by Miranda Lee
But, damn it all, he didn’t like the word ‘baby’. Initially he’d imagined her child to be a small boy, of maybe two or three. A baby suggested less than a year old. Dear God, what if he was only nine months old? What if...?
‘I don’t have to do anything,’ she threw at him as she straightened, clutching the clothes in front of her nakedness. ‘I quit. Find yourself another blonde. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble. You know what they say, Luke. Variety is the spice of life.’
His hands balled into fists by his sides, and for a few seconds Luke warred with a thousand primitive emotions—not the least of which was the desire for murder.
He watched, seething, as she turned her back on him and disappeared into the bathroom.
By the time she came out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later, fully dressed, he too had dragged on his clothes and was sitting on the side of the bed. He watched while she packed the rest of her things, torn between wanting to ask her the critical question and remaining silent.
Better you don’t know, came the voice of common sense. Let her go, man. She’s bad news.
But ignorance was not bliss in the end. He could not bear not to know.
‘How old is your son, Rachel?’ he asked abruptly.
Her shock at his question was so acute that Luke was almost sick on the spot. Dear God, no, he groaned to himself.
‘Why...why do you want to know?’ she asked shakily, her face as white as a sheet.
Luke jumped to his feet and swore. Then swore again. Violently. Obscenely. He wanted to weep, but it just wasn’t the done thing. Men didn’t blubber. They swore. So he swore a third time and glared his hatred at her. Hatred would sustain him, he hoped.
She stared back at him with eyes like saucers, her mouth gaping. He saw her shock change to outrage, her lips snapping shut and her eyes flashing fury at him. ‘You bastard,’ she hissed. ‘You knew who I was all along!’
His top lip curled with contempt at her indignation. ‘Yes, of course. That’s why I hired you. I knew I was on to a sure thing. Now, answer my question, damn you! How old is your son? And don’t bother to lie. I can find out easily enough now that I know of his existence.’
‘Eleven months,’ she snapped, her own attitude just as contemptuous of him. ‘Too old to be yours, lover. So you don’t have to worry. You can continue on your merry way without the millstone of an unwanted child around your oh, so handsome neck! My baby is my husband’s child. Patrick Reginald Cleary, the third.’
Luke wasn’t sure if he was relieved or revolted. So she’d already been a couple of months pregnant that night—a son and heir already growing inside her. If it was her husband’s child, that was!
Still, it explained why she hadn’t been worried about not using protection. Being pregnant had freed her to fulfil all her sexual fantasies without being caught out.
‘You rotten bitch,’ he said in a low quaking voice. ‘You filthy rotten bitch. Get out of here before I kill you.’
Her stricken look produced no pity in him. He could find no excuse for her behaviour in his heart. On top of that, he could find no excuse for himself, for feeling perversely disappointed that the child wasn’t his. This was not a woman worth loving! She wasn’t worth spitting on!
‘Get out!’ he snarled through gritted teeth.
She gave him one last anguished look, grabbed her things and fled, leaving the door open behind her. Luke stormed over and slammed it, then paced furiously about the room, raking his hands repeatedly through his hair.
‘I do not believe this,’ he muttered to himself. ‘None of it makes sense. It doesn’t feel right.’
Luke ground to an abrupt halt, black eyes flinging wide.
That’s because it isn’t right, man, came the astoundingly certain answer.
Luke gasped, then grimaced. Oh, my God, what if she’d lied about the baby’s age? What if he wasn’t eleven months old? What if she’d called his bluff about finding out the child’s age and simply added two months? Clearly she hadn’t thought he was all that interested in the baby as such, anyway. She saw him as the swinging bachelor-type of photographer—going from woman to woman, model to model, one-night stand to one-night stand.
Luke’s insides began to churn, his gut feeling telling him that he’d just come to the right conclusion. The child was his! It was the only logical answer to her reactions to him—the only thing that made any sense at all. My God, it explained so much. About tonight and about eighteen months ago.
‘I have no time for cowards tonight,’ was what she’d said back then.
Which had been oh, so true, he thought bitterly. She’d wanted a child and her husband had obviously not been able to give her one—her much older and possibly ill husband. So she’d gone out and got herself one, the same way women had been getting themselves babies and heirs since time immemorial—by seducing some poor unsuspecting devil—namely himself!
But she’d run into snags with him from the first, hadn’t she? To begin with he’d surprised her, by taking over the lovemaking and insisting on using protection. That had been why she’d had to seduce him a second time. Really seduce him, so that he’d been so turned on he was beyond caring about the risk. After which she’d coolly done a flit without leaving a clue as to her identity.
Of course, she had to have planned all that in advance—booking the hotel room in a false name, paying by cash and not credit card. Every single move had been planned—from her provocative clothing right down to her selection of a suitable candidate.
Luke wondered sourly what it had been about him which had made her choose him. His looks, perhaps, or just his having been alone? Had it merely been chance which had drawn him into her web of deceit, or had there been a perverse destiny behind it all?
She’d never expected to run into him again. Hell, why should she have? She’d thought he was an American tourist. But when their paths had crossed again, and she’d been given the let-off by his seemingly not recognising her, she’d run into a second snag.
She’d found that she actually still fancied him, sexually speaking.
Luke had been with enough woman to know that she’d really fancied him the first time too. More, perhaps, than she’d ever anticipated—so much so that she simply could not resist having another sampling of his services.
Which brought him full circle to what he’d thought about her in the first place. She was a rotten bitch—a cold, calculating slut who at this very moment was on her way out of his life a second time. Only this time she was taking his son with her!
Over my dead body, he vowed darkly.
Luke acted quickly and decisively, racing down to his room, collecting his car keys and setting off after her. He figured that he’d easily catch up with her on the expressway to Sydney. That small Nissan of hers couldn’t do what his Ford could do, and she’d be easy enough to spot at this hour of the night, with few cars on the road. The dark would also mean he’d be able to follow her without being observed in her rear-vision mirror.
He spotted her car shortly after Mount White, keeping well back till the expressway ended, after which he had to move closer or risk being left behind at red lights. As it was, he did lose her at one intersection for a few minutes, but luckily he knew the roads south of the city quite well, and knew where he would catch up.
The digital clock on the dashboard showed just on eleven when she finally turned from the main road, not far from the Cronulla shopping centre. Luke dropped back a bit as he too turned left, pulling over to the kerb and switching off his headlights when he saw her brakelights come on and stay on. He watched as she turned into a driveway a hundred metres or so up the street, the car disappearing down the far side of a house.
When he was sure that she’d had enough time to go inside, he climbed out of the car and walked along to stand and stare at the house which he believed held his son.
It was an old brick-veneer cottage, with a redtiled roof, a ramshackle carport attached and lawns which needed mowi
ng.
Luke frowned. If this was where Rachel was living, then she hadn’t come out of her marriage flushed with money. His assumption that she’d wanted to provide an heir for the Cleary family fortune had clearly been amiss. Unless unforeseen circumstance had somehow dissipated any wealth. People had been known to make bad investments—to lose all their money in one fell swoop.
Luke gave himself a mental shake. There was no use trying to second-guess Rachel or her motivations. No use confronting her either. She would simply lie to him again. He would have to be far more devious than that in finding out the truth of the matter.
Luke noted the number on the postbox, then walked up to the nearest corner, where he memorised the street name. On his way back down past the house he stopped for a few moments to stare some more.
What if you’re wrong, Luke? a niggling voice whispered. What if he’s not your son? What if...?
‘I’m not wrong,’ he growled aloud. ‘I just know it!’ And, whirling on his heels, he strode back down the street towards his car.
CHAPTER NINE
LUKE didn’t drive back up to Terrigal. He went home, from where he rang the hotel, told them there had been a family emergency back in Sydney and asked them to pack his things in his bag—which was in the bottom of the wardrobe in his room—and send it down by courier. He also asked them to check Miss Manning’s room, in case she’d left anything behind, and do likewise. They were to bill everything to his credit card, of which they already had an imprint.
He had just hung up the telephone in the front hallway when his mother emerged from her bedroom, looking bleary-eyed and bewildered.
‘I thought I heard your voice, Luke. What are you doing home? I thought you said you were staying up on the coast tonight.’
‘I was. But things didn’t quite work out as I’d hoped.’
Grace couldn’t say that she was sorry. Luke had given her some story about doing some photographs for Theo around the Central Coast beaches, but she’d suspected all along that he’d gone away with a woman—probably that married one he was mixed up with.
Frankly, Grace was both surprised and disappointed in Luke for having anything to do with a married woman in the first place. It wasn’t like him at all. For all his being a nineties man in a lot of ways, he’d always held fairly old-fashioned views in matters of morals and marriage.
Unless, of course, he hadn’t known she was married till after he’d become emotionally and physically involved. Now, that was a likely explanation...
Dear me, but the poor love looked all done-in, and quite shattered. Still, it was all for the best if he’d broken up with that type.
‘Want a cup of tea, love?’ she asked gently.
‘That’d be great, Mum.’
Grace smiled ruefully as she made her way out to the kitchen. At least she was still good for something, if only making cups of tea.
‘And a toasted sandwich wouldn’t go astray, either,’ Luke added as he followed her. ‘I...er...didn’t get round to having any dinner.’
Grace glanced over her shoulder at him, her mouth opening to ask him why on earth not, but another look at Luke’s bleak face closed it again. Not tonight, she decided wisely. He wasn’t in a fit state for the third degree tonight. Maybe tomorrow.
‘In that case sit down and I’ll get you one,’ she said briskly, and began filling the electric jug.
She heard him scrape out a kitchen chair behind her and slump down into it. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said, a grim weariness in his actions and his words.
Grace resolved not to ask him about his miserable mood, or the reason behind it. Luke would be returning to America in ten days or so, which would no doubt be the end of the affair for once and for all. At least, she hoped so...
Luke woke to depression and indecisiveness, but he ruthlessly pushed both aside. There was nothing to be gained by wallowing in self-pity and doubt. Nothing to be gained by wondering and worrying. Hamlet had waffled for too long, and look where that had got him.
Luke’s job this morning was to glean the truth, after which his course of action would become clear. One step at a time, he vowed. Find out if the boy is yours first.
Strange, but he didn’t feel quite as sure of that this morning as he had last night.
Luke lay in bed for ages, tracing over everything Rachel had ever said and done, including that minibreakdown in front of the lifts. What had her repeated apologies meant? What had she been saying sorry for? Surely not just her behaviour in the restaurant? True, she’d acted pretty badly, but was it more logical that she had been saying sorry for having used him to father a child, without his knowledge or consent?
Damn, but it was all so confusing and confounding!
Luke threw back the bedclothes and bounced out of bed before he went bonkers. Time to find out for sure, Luke. Time to get some answers.
He sat low behind the wheel of his mother’s battered old blue sedan, biting his fingernails while he watched and waited for his opportunity.
Not a soul had stirred all morning, and it was nearly eleven. He’d hoped to catch a glimpse of the child, perhaps—though on reflection a baby under one year old wouldn’t play in the yard. He probably couldn’t even walk yet! His life would largely be indoors, unless either Rachel or the mother-in-law took him out in a pram or a stroller or whatever.
Another half-hour passed, and Luke was about to make the decision to go up to the front door and just knock when that same front door opened and Rachel emerged, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved blue top. She turned to speak to a white-haired lady in the doorway, her own long blonde hair caught up in a ponytail. Suddenly she whirled and hurried down the front steps with what looked like a purse in her right hand.
Luke slid further down in the seat till he could only just see her, but, as he’d hoped, she didn’t give the old blue car across the road a second glance as she walked quickly down the front path and through the slightly rickety front gate.
Luke came back upright once she’d taken off up the street, letting out a shuddering sigh when she turned right at the corner and headed in the direction of the shopping centre, which he knew was a good ten-minute walk away. Even if she was able to buy whatever she wanted in five minutes flat, he still had a conservative twenty-five-minute leeway to find out all he needed to know.
His heart thudding heavily behind his ribs, he climbed out of the car, thankful that he’d taken the trouble to dress well. He didn’t want the old lady being suspicious of him in any way. He had to charm his way right into that house and into her confidence in five minutes flat.
Luke’s first shock came when Rachel’s mother-in-law answered the door. For, although she did have white hair, she was not even remotely an old lady. She looked no older than his own mother, who was in her mid-sixties. How old, then, had Patrick Cleary been? Maybe not as old as Luke had assumed.
‘Mrs Cleary?’ Luke asked, smoothing any shock from his face and finding his most winning smile.
‘Yes,’ the lady returned hesitantly.
‘Goodness, you look too young to be Rachel’s mum-in-law,’ he said, actually meaning the words even as he recognised the remark as an obviously flattering line which men used on women all the time.
He felt quite guilty when it worked, her pale cheeks pinkening with pleasure.
‘I’m Luke St Clair, Mrs Cleary,’ he went on while she was still slightly flushed and flustered. ‘I’m the photographer Rachel was working with yesterday. Is she home? I need to talk to her about rescheduling the rest of the shoot. I really don’t want to use another model. As I’m sure you understand, not too many models have that special quality and style which Rachel has.’
‘Oh, dear, you just missed her. But she won’t be long. She’s just popped down to the chemist to pick up some more medicine for Derek’s gums. The poor baby’s having teething troubles—but I suppose she told you that.’
‘Derek?’ Luke repeated, taken aback a second time. ‘I thought her son was called Patrick?�
�
‘Really? How odd. Maybe you misunderstood. Patrick was his father’s name. Actually, his father did want him to be called Patrick, after himself and his grandfather, but Rachel—sensible girl that she is—put her foot down and said that that type of thing went out with the Dark Ages. I have to admit I agree with her. I didn’t want to call my Patrick Patrick when he was born, but my husband insisted, and women in those days went along with what their husbands wanted more than they do nowadays.’
She gave a wan little smile, which Luke wasn’t sure how to interpret, although he’d somehow gained the impression that Mrs Cleary’s relationship with her husband had not been all she’d wanted it to be. Still, he could see that she was a softie—one of those refined, delicate old-world women, who didn’t have the spirit or the strength to stand up for themselves. Confrontation was not their style at all.
‘Goodness, how I am rattling on,’ she dithered. ‘And you still out on the doorstep, Mr St Clair. You must think me very rude. Do come in.’
‘Call me Luke,’ he insisted as he followed her down a neat narrow hallway then into an equally neat but cluttered lounge-room. There was much too much furniture and knick-knacks for the size of the room, and, although some were pieces of obvious quality, a lot of them were worn and just a little shabby.
‘Then you must call me Sarah,’ the old lady tittered back, and Luke’s conscience pricked again. It didn’t feel right, worming his way into this sweet old darling’s confidence. But it had to be done!
‘I’ll just pop out to the kitchen and make some tea,’ she said. ‘Do make yourself at home.’
Luke let out a long-held breath once he was alone. He hadn’t realised till that moment just how tense he was.
some wedding photographs on the wall immediately drew Luke’s attention, and he slowly picked his way between the furniture to get closer, his frown deepening as it became clear that the man standing beside Rachel was far from elderly. Grey hair he might have had back then, but it must have been premature, for the handsome smiling face beaming out at Luke from inside that silver frame belonged to a man no older than his mid-thirties—if that!
