The Valentine Child

by Jacqueline Baird

  'So this is your hide-away.' The deep, melodious voice echoed on the still air.

  For a second she thought she was hallucinating as her startled gaze fell on the man ascending the steps from the beach to the deck. Justin here? In California? She couldn't believe it. . .

  But it was true. He stopped a mere foot away from where she sat frozen in shock. His brown eyes took in every detail of the way she looked—her long blonde hair falling around her face in a tangled mass, the skimpy green band around her full breasts, her cut-off jeans hanging low on her hips. She knew she looked a mess— bare-legged, barefoot and, if he did but know it, pregnant.

  A guilty tide of red flooded up her face, but she tilted her chin defiantly and forced herself to withstand his insulting perusal, her own eyes cold as ice. 'A hide-away? I think not. . . You're here.' She was proud of her steady voice, but she had to clasp her hands together to hide their trembling.

  He looked thinner, she thought. His thick black hair curled over the collar of a cream silk shirt, and a leather belt low on his hips supported matching chinos. He needed a haircut, she thought inconsequentially, but nothing could detract from his air of ruthless power nor his vibrant sexuality.

  Except herself, she realised sadly, he had never had any trouble controlling his sexy body around her. . . Which only confirmed what she had been forced to accept when she'd left him. He had never really cared about her.

  'Or should I call it a love-nest?' he sneered contemptuously.

  'Love-nest?' she parroted, tearing her gaze away from his hard body. What on earth was he talking about? 'Are you off your trolley?'

  'I must have been to believe in you, you wanton, adulterous little whore.' His dark eyes flared with rage, his Latin ancestry overcoming his usual, practised British restraint. 'My God! The man is even older than I am, and has apparently been lusting after you since you were a child. It's disgusting.'

  Zoe caught her breath, a reciprocal anger flooding her veins. How dared he try to smear her simply to cover his own guilt? But, thinking fast, she guessed where he had got the perverted idea from immediately, and in a cold fury she challenged him.

  'Ah! The valentine cards—the last one you claimed you had sent me. But then they do say an honest lawyer is hard to find,' she prompted sarcastically.

  'Bitch.' He reached for her, his eyes savage, and for a second she was terrified, but she refused to show it.

  Instead, with studied indifference, she arched one delicate eyebrow. 'Really, Justin. . .it isn't like you to be so unimaginative.'

  His hands fell to his sides, his fists clenched, the knuckles gleaming white as he fought to regain his superhuman control, and he won. . . 'Defending yourself—you have changed,' he ground out between his teeth. 'I take it lover-boy isn't here?'

  His dark eyes roamed over her with contempt, demanding a response, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. His face tightening, he watched her in tense, hostile silence for a long, long moment. . .

  Finally a derisory smile curved his hard mouth, and he stepped back. 'Never mind; it's of no importance to me any more,' he said with insulting arrogance. 'I have some papers for you to sign, and then I see no reason why we should ever meet again.'

  Zoe wrapped her arms protectively around her body, cold despite the fierce heat of the afternoon sun. She knew he did not love her, but to hear him say he never wanted to see her again was like twisting a knife in her already bleeding heart. The decision was made for her. He would never know she was pregnant. The child would be hers and hers alone, she vowed silently.

  As for the rest. . . That he could be so devious as to try and blame her. . . To insinuate that she and Wayne. . .

  It was despicable and he wasn't going to get away with it, 'And I see no reason for your presence here in the first place,' she finally retaliated. 'There is such a thing as a mail service.'

  'And you would know all about servicing males, my sweet wife,' he mocked silkily. 'Wayne, Nigel and God knows how many more I don't know about.'

  Zoe stared at him, deliberately holding his eyes. 'For a man who aspires to be a judge you are singularly lacking in insight.'

  'Where you are concerned I would have to agree,' he conceded cynically, his eyes sliding over her with cool insolence, stripping away her brief garments, exposing her naked flesh beneath. Humiliatingly she felt a hardening in her breasts but forced herself not to react.

  'I was fooled by your display of innocence, but not any more.' His knowing gaze roamed from the soft swell of her breasts, clearly outlined beneath the fine fabric, up to her flushed face.

  'Look at you, and this place.' His glance encompassed the magnificent beach-house and returned to her, his eyes wandering insolently over her yet again. 'You're almost naked, sprawled on a ice-lounger, the archetypal sybarite.'

  It was his iron control and his reserve that infuriated her almost as much as his words; only Justin could insult a person so thoroughly without batting an eyelid.

  'Forget your fancy language—a lazy, luxury-loving nymphomaniac would have done,' she spat back furiously. She had had enough; she jumped to her feet. 'What did you come for, Justin? I'm not in the mood for games.'

  'What are you in the mood for?' he demanded, catching hold of her wrist with sudden violence and pulling her against the hard, male warmth of his body.

  She stiffened, instantly aware of his masculine heat, his personal scent. His mouth brushed hers, and she ached to surrender to the longed-for pleasure of his touch. But she refused to give in to her baser urges. That way lay hell! Instead, she jerked her head back and stared up into his calculating eyes.

  'Please say what you have to say and leave.' He was much too close, and it took all of her strength to breathe evenly, to control her heavily beating heart.

  His eyes darkened. 'I'm not some casual mate you can dismiss with a word,' he grated, tightening his grip on her wrist, and for a moment she felt the force of his rage at her casual dismissal.

  'Your fabled control is slipping again, Justin, darling,' she mocked.

  'I think not,' he said tightly, his fingers lacing through hers, his thumb stroking the palm of her hand with deliberate provocation. 'But you, Zoe his eyes cruellycaptured hers as the arm around her waist moved lightly over her near-naked back in a deliberately arousing caress '—you never could say no,' he taunted silkily.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. She had been stupid to bait him. 'I've learnt.'

  'Shall we test that?' Justin suggested huskily, but Zoe was too quick for him, and, freeing herself from his grasp, she put the lounger between them.

  'No. Our marriage is over; we have nothing more to say to each other.' And for good measure she added, 'And Wayne will be back very soon.'

  At the mention of Wayne Justin straightened and stared at her, his hard body taut. Then his dark eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them the cold bleakness of his gaze made her shiver. 'You're right of course. Let's get down to business. I have the papers in my car. I won't be a minute.'

  She watched as he strode down the steps, and a shaft of pain lanced through her. In a few minutes she would sign the divorce papers. She looked around the sun-kissed beach, at the gentle sway of the ocean, her eyes misting with tears. She dashed her hand across her eyes. She would not cry.

  Slipping into the house, she hastily pulled a large, baggy shirt over her trembling body and fastened the buttons to her neck before returning to the deck.

  She watched Justin walk towards her with a briefcase in one hand; he placed it on the table and sprung the lock.

  'There was no need to cover up for me. I have seen it all before,' he remarked, casually eyeing the over-long shirt. 'I can't say I admire your lover's taste in shirts.'

  Actually it was her own shirt—one she wore when painting. She opened her mouth to say so and closed it again. Let him think she had a lover—what did it matter? 'Just give me the divorce papers and tell me where to sign.'

  'Divorce? Oh, no, Zoe. I'm not making i
t that easy for you.'

  Their eyes met and held and her heart lurched in her breast. Was it possible that he wanted her back? 'Then why are you here?' she asked quietly.

  He laughed without humour. 'What do you think? That I want you back?' His too intelligent brain had read her mind. 'You were good in bed, but not that good, and I don't go in for used goods, my dear. But I am your guardian until you're twenty-five.'

  She had forgotten all about Uncle Bertie's will. 'But under the circumstances surely ?'

  Justin cut in, 'Exactly. I see no reason to continue the guardianship.' He spread some papers on the table. 'If you will read these and sign where indicated. You'll find Black Gables is to be sold at a decent price and afterprobate all the monies accruing to you will be placed in a bank of your choice. Any further communication between us can be conducted by your American lawyer.'

  Justin the lawyer was in total control as he raised cold eyes to her face. 'I'll take a walk while you read the relevant documents, and if you have any questions I'll be more than happy to answer them.'

  She could not believe what she was hearing. 'And why no divorce?' She was not aware that she had asked the question out loud.

  'I have a career to think of. There is no way I will divorce you, and as you have no grounds for divorcing me you must wait the five years as set down in English law.'

  She could feel the anger welling up inside her. She had no grounds? The arrogance of the man was incredible. 'You bastard,' she said softly, shaking her head. How had she ever thought she loved such a man?

  Snatching the papers from the table, she didn't bother reading them, but simply signed where indicated and thrust them back at him. 'Now get out.'

  Leaving him standing, she dashed back into the house, sliding the glass doors closed behind her.

  Zoe drove slowly along the main street of Rowena Cove and up the hill leading out of the village. She turned left into a drive leading towards the sea and parked outside the dark green door of her home. For a long moment she simply sat behind the wheel of her practical, four- wheel-drive Range Rover and stared out across the cold waters of the bay.

  Three and a half years ago, when she had moved to this house at the top of the hill, she had fallen in love with the place. It was true that in the summer mid-coast Maine was flooded with visitors, but at this time of year—a crisp day in March—the locals had Rowena Cove pretty much to themselves.

  Her mind went back to the first winter, and the birth of her son. A fierce snowstorm had blocked the roads out of the village and her beloved boy had been born at home with the help of a local sailor's wife, Margy. Since that day they had become firm friends. Two years ago they had gone into business together, running a small gift shop specialising in hand-painted cards. Amazingly the business had flourished. In the summer they designed Christmas cards, in the fall, valentine cards.

  She choked back a sob. Val, her son, loved playing with Margy's daughter Tessa—or he had until his illness had prevented him. She glanced distractedly around the yard. A magpie landed on a tree-stump and was speedily joined by another one. One for sorrow, two for joy. . . A bitterly ironic smile twisted her lips. There was no mirth, no laughter any more, and she no longer believed in omens.

  Her son had been born fit and healthy at twelve-thirty on the morning of Valentine's day. She had called him Valentine after checking the meaning in the baby book. Derived from the Latin, meaning strong, powerful, healthy. . . The last was the cruellest cut of all.

  She glanced over her shoulder at her son, belted into the back seat and fast asleep. His beautiful black curls fell over his forehead, his long lashes, so like his father's, rested on the curve of his cheek, and she was stricken with pain and guilt.

  She opened the car door and got out. The cottage door was open and Mrs Bacon was standing on the step, a worried frown creasing her already lined face.

  'You're days late; is everything all right?'

  Zoe simply shook her head and, opening the rear door, leant in and lifted the sleeping boy into her arms. She hugged him close, burrowing her face in his sweet-smelling hair; he was so precious that she could not bear to lose him, and she was not going to. She would go anywhere, do anything, sacrifice everything she owned, but her son would live, she vowed silently. Straightening her back, a grim determination in her stride, she walked into the hall.

  'I'm putting him straight to bed, Mrs B,' she murmured as she passed the older woman and headed for the stairs.

  An hour later, bathed and changed into a soft blue jogging-suit, she took a last peek at her sleeping son, dropped a soft kiss on his tousled head, and went back downstairs. In the kitchen Mrs B was waiting, a pot of tea at the ready.

  Zoe collapsed on the ladder-backed chair at the pine table and, zombie-like, took the cup Mrs B offered, and seconds later she was greedily drinking the refreshing brew. She didn't have to speak—her face said it all. Devoid of make-up, white as a sheet, her eyes circled in purple shadows, she was a picture of devastation.

  'You know what's wrong?' Mrs B prompted quietly.

  'Yes, and I still can't accept it,' she said almost to herself. 'It's too incredible for words. Why us?' The cry was from her heart.

  The housekeeper shook her head, the sympathy in her hazel eyes plain to see.

  'At Christmas Val was a healthy boy—maybe a little tired, but I thought it was simply the aftermath of the cold he had earlier. When he started pre-school in January, I thought maybe that was what was tiring him out.

  'I took him to Dr Bell-- ' she lifted red-rimmed eyesto her companion '—you know I did, and he gave him junior vitamins and a blood test. Then he said he was anaemic.

  'I took him to Portland and then to New York University Hospital; he had blood transfusions, but still he was anaemic. Last week we stayed in hospital together while they carried out further investigations. So where did I go wrong? What else could I have done?'

  'Don't blame yourself, Zoe; you have done everything you could.'

  Zoe straightened in the chair. 'It's odd—money never meant very much to me, probably because I always had enough. I can pay the best in the world to treat my son, and it isn't going to do a damn bit of good.' She thumped her fist on the table in an agony of frustration. 'It is so unfair. . .'

  Mrs B caught her hand in hers. 'Steady, girl,' she soothed gently. 'Tell me what's wrong.'

  Zoe threw back her head, laughing, on the edge of hysteria. 'You won't believe it; I didn't at first. I thought it was some kind of sick joke. My son, my baby Val, has apparently got Fanconi's anaemia.

  'Before you say anything, I know it sounds like an Italian pizza house. It would be funny if it wasn't so serious.' And, dropping her arms on the table, she laid her head on them and wept. . .

  She didn't hear the doorbell, or the murmur of voices in the corridor; she was too lost in her own despair.

  'Hey, come on, partner.' A pudgy arm reached around her shoulders, and she lifted her head to meet the soft brown eyes of Margy.

  'Margy, has Mrs B told you?'

  'Yes, and nothing is as "bad as it seems, believe me, I know. Medical science is a miraculous thing, as is the power of prayer. Pull yourself together. Where is the fighting spirit, the human dynamo that has made our business a success? Use the same energy and determination and you and Val will beat this together.'

  'You're right, I know, but sometimes, just sometimes, the strength goes '

  'More tea?' Mrs B cut in. 'Because if not, and you don't want anything else, I need to get home.'

  'No, thanks, Mrs B, and thank you for being here today. I'm truly grateful,' Zoe said quietly.

  Five minutes later the two friends retired to the living- room, where Mrs B had left a welcoming log fire burning, and, after opening a bottle of wine, they relaxed in the comfortable armchairs.

  Zoe quietly sipped the wine and gazed into the red- gold flames, trying to sort her thoughts into some kind of order. She could do nothing about the churning in her stomach; it was plain
anxiety, and likely to be with her for evermore.

  'So what exactly did Professor Barnet say?'

  She raised her head, her blue eyes gazing over Margy's dark head, the sweet, rounded face full of sympathy and understanding, and thanked God that she had such a good friend.

  'I saw him the day we arrived, and then the team took over and carried out all kinds of investigations on Val. I had another appointment to see Professor Barnet and hear the results, but when I walked into his consulting rooms it was a Dr Freda Lark, his replacement; apparently he was involved in a pile-up on the freeway the night before and suffering from concussion.'

  She took a sip of her wine. 'It was weird but, in a way, probably better. She hadn't had time to read the file thoroughly. So she gave it to me straight. Val is suffering from Fanconi's anaemia.'

  She took another swallow of wine, her eyes meeting Margy's. 'I know—I'd never heard of it either. Apparently it's extremely rare; they were not sure what causes it, but the treatment '

  She stopped and swallowed the lump in her throat, determined not to cry again.

  'The treatment is transfusions, which Val has already had, followed by, in twelve days' time, a course of chemotherapy.' Just the word horrified her; she licked her dry lips, 'And the best chance for success is a bone- marrow transplant.'

  'Oh, God! Does Val know—understand?'

  'Yes, and sort of,' Zoe said sadly. 'The reason we were late back was that I was screened immediately and I waited for the result to see if it matched.' She drained her glass and, picking up the bottle, refilled it. 'I don't.' A despairing sigh escaped her as she handed the bottle to her friend.

  Margy took the bottle but put it on the floor. 'You must tell him; you have no choice.'

  Zoe knew she was not referring to Val. She had confided the circumstances of her marriage and separation to Margy years ago.

  'I know. . . Dr Lark, unaware of my marital state, was quite adamant. "Bring your husband in as soon as possible and any brothers and sisters; the most likely match is the immediate family."' Dully Zoe repeated the doctor's words, but not all of them. . . The rest she was keeping to herself. . .