurant, Cass reflected. He might have been eager to return to a companion. A female companion, whom he had left in bed. He was a red-blooded male with all the usual appetites—as she could confirm, she thought astringently—and whilst he might be here to convalesce she could not imagine him spending the days alone and doing nothing. So it seemed possible that he had a woman in tow.
Halting, she lowered the buggy into its recline position, laid down her son and drew forward the hood. Jack’s chubby arms and legs were lightly tanned, but she was wary of him getting too much sun.
Cass walked on. Might Gifford’s companion be the glamorous Imogen Sales? The more she thought about his attitude the previous day, the more she felt there had been an air of strained secrecy about him. He had been hiding something. What? The fact that he had come to the Seychelles with the actress who had followed her into his arms and his affections with insulting, hurtful speed?
She pushed the buggy down into a crater of a pothole and up out of it again. A few months ago she had seen the American woman in a TV film. Cass grimaced. She had had the kind of shiny, swinging raven-black bob which was more usually seen in shampoo adverts, a serenely aloof face and, wearing a succession of slinky numbers, had been disgustingly slim. Imogen had also, she thought cattily, displayed an inescapable need to pose and possessed all the acting skills of cardboard.
Her expression shadowed. She did not welcome the idea of producing Jack and discussing what were essentially private matters with Imogen Sales around Yet, even if the actress or some other woman was living with Gifford in the villa, it was vital that they should talk. For her son’s sake, lines of communication needed to be established.
Cass strode on. Once upon a time, she had considered herself to be a good judge of character. She had been convinced that her lover was conscientious, reliable, trustworthy, but it had been all smoke and mirrors.
‘How could I have been so wrong?’ she muttered, and fell silent, bombarded with memories of the past…

It had been Henry Dexter, Stephen’s elderly father and, at that time, head of the company, who had first brought the Tait-Hill Corporation to her attention.
‘Those two will go far,’ he had declared, marching into his son’s office one morning to thrust a trade magazine at him. ‘Read the article and see how ambitious they are, how well informed and on the ball.’ He had frowned. ‘Take note of how hard they work.’
‘Yes, Pa,’ Stephen had replied obediently, but he had put the magazine aside and not bothered.
Cass had read the article; as a new and keen secretary she’d read all the memos and reports which the young man was supposed to read but often did not. It had told how two Americans, Gifford Tait and Bruce Hill, had once been skiers representing their country at worldclass level and winning medals. Both business graduates, they had seen a need in their sport for better-designed equipment and decided to satisfy it.
Over the next few years, the old man’s prophecy had come true. Tait-Hill had flourished, widening their product range to other sports and developing an eclectic spread of business interests which included property, a hot-air-balloon company and a million-dollar stake in a computer software manufacturer.
However, after Henry suffered a stroke and was forced to retire, Dexter’s had gone downhill. A traditional, slightly old-fashioned firm whose name on cricket bats, tennis rackets and running shoes guaranteed top quality, its future had begun to look shaky. Then a letter had been received from Tait-Hill, suggesting talks about a rescue package and possible buy-out.
Despite Stephen’s claim that he could turn things around—and much to his chagrin—his father had decreed that Tait-Hill must be allowed to vet the company for potential acquisition. A short while later, Gifford had flown in.
After a week spent poring over balance sheets at the London headquarters and assessing financial information—information which Cass had invariably provided—he had requested that she give him a crash course on the workings of Dexter’s and provide details of the company’s forward plans.
‘Why me?’ she asked, thinking of how she had left Stephen sulking in his office.
‘Because you’re the smart kid around here.’ Gifford grinned at her across the desk. ‘And because I like you.’
She laughed. From the start they had worked well together, and had soon discovered that they shared the same sense of humour.
‘I quite like you, too,’ she said.
‘Only quite?’ he protested, with mock anguish. ‘I must switch my manly charm up a gear.’
‘You have charm?’ Cass enquired, straight-faced
‘You never noticed?’
‘Maybe just a flicker, now and then.’
‘Which means I’m starting virtually from scratch.’ Gifford gave a noisy sigh. ‘So be it.’
In the days which they spent closeted together, Cass grew to like Gifford Tait a lot He knew what he wanted and could be autocratic, but he was also modest, funny and easy to be with. He exuded an inherent vitality which dimmed the memory of every other man she had known. Plus he was indecently sexy.
When, unexpectedly, he had to fly back to the States to deal with an urgent business matter, she had felt confusingly bereft and had spent every spare moment thinking about him.
‘Did you miss me?’ Gifford enquired, on his return a week or so later.
‘Yes,’ she said truthfully.
‘I missed you, too,’ he told her, his grey eyes serious. ‘I figure I need to spend a month getting to grips with Dexter’s, so—’
‘That long?’ she interrupted.
He gave a crooked grin. ‘That long. So I wondered whether you’d be free to show me around London at the weekends.’
‘With pleasure,’ Cass said.
They visited museums and art galleries, watched the street performers at Covent Garden, went to the theatre. They sailed down the river to Greenwich and the gleaming silver stanchions of the Thames Barrier, and shared candlelit dinners.
Their relationship deepened. Away from the office, Gifford would reach for her hand, and when he returned her to her Putney flat in the evenings he kissed her goodnight. They were passionate kisses which left her weakkneed and breathless—and wanting more.
Time flew and, all too soon, they reached the final week of his stay when they set off on a fact-finding tour of the Dexter factories.
‘How did you first start up in your business?’ Cass asked curiously one evening when they were sitting in his hotel suite.
They had spent the wet, blustery April day at a shoemanufacturing unit in the north of England. On their return, she had typed out the notes which her companion had required on her laptop, and now they were unwinding with a bottle of good white wine.
‘Thanks to dumb luck,’ Gifford replied. ‘Bruce and I were bursting with ideas, but we didn’t have either the cash or the know-how to put them into action. Then a ski-wear manufacturer happened to catch me on TV.’
‘When you were skiing?’
‘Commentating.’
She looked at him along the sofa. ‘You commentate?’ she said, in surprise.
‘Used to. At one point, I fronted a sports programme.’ He raked back the cow-lick of dark hair which persisted in falling over his eyes. ‘But I quit.’
‘Why?’
‘Didn’t care for the fame. The show was aired in several states which meant I was becoming a celebrity, but I don’t like being pounced on by strangers or having journalists pry into my private life. The ski-wear manufacturer asked if I’d promote his products,’ Gifford continued. ‘At which point Bruce and I hit him with our brainwaves. He gave us a loan, factory space and—’ he clicked his fingers ‘—abracadabra.’
‘It can’t have been that simple,’ Cass protested.
‘It wasn’t,’ he admitted, with a rueful smile. ‘As new kids on the block it took a hell of a lot of blood, sweat and tears—of lugging samples around and cold calling—before we were up and rolling, but now—’
‘Life is good?’
Reaching out a hand, he tucked a strand of silky wheat-gold hair behind her ear. ‘Right now, life is very good,’ he said softly.
Her heart began to thud. The anonymous hotel suite, the rain which pattered on the windows, the leaden evening sky—everything faded. Her only awareness was of Gifford—his touch, the husky timbre of his voice, the need which she saw in his grey eyes. A need which she suspected was reflected in her own.
He sat back, loosening his tie in what struck her as an attractively masculine gesture. ‘Your boss isn’t into blood, sweat and tears,’ he said. ‘He might get a kick out of being the big cheese and having his name painted on the best parking space, but he resents having to come into the office day after day.’
Cass hesitated. A sense of loyalty tempted her to insist otherwise—and lie through her teeth. But Gifford would know she was lying.
‘From his birth it was decreed that Stephen would take over from his father. It’s the family tradition,’ she explained, ‘but he lacks any real interest’
‘Whereas you are interested. You know what’s happening in all areas of the business, and you have savvy, which is why I asked for you to accompany me.’
‘Asked?’ Cass said. ‘It sounded more like a demand.’
A grin cut across his mouth. ‘OK, I demanded. But if Stephen’d come along he’d have been worse than useless. You’re carrying the guy. I hope he’s paying you a high salary?’
‘So high I’d be foolish to ever leave,’ she replied.
‘What goes on between you two?’ Gifford enquired as he sipped his wine. He fixed her with narrowed grey eyes. ‘You’re obviously close, and Stephen gave me the impression that—’
‘That what?’ Cass asked, when he frowned.
‘That you might have a…more personal involvement.’
She burst out laughing. ‘Stephen and me? No, you must’ve misunderstood. I’ve worked for him for a long time, but although he’s a couple of years older than me Stephen’s like a kid brother.’
‘A self-centred and petulant kid brother,’ Gifford said. He knew he was not mistaken and that the younger man had deliberately given him the wrong impression. Maybe to warn him off?
‘On occasions,’ she had to agree. ‘But he can also be kind, thoughtful and fun. His father dominates him, while his mother has always spoiled him—Stephen was a late baby and an only child—and that’s a difficult mix for anyone to handle.’
‘Parents can land their kids with all kinds of problems,’ he said gravely, and was silent for a moment. Then he gave a satisfied nod. ‘You and Stephen are just friends—good.’
‘Why good?’
‘Because it means you don’t have a serious man in your life, so—’
‘What makes you sure of that?’ Cass interrupted.
‘You haven’t phoned anyone while we’ve been on our travels or spoken about anyone.’ He shot her a suddenly worried look. ‘I don’t doubt you have to beat the guys off with a stick, but is there anyone serious?’
She shook her head. Although she was twenty-seven, she had only had one serious relationship, but that had run out of steam over a year ago.
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Thank God. So you won’t have any hang-ups about us making love,’ Gifford completed.
All of a sudden, the air seemed to throb.
‘Making love?’ she repeated, with care.
‘It’s inevitable.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do.’ Moving closer, Gifford took the glass which she held in increasingly shaky fingers and set it aside with his on a low table. ‘And it’s another reason—probably the main reason—why I demanded that you accompany me.’
‘You are sly and underhand,’ Cass informed him. ‘A self-serving shark.’
‘Aren’t I just?’ he said, and smiled a smile so ravishing it could have melted a stone. It melted her heart. ‘But you think that us making love is inevitable, too.’ Framing her face with his hands, he looked deep into her eyes. ‘You know that sooner or later we’re going to wind up in bed. Yes?*
She gulped in a breath. Why deny the truth?
‘Yes.’
‘You want me and I want you. I want you so much it’s all I can think about. You’re driving me crazy.’ He raised anguished brows. ‘Hell, Cass, I’m suffering here.’
She grinned. ‘You’d like me to take pity and put you out of your misery?’
‘It’d be a humane gesture of the greatest magnanimity. Now…’ he said, and he drew her close and kissed her.
His lips parted her lips. The muscle of his tongue explored the velvet confines of her mouth, and utterly seduced her. With her hands clutching at his shoulders, her head spinning and her senses reeling, Cass flowed into the kiss. She needed him. For so long, she had ached for him. As she wrapped herself closer around him, they kissed again. Their breathing quickened, then Gifford was leading her through to his bedroom and swiftly undressing her.
‘You’re beautiful, Cass,’ he said, when she stood naked before him. His eyes roamed over her high breasts with their taut nipples, down across the smooth plane of her belly to the fair curls which grew at the crevice of her thighs. He raised his head, and, reaching out a hand, withdrew the tortoiseshell comb which secured her hair. ‘Beautiful,’ he repeated huskily as the heavy strands swirled down to rest on her shoulders in a gleaming wheaten curtain.
Cass stepped closer, her fingers going to the buttons on his shirt. ‘My turn,’ she said, a little breathlessly, and he smiled.
‘Your turn,’ Gifford agreed, and helped her.
Naked and entwined together on the bed, they kissed again. As they kissed, Gifford began to touch her, his thumbs brushing across the rigidity of her nipples, his fingers caressing the swollen globes of her breasts. She stirred restlessly in his arms.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please.’
He was a sensitive lover, tender and yet sure. As in business matters, he knew what he wanted. He took—and gave. When he entered her, Cass thought she might die from the spiralling emotion. But he was urging her on, and on. A throaty moan told of her passion. She had not felt such raw desire before nor experienced such primitive need…and had never known such an overwhelming relief.
The remainder of their tour fused into one glorious blur of lovemaking, though other factories were visited, facts gleaned and reports typed. On their return to London, an awareness of time fast running out made the days more precious, the intimacy more urgent. In three days, then two, then one, Gifford was due to fly back to Boston.
‘We should talk,’ he declared as they finished breakfast on the morning of his departure.
He had cancelled the classy hotel room which she had booked for him and joined her in her far more humble Putney flat. They had awoken in the early hours and made love with sweet desperation, then, when the alarm had rung, dragged themselves out of bed and gone for a run. At home he ran several miles every morning, he’d told her.
Coming back, Gifford had headed for the shower, while she’d prepared toast and coffee. When Cass had walked through and seen the water sluicing down the hard planes of his naked body, she had impetuously flung off her clothes and joined him beneath the spray. Passion had claimed them again.
‘Talk about what?’ she enquired now.
‘About us,’ he said soberly.
Her heart performed a long, slow somersault. It might be madness, but she wondered if he was going to propose. Granted, they had only known each other for a couple of months at most, yet she knew that she loved him. She suspected that Gifford had fallen in love with her, too. The word had not been spoken and no promises had been made, but they seemed so right together. They enjoyed a natural rapport, and the sexual alchemy was magic. They were kindred spirits.
‘What about us?’ Cass asked, and was unable to keep from smiling.
He was the man she had been hoping for, waiting to love, all her life. The sheer joy of being with him, combined with the sense of absolute comfort which she fell in his presence, insisted that this was the real thing.
‘Our affair’s been…hot, but I figure we should cool it,’ Gifford said, and moistened his lips. Although he had rehearsed his speech it was not coming easily, but a panicky feeling of self-preservation insisted that it must be said. ‘As you know, I’ll be recommending to Bruce that we buy Dexter’s, so chances are we shall meet in the future,’ he continued. ‘But, whilst it may be a clich6, mixing business with pleasure does complicate matters and isn’t such a clever idea.’
Cass’s heart crash-landed, but her smile remained sturdily in place. His words had stabbed like small, sharp daggers ripping into her flesh. She had not been having an ‘affair’; she had been involved in a romance. A romance which she had believed was destined to grow into a close relationship, mature and lasting.
‘I agree,’she said.
Pushing up from his chair, Gifford jammed his fists into his trouser pockets and started to pace around the small kitchen. ‘Getting serious wouldn’t be such a clever idea, either. I have to be honest and admit that I have this dread of being tied down. I’m not cut out for domesticity. I like to be independent, free to go where I want, when I want. I like to be able to ski or sail, or go away on business with no—’ All of a sudden, he broke off and turned to face her. ‘You agree?’ he said, as though her words had only just penetrated.
‘I do. And I never imagined for one moment that we might get serious.’
His brows came down. ‘You didn’t?*
‘Good grief, no! Our affair’s been fun—’ she released a merry chortle of laughter ‘—but it wasn’t of the lasting variety. As for domesticity, I’m not ready to settle down, either. Not yet. Not for a long time.’
Gifford raked a hand back through the thickness of his dark hair. He looked surprised, yet relieved. Had he expected her to argue or hurl furious recriminations or perhaps burst into floods of tears? she wondered. Her backbone stiffened. It was the first time a man had given her the brush-off, but she was damned if she would cry.
‘You said you’d ring for a cab to take me to the airport,’ he reminded her.
‘Right away,’ she said brightly. ‘Right away.’
What a fool she had been, Cass thought, after he had gone. What a slow-witted, unaware fool. Gifford Tait was such a desirable package—striking looks, athletic physique, healthy bank balance—that legions of women would have hurled themselves at him. Yet for thirty-six years he had remained single. So it followed that he must be actively opposed to commitment. He had never thought in terms of loving her. As for them being kindred spirits—it had been a rosy illusion.
As if to provide proof, a month later she came across a photograph of him at the launch of a TV sports station in a US trade journal. He was standing with Imogen Sales draped around him like a clinging ivy and, in the write-up, the actress, who also came from Boston, was quoted as coyly admitting that they were ‘an item’.
Cass had dropped the journal into the waste-paper basket. She’d refused to collapse in a heap or to bellyache. Gifford Tait would be regarded as a ‘step up the learning curve’—albeit one of the harsher kind—and dismissed from her mind. Given enough time.
But a couple of weeks later the doctor confirmed her suspicion that she was pregnant…

By the time she turned into the drive which led haphazardly down through lacy casuarina trees to the Forgotten Eden, Jack was fast asleep. Cass parked the buggy on the verandah beside the wedged-open kitchen door and went inside.
Edith was in the midst of preparing lunch while Marquise, the chatty teenaged cleaner and part-time waitress, filled vases with sprigs of hibiscus.
‘I like your hair,’ Edith said.
‘Looks real classy,’ Marquise piped up.
Cass grinned. ‘Thanks. What can I do?’
‘You can go next door and get those water glasses,’ Edith said, deftly filleting the freshly caught kingfish which would be baked with garlic and served in a tangy lemon sauce. ‘And while you’re there you can hop on that exercise bike.’
‘The tour group’ll be arriving soon,’ Cass demurred.
She knew she must confront Gifford—and for her to choose the time and place would be preferable to him coming into the restaurant again and surprising her—yet she was not sure she felt ready to confront him right now.
‘The tour group won’t be here for another hour, which gives you plenty of time. And they’re the reason why we could do with the glasses. Marquise and I’ll keep an eye out for bébé waking up.’ Edith shooed her off with a wave of her hand. ‘Now go!’
Once in her cottage, Cass changed into a lavendercoloured leotard, pulled on a pair of grey knit shorts and tied the laces on her trainers. She would, she decided, start by saying that their son was, naturally, with her, and suggest that Gifford might like to see him. Her demeanour would be cool, calm and uncritical. Whilst she longed to deliver a volley of vitriolic home truths and savagely denounce him, for Jack’s sake she could not afford to turn him into an enemy.
The Forgotten Eden sat on a tongue of lush land which ended in a strip of white coral sand at the Indian Ocean. To the east stretched a long, shallow bay, while to the west was the tight horseshoe of the granite boulder-edged cove. Taking a path which skirted the cove and cut up through the trees, Cass set off towards Maison d’Horizon.
Sunlight dappled the yellow-green fronds of palms and lit strands of purple orchids which hung from the trees. There were glimpses of sun-sparkled sea. Dragonflies whizzed around like miniature coloured helicopters.
According to a guide book she had read, when General Charles Gordon, the hero of Khartoum, had visited Praslin in the late 1800s he’d believed he had found the biblical Garden of Eden. She smiled. She could understand his belief.
With thickly wooded hills strewn with huge, cathedral-grand boulders and a wealth of wild blossoms, Praslin had to be one of the most beautiful islands on earth. It was also one of the safest, she mused. Crime was rare, and people seldom bothered to lock their doors.
As Cass padded up the stone steps leading onto the terrace which stretched across the back of the house, her smile faded. Maybe the meeting would be easier if she brought Jack with her and let him work his not unconsiderable charm. Maybe she should turn right around and come back this afternoon. A retreat smacked of cowardice and would mean missing out on the water glasses, but—
She halted. Gifford was walking on the treadmill. The gym was installed in a corner room, and she could see his shadowy outline through the side window. Cautious now, she climbed the remaining steps. Was anyone with him? Imogen Sales, for example? The clinging, rail-thin Imogen. She cast a glance down at the slight swell of her stomach. If so, it would be heel-swivel and exit.
Tiptoeing across the terrace, Cass rounded the corner of the house and peeped cautiously in through sliding glass doors. Wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts, and with his muscled torso glistening with sweat, Gifford continued to pace the treadmill. Her gaze swept past him and swiftly around—there was no one else in the room—then returned.

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