The Valentine Child

by Jacqueline Baird

  "There is the phone.' Margy indicated the instrument on the table with a wave of her hand. 'Call him now, Zoe.'

  'Ring Justin? Just like that? No, I can't.'

  'Why? Are you frightened he won't come? Doesn't he like children?'

  Zoe thought for a moment, remembering her years in England, which had been mostly happy if she was honest with herself.

  'Truthfully, I don't really know. He did suggest that we wait a year before having any of our own. But thenJustin was very good to me when I was a teenager. In fact, when I think about it, he did tell me the reason he stayed late in London every Monday night was that he taught boxing at a boys' club. He got a blue at Oxford for boxing. And, before you ask, I have no idea why it's a blue.'

  'There you are, then! He must like kids. Ring the man.'

  Zoe twirled the stem of her glass around her fingers. 'Actually, I thought if you didn't mind, Margy. . .' She glanced across at her friend. 'I know it's an imposition, but I wondered if you would do me an enormous favour.'

  'If you want me to ask him, forget it. This is something you have to do yourself.'

  'No, no, nothing like that.' A brief smile lifted the corners of her mouth but quickly vanished. 'I wondered if you would look after Val for the weekend. Much as I hate to leave him for any time at all, I thought I'd fly to England on Friday and ask Justin in person, and hopefully bring him back with me on Monday.

  'I know it's a lot to ask, but you're the only person I trust to look after Val. He loves Tessa. . .' She was pleading, but it was so vitally important.

  Margy dashed across to her and wrapped her arms around her, hugging her tightly. 'Yes, of course. What are friends for? And don't worry about a thing. Take the plane and catch the man. Hog-tie him if you have to but get him back here.'

  CHAPTER SIX

  Zoe brushed a stray tendril of damp hair from her brow and glanced around the crowded airport, panic building in her chest. Was she doing the right thing? Did she have a choice? They were calling her flight for London; this was it. . .

  She did not notice the admiring glances of the male passengers as she walked across the tarmac to the waiting Concorde. Her silver-blonde hair, scraped back in a ponytail, bounced between her shoulder-blades as she walked. She was dressed in a smart wool suit of pale cream and khaki tweed. The jacket fell, loosely sculptured, over a plain cream waistcoat and khaki silk shirt; the short, straight skirt fitted snugly over her slim hips and ended an inch above her knees. High-heeled, matching shoes flattered her shapely legs and added to her petite height of five feet.

  She had the face of an angel, and a figure men would die for, but it wasn't just sex appeal that she possessed; there was something in her face, in the shadows lurking in the sapphire-blue eyes—a deep-rooted sadness that made every man within range want to comfort and protect her.

  Zoe would have been horrified if she had known the impression she created. Ever since her twenty-first birthday and the break-up of her marriage she had decided that she had to harden up or she was going to be an exceptionally vulnerable person.

  She thought she had succeeded and living in America had helped. In a country where women were proud oftheir independence and determination she had found it easier to adjust to being a single mother, to balancing family with an interesting career at no loss to either.

  She removed her jacket, folded it neatly over the back of her seat and sat down. She placed her shoulder-bag on the floor in front of her and, dropping her head back against the cushion, closed her eyes.

  The past few months had tested her character to the limit, but her steely determination had never wavered. She was like a lioness with her cub—she would do anything to protect her most cherished possession, her son Val, and if that meant leaving him for a few days to seek out his father so be it. . . Even though she was already missing Val dreadfully.

  She was unaware of the elderly gentleman who sat down beside her, only opening her eyes when the voice of the stewardess broke into her reverie.

  'Would you like a drink, madam?'

  'No, thank you.' She tried to smile. 'And please don't disturb me for the rest of the flight. I don't want to eat, I simply want to rest. OK?'

  The girl gave her a peculiar look. 'Certainly, madam. Have a nice flight.'

  Zoe sighed and, turning her head to the window, closed her eyes again, her mind a seething mass of troubled thoughts. In a handful of hours—with luck—she would be face to face with Justin once again. The thought was frightening, but what she had set out to do absolutely terrified her. . .

  She went over in her head one more time her conversation with Dr Lark. She had not dared tell Margy the whole story, sure that she would disapprove. Dr Lark was a wife and mother herself, and, after confirming that the immediate family was the best bet for a bone- marrow donation, she had elaborated on the theme.

  'So long as you love children, and if there is no medical reason why you can't have more, then, if you want to give your son every chance available, and if you are prepared to explore every avenue open to you, I suggest you and your husband get you pregnant as quickly as possible. The long-term prognosis for your son is not good, but a baby as young as a one or two can donate bone marrow. I know if I was in your position I wouldn't hesitate.'

  She knew Professor Barnet would never have suggested such a course of action because he knew her marital status. But Dr Lark, unaware of the true state of Zoe's marriage, had had no such reservations.

  She shifted restlessly in her seat. The girl who had fled England at twenty-one would never have attempted to seduce her imposing husband, but the woman Zoe had become over the intervening years was determined to do just that. . .

  She had debated the morality of her intention over a clutch of sleepless nights until her head had spun. She was still not absolutely sure that she was doing the right thing, but her mind was made up, and deep down inside she consoled herself with the knowledge that she would love another child.

  She didn't know if Justin was involved with another woman and she didn't really care. All she cared about was getting him into bed at the first possible moment— and not necessarily a bed.

  Luckily the next few days were the optimum time for her to conceive, and she was taking no chances. She guessed that once she told him about Val his rage at her deceit in hiding his son from him, and his contempt for her, would make any chance she had of seducing him virtually nil. That was why she had no intention of telling him until after she had done her utmost to get him into bed. After all—she rationalised her decision—Justin had used her. Now it was her turn to use him. . .

  The warning-lights instructing passengers to fasten their seatbelts flashed on, and minutes later the aeroplane touched down at Heathrow Airport.

  Once through Customs, she picked up her suitcase and marched briskly out of the building and into a waiting taxi. She had booked in advance at the Savoy, and an hour later she was sitting on the bed in her hotel room, the telephone in her hand.

  Her first set-back came when she dialled Justin's chambers in the Inner Temple and to her astonishment discovered that he no longer worked there.

  She chewed her bottom lip, deep in thought. Apparently her estranged husband was now a well-known international company lawyer with offices in a highly prestigious block in the heart of the city. What had happened to make him change his career plan? she wondered uneasily.

  But, dismissing the troublesome thought, she glanced at the number she had been given, and dialled it. Another set-back—Justin was not in his office, and was not expected back that day.

  She glanced at her watch. Fool—she'd forgotten to set it forward and it was almost six in the evening. She made one more call, long-distance to Margy in Rowena's Cove. Five minutes later, with her son's 'I love you, Mom,' ringing in her ears, she brushed the moisture from her eyes and with a renewed sense of urgency and determination stripped off her clothes and quickly washed and changed.

  It was a very different woman who stepped
into a taxi at the hotel entrance and gave the address of Justin's apartment. A fine jersey wool dress, the exact colour of her astonishing blue eyes, clung to every curve of her body. The simple cross-over-style bodice revealed a shadowy cleavage and fastened with two buttons at her waist; the skirt, a wrap-over that revealed an enticing glimpse of leg when she moved, ended just above her knee.

  Her make-up was light but carefully applied to hide the purple smudges of worry under her eyes that marred her otherwise perfect complexion. She had left her long pale blonde hair loose, simply clipped back behind each ear with two pearl-trimmed combs. A tantalising scent added to the sophisticated image, along with a fake fur jacket draped elegantly across her shoulders.

  She was dressed for seduction; braless, her only underwear was briefs and a garter belt—mere wisps of cream silk lace—and the finest silk stockings. Navy shoes with four-inch heels and a matching shoulder-bag completed her outfit.

  She nervously clutched her bag and her stomach sank as the lift whooshed her up to the fourth floor of the mansion block where Justin had his apartment. She stepped out of the lift and walked to the door, taking a deep breath, and, with a quick oat of her hair, rang the bell.

  The woman who answered the door was beautiful, Zoe thought dismally. She was tall and elegant, with long black hair falling in a mass of curls over her shoulders, huge, thick-lashed, dark eyes, and a complexion the colour of golden honey. Suddenly Zoe hoped desperately that Justin had moved apartment. A man with a woman like this waiting for him was hardly likely to be sidetracked by a petite blonde.

  'Yes, can I help you?' Even the voice was a husky purr.

  'I was looking for Justin Gifford; he used to live here. But perhaps ha has moved?' she asked hopefully. She knew she was no competition for this stunning woman.

  'No, you have the right address.' The woman's eyes narrowed in puzzlement on Zoe's pale face. 'Are you a colleague of his? You look vaguely familiar.'

  'Yes—yes, I am.' She jumped at the excuse; she could not give up at the first hurdle—her son's life might depend on it.

  'In that case, if it's important, you'd better come in and wait; I'm expecting him back any minute.'

  Grasping the strap of her shoulder-bag as if it were a lifeline, Zoe had never been more aware of her diminutive stature as she followed the elegant back of the gorgeous woman down a short hall and into a large living-room. Her hope of seducing Justin was looking more unlikely by the minute. Perhaps she would do better just to tell him about Val and trust to his good nature to do the right thing.

  The woman called over her shoulder as she crossed to a drinks cabinet, 'I didn't catch your name.'

  'Zoe. Zoe Gifford,' she murmured, glancing around the elegant room. A huge, curved black hide sofa was placed in front of an open fire with two large wing-back chairs set at either side of it. The only new addition she noticed was an exquisite Chinese rug in shades of pink and gold that broke the uniformity of the wall-to-wall beige carpet.

  'My God, you've got some nerve, you bitch!'

  Zoe's head shot up at the loud exclamation, startled by the venom in the woman's voice. 'Pardon me?'

  'Don't come the innocent act with me. You destroyed Justin once and there is no way I will allow you to repeat the exercise.'

  'I destroyed. . .?' she cried in amazement. Who the hell did this woman think she was talking to? The pain at the break-up of her marriage, the worry and torment over her son all coalesced together in one great, frustrating fury. She shot her a scathing glance. 'I don't know who you are, and I don't want to know. But '

  'Leave now before I-- '

  'Jess, what's all the yelling. . . ?'

  Slowly Zoe turned towards the door, her heart in her mouth; she would have known that voice anywhere. Justin. . . Heaven knew she had heard it in her dreams, cried the name in her sleep a thousand times!

  But the grim-faced stranger standing less than two feet distant, towering head and shoulders over her, was not the man she remembered. The night-black hair was liberally sprinkled with grey, the brown eyes cautiously hooded and hard in a harsh face, the grooves bracketing his mouth deeper, the lips thinner, denoting years of iron control.

  'Zoe?' He drawled her name enquiringly.

  She stood frozen like a statue before him, simply because her legs were incapable of movement. He was watching her, waiting for her to speak. She swallowed painfully and, gripping the strap of her shoulder-bag so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, raised her eyes to his. 'Hello, Justin,' she managed, her voice high and nervous.

  'This is a surprise. To what do I owe the honour?' he asked cynically.

  'Justin, get her out of here. You don't want to talk to her.' Jess spoke before Zoe could form a reply.

  'Jess, I believe you have a lecture to attend. I suggest you leave. I am perfectly capable of handling the situation without any help from you.'

  Zoe almost felt sorry for the other woman. Justin at his commanding, arrogant best was a formidable adversary, as she knew to her cost. When she had first run away to America she had been hurt and angry, but after his denouement of her character and morals at their last meeting in California her anger had turned to hatred.

  She was here now for her son, and him alone. Otherwise she would not have willingly put herself within a million miles of Justin Gifford.

  'Don't say I didn't warn you.' The woman shot a vitriolic glance at Zoe before storming out of the room, and some moments later Zoe jumped at the sound of the front door slamming.

  'You will have to excuse Jess—she's very protective,' Justin said smoothly, before closing the space between them. 'And forgets her manners sometimes. Allow me.' His hands fell on her shoulders. She stiffened in instant rejection to his touch.

  'Your jacket,' he prompted silkily, and slid the fake fur from her shoulders, his gaze flickering slowly over her slender curves, then sliding back to settle on her wide, wary blue eyes.

  'Very nice, if a little slim,' he opined coolly.

  Her eyes sparkled with resentment, but she dared not retaliate. She was here for a purpose. 'Thank you,' she said in a low voice.

  He inclined his black head in acknowledgement and walked past her across the room to a drinks cabinet. He turned and glanced back at her. 'A drink? Whisky, brandy? You look as if you could use one.' His dark gaze raked over her from head to foot and back to her pale face.

  'For heaven's sake sit down,' he said harshly, with the first show of emotion he had revealed since seeing her, and she realised that he was not as in control as he appeared. 'You look as if you're going to take flight at any second, yet you must have a purpose in being here.'

  'Thank you,' she said inanely yet again. Her brain seemed to have stopped working. She forced her legs to carry her to the hide sofa, and sank on to it with relief. Seeing him again had reawakened all the old pain, the bitter sense of betrayal, and she knew she shouldn't have come.

  Margy had been right. She should have simply called him from America, explained the circumstances and trusted to his compassion and better nature. Obviously he had a woman living with him—a very beautiful woman—and her idea of seducing him into, she hoped, making her pregnant before revealing the existence of Val hadn't a hope in hell of succeeding.

  She briefly closed her eyes. But she was still going to try; it was a ridiculous long shot, but no sacrifice was too great for her son. She lifted her head, a determined gleam in her sapphire eyes, and found Justin standing in front of her, holding a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

  'Thank you yet again,' she said easily, and took the glass, raised it to her lips, and swallowed it down. It burnt her throat and hit her empty stomach like a fire ball. She coughed and spluttered, the glass wavering precariously in her grasp.

  He took it from her hand and smacked her on the back with some force. 'That was twenty-year-old cognac, meant to be savoured, not sloshed down like water,' he informed her drily, lowering his muscular length down beside her on the sofa.

  'I r
ealise that now,' she said curtly when her coughing fit had subsided enough for her to speak. She glanced sideways at him. He had changed—he was leaner and harder, she thought. But considering that he was now almost forty he looked remarkably good. But then he had been a mature male when she had met him whereas she had been a girl. She knew she had changed more than he had; from twenty-one to nearly twenty-five was a big jump from a girl to a mature woman and mother.

  He was wearing an immaculately tailored grey pinstripe suit, a white shirt and a silk tie in muted grey stripes—conservative to his fingertips. But it did not stop the powerful force of his sexuality hitting her just as hard as it had all those years ago the first time she had seen him. The old, familiar ache in her stomach, the rapid rise of her pulse—nothing had changed.

  Justin had stopped patting her back, but whether by accident or design his long arm lay along the back of the sofa almost but not quite touching her shoulders; for a second she was tempted to relax back against him and pour out her desperate fear for their son.

  'So, Zoe--- ' his smile was sardonic '—what are youdoing here? I can't believe it's because you finally missed me,' he drawled cynically.

  'No. I was passing through London and I thought it might be nice to look you up. I called your chambers and they said you had left.' She forgot her own troubles for a moment, intrigued to know what had happened to her husband in the past few years. 'Why, Justin? I thought you were all set to become a judge.'

  'I seem to remember you thought a lot of things about me, Zoe—none of them true, and I find your presence here today incredible to say the least.' His aura of hospitality vanished in a flash. His dark eyes narrowed assessingly on her small face. 'Cut the old pals act, Zoe, and give me the real reason for your visit,' he commanded arrogantly. 'I'm a busy man; I have no time for games.'

  'Perhaps I thought we could be friends—we were once,' she said lightly. She could hardly blurt out that she had hated him for the past four years, she thought wryly, especially when she was planning on getting him into bed.