His Little Girl

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Maybe you’re right. But I’m going to have to talk to someone. And soon.’

  ‘I think you should talk to your lawyer first. He might be able to apply for some kind of temporary papers until you can prove Sophie has a right to be here.’ She paused. ‘Of course you could use your newspaper contacts. Once you’ve got the tabloids on your side they’ll have the whole country weeping into their cornflakes.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t want that kind of publicity.’

  Not even if it meant keeping Sophie safe? Or had he got something to hide? ‘I have a certain amount of sympathy with that attitude, but it might help when you’re arrested.’

  ‘You think they’ll lock me up and throw away the key?’

  ‘It’s difficult to know exactly what they’ll do—you’ve broken international laws. And it’s very possible that the Grasnians will demand that she’s sent back to her mother—’

  ‘Her mother is dead, Dora.’

  Dead. The word was so hollow, so empty. So nothing. Dora cast round her, as if searching for words that would mean something. That would offer some comfort. All her fumbling brain could offer were platitudes, and besides, what he needed was practical help.

  ‘Can you prove it?’ she asked.

  Relief flooded through Gannon. She hadn’t asked how. Or why. The questions to which there were no answers. Neither had she asked whether he had loved the woman who had carried his child, or even if she was his wife. But she would. Sooner or later. She wouldn’t be able to help herself. And when he told her the whole story—would she be so happy to help him then?

  ‘I don’t have a death certificate, if that’s what you mean. I don’t even know where she’s buried. I just have a scribbled note from someone who was with her when she died, a woman who sent on the letter she’d written begging me to take care of Sophie.’

  The thought that flew to her mind was a terrible one, and Dora hesitated to voice it, but she knew enough, had seen enough to understand that in a war zone anything could happen. ‘You’re certain that she is your child, Gannon?’

  He’d asked himself that a thousand times as he’d searched for Sophie. Not that it had mattered. A dead woman’s plea would have been enough. All he’d known was that the child was in a refugee camp, the woman who had sent him the note had told him that much. But her letter had taken months to reach him and everything had moved on...changed... And then one day he had walked into a camp and seen this tiny, dark-haired child and he’d known her. But who would believe that? ‘I have a photograph of my own mother aged about two. Sophie is the image of her.’

  Dora nodded. ‘That will help.’

  ‘A blood test will be proof positive. When will your doctor get here?’

  ‘He’s taking surgery at the moment. It’ll be an hour or so. Can I get you something to eat?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’ll risk it for a while. I’ll just ring my lawyer and then lie down for a while.’

  She didn’t press him, but left him to make his call while she made up the spare bed. He needed sleep more than food. And once he was asleep maybe she would be able to make some decisions of her own about who she should talk to.

  Maybe a call to her own lawyer wouldn’t be a bad idea, if only to warn him that he might have to bail her out at short notice and get Sophie into the safekeeping of Fergus and his housekeeper. Her brother might be disapproving but he wouldn’t let her down in a crisis.

  She wished momentarily that she had her sister’s number in the States. Then decided she was glad she didn’t. She’d taken John Gannon on trust. He hadn’t told her everything, but she was sure that what he had told her was the truth. Of course she might be fooling herself, but she knew that checking up on him would make her feel distinctly grubby.

  She was shaking the quilt into its cover when she looked up to discover that she was being watched by her unexpected house guest. How long had he been there, those eyes full of secrets levelled at her, seeing into her very soul while giving nothing away? ‘All sorted?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘Yes.’ He dragged his hand over his face. ‘He’ll clear up the legal position regarding Sophie, make certain that she can stay here while I take steps to prove her right to be here. And he’s getting in touch with Henri and sorting out repairs for the plane. Once that’s done, we’ll go to the local police station together and I’ll make a statement. Apparently I’ll be charged, and then it will up to the local magistrate to decide what happens next. Any bets on that one?’ he asked

  ‘You haven’t hurt anyone,’ she said.

  ‘No. But I have broken a hell of a lot of laws. Earnshaw seems to think I’ll have to be made an example of; if they don’t, everyone will think they can get away with it.’

  ‘In that case you’d better put in some serious time on this good mattress. Police cells are not comfortable places.’

  ‘You’d know about that, of course?’ The crease at the corner of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile was back.

  She shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘I once thought I’d like to be an actress, and I managed to get a tiny part in a cop show on TV. I spent the entire time in the “cells”. Let me tell you, it put me off the whole idea of a career in television. It’s far too uncomfortable.’

  ‘What did you do for a living?’ She didn’t have much trouble looking puzzled. ‘You said you met Richard through work.’

  ‘No, I said I met him through my sister. She met him through work. She’s a model. You might have heard of her—Poppy Kavanagh?’

  ‘I don’t spend a lot of time reading fashion magazines.’ Then he frowned. ‘Do you look like her?’

  ‘A bit. She’s taller, and a hell of a lot more glamorous, of course—’

  ‘Maybe I’ve seen her photograph somewhere.’ He started a shrug, but as his ribs kicked in with a reminder of what he’d put them through he had second thoughts. ‘I was sure your face was familiar—’

  ‘That must be it.’ She’d had her own photograph in the papers quite a bit during the last six months, but she was quite happy for him to think that he’d seen her sister. ‘She was on a photo-shoot on the river—at that little bridge near the cottage—when they all got caught in a thunderstorm,’ she rattled on quickly. ‘Richard was down there working on the cottage, and invited them all in to take shelter.’

  ‘And she introduced you?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She and Poppy had shared the flat until then. But the day she’d met Richard, Poppy had moved in with him. She’d only come home to pack. Maybe love at first sight was a family thing. Dora turned away from him, sure that he would see the same desperate, almost reckless longing that she had seen in Poppy’s face when she had been throwing her clothes into suitcases, begrudging the time it was taking, time she could have been with Richard.

  She tossed the quilt over the bed with a briskness she was far from feeling, tucking the pillows into their cases with a ferocity that betrayed her need.

  ‘There, that should do you. Are you sure you won’t try a couple of painkillers?’ she said, when what she really wanted to do was lie beside him, take her pain into her own body, cradle his head against her breast while he slept.

  ‘I don’t think anything you can buy at the local pharmacy is likely to do much good, Dora.’

  Something in his voice suggested he wasn’t talking about painkillers either, and, unable to help herself, she turned, hugging a pillow against her as she tucked it beneath the flap. But whatever she had heard in his voice he had kept from his face. Or maybe she was just hearing what she longed to hear, but had effectively forbidden him from saying.

  ‘Oh, well, I’m sure the doctor will prescribe something if you ask him. Just try and get some sleep now. There’s no need to worry about Sophie, I’ll take care of her.’ Still he hesitated in the doorway, uncertainty shadowing his eyes. ‘Trust me, Gannon. I’m not going anywhere. This problem is mine now, as well as yours.’

&
nbsp; After a moment he nodded, and began to unbutton his shirt. Dora’s mouth dried as the cloth parted to reveal the smooth, sun-darkened skin of his throat, the scattering of dark hair across his chest. Looking up from the cuffs, he realised that she hadn’t moved and he stopped. ‘I really appreciate your concern, Dora, but I think it might be better if you left me to handle this part all by myself,’ he said.

  She blushed beetroot, dropped the pillow onto the bed and fled.

  Sophie stirred a while later, a little grizzly and wanting her father. Dora cuddled her, taking her through to the kitchen to give her some milk and biscuits. Seeking some way to amuse the child, she had just decided to let her help make some little cakes for tea when Brian buzzed up to tell her Dr Croft had arrived, insisting he had been asked to call.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Brian, I should have let you know I was expecting him. Send him up, will you?’

  The doctor checked Sophie, looked at the antibiotics she was taking, and then over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Dora. ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘Is there something wrong with them?’

  ‘No. But they weren’t dispensed by Boots, were they?’ He tapped the UN logo on the label. ‘What is she? One of your little refugees?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not to me.’ He glanced at Sophie and gave her a smile. ‘The child has obviously had a chest infection, but these are dealing with it,’ he said, putting the bottle down. ‘She’s a bit underweight, but she seems healthy enough apart from that.’ Then he gave Dora a thoughtful look. ‘Maybe, in view of her recent living conditions, you should bring her down to the surgery in a day or two. I’ll get my nurse to organise a few tests. Just as a precaution.’

  ‘Thank you. Actually, I wanted to ask you about blood tests. Genetic blood tests. Her father needs to prove paternity.’

  ‘Ah. He’s my other patient, I take it? Where is he?’

  ‘Resting. He’s got cracked ribs that are giving him a lot of pain, he’s been sick, and now he’s started coughing—’

  ‘Show me.’ She led the way to the spare bedroom, tapped on the door and opened it. Gannon was asleep. He was stretched out on the bed, naked shoulders all bones and bruises, thick lashes dark against his prominent cheekbones. ‘Mmm, he doesn’t look very bright, does he? No, don’t wake him. Sleep, you know—“...knits up the ravell’d sleave of...”—umm...you know.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’ll do him more good than anything I can give him.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’ll leave you a script for some painkillers and antibiotics for him, and I’ll look in again first thing in the morning. But if you’re worried you can ring me at any time and I’ll come straight round.’

  ‘And the genetic blood tests?’

  ‘Is it urgent?’

  ‘It is, rather.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve made an appointment at the clinic.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  He paused in the doorway. ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing, Dora?’

  Her smile was wry. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  He smiled right back. ‘No, well, just take sensible precautions. Shall I give your porter that script to get filled for you? It’ll save you going out.’ He took it from her hand. ‘And any worries, any time, call me. I mean it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She closed the door behind her and turned back to Sophie. ‘Right, sweetheart. Let’s get back to those cakes.’

  John Gannon woke with the distinct impression that he’d been run over by a tank. Or an armoured personnel carrier at the very least. Except if that had happened he wouldn’t be waking up at all.

  It was dusk, golden light was streaming in through the windows and he was lying in a bed of such comfort that only the most urgent call of nature would tempt him from it.

  He moved cautiously. And as the pain scythed through him he remembered. And with memory came the haunting bittersweet thoughts that had been with him when he had hit the pillow. He glanced at his watch and swore. It was gone eight. Whatever had happened to the doctor?

  He swore again as he moved too quickly. He bent to tug on borrowed trousers and was hit by a wave of giddiness. He used the bathroom, splashed cold water onto his overheated face, clung to the basin as nausea choked at him, refusing to give in to his stomach’s bucking demands, and eventually it passed.

  He crossed the hall to check on Sophie, back in Dora’s bed and curled up fast asleep. She was beginning to look cherished, he thought. Her cheeks had lost that pinched look and had a healthy pink tinge to them, her dark hair was clean and shining. He brushed a strand from her face and she stirred, opened her eyes and smiled at him. He bent and kissed the top of her head, tucking her back under the covers. She was so beautiful. Already he loved her more than life itself.

  ‘Gannon?’ He turned. Dora was standing in the doorway. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ A spasm of coughing caught him, betraying him, and he moved away from Sophie out into the hall. ‘Fairly fine,’ he revised, beneath her sceptical look.

  She didn’t argue, there was no point. He looked terrible and probably felt worse. She took two small pill bottles from her pocket and handed them to him. ‘The doctor left you some painkillers and some antibiotics as a precaution against infection.’

  ‘I don’t need antibiotics,’ he said, stuffing them into his pocket. ‘I need a blood test. Why didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘He said not to. And he’s made an appointment at the clinic for you the day after tomorrow. It was the earliest they could manage.’

  ‘Couldn’t he do it?’

  She sympathised with his impatience. She’d pleaded for something sooner, but he’d already been given a cancellation. ‘It has to be done under controlled conditions. With independent witnesses. Are you hungry?’

  The nausea was still too close to risk food. ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Bovril and a water biscuit?’ she suggested doubtfully, as she surveyed his pallid complexion.

  He laughed, then clutched his side. ‘Damn! But you sounded just like my grandmother.’

  ‘Well, grandmothers know a thing or two.’ If she were his grandmother she’d scold him for getting himself into such a pickle, put him to bed with a hot water bottle, bathe his face, tuck him in and sit by him all night long. ‘Just so long as I don’t look like her,’ she added, with a touch of acid, in case all those tender feelings were too obviously written in her face.

  Maybe the acid should have been stronger, because he reached out and grazed her cheek with the edge of his thumb, sending a tiny thrill of expectation that rippled through her body, tightening her skin so that all she wanted was for him to hold her, love her.

  Gannon’s fingers slid beneath her hair as if they had a will of their own. Her skin was like silk, warm to the touch, sensuous. And his senses were suddenly filled with her, drowning out the voice of reason, of self-preservation, the voice that said, You cannot have her. She belongs to someone else.

  As her perfume filled his nostrils he was lost to reason. He knew exactly how she would feel wrapped about him, whimpering with pleasure as he touched her hot, sweet body; his ears rang with her cries of passion because he could see it all...it was there, smoking from her hot grey eyes. Molten desire that was heating his blood as she swayed towards him, tempting him to take her into his arms and self-destruct...

  CHAPTER NINE

  GANNON snatched back his hand as if burned, clutching his fingers into a fist. ‘No, Dora,’ he said, his voice coming from a throat stuffed with hot gravel. ‘You don’t look in the least bit like her.’ And he stepped back, putting an arm’s length of space between them while he still had the strength of mind to do it.

  She was a witch. That had to be it. Dora Kavanagh stole men’s hearts with a look and kept them her prisoner and they thanked her for it. Richard thought he was the happiest of men and John Gannon knew why. This Pandora might not be all the trouble in the world, b
ut she was the kind of trouble a man with any sense would run from. As for hope—for him there was none.

  And Gannon cursed the cracked ribs, the secondary symptoms that promised worse to come, weakening his body to the point that he could no longer run, the weariness that had weakened his spirit to the point that he wasn’t sure that he wanted to.

  He picked up the pills the doctor had left him. Dora turned away and filled a glass at the sink. He should have been able to take some comfort from the fact that her hands were shaking as much as his. But there was no comfort. And as he swallowed a couple of painkillers he didn’t believe that they would help much either. His physical symptoms were just a sideshow, while he had a suspicion that the pain in his heart was terminal.

  ‘John...’ He hated it when she said his name like that. Soft, uncertain. Hated it and longed for it. And the longing was worst.

  ‘Don’t, Dora.’

  ‘Please, John. I have to tell you something.’ He didn’t want to hear it. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear it.

  ‘No.’ He turned away and the kitchen tilted and swayed around him. Dear God, please, he prayed silently. Help me. And as if in answer there was a long, insistent ring at the doorbell. For a moment they remained frozen, unable to move. Then the ring was repeated, and Dora became unstuck from the floor and began to move across the kitchen.

  As she passed him, he caught her wrist. ‘Promise me something, Dora.’

  ‘Anything,’ she said, in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Promise me that no matter what happens to me you’ll take care of Sophie. That you’ll make sure she isn’t sent back—’

  Dora gave a little gasp. This wasn’t a man who asked easily for help, yet he was asking for hers, begging for hers. ‘I promise.’ His golden eyes, brilliant in his drawn face, demanded more. ‘I promise I’ll look after her, John. I’ll keep her safe for you.’ And she took his hand from her wrist and silently drew a cross over her heart with the tips of his fingers, before raising them to her lips to kiss them. ‘You have my word.’