Her Nine Month Confession. Kim Lawrence
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she has to have a life outside of Emmy. But does she listen?’
As Elizabeth chuntered on the image of Lily in a bikini set up a string of images that Ben, despising his lack of control, breathed his way through. He came out the other side feeling resentful and furious at his lack of self-control. Even if this wasn’t his kid, he had nothing but contempt for a parent who put their own selfish needs ahead of their child.
‘That’s an unusual birthmark she...?’ He watched for any sign of reaction to his question on the housekeeper’s face. Either she was the world’s best actress or didn’t know either.
‘Emmy... Emily Rose.’ Her grandmother brushed aside a hank of burnished hair from the child’s forehead and touched the small mark near her right temple. ‘It looks like the moon, doesn’t it?’
Jumping to conclusions in his business was often the difference between success and failure. Sure, gut instinct came into it, but you had to gather data, sift through the evidence, calculate the probabilities before you made a call.
Ben never jumped to conclusions, and now was not a good time to start. In his experience the best way to kill crazy ideas was throw facts at them.
Clutching at straws, Ben?
Ignoring the inner ironic voice, he asked casually, ‘How old is she?’
‘Two. She was actually due on the twins’ birthday but Lily took a tumble and she came a month early.’
‘My mother has a birthmark similar to that one, or she did.’ His mother had had it removed while they were doing her first facelift.
‘How is your mother?’ Elizabeth asked politely.
Ben, who knew the question was inspired by good manners not genuine interest, shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’ Then, acting on an impulse that he had no control over, he touched a shiny curl before drawing his hand back as though burnt. ‘Her hair is just like her mother’s.’
And her eyes were just like his. But it wasn’t just her eyes: the angle of her childish jaw, the birthmark... In contrast to his slow, measured words, Ben’s brain was firmly on fast-forward now. If ever there was a moment to retain the clear objectivity he was famed for, this was it.
Objectivity!
What was the point in objectivity when the truth was staring him in the face? He took a deep breath, his shoulders straightening. Unless someone offered him concrete proof to the contrary, this was his child.
Elizabeth nodded, gave a nostalgic smile and sighed. ‘I used to love brushing the girls’ hair when they were little. They grow up so fast.’
‘It’s very...’ He paused, the muscles in his tanned throat working as he pushed away the intrusive image of curly red strands brushing his chest and belly. The memory darkened his eyes to midnight blue.
‘It’s glorious,’ continued the fond grandmother. ‘It’s from my husband’s side,’ she confided. ‘They have a lot of redheads, Irish skin and hair. They always burned in the sun. Not that this little one will have the same problem,’ she said, touching the child’s rosily golden cheek.
Though he felt as though he were bleeding control through every pore he somehow managed to sound casual enough not to make alarm bells ring as he scanned the toddler’s face and commented casually, ‘She’s inherited her father’s colouring?’
He watched the older woman’s expression grow shuttered.
‘I don’t know. Lily doesn’t talk about him.’ Her eyes lowered, hiding her expression as she transferred the weight of the now-sleeping child from one shoulder to the other.
I bet she doesn’t, he thought grimly. But she would. When she got back, he’d be waiting.
Why wait?
‘Your room, should I...? Jane is around somewhere?’
‘I’m not staying, but I’d love a cup of coffee before I head off.’
He lingered another half-hour and, over a coffee, extracted the information he needed. A firm believer in choosing your own battle ground and the advantage of surprise, Ben saw no reason to wait around while Lily sunned herself on some tropical beach.
He wanted to see her face when he turned up. He wanted to hear the truth from her own lips, even if it was nearly three damned years too late!
Pushing away the image of those lips parting as his mouth crashed down on them, he strode purposefully from the building.
* * *
It wasn’t until an hour later that he realised why the island paradise sounded familiar.
‘So I’ll cancel everything for the next, what...three days?’ Another person might have sounded stressed, but his PA was her usual serenely unflappable self. Considering he’d contacted her on his way to the airport and told her to free up his calendar.
‘Better make it four.’
‘All right, four. Will you be staying at the house or shall I book you in somewhere?’
‘House?’ The question produced a frowning response.
‘Have you changed your mind about putting it on the market?’
It finally clicked. She was talking about the property he’d inherited last year from his great-uncle.
‘For now. I’ll check it out, see if it’s worth staying there.’
The flight took for ever. When they finally landed at the private airstrip he arranged for his bag to be dropped at the house, while he headed straight for the hotel that Elizabeth Gray had described as a paradise.
And a prerequisite of paradise was temptation.
Ben lifted a hand to shade his eyes from the sun. He was jet-lagged. No, actually, he’d been jet-lagged when he arrived at Warren Court twelve hours ago. Now walking in totally inappropriate handmade leather shoes along the deserted white sand beach still wearing the same suit, he had gone way beyond mere jet lag.
He was operating on a combination of adrenaline and anger. The hours that had passed since his discovery had not reduced the latter, but the delay had worn his patience to a single-cell thickness.
With his eyes still on the horizon, he dropped down into a crouch and balanced on his heels, examining the sand for the light indents he had followed from her beach bungalow. A redhead was not so difficult to track down, especially when generous tips were involved. A muscle tightened in his chiselled jaw as his efforts were rewarded. The footprints were still there, but they were now heading out to the water.
Straightening up, he altered course, heading towards the towel that lay in a crumpled heap a few feet away. As he picked it up his nostrils flared at the faint but distinctive scent of rose impregnating the soft fabric. He gave a snort of self-disgust as his libido gave a hefty kick.
He still remembered that scent; he remembered everything.
Ignoring the sizzling slither of heat that licked along his nerve endings, Ben muttered under his breath and clenched the fabric in his hands. He levelled his steely gaze at the head of the figure far out in the water. Too far given the luridly painted warning signs along the beach that informed of currents behind the reef.
If this day had carried a convenient warning sign he might have stayed in bed. Ben’s entire body clenched in anticipation as the figure in the water began to swim towards the shore.
* * *
Behind her the water appeared clear azure blending almost seamlessly into the sky. Ahead of her it was turquoise and clear as crystal. The warmth was totally seductive and though she had only intended to stay out for a few minutes she had quickly lost track of time. She was enjoying swimming lazily, though kept in mind the maid’s story of the tourist who, after a boozy dinner, had ignored the warning signs or probably