Читать книгу With This Baby... - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

CLAIRE heard the car coming long before it pulled upon her drive.

Of course, if things had been going right, she wouldn’t have heard it at all, but she’d hit something in the long grass in the meadow behind the barn and the cutting deck on the little tractor mower had collapsed, and so it was silenced.

Silenced and broken, yet another thing in her life that was going wrong.

Hot and cross from struggling about underneath the mower to try and see what had happened, she rolled over and stared up—and up. Up endlessly long legs clad in immaculately cut trousers, up past a sand-washed silk shirt in a lovely soft green-grey the colour of his eyes, up to a face she hadn’t expected to see again quite so soon.

Great. Just when she was looking her dignified best!

‘Mr Cameron.’

‘Ms Franklin.’

She scrambled to her feet, taking advantage of his outstretched hand to haul herself up, and gave her back a cursory swipe to dislodge some of the chopped grass that was no doubt sticking to it like confetti.

There on her drive again, like a bad penny, was Amy’s car come back to haunt her—and haunt Patrick Cameron, if the look on his face was anything to go by. Oops. He didn’t look as if he’d enjoyed his journey.

‘Where’s the baby?’ he asked without preamble, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. Just like the dog’s—only the useless thing was sleeping inside with Jess, and ignoring her duty with not a bristle in sight.

‘She’s asleep. Why?’

He shrugged, but there was nothing casual about his incisive tone. ‘Just wondered. I mean, you’re out here—who’s looking after her?’

‘I am,’ she retorted, the irritation spreading from the back of her neck to permeate her voice. ‘I’m hardly far away. Do you have a problem with that?’

‘I just expected you to be right beside her, within earshot.’

‘I am right beside her. She’s in the house, about thirty yards away, and the dog’s with her.’

Or she had been until that moment. Pepper, belatedly cottoning on to the arrival of their visitor, came barrelling out of the back door, barking furiously.

‘It’s OK, Pepper,’ she said, and the lurcher skidded to a halt, lifted her head and then ran to the car, jumping up and scrabbling at the door.

‘Ah. Dog,’ he said, and Claire felt her eyebrows shoot up.

‘Dog?’

He gave a slight, humourless smile. ‘In the car. My dog. Well, my brother’s dog, actually. It was as far as we ever got with naming him. Will Pepper be OK if I let him out?’

‘She’ll be fine, she loves other dogs. She’s too trusting. Is he OK, though? I don’t need a vet bill.’ To add to all the other bills on her list.

‘He’s fine. We meet other dogs in the park all the time.’

He went over to the car and released the dog called Dog, and he and Pepper sniffed round each other and wagged cautiously.

Claire, used to Pepper with her shaggy blonde coat and little neat ears, stared at Dog in amazement. Black, with a white splash on his chest, and smaller than Pepper, he had the biggest ears she’d ever seen except on a German shepherd, and his body couldn’t seem to decide if it was terrier, Labrador or collie.

Pepper didn’t seem to care, however. She was just enjoying the attention and his lineage was obviously the last thing on her mind.

‘So much more direct than people,’ his owner said, watching them circle with their noses up each other’s bottoms, and she laughed, surprised by the dry flash of humour.

‘I think I’ll settle for being human.’

His smile was slow and lazy, and crinkled his eyes. It crinkled her stomach, too, and she felt as if she’d been punched by the force of that latent sexual charm. Good grief! No wonder Amy had fallen for him.

Amy. That’s what this was all about, she reminded herself before she could get totally sidetracked by his charm. Amy.

She brushed her hands together and looked up at him again. ‘Um—you brought the car. Thank you. What do I owe you?’

‘Owe me?’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘You don’t owe me anything. I had to get here somehow.’

‘And getting that heap out of the pound and driving here in it was your preferred choice of transport? Give me a break!’

He chuckled softly. ‘OK. I’ll admit I’m glad I don’t have to drive it back, but it made it, which I have to say surprised me.’

It surprised Claire, too, but she wasn’t telling him that! It would no doubt collapse on her the very next time she took it out—just like the mower and the strimmer and everything else.

‘Having problems?’ he asked, jerking his head towards the mower, and she rolled her eyes and sighed.

‘You don’t want to know. I hit something, and the cutting deck’s dangling now. Goodness knows what I’ve broken. I’ll get John to look at it.’

‘John?’

‘A mechanic-cum-miracle-worker. He keeps my bits and pieces going.’ When I can afford to pay him, she added to herself silently. ‘By the way, George wouldn’t take any money from me on Monday for bringing me back, so I owe you for that, too, and the cash you gave me.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll let you pay it back in kind. I didn’t dare stop the car in case it wouldn’t start again, and it’s been a long morning. I reckon a cup of coffee should settle the score.’

‘That’s a very expensive cup of coffee,’ she told him, ‘and anyway, you’re in luck because I haven’t got any. I’ve only got tea, but no milk, so you’ll have to let me pay you back.’

‘Tea will be fine,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘Shall we?’

He held out a hand, gesturing for her to lead the way, and with a shrug of defeat she took him into the house through the boot room—as untidy and scruffy as ever—and through to the kitchen, where Jess was beginning to stir in the pram. ‘Have a seat,’ she said, pushing the cat off the only decent chair, and he sat and looked around curiously.

‘What a lovely kitchen,’ he said, and she nearly choked. It was ancient, the cupboards were all chipped and scratched, and it needed a match taking to it—or at the very least a bucket of hot, soapy water followed by a paintbrush.

‘I thought you were an architect,’ she said with a thread of sarcasm, and he chuckled that lovely, deep, sexy chuckle again.

‘I am. I spend my life specifying high-tech glass and stainless-steel kitchens, somewhere between an operating theatre and the control room of a spacecraft, and you daren’t touch them for fear of leaving a fingerprint. You could come in here with a muddy dog and feel at home—it reminds me of my childhood, visiting my grandmother. Homely. Restful. Soothing.’

She looked around her and saw it with his eyes—saw the old black Aga that she couldn’t afford to run, and the deep butler’s sink with its mahogany draining board, the painted solid timber cupboards—all the things that everyone wanted, by all accounts, only new, of course, and made to look old. Distressed. Claire nearly laughed aloud. It was certainly distressed!

Still, the blue and white Cornishware china on the dresser shelves was highly collectable now, and the brightly coloured mugs hanging on the hooks above the kettle brought a vivid splash of colour to the room. And through the gap in the hedge opposite the kitchen window, you could see across the meadow and right down the valley to the church in the distance.

Yes, it had charm, and she loved it—which was just as well, because she was no more likely to be able to fly than refit it. She’d been working her way steadily through the house until Amy had died and she’d had to give up her job. Now there was a huge list of essentials ahead of the kitchen, and the mower was tacked right onto the top as of today. Really, April was not a good time for the darned thing to fall apart.

‘How strong do you like your tea?’ she asked, dropping a teabag in a mug and pouring on the water.

‘Not very. Have you got lemon? No, forget it.’

She snorted. ‘I don’t have it anyway. I’m sorry, you’re not getting a very good return on your investment here, are you?’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’

No, it wasn’t. He was here because she’d given him very little choice, and all these smiling pleasantries were just exactly that. Any second now, she guessed, the gloves would be off.

She fished the teabag out of his mug, dunked it up and down in her own and wished, for the hundredth time that day, that she’d got milk. She’d tried some of Jess’s formula in it, but it hadn’t been the same, and, anyway, she was running out of that, too.

She turned to face him, mugs in hand. ‘So, where do you want to start?’ she asked, taking the bull by the horns.

‘I’d like to see those photographs.’

‘Ah.’

She set the mugs down in front of him and turned away. She hated looking at the photos. They weren’t sordid, thank God, but they were intimate—hugely intimate, emotionally revealing. Things no one should see except the participants—things Amy should have taken with her to the grave, locked up in her heart.

Still, he’d been there, so it hardly mattered if he saw them, did it? She didn’t have to look again and upset herself with the painful images of her sister with this undeniably attractive man.

She went to the study and pulled out the packet of photos from the bottom drawer, and gave them to him.

‘Here.’

He took them, opened the envelope and eased them out, a strange expression on his face. Cradling her tea, she watched him as he sifted through them slowly, over and over again.

Then, without a word, he put them away in the envelope and looked up at her, his eyes curiously sad.

‘You’d better sit down,’ he said, and she sat, wondering what it was that had put that look on his face. Had he loved Amy? Was that it?

It wasn’t, and if she’d had a lifetime, she couldn’t have guessed what was coming next.

‘The man in those photographs isn’t me,’ he said. ‘It’s my twin brother.’

She stared at him blankly, then laughed. ‘Oh, very good. How clever—except, of course, that Amy called you Patrick. And now you’re going to tell me he was also called Patrick?’

Patrick—this one—shook his head. ‘His name was Will. He sometimes used to pretend to be me—a sort of prank we used to play as kids, except he apparently never grew out of it. He died a year ago, in Australia.’

‘Died?’ she echoed, and her hopes crumbled to dust. There was no way he’d pay for his brother’s child, and so she’d have to sell their home and move, or at least sell the barn, and Amy’s debts would eat up so much of that.

‘Tell me—what date were these taken?’

‘It’s on the back of the envelope,’ she said woodenly. ‘March, I believe.’

He turned the packet over, and nodded. ‘That fits. I wondered if it would. I was away—in Japan, on a contract. Will was using my flat for a week—and apparently masquerading as me. It must have been then. So, tell me, when was the baby born?’

‘Two weeks before Christmas.’

He nodded, then he turned his head slightly and studied Jess in the pram.

‘She doesn’t look like him.’

‘She’s very like Amy.’

He nodded again, and let out a quiet sigh. ‘I wish she’d looked more like him—a sort of reminder. That would have been nice.’

‘You could always look in the mirror,’ she said, and his mouth kicked up in a sad smile.

‘Not quite the same. Still.’

He stood up. ‘I’ve got something for you—I’ll just get my jacket,’ he said, and went out to the car.

She followed him, propping herself up in the doorway and watching as his long legs ate up the path. The dogs were playing now, having a tug of war with one of Pepper’s knotted bones, and he paused to ruffle their coats.

They wagged at him and carried on, growling and pretending to be fierce, and after one last pat he straightened up, pulled open her car door and reached in for his jacket.

As he closed the door, it bounced open again, as she’d known it would.

‘It does that,’ she told him, going over to yank the handle and bang the door. ‘It’s a knack you have to acquire.’

He flinched and muttered something along the lines of not in this lifetime, and she stifled a laugh. Poor baby, he’d really had to slum it! Oh, well, it would do him good—let him see what she was up against. She could do with all the sympathy she could get, the way things were panning out.

They walked back to the house, past the broken little tractor with its drooping cutting deck, past the barn with its door hanging half-open on rusty hinges to reveal the strimmer that had gone on strike over the winter and steadfastly refused to start.

She wondered what else could go wrong, and decided she didn’t want to think about it. She had more than enough to think about—like the fact that it seemed he wasn’t Jess’s father after all, although proving it could be tricky, because, of course, the DNA would match if he and his brother were identical twins. If that really was his brother in the photos and not him, then they were like two peas in a pod.

And, of course, because of that it would be the easiest thing in the world for him to pass off his child as his brother’s, now that Will and Amy weren’t there to argue the case. It would absolve him of all responsibility. How convenient.

And yet he didn’t seem dishonest.

She gave a silent snort. Like she was such a good judge of character! She’d let Amy hoodwink her for years, bleeding her dry in one way and another and now leaving her with Jess to bring up, safe in the knowledge that, of course, she, Claire, the sensible one, would do the right thing.

So he could be a liar and a smooth talker, quite easily, and how on earth would she know?

Oh, rats. It was too confusing, too involved, too difficult to deal with. She didn’t want to doubt him, but now it was there in the back of her consciousness, this insidious little doubt, niggling away and destroying her peace of mind.

Not that she had much of that these days.

‘Here,’ he said, pulling an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handing it to her as they went back into the kitchen. She eyed it warily.

A letter from a solicitor threatening her with legal action if she revealed the photos? A cheque—no, she didn’t get that lucky.

‘It’s the information about the DNA lab,’ he told her, putting her out of her suspense and puncturing the last little bubble of hope. ‘They’ve got my profile on record. The instructions are all in there. You just have to take the baby to the GP for a cheek swab, and get it sent off to them with the enclosed covering letter and the cheque that’s in there, and then they run the test. It should match if she’s Will’s daughter—and that’s definitely Will in the photos.’

‘How do I know that?’ she asked.

His brow pleated. ‘How do you know? Because we’re identical.’

‘Exactly. So how do I know it isn’t you?’

He stared at her, clearly taken aback. ‘Me? I’ve told you, I was out of the country.’

‘I’ve only got your word for that.’

‘It’s usually good enough,’ he said drily, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have said he sounded hurt. Then he went on, ‘Anyway, it’s easy. Apart from the passport stamps and minutes of the meetings I attended in Japan, I haven’t had my appendix out—unlike Will. And there’s a scar in the photos.’

And before she had a chance to say anything, before she could challenge him or express her scepticism, he tugged his shirt out of his trousers, hitched a thumb in the waistband and pushed it down, revealing a taut, board-flat abdomen without so much as a crease in it. ‘See? No scar.’

Her shoulders dropped. Well, at least she knew he was telling the truth. There was no way a surgeon’s knife had ever scored that skin. She dragged her eyes away from the line of dark hair that arrowed down under that dangerously low waistband, and looked back up at him.

‘OK, so it isn’t you in the photos,’ she agreed.

‘No—but it might as well be,’ he said quietly. ‘If the baby is Will’s, then she’d be as closely related to me as she would be if she were my own, and I would feel the same obligation towards her. I never thought I would, but it seems blood is thicker than water, after all, and if she’s Will’s child, then in his absence she’s mine, and I’ll do what’s right by her.’

He ground to a halt, the long speech seeming to open up more than he’d intended to reveal, and he firmed his lips together and looked away—at Jess, awake now and waving her arms and legs happily in the pram.

‘You don’t have to explain that to me,’ she reminded him. ‘Why do you think I’m looking after Jess instead of handing her over to Social Services for adoption?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, of course you understand. You’re in the same boat. Lord, what a coil.’

His jacket was hanging over the back of his chair, and she could just see one pink ear sticking up against the rumpled grey-green linen.

She inclined her head towards it and smiled, deliberately lightening the tone. ‘So, Mr Cameron—is that a rabbit in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?’

For a second of startled silence she wondered if she’d gone too far, but then he gave a soft huff of laughter and pulled it out.

‘I’d forgotten all about it. I found it in the lift. I didn’t know if she’d miss it—if she was old enough yet to have fixated on it. I gather babies can be funny like that.’

‘Not this young, not at four months, but she does like it. Thank you.’

He handed it to her and their fingers brushed, sending sparks up her arm. She snatched her hand away, feeling a little silly, and gave the rabbit to Jess, who grabbed it and stuffed one ear in her mouth.

‘Instant hit,’ she said with a smile, and scooped the baby up. ‘Here, it’s time to get to know her. Jess, this is your Uncle Patrick. Say hello.’

She dumped Jess on his lap, and for the first few seconds he looked dumbstruck and awkward.

‘She won’t break, you know,’ she told him, taking pity on him after a minute, and he shot her a slightly desperate smile.

‘Do I have to support her head?’ he asked. ‘It’s the only thing I can remember.’

‘No, she’s fine now. She can stand up if you hold her, and jump on your lap, but she shouldn’t do it for too long.’

‘How on earth do I know what’s too long?’ he asked with a thread of panic, and she laughed.

‘Don’t worry, she’s not made of glass. She’s just a baby. Don’t drop her on her head and she’ll be fine. They’re tough as old boots.’

She headed for the door, needing a moment to herself to let it all sink in, and his eyes tracked her like a laser.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his voice rising slightly with alarm.

‘The loo. You got a problem with that?’

He relaxed visibly. ‘Um—no. That’s fine. I just thought—’

‘I was going out? One step at a time, cowboy,’ she said with a smile, and left him to it.

‘Well, little Jess. So you’re Will’s baby,’ he said softly, staring into her solemn brown eyes. ‘And like the lady said, I’m your Uncle Patrick. What do you think of that?’

Not much, from the expression on her face. Her lip wobbled, and instinctively he jostled her gently on his knee and smiled at her.

‘Hey, hey, I’m not so bad. I may not know anything about babies, but we can learn together. I don’t suppose you know too much about architects or uncles, either, but you’ll learn, just like I will about babies. Oh, yes, you will.’

He nodded at her, and she blinked, so he did it again, his smile widening, and all of a sudden her face transformed. Her eyes creased up, her mouth opened to reveal one tiny white tooth in a gummy smile, and she giggled.

Patrick swallowed. There was a lump the size of a tennis ball lodged in his throat, and he had to blink hard to keep her in focus.

‘So you think I’m funny, do you?’ he said, his voice a little scratchy, and she giggled again, one arm flailing out to grab at his nose.

‘Ouch! Sharp nails!’ he chided gently, easing her surprisingly strong little fingers off while he still had skin. Instead of his nose, she fastened her hand on his finger and clung, pulling it to her mouth and gnawing it.

‘I’m not sure that’s clean enough to chew,’ he said doubtfully, but Claire came back into the room at that moment and stood right beside him—close enough for him to smell the new-mown grass that clung to her—and suddenly the germs didn’t seem to matter.

Instead, the sharp, sweet scent of grass teased his senses, heady as an aphrodisiac, and he had to force himself to concentrate on her words.

‘Don’t worry,’ she was saying, ‘children shouldn’t be brought up in a sterile environment, it’s bad for them. I’m sure your fingers aren’t that grubby.’

‘Doggy, probably,’ he said, struggling for common sense.

‘She’ll live. Did I hear her laughing?’

He looked up at her, suddenly self-conscious. Had she heard him making a fool of himself with her?

‘She giggled,’ he said, still slightly awestruck by that manifestation of personality in someone so very young, and Claire smiled.

‘Oh, she does. The sillier you make yourself, the more she likes it. I think it appeals to her sense of humour, watching adults turn themselves into fruit-cakes on her behalf.’

Fruitcakes, indeed! So she had heard. Oh, well, it might be a point in his favour, and he had a feeling he was going to need all the Brownie points he could get!

I’ll still want to be involved in her upbringing, to see her first steps, to hear her first words.

The words had been going round and round in Claire’s head since Patrick had spoken them, and, watching him with the baby now, she still had no clear idea what that implied. What did ‘involved’ mean, exactly? He wanted to see videos of her from time to time? Visit her occasionally?

Or go for custody?

As the thought popped into her mind, she felt the chill of fear run through her, and her heart started to pump.

Surely not. He couldn’t. Anyway, he wouldn’t win, he was a man.

And his DNA was an exact match with Will’s. What if he said it was him, after all? What if he claimed she was his baby, and not his brother’s?

Her eyes went to the photos, the only proof she had that the man who had fathered her sister’s baby had been the one with the appendix scar. There were no negatives, and no other copies. If the photos were to fall into the wrong hands…

‘Claire, what’s wrong?’

She jumped, swivelling her eyes from the photos to him, and met his clear, steady green-grey gaze.

‘You said you wanted to be involved in her upbringing,’ she said, her voice a little taut.

‘That’s right. I do.’

‘How involved? What exactly did you mean?’ she asked, unable to prevaricate. She’d always been direct, always gone for the jugular. If he planned to take the baby from her, she needed to know.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, and she could see the confusion and honesty in his eyes. ‘I suppose it means I want to see her as often as possible, but she lives here with you, and I live and work in London. That’s not really very straightforward.’

‘You can visit her whenever you want,’ she said, trying to make it easy so he wouldn’t try and take her from him. ‘You can stay here—there’s room. I won’t try and stop you seeing her.’

He cocked his head on one side and regarded her keenly. ‘You think I’m going to go for custody, don’t you?’ he said, his voice deceptively soft, and she swallowed and looked away.

‘I don’t know. I just know I can’t lose her. She’s all I’ve got of my sister.’

She broke off, the wound still too raw, and he tsked softly.

‘Silly girl, I’m not going to take her from you. How can I? I’m not married, I live in a flat at the top of my office block with a tiny roof garden and a hell of a long drop to the street below. You’re a woman, you’ve cared for her since she was born, you live in the country in a totally safe setting. What judge in their right mind would rule in my favour?’

She closed her eyes briefly and nodded. ‘I suppose so. I was just…’

‘Panicking?’ he finished for her, his voice gentle. ‘Don’t. On the other hand, don’t expect it all your own way. My parents will want to be involved in her life as well, and they’ll want to have her to stay—there’ll be birthdays and Christmases and all sorts.’

Claire nodded again. He was right, it wouldn’t be easy, but if they were able to work together, perhaps they could dream up a solution that would help them all.

‘First things first, though,’ he said, his mouth kicking up in a wry grin. ‘There’s a strange smell coming from this little bundle of laughs, and I think she needs her auntie.’

I want to be involved with her upbringing.

Claire smiled, some of the tension easing away. ‘Time for your first nappy-changing lesson, then,’ she said, and stood up. ‘Come on.’

‘But—I can’t!’

‘Oh, you can. You’ll be amazed what you can do. And once she’s washed and changed, it’ll be time for her next feed—and then, of course, there’ll be another nappy.’

The look on Patrick’s face was priceless, and it was all Claire could do to stop from laughing out loud.

‘I’ll make the feed up,’ he said, flailing for an excuse, but she was adamant.

‘They’re all made up,’ she assured him. ‘But you can do the next lot. I promise.’

Funny, he didn’t look in the least bit grateful…