The Baby Who Saved Christmas. Alison Roberts
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lost him before she’d even had the chance to meet him. She would never know if there were parts of her personality she might have inherited from that side of her gene pool. Like that rebellious streak maybe. Or the unusual gurgle of her laughter that always turned heads. Her brown eyes?
Yes. Even behind the shards of broken glass clinging to the frame of that portrait and the mist of the champagne spray, Alice could see that her father’s eyes were as dark as her own.
He looked so happy. Confident and victorious. And there was no denying how good looking André Laurent had been. Despite the disparaging reaction of the silent man beside her, Alice just knew that her mother had been in love and had had her heart broken. Why else had she never tried to find another relationship?
She would never even discover whether André remembered her mother. If she had, at least, been conceived in love on both sides.
Yes. That hope of finding something that could grow into a new but precious version of family was gone. It was dead and had to be buried. Like her father had been only this morning.
Her breath hitched and—to her horror—Alice felt the trickle of tears escaping.
And then she heard a heavy sigh.
‘Je suis désolé. I’m sorry.’ Julien’s voice had a very different timbre than she had heard so far. Softer. Genuine? Whatever it was, it made his accent even more appealing. ‘I should not have done that.’
Alice swallowed the lump in her throat. The fear had gone. This man wasn’t violent by nature. He had just been pushed beyond the limits of what anyone could bear. She knew what moments of despair like that could feel like.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, in barely more than a whisper. ‘I understand. I’m very sorry for your loss.’
The response was a grunt that signalled it was not a subject that he intended to discuss any further.
Alice was still holding the photograph of her parents. It was time to put it back in the envelope, along with the clippings that had supplied the name missing from her birth certificate. She slipped the envelope into the side pocket of her backpack and zipped it up. Then she picked up the straps to put it back on.
‘Where are you going?’
Alice shrugged. ‘I’ll find somewhere. It doesn’t matter.’
Julien moved so that he was between her and the door. ‘You can’t go out there. You can’t talk to those reporters. They would have a—what do you call it? A...paddock day with a story like this.’
There was a faint quirk of amusement to be found in the near miss of translation. ‘A field day.’ She shook her head. ‘I won’t talk to anyone.’
‘They’ll find out.’ Julien’s headshake was far sharper than her own had been. ‘They’ll discover who you are and start asking questions. Who else knows about this...claim of yours?’
Alice was silent. What did it matter if he didn’t believe her? Nobody else knew anything more than what had been impossible to hide. That her mother had gone to work for a summer in the south of France. That she had come home alone and pregnant.
‘Do you have any idea what the Laurent estate is worth?’ Julien’s gaze flicked over her from head to foot, taking in her simple, forest-green jumper, her high-street jeans and the well-worn ankle boots. The backpack that dangled from her hands. ‘No... I don’t suppose you do.’
He was rubbing his forehead with his hand. Pressing his temples with long, artistic fingers that made Alice wonder what he did for a living, which was preferable to feeling put down by her appearance. Was he a surgeon, perhaps, or a musician? The black clothes and the long hair fitted more with a career in music. She could almost see him holding an electric guitar—rocking it out in front of a crowd of adoring fans...
‘I need to get advice.’ Julien sounded decisive now. ‘Luckily, I have my solicitor here in the house with me. And I expect a DNA test will soon sort this out.’
‘There’s no point now.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I came here to meet my father. If he’d needed that kind of proof I wouldn’t hesitate but it’s...too late now. It doesn’t matter because I’m never going to meet him, am I?’
‘But don’t you want to know?’
Did she? Maybe it would be better to find out that André Laurent wasn’t her father, however remote that possibility was, because then she could walk away knowing that she hadn’t lost something that had been real and so close to being within her grasp.
And if he was, she wouldn’t be haunted by knowing that her father was still out there in the world somewhere but impossible to find. She knew in her heart that she was right but there was something to be said for having written confirmation of some things, wasn’t there?
So Alice shrugged. ‘I guess so.’
‘Come with me.’ Julien opened the door. ‘I do not want to be in this room a second longer.’
With what was probably going to be her last glance at her father’s portrait, Alice followed him out of the office. She expected to traverse the length of the enormous room again but, instead, Julien stayed at this end of the house and threw open the glass doors to the conservatory. He waited for her to enter, his face expressionless. Perhaps the effort of keeping that anger under control left no room for anything else.
Even a hint of a smile would do.
The memory of that soft tone in his voice when he’d apologised was fading. Oddly, Alice wanted to hear it again. Or to see something that would suggest it had been genuine. That she was correct in thinking that she’d caught a glimpse of the real person buried under this grim exterior. A person she had, for an instant of time, felt a connection with.
But his tone was just as empty as his face. All that was left was the accent that still tickled her ears and made her feel as if there was a secret smile hovering just over her lips, like a butterfly waiting to alight.
‘Have a seat,’ he said. ‘Are you hungry? I can ask the housekeeper to provide something for you.’
‘No. Thank you. I had lunch not long ago.’
‘As you wish. I shouldn’t be too long. Please, wait here.’
She didn’t really have a choice, did she? She could walk out of the house but those security guards wouldn’t open the gates without getting permission and even if it was given, she would then face the media pack and...and she’d always been hopeless at lying.
Probably thanks to her father’s genes, Alice had failed to receive more than the blue eyes that every member of the McMillan clad had had. She had been quietly thankful that she had escaped the flaming red hair that ran through generations of her mother’s family. It hadn’t been banished entirely, but her version was a rich auburn instead of orange. It was a shame she’d missed the olive skin that had been evident in that portrait of her father, though. She had pale, Scottish skin—inclined to freckle with any sunshine and turn a bright red when she blushed.
Which was what she always did if she tried to tell a lie.
Walking between the cool green fronds of huge, exotic ferns in tall terracotta urns, Alice headed for a cane couch with soft-looking, cream upholstery. Unbidden, a memory surfaced that provoked a poignant smile.
She had been about four years old and she’d done something bad. What had it been? Oh, yes... She’d been rebellious even then and she had gone to play somewhere she hadn’t been allowed to go alone—behind the hen house and down by the creek. Knowing that the mud on her shoes would reveal her sin, she had taken them off and hidden them under a bush. When the query had come about their whereabouts, tiny Alice had given innocence her best shot and she’d said she didn’t know where her shoes were. The fairies must have taken them.
Her mother and her grandmother had simply looked