Reluctant Father

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

Gifford gazed at the child.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I have a son, and yet for nine months you conceal his existence. You don’t bother to inform me that I’m a father. How dare you?” he raged. Jack began to cry.

“Shh, popcorn, shh.” Cass rubbed the baby’s back and rocked him against her. “I did tell you,” she said, speaking in a fervent whisper. “I wrote two letters. Remember?”

“I never received any letters.” “You didn’t tear them up?” “No.”

“Are you sure?” she challenged. “Positive.” He grated out the word. “Well, I sent them. Shh,” Cass said again, rocking the baby.

“We can’t talk now. Come to the villa tomorrow morning.” Gifford frowned at the bawling child. “And bring him.”

ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and a son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance accepted In 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. They live in London, and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the background of her books.

Reluctant Father!

Elizabeth Oldfield

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THERE was the rasping of a chair on wooden floorboards.

Cassandra Morrow sighed, uncrossed her eyes and let the held-taut strand of wheat-blonde hair drop back over her brow. She made a face at the Afghan-hound reflection which she saw in the mirror. Her haircut must wait. The noise signalled that a customer had arrived—an unexpected, out-of-the-blue customer whom—frustratingly—she would have to send away.

Jettisoning the scissors, she went to peer around the open door of the ladies’ restroom. Her glance swept across the thatch-roofed, open-sided restaurant. Yes, a dark-haired man in a navy polo shirt and faded denims was sitting at a table at the far end. With his chair half turned to accommodate the stretch of his long legs, he was gazing out at the sun-sparkled sapphire of the Indian Ocean.

‘Hard luck, mister,’ Cass murmured regretfully,

‘you’re about two hours too early.’

She hoicked the blonde straggles out of her eyes, tugged at her pink skinny-rib top and hastily thumbnailed two dots of dried something—baby muesli?—from her crumpled khaki shorts. A trickle of perspiration was wiped from her chin. The Forgotten Eden guest house and restaurant might not be the London Savoy with its Grill Room, but she didn’t want to look too disreputable.

Closing the door of the sparkling-clean restroom behind her, Cass threaded a path between the cluster of batik-clothed tables. Her smooth brow crinkled. She hated the idea of turning down trade, so why should she? The opening hours were not carved in stone. Besides, plugging in the percolator or prising off a bottle top was easy. No catering skills were required there. Nor for depositing a slice of home-made coconut cake on a plate.

And if her service was extra obliging and ultraefficient perhaps the customer might feel inclined to return for a meal on some other occasion. It would be good to hear the cash till ring.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, smiling a bright, welcoming smile. ‘Strictly speaking the restaurant doesn’t open for non-residents until twelve—and today we’re serving one of our specialities which is a delicious Creole-style fish casserole. However, I’d be very happy to get you a cup of coffee or a glass of cold beer if you—’

As the man turned his head to look up at her, her smile collapsed and the sentence unravelled into silence. A stunned silence. She had heard of shock rocking people back on their heels, and now she felt herself sway. The man gazing up with narrowed grey eyes was Gifford Tait, hot-shot business tycoon, Mr Don’t-Fence-Me-In, and—her mind flew to the baby who had been wheeled off earlier in his buggy—the errant father of her ninemonth-old son.

Reaching blindly out, Cass clutched at the back of the nearest available chair. Once she had doted on his looks and every aspect about him, so why hadn’t she recognised the head of thick, dark hair, the broad, flat shoulders, his air of calm male confidence? Because she had long ago abandoned any idea that Gifford might instigate a get-together and it had never even entered let alone crossed her mind that he would seek her out in the Seychelles!

How had he known where to find her? Why, after eighteen months when he had remained resolutely incommunicado, had he decided to make the long-haul flight? she wondered, a blizzard of questions starting to swirl in her head. A fit of conscience about his offspring must have finally struck—but what did he have in mind?

To make coochy-coo, forgive-me noises over the cot? Or simply to check that the baby was thriving? Maybe the thought of ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes had inspired a desire to become a dedicated parent Her blue eyes darkened. No—never that.

Letting go of the chair, Cass stood up straight. Whatever form it took, his show of interest had come cruelly and callously late. If he expected her to toss out the red carpet or blubber her gratitude, he could think again. She was no damsel in distress about to press thankful kisses to the feet of her saviour.

And how dared he arrive unannounced? What right had he to saunter into the restaurant and take her by surprise? And pick a time when she was pink-faced from floor-mopping, hound-dog shaggy and out of shape. Furtively, she pulled in her stomach. It wasn’t that she wanted to impress him—no chance—but if she had looked halfway decent she would have felt more poised and less wrong-footed. Not so disastrously thrown.

‘I don’t—’ she started, with some heat, but he got there first.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Gifford demanded, in a low, gravelly voice with an American accent.

As he had flown from the States to Europe, and on from Europe to the middle reaches of the Indian Ocean, he had been thinking about Cassandra Morrow. He had been thinking about her and their past involvement with an irritating frequency for God knew how long. His lips compressed. Thinking about her always made him uneasy and provoked regrets—and to be confronted by her now felt as if someone had punched him hard and low in the gut.

Cass blinked. She had, she realised, got it wrong. All wrong. His question, plus the narrowed gaze, showed that he was just as astonished to see her as she was to see him. And a tightness around his mouth indicated he was not exactly jumping for joy, either. Gifford Tait had not decided to get in touch. There had been no upsurge of finer feelings. As if! she thought bitingly. His presence was sheer coincidence—a coincidence orchestrated by a peculiarly mischievous twist of fate.

‘I’m helping Edith to run the Forgotten Eden,’ she replied, and was surprised when the words emerged more or less normally.

With her mouth gone dry and her nerves giving a fair imitation of jangling piano wires, she had expected a puerile croak. But she had, she recalled, managed to play it cool to wondrous effect on one memorable occasion in the past, and apparently the knack had not deserted her.

‘You work here?’ Gifford said sharply.

She nodded. ‘As general dogsbody. For example, this morning the cleaner has a dental appointment so I’ve been cleaning.’

His eyes trailed from the top of her tousled head, over her sweat-dampened top and creased shorts, and down the length of her legs to her thonged feet When he had known her before she had worn smart, city-slicker suits and high heels, and had had her pale hair swept back in a smooth chignon. She had been elegance with a capital E. The only time she had looked tumbled was when they had been in bed. But she looked evocatively tumbled now. He frowned, remembering how good their lovemaking had been. How good they had been together in so many ways.

‘So I see,’ he muttered, making Cass feel even more conscious of her rumpled appearance. ‘And Edith is—who?’

‘She was my uncle Oscar’s girlfriend. He died three months ago. Of cancer.’

Gifford lowered thick straight, dark brows. ‘This is your uncle’s place?’ he queried. ‘I remember you telling me how he owned a guest house and restaurant on Praslin—you spent holidays there—but I thought he’d sold it last year.’

‘Oscar thought so, too, but at the very last minute the sale fell through and it’s taken until now for another buyer to appear.’ Cass hesitated, frowning. ‘Though the deal’s still to be finalised. Edith is a lovely lady, but not too worldly-wise,’ she continued. ‘When my uncle visited London last winter, he’d realised his days were numbered. He knew Edith would be out of her depth when it came to handling a sale, so he asked if I’d be willing to keep a long-distance eye on things.’

‘Because he was aware that you are super-efficient?’

‘Because I’m the only member of our family who’s the least bit organised,’ she countered, wondering if his comment should be interpreted as sarcastic. After all, she had been anything but efficient eighteen months ago.

‘I was happy to agree,’ she went on. ‘But Edith took my agreement to mean hands-on help, and when the second purchaser surfaced she phoned to ask if I’d fly out. She was desperate for some support, and a change of scene suited me, so—’

Cass broke off. She was talking too much; it was an unfortunate tendency whenever she felt flustered. But there was no need to give him chapter and verse. Nor was there any reason to feel flustered. He was the villain of the piece and the one who should be weighted down with embarrassment, not her.

‘So you’re taking a sabbatical?’ Gifford said.

‘I suppose you could call it that. What about you? Are you holidaying here or—’ she offered up a silent prayer ‘—have you come over from Mahe for the day?’

Although only seventeen miles long and, at its widest, five miles across, Mahe was the largest of the one hundred-plus islands of the Seychelles archipelago and the home of the only town and capital, Victoria. Quiet and unspoilt like all the islands, it boasted the most hotels, the widest variety of watersports and the best choice of boats.

A keen sportsman who thrived on action, Gifford would want to sail, water-ski and snorkel. Yes, he would be based there. Please. If she was to regain her equilibrium, she needed some distance between them—and a distance filled by deep blue sea would surely help to restrict his visits.

‘I hate to dash your hopes,’ he said curtly, ‘but I’m staying on Praslin.’

Her stomach churned. ‘At Club Sesel?’ she asked, naming the only nearby hotel, which was a couple of miles along the beach to the east and hidden behind a headland.

She had, Cass realised, heard no sound of a car, and for him to have arrived on foot it seemed he must have come from there.

Gifford shook his head. ‘No.’

‘No?’ she said, puzzled yet giving thanks for small mercies. Almost all of the island’s other hotels were situated on the opposite coast. True, they were only seven or eight miles away, but it was better than nothing.

‘I’m not booked into a hotel, I’m renting a house. I arrived yesterday evening.’

‘A house? Where’ she demanded.

He jerked a thumb. ‘Thataway.’

Her thoughts hurtled in the same westerly direction, travelling around a small deep-water cove and up to a sprawling white bungalow which was surrounded by tall, flamboyant trees and bushes of pink and purple bougainvillea. Luxuriously furnished, the bungalow came with a wide rear terrace which provided panoramic views of the sea, and had a barbecue pit and a small indoor gym. It ranked five stars in the rental market.

‘Maison d’Horizon?’ Cass asked, and this time she did croak.

He gave a terse nod. ‘I decided to spoil myself rotten.’

She glanced out of the restaurant to the wooden cottage where she was installed. ‘But—but that makes you my neighbourl’

‘Yup,’ he said crustily. ‘I’m the boy next door.’

Cass swallowed. Gifford Tait was not a boy, he was a man. A mature, experienced male who had done some serious damage to her heart, then strolled away and stayed away, leaving her to deal with the consequences.

‘How long are you here for?’ she enquired.

‘Two months. Don’t blame me,’ he said, when she looked at him, appalled. It’s your fault that I decided to come to the Seychelles.’

‘My fault?’ Cass protested.

‘I remembered you saying how life here was peaceful and relaxed, and—’ stretching out long fingers, he realigned the position of the white ceramic pepper pot ‘—I’m in need of relaxation.’ His gaze swung to the vivid blue sea, along the arc of silvery coral sand, to green, shiny-leafed palm trees which were stirred by the balmy breeze. ‘You also waxed lyrical about the beauty of the islands, and you didn’t exaggerate.’

So coincidence was not responsible for this visitation; the culprit had been her and her big mouth! And now they were destined to live with only a metaphorical garden fence between them. Her insides hollowed. It was much too close for comfort.

‘The fourteen-hour days finally caught up on you?’ she enquired, thinking that, as he played hard, so he worked hard, too.

‘No, though I was overdoing it. For years I’ve been far too work-orientated.’ Gifford poked at the pepper pot again. ‘I’ve been…unwell, so I’m here to convalesce,’ he said, and paused, plainly unwilling to go into detail. ‘You couldn’t find me something to eat in addition to coffee?’

Cass blinked. ‘Excuse me?’

All the time they had been speaking, a thought had been hammering at the back of her mind—when would Gifford mention the baby? He might have ignored his existence this far, but he could not ignore it now. Yet she was damned if she would make things easier for him by referring to their son first.

‘The rental agency was supposed to lay on a box of start-up groceries, but they’ve forgotten. They’re sending one later, but I had nothing to eat last night and I’m starving.’

‘Edith does the cooking, and she’s out,’ Cass said flatly.

His brows had lifted in an upward slant of appeal, but she refused to respond. She was no longer the adoring escort who rushed to obey his every request. The days of being charmed stupid were over. And if he fainted dead away from hunger, tough!

‘It doesn’t have to be something cooked. Bread and butter will do. Or fruit. You must have some fruit? If there’s a packet of stale Cheezy Doodles or whatever lying around, I’ll take that,’ Gifford declared, with an air of stark desperation.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘After travelling for damn near two days and crossing half the globe, I’m in no mood to be given the runaround,’ he rasped, his grey eyes glittering. ‘We both know the larder can’t be completely bare, so—’

‘How about scrambled eggs?’ Cass suggested stiffly.

Being too uncooperative was not a smart move. Like it or not, there could be times in the future when she might need his goodwill, so she must bank down her hostility and keep things civil between them. It would not be easy, but…

‘Scrambled eggs sounds great.’ He flicked her a dry look. ‘You aren’t planning to poison me?’

‘And risk the health authorities closing down the restaurant?’ Her smile was razor-thin. ‘Not worth it.’

‘You’ve forgotten something,’ Gifford said as she swung away.

She stopped and turned back. ‘What?’

‘You greeted me with “Good morning, sir” and now

it should be “Not worth it, sir”.’ A dark brow rose a fraction. ‘You must’ve heard of establishing good customer relations—or don’t you aim to win the employee of the month award?’

‘I’m not an employee, I’m a volunteer,’ Cass told him crisply.

‘Whatever your status, I am a customer,’ he responded. ‘Which entitles me to a little…courtesy.’

Her full mouth thinned. He was deliberately baiting her. Once she would have found his sardonic humour amusing, but not now. Now she felt tempted to tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier—or something far coarser—but instead she slitted her eyes at him.

‘In your dreams,’ she said.

His lips twitched. He had always liked her verve and had enjoyed the cut-and-thrust repartee which they had often shared.

‘Sassy as ever, I see.’

‘You better believe it,’ she responded, and stalked away.

In the kitchen, Cass swung into action, collecting eggs from the fridge, locating a pan, setting a tray. She had always imagined that when they did meet again—at her bidding, and at her choice of location—Gifford Tait would leave her cold, she reflected as she worked. Stonecold. Alas, it was not so. With his thickly lashed grey eyes, features which were a touch too strong to be described as handsome, and lean, muscular physique, he continued to be disruptively—and alarmingly—virile. He also had undeniable charisma.

Reaching for a whisk, she beat the eggs fiercely. Snap out of it, she ordered herself. The dynamic Mr Tait may possess more than his fair share of sex appeal, but when it comes to caring and sharing and common-or-garden decency he rates a whopping great minus. Any charisma is superficial.

Gifford had been unwell. What did that mean? she wondered. She shrugged. He had not wanted to tell her and she would not ask.

The eggs were scrambled, sprinkled with chopped herbs, and arranged on a plate with triangles of hot, buttered toast. Lifting the tray, Cass steered out through the saloon-style swing doors which separated the kitchen from the restaurant. When she drew near, she saw that her customer was tapping the pepper pot up and down on the table in a sombre distracted rhythm. He looked uncharacteristically tense, like a man with a lot on his mind. As well he might, she thought astringently.

At the pad of her rubber-soled thongs on the plank floor, he glanced round.

‘Quick service,’ he said, as though she had caught him unawares in his introspection and caught him out.

‘You’ll be writing a letter of commendation to the Tourist Board?’ she enquired.

‘And faxing copies to the Prime Minister and President of the Seychelles,’ he assured her, deadpan. As she served his food, a slow grin angled its way across his mouth. ‘Do you finish off by bobbing a curtsy?’

‘Don’t push it,’ Cass warned. ‘You may be getting a kick out of this, but I have my limits.’

‘A generous tip won’t persuade you to curtsy?’

‘I wouldn’t curtsy if you sank to your knees, clasped your hands together and begged.’ She tilted her head.

‘Or perhaps I might. Going to try it?’

‘Not my style,’ Gifford replied.

‘I thought not.’

He noticed that she had put down two cups and saucers. ‘You’re joining me?’

She nodded. They had to talk about the baby.

‘I’m ready for a break,’ she declared, thinking that what she really needed was a lie-down in a darkened room with cold compresses on her eyes and complete silence. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, a touch belligerently.

‘Be my guest,’ he said, and, lifting his knife and fork, he began to eat.

As Cass poured the rich, dark, steaming coffee, she studied him from beneath her lashes. She had not noticed it when she had been looking down, but sitting directly

across from him she saw that his face was leaner than she remembered and his high cheekbones were more sharply defined.

He had lost weight. Gifford also looked drawn—which could be due to jet-lag, or to the shock of being confronted by her and the knowledge that he must soon meet the child whom they had both created.

‘The restaurant may not open until noon, but everything seems remarkably organised,’ he said, indicating the surrounding tables which were neatly set with gleaming cutlery and sparkling glasses.

‘I was awoken at the crack of dawn, so I was able to

get a good start,’ Cass explained, and waited for him to ask about who had woken her up so early.

‘Monday is a busy day?’

‘Er—no. The busy days are Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, when we provide a buffet lunch for tour parties of around twenty or so. The rest of the time, it’s quiet The road outside is unmade and full of potholes—’

‘I noticed when I was in the taxi,’ he cut in, frowning, and briefly placed a hand on his thigh.

‘And the prospect of such a bumpy ride puts people off. We get a few holidaymakers wandering down from Club Sesel, and the occasional determined backpacker, but it’s the tour lunches which keep the place ticking over.’

‘What do the tours take in?’

‘They start off with a nature trail through the Vallee de Mai, which is an eerie and rather forbidding place, thick with palms, in the heart of Praslin. It’s a World Heritage site. Next they come here for lunch, and then they drive up to Anse Lazio, a beach on the northern tip of the island which is great for swimming and snorkelling. You should go there some time.’

‘Maybe,’ Gifford said, frowning. He ate a few more mouthfuls. ‘Your uncle was happy for things to just tick over?’

‘Yes. Oscar was an ex-hippy who just wanted enough to get by on, and to “hang loose”.’ Cass smiled, thinking fondly of her pony-tailed and somewhat eccentric uncle. A member of the peace-and-love brigade, he had been so laid-back as to be almost falling over. There’s no word for “stress” in the Creole dictionary, so when he decided to live here he came to the perfect spot.’

‘What about paying guests?’ he asked.

‘Oscar rarely advertised or did much in the way of repairs, so unfortunately those who managed to find their way here were not inclined to come again. The food is good—Edith’s an excellent cook—but the accommodation’s in urgent need of updating.’

‘What is the accommodation?’ Gifford enquired.

‘Just the cottages,’ she said, gesturing across the restaurant and out over an oval lawn of thick-bladed grass to where three pale blue wooden cottages sat in the dappled shade of stately palm trees. Tricked out with pointed arches and gingerbread eaves, they possessed a shabby, fairy-tale charm.

Gifford turned to look. ‘No one’s in residence?’

‘I’m in the nearest one, but the others have been unoccupied since I arrived, and there are no forward bookings. Edith lives in the main house here, in a flat above the kitchen,’ she added.

He set down his knife and fork. The plate was clean.

That was ambrosia,’ he told her.

Thanks.’

‘Thank you. I feel a darn sight more human now,’ he said, and, easing back his chair and splaying his legs, he stretched lazily.

As he raised his arms, his shirt pulled up to reveal a strip of firm, flat midriff above the waistband of his jeans. Cass felt her heart start to pound. Her erstwhile lover was human; he was six feet three inches of powerfully constructed male. She could remember running her fingers over the hairy roughness of his chest, across that smooth midriff and down. She could remember the burn of his skin and—

Are you here on your own? he enquired.

She flushed. She had, she realised, been staring. Had Gifford noticed her fascination? Probably. He did not miss much.