Читать книгу The Love-Child - Kathryn Ross, Kathryn Ross - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

THE room was very well equipped. Everything a baby could possibly need was there. With the imminent threat of discovery weighing heavily over her head, Cathy worked quickly. Several shots of the child, looking up at her in an adoring fashion. A few of the toys and the new clothes that filled the cupboards. They were all from the same, very chic, expensive shop in Nice, Cathy noted.

A noise in the corridor made her fling her camera back into her bag. She was only just in time. A few seconds later Henri came into the room.

‘Having difficulty, mademoiselle?’ he asked as he saw her standing beside the open cupboards.

‘Just familiarising myself with everything,’ she answered breezily.

He didn’t look impressed. ‘Mr Tyrone wants to see you in his study. I will watch Poppy.’

He sat on the chair just inside the door and crossed his arms. Watching her from beneath hooded eyelids.

Cathy found him a little disconcerting, but the scent of a promising story made her linger.

‘Mr. Tyrone has been very busy,’ she remarked nonchalantly, nodding towards all the cupboards. ‘Did he go out and buy all these things when he heard about Ms Sterling’s accident? Or did he have them here from the moment the child was born?’

Silence met the question and she turned enquiring eyes on the man. He just shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say, mademoiselle.’

Couldn’t say, or wouldn’t say? Irritated, Cathy moved further around the room and opened the connecting door.

Her eyes widened at the sight of a luxuriously beautiful bedroom. White carpets and turquoise silk covers on the four-poster bed gave it a very opulent air. Large picture windows gave panoramic views out over the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean.

She could see an en suite bathroom through another door beside the built-in wardrobes.

‘Mr Tyrone believes in keeping his staff in luxury,’ she murmured in total surprise.

‘It is a guest room,’ Henri murmured.

‘I see.’ Cathy turned and with a carefully polite smile she asked, ‘Is this where Jody Sterling sleeps when she visits?’

The man looked at her sharply. ‘This is a large house, mademoiselle; I do not know.’ Then he glanced pointedly at his watch. ‘You should not keep Monsieur Tyrone waiting.’

With a sigh, she turned from him. It was obvious that Henri wasn’t going to be forthcoming. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll just freshen up,’ she told him and headed into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Taking out her camera, she weighed up the possible photos she could take of the room. Then, before taking them, she walked across to the bathroom and turned on the taps in the wash basin, just to cover the sound of the camera’s shutter.

At least she would have something to give Mike, she thought with some satisfaction a few moments later as she pushed the camera back in her bag and then went to turn the water off. Now all she had to do was try and get some unguarded comments from Tyrone himself.

She glanced at herself in the mirror and noticed that strands of her hair were in untidy straggles around her face where Poppy had managed to pull it free of its ties. She grimaced. It might help matters if she looked reasonably tidy before facing the tyrant in his den.

Quickly she pulled her blonde hair free from its plait and drew a brush through its silken length.

Better, she smiled at her reflection. Pearce Tyrone would be easy, she told herself confidently.

She heard Tyrone’s voice before she could see him. She followed the deep booming sound of his displeasure down the stairs. He sounded formidable, and with every step towards his office door she could feel her confidence faltering.

‘Well, your agency assured me of a prompt service,’ he was saying in an irate tone.

Somebody had well and truly rattled the man’s cage, Cathy thought as she stopped in the doorway to his study. Her eyes scanned the room with professional interest, trying to store every detail while he was otherwise occupied.

He was sitting behind an enormous desk in a very beautiful room. The walls were covered in bookshelves and French doors looked out over a picturesque garden, lit by the rosy hue of evening. Beside him there was another desk with a computer and fax machine on it, and angled to one side was a coffee machine.

Pearce didn’t see her immediately. His head was bent and he was raking one hand through his dark hair in an angry way as he listened to whoever was at the other end of the line. Cathy didn’t envy whoever it was. She wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of Peace Tyrone’s temper—he sounded most indomitable. She only hoped that she could get her story and be out of here before he discovered her deception.

‘It’s just not good enough. I pay good money and expect—’ Pearce broke off as he looked up and caught sight of Cathy in the doorway.

His eyes moved over her from her shoes right the way over her body, studying her intently with a blatantly male interest. The in-depth scrutiny made her feel extremely self-conscious and there was the strangest feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she had just stepped off a high diving board.

‘Never mind.’ Pearce continued abruptly now. ‘Leave it. I’ll phone you back.’ Then he slammed down the phone.

‘Problem?’ Cathy asked with an innocent lift of one eyebrow.

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ Pearce’s voice was crisp and businesslike, his expression remote and distinctly unfriendly, making Cathy wonder if she had imagined his earlier look of approval. ‘You look different,’ he said.

‘Different?’

‘Your hair,’ he said curtly. ‘You’ve left it loose.’

The way he spoke was almost like an accusation. ‘Oh.’ She put a hand awkwardly to the long honey gold length and tucked it behind her ears. ‘Poppy had pulled it and I just thought I’d tidy up before coming down here.’

‘Come in and sit down.’ He cut across her rambling explanations and waved a hand imperiously towards the chair opposite him.

Feeling a bit like a child who had transgressed and had been summoned to the headmaster’s office, Cathy obediently took her place opposite him. For a moment he didn’t say anything—just looked at her. It took all of her self-control not to squirm uncomfortably under that probing stare.

He was examining her as a scientist would study something under a microscope, she thought angrily, as his eyes swept over her lightly tanned complexion, the heavy thickness of her hair and the scoop neckline of her white dress with deep contemplation.

‘So,’ he spoke sharply, ‘you are Ms Cathy Fielding, nanny extraordinaire?’

‘Well...I...I try my best.’ She held his gaze with difficulty, trying not to feel intimidated by him. No one had ever made her feel so on edge before but, then, she had never pretended to be anything other than what she was before.

‘Can you type?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Yes.’ She inclined her head.

‘Excellent.’ He smiled at her, a warm smile that did very weird things to her pulse rate. His swings of mood were dizzying, she thought hazily. ‘As you just overheard, my secretary has let me down. I’ve got a deadline to make with a book and I need someone to type up my notes.’

‘That’s no problem,’ she assured him. In fact, it was probably the only thing that he needed that she was qualified to do.

‘Right, let’s take a look at your references.’

Her heart gave a double beat and she was just opening her mouth to make a feeble excuse for not having them with her when he leaned across to the filing cabinet next to him. ‘They faxed them to me yesterday but, to be honest, I haven’t had a chance to study them in depth.’

She watched, wide-eyed, as he pulled out a paper folder. ‘The agency did speak very highly of you,’ he told her.

‘Did they?’ She sounded as breathless as she felt. She waited helplessly as he pulled out the pages inside, knowing full well that as soon as he looked at them he would know that she was an impostor. For one thing, the wrong surname would be at the top of the page.

She coughed and then caught her breath. ‘Do you think I could have a drink?’ she asked in a desperate attempt to forestall him.

‘Certainly.’ He swivelled his leather chair towards the coffee machine behind him. ‘Black all right?’

She didn’t get a chance to answer because at that juncture the shrill ring of a bell split the silence of the house.

‘Damn, someone is at the gate.’ Pearce hesitated and then stood up. ‘Excuse me a moment. I’d better see to it as Henri is watching Poppy for us.’

‘Of course.’ Cathy felt her blood rushing through her veins in hot waves as she wondered if this would be the real nanny.

Well, what could she expect? she told herself with a sinking feeling. It stood to reason that she couldn’t get away with this for very much longer.

As soon as Pearce left her she got up and wandered around the room. She flicked idly through a pile of papers at one side of his desk. They were just normal household accounts. Her eyes moved quickly over the references Pearce had spread out over the desk—from an agency called Elite Nannies of London. Cathy pulled a face as her eyes moved down over it. Any moment now she would probably be confronted with an indignant Mabel Flowers and an absolutely furious Pearce Tyrone.

Frantically, she opened a couple of drawers in his desk but found only paper and discs. What she was looking for, she couldn’t have said; she was just desperate for something...anything...she could use for her story before she was bodily thrown from the building.

She was in the process of closing the drawer when the telephone rang next to her. It rang and rang and Pearce didn’t come to answer it.

Impulsively, Cathy snatched it up. ‘Pearce Tyrone’s residence,’ she said in an efficient tone.

A woman with dulcet English tones asked to speak to Mr Tyrone.

‘I’m afraid he isn’t available at the moment,’ Cathy said without hesitation. ‘Can I take a message?’

There was the briefest pause before the woman asked to whom she was speaking.

‘Mr Tyrone’s secretary.’ Cathy bit her lip. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. Tyrone had asked if she would do some typing for him.

‘This is Janet Mercer of the Elite agency in London. I’m afraid the nanny we are sending you, a Ms Mabel Flowers, has run into some difficulty getting out to you. It’s this French air-traffic control strike.’

Cathy’s eyes widened; she could hardly believe her luck. ‘We were wondering where she had got to.’ She managed to sound slightly disapproving as she darted nervous glances towards the doorway in case Pearce should suddenly arrive.

‘Yes, I know you wanted her right away and I did promise, but it’s been chaotic trying to make other arrangements. The best we can do is book a train and the first available one is Monday next week, I’m afraid.’

‘Dear me.’ Cathy had difficulty keeping the glee from her voice.

‘If you’d like to cancel our contract and get someone closer to home then we would understand.’

‘No, leave it as it is,’ Cathy told her nonchalantly. That would give her a week’s grace to get her story, not that she intended to stay that long. She’d probably be out of here tomorrow morning with enough information to make Mike’s year.

‘Well, that’s very good of you,’ the woman said with evident relief.

Isn’t it? Cathy thought, mentally patting herself on the back.

She was just putting down the phone when Pearce came back through the door.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked with a frown, noting her hand on the receiver and the fact that she was standing behind his desk.

‘The phone rang.’ Cathy hoped that her skin didn’t look as hot as she felt. ‘And, as you said you were short of a secretary, I dealt with it for you.’

‘I’d rather you hadn’t.’ Pearce came further into the room and she sidled around the desk back to her own chair, feeling suitably chastised.

‘I’m sorry, I was just trying to help.’

‘Who was it?’ He sat down and met her eyes. The directness, the unwavering way he seemed to look into her very soul, filled her with apprehension.

‘Uh...they wouldn’t say, actually.’

‘Wouldn’t say?’ He barked the words with barely concealed impatience.

‘Well—’

‘Was it the hospital?’ He leaned across towards her, his gaze searing.

Now she understood his irascible manner. He was worried about Jody Sterling, probably on tenterhooks waiting for news from the hospital.

‘Oh, no,’ she assured him swiftly, relaxing again. Then, thinking quickly, she added. ‘Actually, I thought it might be a reporter. He was asking odd questions. Wanted to know if Jody Sterling’s child was here and if you were the father of the child.’

The look of contemptuous disdain on Pearce Tyrone’s face was awesome. Cathy shrank back in her chair as he made a very derisive statement about members of the press.

‘What did you tell them?’ He fixed her with a perishing glare.

‘Nothing.’ Cathy batted wide blue eyes at him. ‘What should I have said?’

‘You should have told them to mind their own damn business and that if they printed one word of a lie in their filthy rags I’d sue them from here to eternity.’

Pearce Tyrone was not a person to cross. She had known it from the first moment she had set eyes on him. His words now confirmed it even more. If she had any sense she would get out of here p.d.q. This charade would end in tears and they were most likely to be her tears.

‘Sorry.’ Pearce leaned back in his chair and smiled suddenly at her. ‘I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.’

‘I ... no ... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have answered the phone.’ His smile did very strange things to her senses.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He waved a hand airily. ‘Now, where were we?’

Remembering the references for Mabel Flowers spread before him, Cathy felt her apprehension growing. ‘Actually, you were just about to pour me a black coffee,’ she told him, an idea born of desperation forming in her mind.

He turned and poured two cups, then handed one across to her.

As she took it from him she moved awkwardly, and pretended to lose her grip on the china saucer so that the cup tipped down on the desk, spilling hot black liquid all over the references.

‘Oh, no... I’m so sorry.’ Trying to sound horrified, she picked up the crockery and watched the black stain creep further over the papers. Pearce said nothing, just calmly reached for a box of tissues and started to mop up the mess.

Cathy watched anxiously, hoping that she would at least have succeeded in obliterating the name at the top of the page.

‘Not much damage done,’ Pearce said easily.

‘Here, let me help.’ Cathy sprang to her feet and, taking a couple of tissues, she rubbed very hard at the top of the page where the name was. She rubbed so hard that the weakened paper tore.

Pearce’s hand closed over hers. ‘Ms Fielding.’ His voice took on a brusque edge. ‘You are making matters worse.’

‘Am I?’ The touch of his hand against her skin was most disconcerting. She tried to ignore it and her hand closed in a tight fist, effectively scrunching up the tissue and taking the torn piece of the reference with it. Then she made to pull away from him.

He didn’t release her and she looked at him, trying hard to keep her expression innocently questioning. Their faces seemed very close across the desk. She noticed that his eyes had darker flecks in them. His skin was smooth and healthily tanned. She could smell the faint, subtle tang of an expensive cologne. It was extremely pleasant, as was the whisper-soft feeling of his breath against her skin. Her nerve-endings seemed to prickle with consciousness.

‘Is ... is something wrong?’ It took all her resources to keep her voice level.

His expression was hard and unyielding, just like the hand that held her. ‘You’ve got a piece of the reference in your hand.’

‘Have I? Oh, dear... I am sorry.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. It was more a nervous reaction than a conscious effect.

Pearce’s lips slanted in an unamused line. Very coolly and deliberately he uncurled her fingers and took the soggy paper from her.

She watched as he opened it and only when she saw that it was just a soggy mess did she relax slightly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she muttered again, sitting back in her chair.

He regarded her steadily. ‘I hope you are not normally so clumsy, Ms Fielding.’ The censure in his tone was unmistakable.

‘It was an accident. I did apologise.’ A note of annoyance crept into her voice, but her anger was directed at herself. She felt guilty for this deceit...yet she felt compelled to keep it up. It was the dogged reporter in her, she supposed. The scent of a story holding her almost against her will.

He swept the wet pages to one side. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered. ‘I have work to get on with. I’ll ask the agency to fax over new copies later.’

‘Shall I get back to the nursery?’ It would almost be a relief to get away from his presence for a moment. Every time she met his eyes she felt overwhelmed by him. She supposed it was her guilty conscience. She wasn’t used to lying—it certainly didn’t come naturally to her.

‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered in a clipped voice.

He pulled out a clean piece of paper and picked up a pen. He didn’t write anything, just tapped the pen on the page from time to time.

‘I might remind you,’ he said sternly, ‘that my standards are high. That is why I contacted the Elite Agency.’

‘Of course.’ She hoped that her demure tone didn’t sound sarcastic.

‘I told the Agency to send me no less than their best person.’

Cathy said nothing to that. She was too busy wondering what his requirements were. She didn’t have to wonder long.

‘The agency tell me you are a cordon bleu cook,’ Pearce continued, watching her steadily.

Cathy tried not to blanch; she could barely boil an egg.

‘As I stated in my telephone call to Mrs Roberts...uh, it is Mrs Roberts at the agency, is it not?’

Cathy hesitated and then ventured boldly, ‘Well, actually, I have only ever dealt with Janet Mercer.’ She felt rather pleased with herself as Pearce nodded.

‘Oh, yes, I spoke to Mrs Mercer the first time I contacted the agency. I told her I wanted someone to run the house, cook, clean and take very good care of Poppy.’ He reached for his coffee and took a sip.

Cathy noticed that he hadn’t offered her a fresh cup. Probably afraid of what she would do with it.

‘And, as I want you to do some typing for me in your spare time I think we should draw up a timetable and get organised.’

Cathy tried not to pull a face. She was very glad that she wouldn’t be staying around here for too long. Cooking, cleaning, baby-minding ... typing! Even Mary Poppins hadn’t had it that hard.

‘Would you like to say anything?’ Pearce leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily.

Something about his flint-like expression made her temper simmer. There were a few things she would have liked to say, but nothing would be gained from airing her views about him being a slave-driver. Wait until Mike heard about this, she thought grimly.

Instead she asked coolly, ‘How much are you going to pay me?’ Of course she had no intention of hanging around to be paid, but it might make interesting reading.

He frowned. ‘Hasn’t the agency told you?’

‘Yes.’ She shrugged, and tried to look nonchalant. ‘But now you want me to do extra duties, such as typing.’

One eyebrow lifted. ‘You are direct, Ms Fielding. A quality I admire.’ He paused for just a moment. ‘Let’s round your salary up, then.’

He proceeded to name an amount that nearly made her fall off the chair. It was no wonder that Pearce expected a lot—he was paying a small fortune. Her theory about him being a slave-driver had been way off the mark; he was paying for a top service. ‘Is that acceptable, Ms Fielding?’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’ She tried to make her tone flat so that she didn’t sound as stunned as she felt.

‘And you can have Friday off.’

‘Fine.’ Again her voice was neutral. She wouldn’t be here until Friday; she had no intention of lingering a moment longer than was necessary. ‘But I do need to go into Antibes this evening,’ she ventured. She needed to get back into town, phone her editor and collect some clothes from the hotel. ‘I’ve ... I’ve got an appointment and—’

‘You waste no time. Hot date, is it?’ Pearce’s voice was dry.

‘No ... no.’ Cathy shook her head vehemently, perhaps too vehemently because Pearce Tyrone was watching her with a look that could have cut glass at twenty paces.

‘Ms Fielding, I asked for a nanny who could dedicate herself to Poppy for a while. The child needs good quality care to help her adjust to her new surroundings. I don’t want or need a nanny who is panting with desire to escape into the arms of her lover every evening. If that is your calibre then you had better leave now.’

Cathy’s mouth dropped. ‘Panting with desire?’ Her voice trembled with fury. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

‘Oh, I dare anything, Ms Fielding,’ he assured her solemnly. ‘My priority is Poppy. I need to know she is well looked after. So we may as well be up front about this. You will not go to Antibes tonight. If you feel you cannot dedicate your time exclusively to this baby and this house for the time I have hired you then you had better tell me now, and we needn’t waste any more of each other’s time.’

‘You are also very direct, Mr Tyrone.’ There was an edge of derision in her voice. ‘Now I know why you admired the quality so much.’

‘So, we understand each other?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Good.’ He drawled the word and leaned back into his chair again, a small smile of satisfaction playing around his strongly sensuous lips.

Her eyes moved over his strong profile thoughtfully, and she mentally penned what she might write about him. He was autocratic, with very little warmth, though fantastically good-looking, like a movie star.

She was very attracted to him. The thought flew in from nowhere and she tried to dismiss it. All women would be attracted to Pearce Tyrone—he had a kind of animal magnetism. It was a type of fatal attraction—at the same time as being drawn to him almost against your will, there was the fear that could just devour you.

‘So...’ Pearce drawled thoughtfully, jolting her back to reality. ‘All that remains is for me to draw you up a timetable for tomorrow. You needn’t bother with dinner tonight—coffee and a sandwich will do. I want to get on with my work.’ Pearce scribbled on the paper as he spoke. ‘But for tomorrow, let’s see... For breakfast, I think, French toast and coffee.’ He glanced up at her in that unnerving way of his. ‘Breakfast, seven o’clock sharp. I like punctuality. I hope that’s not a problem?’

‘Not if it isn’t with Poppy,’ Cathy answered sweetly. Inside she was wondering if this guy was for real. And what the hell was French toast, anyway?

‘Lunch at one sharp, something light; you can surprise me. I’m sure with your talents for cooking you can be quite imaginative.’

Oh, she could surprise him all right, Cathy thought grimly. And with a bit of luck she could give him heart-burn into the bargain.

As she listened to him her mind veered towards the article she was expected to write. It struck her that it might take her longer than she had first anticipated to get the necessary information. It was not going to be easy to break through Tyrone’s businesslike reserve. She could hardly start asking pertinent questions when all he wanted to talk about was the daily running of the house. She needed to approach this cautiously.

She would have to get into town and phone Mike and pick up some of her belongings from the hotel. It was imperative.

She cleared her throat and cut across him. ‘What about the shopping?’ She asked the question in a wild attempt to get away from the house for a while. ‘You haven’t allowed me any time for getting ingredients for dinner and so on.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Henri will probably see to it...or we’ll have whatever you need delivered.’

Silence stretched for a moment as she searched her mind for a way to get around him and out of here. ‘Actually, I prefer to pick my own ingredients for cooking. I’m rather selective when shopping for dinner.’

‘So is Henri.’ Pearce was unmovable, his eyes firm.

‘Yes, but I have to go into town tomorrow anyway... I need to collect the rest of my luggage,’ she said as desperation started to creep in.

‘Where is your luggage?’ He leaned forward. ‘I thought you just flew in from London early this morning?’

‘Well, I... No...’ She felt her skin go red and blotchy with discomfort as she searched around for a good excuse to explain why her clothes were in Antibes. Hell, she was no good at telling lies.

‘There must be some misunderstanding, I have come straight from working for another family in Antibes... Their daughter is going away to school so they no longer need me.’

‘So why leave your belongings in their house?’ His voice was arid, his eyes watchful.

‘Well, it’s...’ She shook her head, willing herself to think quickly. ‘It’s a precaution.’ She almost gasped the words in relief as the excuse came to her in a rush. ‘I like to make sure everything is above board and suitable before I move into someone’s house...especially when that someone is a single male.’

There wasn’t a flicker of emotion in the cool blue eyes as they swept over her heated face. ‘I see. Well, you have nothing to fear from me, Ms Fielding, I can assure you of that.’

Somehow his words sounded more like an insult than reassurance. OK, so she probably wasn’t his type. Jody Sterling was exceptionally beautiful, as well as talented. But there was no need for him to sound quite so disdainful. She wasn’t ugly. Her skin burned with bright, angry colour but she forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘Well, that is a considerable relief.’ She was pleased by the way she was able to match his cool tone. ‘I wouldn’t like there to be any misunderstanding.’

‘Neither would I.’ He fixed her with a level stare. ‘I never fraternise on a personal level with my staff.’

She had to hand it to Pearce Tyrone, Cathy thought grimly. He got ten out of ten for being able to put her back up. ‘Very commendable,’ she said sugar-sweetly.

He smiled and for a moment amusement lurked in his blue eyes. What was so funny about being an insular snob? Cathy thought furiously. He wouldn’t be laughing when he read the article she was going to write about him. The thought was enough to lighten her spirits.

‘As it happens, I have to go into Antibes tomorrow so we may as well go together,’ Pearce continued smoothly.

Cathy frowned, her moment of pleasure dissolving. How would she get her clothes from the hotel and phone Mike if Pearce insisted on tagging along? To top it all he was going to expect her to go directly to somebody’s house and she didn’t know a soul in Antibes. This was getting to be too complicated by far. ‘But what about Poppy? I mean, we can hardly all—’

‘We can take Poppy with us. We shouldn’t be long.’ Pearce glanced at his watch. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Cathy gritted her teeth.

‘Perhaps you would put my supper on a tray and bring it in here for me?’

His tone was dismissive, as if he had taken all he could of inconsequential talk. She had a wild urge to say something flippant like, Yes sir, three bags full, sir. Instead, she bit her lip.

Her chance to be irreverent and glib would come later when she poured her story about the real Pearce Tyrone out onto paper. He was going to make a very interesting subject.