Baby on Loan

‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Officer, there’s a mad-woman in my house. She hit me with a cricket bat.’

‘Why don’t you sit down, sir? The ambulance will be here in just a moment.’ He didn’t need a second invitation to sink into the nearest chair. His trousers squelched damply beneath him. ‘Maybe, while I’m waiting we could just deal with the details? If you feel up to it. Shall we start with your name?’

‘Shouldn’t you caution me?’ he demanded.

‘Just for the record, sir.’

He let it go. ‘Dalton. Patrick Dalton.’

The man made a note. ‘And your address?’

‘Twenty-seven Cotswold Street.’

‘That’s this address, sir.’

‘That’s right. My name is Patrick Dalton and I live here,’ he said, slowly and carefully. ‘This is my home,’ he added, just to make the point.

The man made a note, then turned as the front door opened. ‘The medics have arrived. We’ll sort all this out later, sir, down at the hospital.’

Patrick recognised the calming tone of a policeman confronted with a man he thinks is crazy. A policeman covering himself with excessive politeness in case he was wrong. He considered telling the man that he was a barrister, a Queen’s Counsel, and that he’d find him listed… But his head was throbbing too much to bother. Hospital first, explanations later.

Then he’d take great pleasure in telling that woman to take her baby and her cat and get out of his house—right after she’d told him where he could find Carenza.

‘Would you like to tell me what happened, miss?’ The policeman stood by impassively while Jessie tried to change Bertie with fingers that didn’t seem capable of removing the peel-back strips from the tapes of the disposal nappy.

She’d been calm, very calm under the circumstances, but reaction was about to set in and she was nothing but jelly. The policeman, seeing her difficulty, helped her out while she explained, haltingly, what had happened.

‘Mr Dalton said you hit him with a cricket bat.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Then she flushed guiltily as she saw the cricket bat still lying on the floor where he’d dropped it. ‘Dalton? Is that his name?’

‘Patrick Dalton. So he says. He has a very nasty gash on his forehead.’

‘I know. I think he must have hit his head when he fell.’ She picked up Bertie, cuddled him. ‘From the noise, I can only assume he stepped on the cat and lost his balance, although what he hoped to find in the fridge I can’t imagine.’

‘You’d be surprised. The fridge and freezer are favourite places to hide valuables. Unfortunately the villains know that, although the gentleman did say that he lives here.’

‘He said that to me, too. It’s not true, you know. I rented the house from a Miss Carenza Finch. I only moved in today.’ Bertie grizzled into her shoulder. ‘Maybe he has a concussion.’

‘Maybe.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘There’s no sign of a break-in, though. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but this wouldn’t be a domestic situation would it?’

‘Domestic?’

‘A lovers’ tiff that’s got a bit out of hand?’

‘Lovers’…’ Jessie stared at him open-mouthed, temporarily lost for words. ‘Officer, I’ve never met that man before in my entire life. And if I meet him again it will be too soon. I told you, I moved in here today,’ she explained. ‘The owner was going abroad for the summer and needed someone to make the place look lived in, to take care of her cat, her plants. Is this a high-crime area?’

‘Not particularly. Most people have burglar alarms. You have one yourself,’ he pointed out. ‘Was it switched on?’

‘Well, no. Actually, it wasn’t. I was tired, what with the baby… I just forgot. Maybe I forgot to lock the door, too.’ He nodded, understandingly. ‘Do you want to see the lease? It’s on the table in the hall. Oh, and that man left a bag out there, too. Evidently this wasn’t his first job tonight.’

The policeman glanced at the lease, made some notes and then picked up the bag. ‘I’ll leave you in peace, then, miss. Maybe you could come down to the station and make a statement in the morning?’

‘Yes, of course.’ More time-wasting, Jessie thought, with a groan. Why did the wretched man have to choose her house? She followed the policeman to the door. ‘What will happen to Mr Dalton? If that’s his real name.’ He glanced at the bag with its airline labels and flipped one over. It read Patrick Dalton, but there was no address.

‘Maybe he stole the bag,’ she said. ‘And the name.’ And if he hadn’t? If he was telling the truth? His eyes didn’t have the look of a man who lied. But then Graeme had eyes that promised the earth and she’d believed him. She was no judge.

‘Right, then. I’ll leave you to put the little one back to bed. Don’t forget the alarm, now,’ he reminded her as he headed down the front steps.

‘I won’t.’ There was no way she was going through that again, she thought as she closed the door and set the alarm.

But, supercharged with adrenalin, she wasn’t going to get back to sleep. She cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, trying not to think about her good-looking burglar with the honest eyes. Or the way his body had felt beneath her. It wasn’t easy and a touch desperately, she connected her computer and set to work.

‘I don’t know how much longer I can hold out, Kevin. I miss him so much.’

‘Me too. Weird, isn’t it? The quiet actually hurts my ears.’

‘Do you suppose it’s worked yet?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, sweetheart. They wouldn’t just pitch her out onto the street, would they? Not just like that?’

‘Wouldn’t they?’

‘We said we’d give it a week, Faye.’

‘I’m not sure I can hold out that long. Suppose she can’t cope? Suppose—?’

‘Jessie is the most capable woman I know, and she was brilliant with Bertie on Sunday.’

‘Yes, but I was there on Sunday.’

‘You left enough instructions to fill a baby book. And if she has any problems she’ll…’

‘She’ll what?’

‘She’ll do what she always does. She’ll call up someone on the internet. Come and have a cuddle.’

‘That’s what got us into this situation in the first place.’

It had been light for an hour when Bertie woke. Maybe she was beginning to get used to less sleep, or maybe it was just that she’d made serious headway with the project she was working on, or maybe it was just the fact that she had somewhere to live for a few weeks, but Jessie felt on top of the world as she bent over the cot and picked him up.

‘Hungry, sweetheart?’ He jammed his fist into his mouth and she laughed.

She put on the kettle, made a note to organise a replacement shelf for the fridge, then made tea for herself and a bottle for Bertie. There was a mark on the curved edge of the worktop. Was that where Patrick Dalton, if that was really his name, had banged his head? Had he hit it that hard? The thought made her feel queasy. Maybe she should visit him in hospital.

Oh, right. And take him some hothouse grapes while she was at it.

Maybe he was already in a police cell. The thought gave her no pleasure. He hadn’t looked like a burglar. He hadn’t sounded like a burglar either, but a good start in life didn’t necessarily mean a good end.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Dalton, but under the circumstances my officers had no choice but to take Miss Hayes’ word for what happened.’

‘I imagine her word was nothing but the truth. As she saw it.’

‘You won’t be pressing charges, then?’

‘What charges? Your man saw the lease, you said. My niece apparently let my house to the woman. I imagine she’ll insist, with some justification, that she’s the injured party.’ He touched the dressing on his forehead and winced. ‘I’ll reimburse Ms Hayes and when she’s gone I’ll find Carenza and make sure she has a summer she won’t forget in a hurry.’

‘Yes, sir. Is that your bag?’ The Deputy Chief Constable nodded to a young constable, who picked it up. ‘The very least I can do is offer you a lift home.’

The kitchen was clean; Bertie had had his bath and was taking a nap. She was going to take a shower, get dressed and, when he woke, she would put him in the buggy and walk down to the police station to make her statement. And find out if her burglar had recovered.

Not that she felt responsible. When he’d grabbed her ankle he’d frightened her out of her wits. But then, when she’d been lying on top of him, confronted by grey eyes that looked…what, exactly? Certainly not threatening. Bemused, perhaps. Shaken, maybe.

Well, she’d been feeling a little off-balance, too. And not just because he’d pulled her feet from under her.

Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t ever going to put herself through that kind of misery again. Never.

She’d be fine once she’d had a good night’s sleep.

The en suite bathroom was richly furnished, matching the bedroom, its warm colours comforting and restful. Jessie changed her mind about the shower and turned on the taps to fill the huge old-fashioned claw-footed tub.

She hadn’t had time to unpack, but the bathroom was well stocked and she helped herself to a dollop of a deliciously woody-scented bath gel. Then, leaving the door wide open so that she could hear Bertie if he cried, she fastened her hair up in a band and slipped beneath the foam.

‘You’re sure you don’t need help?’ The DCC was deeply embarrassed that his officers had arrested Patrick Dalton for housebreaking. The man was not only a well-known barrister but one of the youngest ever to have been appointed Queen’s Counsel. It had been an honest mistake, but Mr Dalton wasn’t known to be forgiving of mistakes made by the police.

‘I think I can handle it. But thanks for the offer. And as for last night, well, if you don’t tell anyone, I promise I won’t.’

‘That’s very generous of you, Mr Dalton.’

‘I know.’

Disconcerted by such bluntness, he said, ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to come in and explain the situation to Miss Hayes?’

‘I think I can handle it. And I’ve always got yesterday’s newspaper if she needs convincing.’ The headline gave him no pleasure, but the photograph had convinced the local plod that he wasn’t a villain. It would certainly come in useful if he needed to convince Miss Jessie Hayes of that fact.

Patrick tucked the newspaper under his arm and took his bag from the young constable. His head was throbbing but he walked briskly up the steps to his front door. He didn’t ring the bell. He knew that would be the sensible thing to do, but if the lady put the chain on the door and refused to let him across the threshold he would be in an awkward situation.

Somehow he didn’t think he’d ever live it down in the Inns of Court if he had to resort to the law to remove an unwanted tenant. Which was why he wasn’t going to risk it. Instead he waited until the police car had pulled away from the kerb and then let himself in.

The alarm was set this time. He set down his bag, tossed yesterday’s evening paper on the hall table and punched in the code. There was no instant cry of outrage.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’ he called.

No reply. He made his way, cautiously, down to the kitchen, which had been restored to some semblance of normality.

He took in the painfully familiar sight of soaking baby bottles and for a moment, just a moment, was transported back ten years. Then the cat stropped against his legs. Scrub normality, he thought as he grimly made his way back up through the house. But there was no sign of his tenant. Apart from a milky footprint in the hall.

Maybe she was out. Taking the baby for a walk.

He realised he’d been holding his breath for far too long and he made a conscious effort to relax as he picked up his bag and climbed the stairs, determined on a shower and eight hours’ sleep.

He was brought up sharply by the sight of the small cot standing beside the bed. Then he turned away, promising himself he’d have it folded and standing by the front door before she got back. Have a cheque and a van waiting. Maybe she’d be reasonable.

He thought about the determined way she’d been holding the cricket bat, even though she’d clearly been scared witless, and decided it was unlikely. But it was worth a try.

He kicked off his shoes, tugged his shirt over his head as he stepped through the bathroom door, tossing it with practised aim into the laundry basket. Then he turned and came to an abrupt halt.

Jessica Hayes was lying back in the bath, damp chestnut curls clinging softly around her forehead and cheeks, islands of soft foam offering nothing but the minimum of decency to cover the enticing curves of her naked body.

Last night he’d been confronted by a harridan with a cricket bat. Minus the owl-like spectacles and the frown, she looked quite different. And totally vulnerable. It was a sight to soften the hardest of hearts.

His was well known to be made of tempered steel; he found it easier if people believed that. But, even so, if a man was going to come home and find a woman in his bathtub, he acknowledged, he’d have to go a long way before he found anyone who filled it quite so fetchingly.

However, he could quite understand that, viewed from her perspective, the situation wouldn’t seem quite as pleasurable.

On the contrary, he was certain that the only reason she wasn’t screaming her head off right this minute was because she was fast asleep.

CHAPTER THREE

PATRICK took a step back. Morally, he was perfectly within his rights to be in his own bathroom. He hadn’t let his house. Jessie Hayes was the one who had no right to be there. She might have signed a lease, but he couldn’t believe she’d really thought his house belonged to an eighteen-year-old girl whose idea of elegance was purple hair and a stud through her nose. All she had to do was look around her. The evidence, to anyone with half a brain, was obvious.

Unfortunately, the tabloid press wouldn’t bother about that. The slightest hint of this situation and people would be dredging up the past and conversations would grind to a halt when he walked into a room—not, this time, because people didn’t know what to say, but because they were saying too much.

That crack on the head must have been a lot harder than he’d realised, or he’d never have got himself into such a predicament. Finding a naked woman in his bath, though, had a way of concentrating his mind on the basics, and now he had just one objective in view: to get himself out of the house without her ever knowing he’d been in it.

Except his shirt was in the laundry bin. He had others, but if she saw it—and she would see it the minute she dropped her towel in there—she’d know…

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, not for a second, certain that even a blink would wake her. But she hadn’t stirred. She was dozing peacefully, her eyes closed—dark, sea-coloured eyes, he remembered, not quite green, not quite blue, like the Mediterranean in a good mood. Then he wondered how he’d noticed such a thing in the mayhem of last night. Through the owl-like spectacles.

Maybe while she was lying on top of him, his subconscious volunteered, helpfully. He backed away from the thought, yet with the image before him he could instantly recall the warmth of her body against his, the feel of her hair as it brushed against his cheek. It tingled now, as he remembered, and he raised his hand as if to brush away an unwelcome sensation; then snatched his fingers back before they could.

Her lips were slightly parted, soft and pink and innocent of lipstick, and her arm was draped over the edge of the bath, totally relaxed by the warmth.

The tempered-steel jacket about his heart buckled slightly.

Then, as the drifting islands of foam moved, he saw the tiny tattoo of a ladybird on her thigh. And his body stirred, responding without hesitation to an overload of stimulation. The shock of it fixed him to the spot, his mind spinning with thoughts of a warm mouth beneath his, a warm body ready for love, and he gasped out loud as he realised that it wasn’t a memory but this woman he was responding to.

She sighed softly as the cooling water began to disturb her. For a moment he remained where he was, transfixed by the image. But he really did have to move, get out of the bathroom, out of the house, before she woke and he gave her the fright of her life.

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