Читать книгу Dr Mathieson's Daughter - Maggie Kingsley - Страница 8

‘SHE’S arriving this evening, then, on the nine o’clock plane from Paris?’ Floella declared as she helped Jane carry a fresh supply of medical dressings out of their small dispensary into the treatment room. ‘Poor little soul. Losing her mother like that. My heart goes out to her, it really does.’

And I don’t know why MI5 doesn’t simply throw in the towel and hand over all its surveillance work to St Stephen’s in future, Jane thought ruefully.

How did they do it? She’d told nobody about Nicole, and she was pretty sure Elliot hadn’t told anybody either, and yet it had taken the staff less than twenty-four hours to discover not only that he had a daughter but what time her plane was arriving as well.

‘I bet Gussie’s spitting nails about you moving into Elliot’s place.’ Floella chuckled. ‘I hear she’s been itching to become his live-in girlfriend.’

‘I’m not exactly moving in with him, Flo,’ Jane said quickly. ‘Simply helping out until he can employ a housekeeper.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ the staff nurse said dismissively. ‘We all do.’

Which was another thing that was beginning to seriously annoy her, Jane thought, putting down the boxes of Steri-Strips she was carrying with a bang. The way everyone had instantly assumed there wasn’t anything personal about the arrangement.

OK, so there wasn’t, but that didn’t mean she had to like the idea that nobody thought there might be. She wasn’t that plain, and was it really so unlikely that she and Elliot could have become an item? Apparently it was.

‘Elliot, we were just talking about your little girl.’ Floella beamed as he strode down the treatment room towards them. ‘You must be really excited at the prospect of meeting her.’

Jane didn’t think he looked even remotely excited, but to his credit he managed to mumble something suitably enthusiastic in reply.

‘You must bring her into the hospital one day, so we can all meet her,’ the staff nurse continued. ‘And, don’t forget, if you ever need a babysitter, I’ll be only too happy to oblige.’

Elliot smiled and nodded but as Floella bustled away he shook his head wryly. ‘You know, this has got to be the worst-kept secret in the hospital.’

‘Do you mind everybody knowing about Nicole?’ Jane asked.

He shrugged. ‘She’s a fact of life. Whether I mind or not is immaterial.’

Which sounded very much as though he did mind. As though he’d far rather she didn’t exist.

She’d thought—hoped—that since last night he might have had time to see what a great gift he’d been given, how lucky he was, but nothing, it seemed, had changed. He still saw his daughter as a nuisance, an unwelcome intrusion into his life.

‘I’d better get back to work,’ she said abruptly, but before she could move he suddenly clasped her hands in his.

‘Jane, what you’re doing for Nicole—for me—I just want to thank you again. It’s really good of you to help me out like this, and I do appreciate it.’

Like hell you do, Elliot, she thought sourly, trying very hard not to notice the way her skin was traitorously reacting to the touch of his fingers. You just think you’ve got it made. You just think you’ve managed to offload your responsibilities onto someone else. Well, you’re going to find out very quickly that I’m not a complete pushover. You’re going to do your full share of taking care of your daughter, or my name isn’t Jane Halden.

Determinedly she extricated her hands from his. ‘I’d better go—’

‘Did you remember to arrange with one of the night staff to start a little earlier tonight so you can come out to the airport with me?’ he interrupted.

She nodded, though she still thought Nicole would probably have preferred him to meet her alone.

‘I thought we’d take her out to dinner,’ he continued. ‘A sort of welcome-to-London treat. I know this fabulous restaurant in town which not only does the most amazing lobsters but also the best prawns this side of the Channel.’

He had to be joking. One look at his face told her he wasn’t.

‘Don’t you think fish fingers and chips at home would be a much better idea?’ she said quickly.

‘Jane, she’s French—’

‘And she’s six years old, Elliot. Look, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’s exhausted and a bit weepy when she arrives,’ she continued as he opened his mouth, clearly intending to argue with her, ‘so I really do think fish fingers and chips in your flat would suit her much better than dinner out at a fancy restaurant.’

He frowned uncertainly. ‘If you say so. I don’t think I’ve got any fish fingers in my freezer but I could easily buy some.’

Frankly she’d have been amazed if he’d had fish fingers in his freezer. Pâté de foie gras, quail and partridge eggs for sure, but not fish fingers and chips.

In fact, when she’d dropped off her clothes at his flat this morning her heart had quite sunk when she’d seen where he lived. Oh, his home was beautiful—all gleaming modern furniture and immaculate white walls—but not by any stretch of the imagination could it have been described as child-friendly. Indeed, its pristine elegance had intimidated her, so who knew what it would do to Nicole?

Flowers might soften the look, she thought suddenly, make it seem more homely, and she’d just opened her mouth to suggest it when two paramedics appeared, their faces taut, grim.

‘Twenty-three-year-old mum with bad burns to her face, arms and upper torso. Apparently she was frying some chips for her kids’ tea when the pan caught fire. She threw some water on it—’

‘And the whole thing went up like a torch,’ Elliot groaned as the paramedics wheeled the mother into cubicle 1. ‘Didn’t she know that oil and water don’t mix?’

‘Do you want me to page the burns unit?’ Jane asked, beckoning to Floella to assist him.

‘Please. You’d better alert IC as well. And, Jane…’ She turned, her eyebrows raised questioningly. ‘Make it fast, eh?’

She nodded. Shock was always the biggest hazard in cases like this. Shock and the danger of infection, and the sooner they could get the young mother stabilised and transferred to specialist care, the better.

And the sooner Richard Connery lost his high-and-mighty attitude the happier she’d be, too, she decided when she put down the phone to see the junior doctor snapping his fingers imperiously at her.

No wonder Floella’s temper was close to breaking point, she thought as she walked towards him. Her own was getting pretty wafer-thin as well, and it was getting harder and harder for her to continue believing that Richard’s high-handed manner was due to him finding the work in A and E a lot more stressful than he’d expected.

‘How can I help you, Doctor?’ she asked, determinedly bright as she joined him in cubicle 8.

‘Being here considerably earlier would have been a start,’ he declared irritably. ‘I’ve been waiting ten minutes for nursing assistance.’

‘We’re very busy this afternoon, Dr Connery—’

‘And I don’t have time to listen to excuses,’ he interrupted. ‘My patient is suffering from acute appendicitis and I need liver, pancreatic and guiac tests to confirm it before I send him up to Theatre.’

It wasn’t the only thing he needed, she thought grimly, but she managed to keep her tongue between her teeth and quickly took the samples he wanted.

‘Well, is it a ruptured appendix, as I said?’ he declared when she returned later with the results.

She cleared her throat awkwardly. ‘Could I have a word with you in private Dr Connery?’

‘I don’t have time for a chat, Sister,’ he retorted. ‘All I want is a simple answer to a simple question. Is it a ruptured appendix or not?’

Well, he’d asked for it, she thought, and as he’d asked for it he was going to get it. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t, Dr Connery. Your patient has gallstones.’

‘Gallstones?’ Richard’s normally pale face turned an interesting shade of pink, and he snatched the sheet of papers from her fingers. ‘Let me see those results!’

‘It can be very easy to confuse the two,’ she murmured for the benefit of the young man who was lying on the trolley, glancing from her to Richard with clear concern. ‘The symptoms—pain, nausea and sickness—’

‘Are you presuming to give me lessons in diagnosis, Sister Halden?’ Richard interrupted, his face now almost puce.

Of course I’m not, you big ninny, she thought. I’m simply trying to get you out of a jam. You should never have told your patient what was wrong with him until you were a hundred per cent sure, and making a diagnosis without having the results of your tests was just plain stupid.

But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, she said as calmly as she could, ‘Would you like me to make arrangements for your patient to be taken up to Men’s Surgical, Dr Connery?’

From his expression Richard looked as though he’d far rather have thrown her under the nearest bus, but he managed to nod.

But he wasn’t finished. The minute the young man on the trolley was wheeled out of the treatment room, he rounded on her furiously.

‘I do not appreciate being made to look a fool, Sister Halden! That man was my patient—in my care—and you deliberately undermined his confidence in me!’

‘I did no such thing,’ she protested. ‘I didn’t want to give you those results. I asked if I could discuss them with you in private, but you insisted on having them.’

He had, and he knew it. He was also plainly acutely and deeply mortified, and despite her anger she couldn’t help feeling a certain sympathy for him.

‘Dr Connery…Richard…Look, it’s no big deal,’ she said gently. ‘OK, so your initial diagnosis wasn’t correct, but you were sensible enough to order all the necessary tests—’

‘I am not a child so stop humouring me!’ he interrupted. ‘I am the doctor here, Sister Halden, and I suggest you don’t forget it!’

He stormed away before she could answer him, but to her dismay her troubles weren’t over. As she turned to go back into the cubicle to remove the paper sheet from the examination trolley and replace it with a fresh one, Elliot suddenly appeared and it was clear from his grim face that he’d heard every word.

‘Does he always talk to you like that?’ he demanded. ‘He does—doesn’t he?’ he continued, seeing the betraying flush of colour on her cheeks. ‘Right. It’s obviously high time I had a chat with that young man.’

‘Oh, Elliot, don’t,’ she said quickly, dreading the inevitable friction that such a course of action would create. ‘He knows he was wrong, but he’s very young, still finding his feet—’

‘And using them to walk all over you by the sound of it,’ he snapped. ‘Jane, it’s not on. There’s such a thing as staff courtesy, not to mention the fact that even a first-year medical student would know never to make a diagnosis before they’d done every test.’

‘I know that, but, please, won’t you leave it for now?’ she begged. ‘I’m sure when he’s had time to think about it he’ll realise he shouldn’t have behaved as he did.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’ he demanded. ‘If he continues to treat you like this?’

‘He won’t—I’m sure he won’t,’ she insisted, and for a second he frowned, then sighed and shook his head.

‘You know something, Janey, you’re far too soft-hearted for your own good.’

Too damn right I am, she thought, or I’d never have agreed to help you with Nicole, and she would have told him so, too, if she hadn’t suddenly noticed he was smiling at her. Smiling the smile that made grown women grow weak at the knees, and her own were none too steady at the moment.

Why in the world had she ever agreed to move in with this man? Her brain must have been out to lunch. Her common sense must have gone with it, too, she realised, feeling an answering smile being irresistibly drawn from her. To live with him. To see him at breakfast. Last thing at night…

Then remember why you agreed to do it, she told herself sharply. Remember that he’s simply using you until he can employ a housekeeper, and that he doesn’t give a damn for his daughter.

And if that doesn’t bring you down to earth, she thought grimly when the doors of the treatment room swung open and Gussie Granton suddenly appeared, Elliot’s current girlfriend certainly should.

‘Hello, Gussie,’ Elliot said in clear surprise. ‘We don’t often see you down in A and E. Something I can do for you?’

Gussie wrapped one curl of her long blonde hair round her finger and threw him a provocative glance from under her impossibly thick eyelashes. ‘Not in public unfortunately, darling.’

Oh, barf. Barf, barf, and triple barf, Jane thought, deliberately beginning to edge away, but she didn’t get far. Gussie placed a beautifully manicured hand on her arm, and subjected her to a smile. A smile which had quite a struggle to make her eyes.

‘Don’t run off, Jane. At least not until I tell you how very sweet I think you’re being to help us out like this. I would have taken care of Nicole in a minute if I could, but being a senior sister in Paediatrics…’ She sighed heavily. ‘I just don’t have any time to myself.’

And I do? Jane thought waspishly. Like being a senior sister in A and E is a dawdle? Like I simply turn up every day, do my eight-hour shift, then go home and put my feet up?

For two pins she’d have liked to tell Gussie where to stick her thanks. Forget the two pins, she decided. She’d do it for free. And right now. ‘Gussie—’

‘Elliot, darling, it’s just occurred to me that you might like some company when you go out to the airport to meet your daughter,’ Gussie continued, completely ignoring her. ‘I could easily get one of my staff to swop shifts with me—’

‘There’s no need,’ Elliot interrupted. ‘Jane’s already agreed to come with me.’

‘Has she?’ Gussie’s large brown eyes narrowed slightly, then she smiled again at Jane. And this time her smile most definitely didn’t reach her eyes. ‘My word, but you are proving to be a little godsend, aren’t you?’

Elliot thought she was. In fact, after a sleepless night spent tossing and turning, he was all too aware of how very kind Jane was being, but he wished Gussie hadn’t said it—at least not in that particular way. There’d been a very definite edge to her voice. An edge which had made him feel uncomfortable, and if he’d felt like that he was sure Jane did as well.

‘Gussie, I’m afraid, can be a bit overbearing at times,’ he said the minute the paediatric sister had gone.

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Jane replied tersely.

He coloured. ‘She does mean well, though, even if it doesn’t always sound like it.’

Oh, Gussie had made her meaning perfectly clear, Jane thought tightly, walking over to the thirteen-year-old boy and his mother who had come through from the waiting room into cubicle 8.

Hands off—he’s mine. That was what she’d said, and there’d been no need. Gussie was welcome to Elliot. In fact, right now the paediatric sister could have had him gift-wrapped with a bow round his neck.

‘Your son’s had this pain at the top of his chest for the last three days, you said?’ Elliot said, once Jane had got the boy and his mother settled.

‘At first I thought David had simply pulled a muscle, playing basketball,’ the boy’s mother replied, twisting her hands together convulsively, ‘but when the pain didn’t go away—’

‘Keen on sport, are you, David?’ Elliot asked as Jane helped the boy off with his shirt.

‘Only basketball,’ he replied. ‘The other boys at my school prefer soccer, but basketball…Basketball’s the best.’

Gently Elliot pressed on the boy’s chest. ‘Does it hurt when I do this?’

The boy shook his head. Not musculoskeletal pain, then, Elliot decided, or the pain would have increased under pressure.

‘Do you have any other aches and pains anywhere?’ he asked, taking his stethoscope out of his pocket and smiling encouragingly at the teenager.

‘I don’t think so.’ David frowned. ‘Sometimes I get an odd feeling in my back, but that’s all.’

Elliot’s ears pricked up. ‘Odd in what way?’

‘It’s hard to explain. It’s…it’s a sort of ripping feeling. I’m sorry but I can’t really describe it.’

He didn’t need to. The minute Elliot placed his stethoscope on the boy’s chest he heard a distinctive whooshing sound. A sound similar to that he’d heard in much older patients with leaky heart valves. But surely a boy of thirteen was far too young for that?

‘Jane, could you get me an ECG reading, please?’ he murmured casually.

She nodded.

‘So, you play a lot of basketball, do you, David?’ he said as Jane deftly applied the sticky electrodes to each of the boy’s arms and legs, then across his chest.

‘His school thinks he could play professionally when he’s older,’ his mother replied, clearly torn between maternal pride and concern.

‘My height helps a lot,’ her son said quickly, shooting his mother the speaking glance all boys used when they were deeply embarrassed. ‘You don’t have to jump up so far to reach the basket when you’re as tall as me.’

And he was tall—almost as tall as I am, Elliot thought pensively. Rangy, too, with extremely long fingers, and suddenly somewhere in the back of his mind a memory stirred. A memory of something he’d read in a medical journal a long time ago, and he hoped to heaven he was wrong.

‘ECG reading normal,’ Jane murmured.

‘Chest X-ray, please, Sister Halden,’ he said, then turned to the boy’s mother. ‘Has your son always been tall for his age?’

‘Not when he was a toddler, but when he hit seven…’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘It costs me a fortune every time he needs new clothes and shoes. Nothing in any of the ordinary kids’ shops fits him, you see.’

Because he wasn’t an ordinary boy, Elliot thought sadly, when Radiology had processed David’s chest X-rays.

He had Marfan’s syndrome, a rare, inherited condition which caused the aorta—the major blood vessel leading from the heart—to become abnormally enlarged, and one of the first indications of the condition was that sufferers were always extremely tall as children with unusually long fingers.

‘Historians think Abraham Lincoln might have had Marfan’s, don’t they?’ Jane commented after the boy and his mother had been transferred up to the medical ward where further tests could be performed.

Elliot nodded. ‘Thank goodness his mother brought him in when she did. With that enlarged aorta, he could have had a heart attack at any time, but at least now we can give him beta-blockers to control his heart problems, and get him fitted with an orthopaedic corset before his spine starts to become deformed due to the weight of his bones.’

‘No more basketball for him, though, I guess,’ Jane sighed.

‘No. No more basketball,’ he answered, and wondered why he should find that thought so deeply depressing.

Oh, he’d always cared about the patients who passed through his hands, had fought tooth and nail to save many of them, but this young boy…

Perhaps it was because he seemed so very young, scarcely more than a child, despite his height. Perhaps it was because all of his dreams to become a world-class basketball player were now lying in the dust.

No, it wasn’t that, he realised. It had been the look of total devastation on his mother’s face when he’d taken her into one of their private waiting rooms to explain what was wrong.

David’s mother would willingly have given everything she possessed to spare her son pain. Would even have given her own life if he could have been cured. That was love. Real love. And he felt none of that for his daughter.

You don’t know her yet—haven’t even met her—his mind pointed out, and unconsciously he shook his head. It wasn’t as simple as that. Even if he’d wanted to be a father—and at the moment he certainly didn’t—he didn’t know how to be one.

He could do Lover. Oh, he could do a great Lover, provided there was no talk of long-term commitment. He could even do Friend. A sympathetic, willing shoulder for any woman to lean her head on if she needed it, but Father?

There was no way he could do Father—no way—and a wave of panic washed over him.

Panic that didn’t get any less when a case of accidental poisoning came in a mere forty minutes before he and Jane were due to leave for the airport.

‘We’re really cutting it fine,’ Jane murmured, seeing his eye drift to the treatment-room clock while they waited for the results of the blood count and chemistry tests. ‘Thank goodness we brought a change of clothes into the hospital just in case.’

He nodded, but he’d hoped to have time to shower, to wash the smell of the hospital off him before he met his daughter, but now it looked as though he’d be phoning the airport to tell them to look after her until they could get there. It was a great start. A really great start.

‘Look, why don’t the pair of you just go?’ Charlie Gordon said. ‘It’s not like we need either of you here. Flo and I can look after your patient.’

Elliot shook his head. ‘It’s asking too much—’

‘Elliot, I’d bet money that your blood pressure is higher right now than your patient’s,’ the SHO said with a grin.

‘Probably, but—’

‘Charlie’s right, boss,’ Floella chipped in. ‘We don’t need you here, and it would be awful if your little girl arrived with nobody to meet her.’

She was right, it would. But still he looked across at Jane uncertainly. ‘What do you think?’

‘Who am I to disagree with the others?’ She smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

They made the airport with five minutes to spare.

‘Relax, Elliot,’ Jane said, seeing him scanning the Arrivals board anxiously for information about the 21.00 plane from Paris. ‘The plane might land at nine o’clock, but she’ll have to collect her luggage first, remember, so try to relax.’

Relax? How could he possibly relax when all his instincts were urging him to run, to leave town, to give no forwarding address? He glanced at his watch, then straightened his tie. ‘Do I look all right? I mean, this suit…?’

‘You look fine.’ Actually, she wished he’d brought a pair of casual trousers and a sweatshirt to change into at the hospital instead of a suit and tie, but now was hardly the time to tell him so.

‘Should I get her some flowers, do you think?’ he continued, seeing a man emerging from the florist opposite with an enormous bouquet. ‘Girls always like flowers, don’t they?’

‘Daffodils would be nice…’

‘Not roses, then?’ he queried. ‘You think roses would be too much?’

For sure they would be too much. Roses were for an adult, not a little girl, and she would have told him that if she hadn’t suddenly caught a glimpse of his face.

He looked tense. Tense, and taut, and grim.

Surely he couldn’t possibly be nervous at the prospect of meeting his daughter? Of course he wasn’t. The very idea was ridiculous. He was resentful, yes. Probably even a little bit angry at his ex-wife for doing this to him, but super-confident Elliot nervous about meeting a child? No way. Never. And yet…

Gently she put her hand on his arm. ‘Elliot, all she needs is to feel loved and wanted.’

‘Loved and wanted.’ He nodded, for all the world as though he were ticking off a mental check list of dos and don’ts.

‘Just be her father,’ she continued, ‘and she’ll adore you.’

Be her father? He couldn’t do it—he knew he couldn’t—but a voice over the loudspeaker had announced the arrival of Flight 303 from Paris, and Jane was pushing her way through the crowded concourse, leaving him with no choice but to follow her.

‘Do you have a photograph so we’ll know what she looks like?’ she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

It had never occurred to him to ask if the solicitor had one! Relax, he told himself, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his back. How many six-year-old kids can be travelling on the plane from Paris? Even if there are dozens she’ll have somebody from Donna’s French solicitors with her.

She didn’t. She was on her own. OK, so one of the air stewardesses was holding her hand, but she was still on her own, and somebody had pinned a label onto her coat for all the world as though she were a parcel to be collected, not a child, not a person.

A surge of quite unexpected anger flooded through him. Anger that was just as quickly replaced by an altogether different emotion as the stewardess led his daughter towards him.

She looked exactly like Donna. The same long auburn hair, the same large dark eyes, the same elfin features. The face that stared uncertainly up at him was the one which had loved and then taunted and mocked him during his marriage, and despite all his best efforts to prevent it he felt himself beginning to withdraw. Knew it was wrong, that she was only a child, but he couldn’t stop himself.

And Nicole sensed his withdrawal. He could see it in the clouding of her eyes, and though he managed to swiftly dredge up his brightest smile he knew the damage had been done.

‘Elliot….’

Jane’s hand was at his back, urging him forward, and he cleared his throat awkwardly.

‘Hello, Nicole. I’m…I’m your father.’ She gazed up at him without expression and a fresh wave of panic assailed him. What if she didn’t speak any English? Donna had been French. She might never have seen any need for her daughter—his daughter, he reminded himself—to learn English.

‘Nicole…I’m…Moi…Je…Je…’ He bit his lip. Oh, God, but he’d never been any good at languages. ‘Nicole…Moi…votre père?’

‘I know.’

The reply had been barely a whisper.

‘And this…’ He caught Jane’s hand in desperation. ‘This is my friend, Jane Halden. We…we’re…’

‘Flatmates,’ Jane said quickly, coming to his rescue. ‘Your father and I are flatmates.’

What now? Elliot wondered as the air stewardess disappeared, the loudspeaker announced the arrival of the 21.15 from Berlin and his daughter stared at the floor. What did he do and say now?

Jane had no such doubts. She simply got down on her knees, gave the little girl a hug and began talking about the flight from Paris.

Which is what he should have done, he realised bleakly as he retrieved Nicole’s luggage. But it was too late to think about that now. Too late for a lot of things.

All he could do was drive them back to his flat and listen to Jane and Nicole chattering away quite happily while he sat in silence, feeling as much use as a lamb chop in a vegetarian restaurant.

Dinner was no better. Nicole ate little, and said less. Jane—bless her—kept up a steady stream of conversation while Nicole valiantly attacked her fish fingers, but it was a relief when his daughter finally pushed her plate away and asked if she could go to bed.

Jane didn’t linger long afterwards. There was plenty she wanted to say. Things like ‘What happened to the famous Mathieson charm?’ And ‘Couldn’t you at least have tried to make some conversation?’ But it would keep.

A lot of things would keep, she decided as she took her pyjamas out of her suitcase and smiled ruefully as she looked at them.

Passion-killers. That’s what Frank had called the men’s red-and-white-striped pyjamas she liked to wear, and she supposed they were, but she liked them, always had. They were cosy on wintry nights, cool on hot summer evenings, and if they were as sexy as a pair of flannelette knickers then so much the better while she was staying with Elliot.

Not that she had anything to fear on that score, she thought wistfully as she changed into them. She was just Jane. Just good old dependable Jane.

And you should thank your lucky stars you are, her mind declared while she brushed her teeth. How long do Elliot’s girlfriends usually last—a month, six weeks? Gussie was doing well at two months. Actually, Gussie was doing incredibly well to have lasted two months.

Sleep, she told herself firmly. Get into bed and get some sleep. And she tried. She really did try, but two o’clock saw her no sleepier than before, and she’d just decided to get up and make herself a cup of tea when she heard it.

The unmistakable sound of a child’s muffled sobs in the silence.

She was out of bed in a second, tiptoeing quickly down the corridor so as not to wake Elliot, but her stealth was unnecessary. He was already awake, already heading in the same direction, and he came to a halt with clear relief when he saw her. She stopped too, but it wasn’t relief she felt. It was an altogether different emotion.

He only wore boxer shorts to bed. Nothing on top at all. Nothing to disguise the fact that his chest was even broader and more muscular than she’d ever imagined. And the boxer shorts…She swallowed convulsively, and resolutely shifted her gaze to his face and kept it there.

‘Nicole’s crying,’ he said unnecessarily.

‘She’ll be missing her mother,’ she managed to reply. ‘Feeling a bit lost.’

‘I guess so.’

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she continued, half turning to go.

‘Leave me?’ he gasped. ‘But you can’t. I mean, I don’t know what to do!’

‘Elliot, all she needs is for you to hold her, cuddle her!’ she exclaimed, unable to hide her exasperation. ‘How hard can that be?’

‘Can’t you do it?’ he begged.

‘Elliot—’

‘Janey, I told you I wasn’t any good with kids. I’ll only muck it up if I go in there, say the wrong thing.’

‘But—’

‘And I have to get some sleep,’ he continued in desperation, seeing the shock and disapproval in her face. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Admin tomorrow about next year’s budget, and I must have my wits about me.’

For a second she stared at him speechlessly, then she drew herself up to her full five feet one, her grey eyes blazing.

‘Go, then!’ she snarled. ‘Go and get your precious sleep, and I hope you have nightmares. You deserve to, because you sure as hell don’t deserve a lovely little girl like Nicole!’

And he didn’t, she thought furiously when she went into Nicole’s bedroom and gathered the little girl into her arms. He didn’t deserve anybody’s love.

To think that at the airport she’d been stupid enough to wonder if his apparent callousness might be an act. An act he’d adopted because he was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to cope. But it wasn’t an act. He was just selfish to the core.

And as she cradled Nicole to her, holding the little girl tightly until she finally fell asleep, she didn’t know that Elliot remained outside the bedroom door, listening. Didn’t know that as he stood there, his hands clenched against his sides, his forehead leaning against the door, that he felt not only like the biggest heel of all time but also the world’s biggest failure.