A Baby in His In-Tray Read online

She stared at him. ‘Wow, you must be really tired.’

  ‘Really tired,’ he agreed. ‘Spent.’ But what he wanted was for her to jump back into bed and sleep until the lines around her eyes eased. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed and I’ll stretch out on your sofa?’

  ‘Reverse that and you have yourself a deal.’ She shook her head when he went to argue. ‘This is a one-bedroom flat. I can’t offer you a spare bed, and I don’t want to think what Jemima’s reaction will be if the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is a strange man.’

  Ah. Right.

  He insisted she take her duvet. He stretched out on top of her covers. He only meant to lie there for a minute—just to help straighten out the kinks in his spine—before checking his emails. While he caught up on his emails he could try and think of a practicable way forward where Jemima was concerned.

  What on earth was he going to do with her? He closed his eyes and Ms Gilmour’s autumn-hued hair filled his mind. A glorious fall of hair shaded in horizontal bands from a deep, dark auburn through to gorgeous oranges and finally a pale blonde. Shaded dark to light, from root to tip.

  Gorgeous.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SEBASTIAN WOKE TO the scent of coffee. His nose told him it was seriously good coffee too. He sat up gingerly, stretched... All the kinks were gone. His back didn’t hurt, his shoulders didn’t hurt, his head didn’t hurt.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up feeling so rested!

  Obviously a nap was exactly what he’d needed. A couple of hours to—

  His jaw dropped when he caught sight of the bedside clock. It was after one-thirty in the afternoon. He’d been asleep for over seven hours?

  Dear God! What would Ms Gilmour think? He’d left her holding the baby...again!

  He shot out of the bedroom and came to a halt. His office manager turned from pouring out two steaming mugs of coffee to send him a smile that momentarily dazzled him. She looked utterly together. She looked like his efficient office manager again. Except rather than a black pencil skirt and business jacket she wore jeans and a jumper, and that magical autumn hair. And the smile.

  ‘Come and have a coffee.’

  He forced himself forward. He was careful not to look into the living room as he went past, even though he was sure the ‘don’t look at the baby’ embargo had been lifted.

  Critical eyes roamed over his face and she gave a satisfied nod. ‘You look much better.’

  He collapsed into a seat and pulled a mug of coffee closer. ‘So do you. You managed to get more sleep?’

  ‘A blissful three hours.’

  She poured milk into her coffee. Whenever he visited the London office she drank it black—like him. But...she preferred it with milk? She did know she was free to order milk in for her coffee, didn’t she? Where the Tyrell Foundation was concerned he’d accept the charge of penny pinching, but he could stretch to milk for his office manager’s coffee.

  ‘You should’ve woken me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we have things to sort out.’

  ‘People make better decisions when they’re well-rested.’

  She looked so perky and chipper he felt at a distinct disadvantage. He leaned across the table towards her. ‘The baby?’ he whispered.

  ‘Happily engrossed with her baby gym at the moment,’ she answered at a normal tone and volume. ‘She’s an absolute angel during the day. It’s only at night she turns into a demonic creature from the deep.’

  How could she sound so cheerful? She’d been sleep-deprived for three whole nights. How could she look so...delectable?

  ‘Drink your coffee, and then have a shower while I make us some lunch and—’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly impose on you more than I already have—’

  ‘You can and you will. You can’t just up and leave with the baby. Besides, Jemima is due for a feed soon and then she’ll go down for a nap. There’s really not much point in trying to do anything before then. There’s a fresh towel for you in the bathroom.’

  He supposed she had a point. And he was dying for a shower.

  He collected a few things from his suitcase—left by the front door when he’d arrived earlier. On his way past he peeked at the baby. She lay on a quilted rug, batting at the soft toys suspended above her. Her head wobbled around to look at him, the tiny body went rigid and then she let forth with such a piercing wail he had to cover his ears.

  Ms Gilmour came racing in from the kitchen. ‘What did you do to her?’

  ‘Nothing! I... I just looked at her.’

  ‘And what were you told?’

  ‘Don’t look at the baby,’ he mumbled, feeling all of two inches tall.

  She leant down to sweep the baby up in her arms, cuddling the tiny body against her chest. Her jeans pulled tight around the soft swell of her backside and that damn pounding started up at the centre of him again, sending warm swirls of appreciation and need racing through his bloodstream.

  He swallowed when she turned back around to face him.

  ‘Did the big, bad man scare you, pretty girl? Did he sneak up on you and frighten you?’

  He watched in amazement as baby Jemima snuggled into her rescuer, her crying ceasing as if a switch had been flicked. Ms Gilmour then blew a raspberry and the baby gave her a big smile and waved her arms about in evident delight.

  ‘How...?’ He stared at the baby and then his office manager. ‘How did you do that? You took her from crying to laughing in seconds!’

  She blew on her nails and polished them against her shoulder. ‘Just call me Poppins, Mary Poppins.’

  She said it in the same tones James Bond always used when introducing himself, Bond, James Bond, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

  She hitched the baby a little higher in her arms. ‘Jemima, meet...’ She frowned. ‘What would you like her to call you?’

  He had no idea. Did she have to call him anything? He frowned. Hold on, she couldn’t call him anything. She was too young and—

  One look at his extraordinary office manager told him that wouldn’t wash. ‘What does she call you?’

  ‘Auntie...uh... Liz.’

  Her gaze slid away, and he understood why. He knew her Christian name was Eliza, but he didn’t want to call her that. He wanted things to remain on as formal a footing as possible.

  He let out a long, slow breath. ‘Uncle Sebastian,’ he clipped out.

  ‘Right. Baby Jemima, meet Uncle Sebastian.’

  She said his name impersonally and yet something inside of him stretched and unwound as she uttered it.

  He did his best to ignore it.

  ‘Well, say hello,’ she ordered him. ‘Talk to her.’

  He shuffled a step closer.

  ‘Don’t frown or you’ll make her cry again.’

  He smoothed out his face and tried to find a smile. ‘Hello, Jemima, it’s nice to meet you.’ He fell silent. The baby frowned at him. ‘What do I say?’

  ‘Say something nice. Tell her she’s pretty. Tell her you’ve been on a big plane...recite a poem. It doesn’t matter. She just needs to know you’re friendly.’

  A poem? He used to love poetry. Once upon a time. It felt like a hundred years ago now. He pulled in a deep lungful of air. ‘“The Assyrian came down like a wolf on—”’

  ‘Good God, not Byron!’

  Both woman and child swayed away from him.

  ‘You’ll scar her for life.’

  Behind those honey-brown eyes he had a feeling she was laughing at him.

  ‘Can’t you think of something more...cheerful?’

  Cheerful? Inspiration struck. ‘The Jabberwocky!’

  He recited the entire poem and both woman and child stared at him as if mesmerised.

  ‘Give her your finger.’

 
; He did as bidden. Jemima stared at it for a moment or two, swaying in her protector’s arms, before reaching out and clasping it in one tiny fist. Something inside of him felt as if it were falling.

  She pulled it closer and then up towards her mouth, but he gently detached himself from her grip. ‘You might want to wait until I’ve washed my hands first. You’ve no idea where these have been.’

  Jemima stared at him and then gave a big toothless grin before letting forth with a sound partway between ‘Gah!’ and a gurgle.

  He could feel his entire body straighten—his chin came up and his shoulders went back—and he couldn’t help smiling back. ‘She smiled at me. She...she smiled.’

  He glanced at his office manager to find her staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. Something arced in the air between them, and colour flooded her cheeks. She shook herself and sent him a smile that didn’t hide the consternation in her eyes. ‘You’ve just been given the official seal of approval.’ She laughed and suddenly seemed more natural again. ‘Hold tight to the memory. You might just need it at two o’clock in the morning, and at three...and four.’

  It hit him then that she’d been right. He couldn’t just walk out of here with Jemima. He was going to need help.

  Her help?

  Something inside him chafed at the idea. He had a feeling it’d be best for him and Ms Gilmour to get back on a professional footing asap. He could hire someone else. He’d have to come up with a cover story for Jemima of course, but...

  ‘Mr Tyrell?’

  But first he had to stop staring at her! ‘I’ll, uh, just go have that shower.’

  When he emerged from the shower, he found Jemima asleep and his hostess making sandwiches.

  ‘Egg and lettuce,’ she said, setting two in front of him.

  They ate in silence. She kept glancing across at him and he knew he should initiate the conversation, but he didn’t know where to start.

  ‘Do you have any idea who her mother might be?’ she finally asked.

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  She pulled in a breath. ‘I know we’re straying into dangerously personal territory, but...can you recall all of the women you’ve been...intimate with in the last twelve to fifteen months?’

  He choked on his sandwich. ‘I’m not Jemima’s father!’

  One eyebrow kinked upwards. ‘How do you know that for sure?’ Her lips twisted. ‘Contraception isn’t always a hundred per cent effective.’

  He knew that, but... Something in her tone caught at him. He frowned. ‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.’

  Her gaze dropped to her plate. ‘Second-hand experience. A, um...girlfriend.’

  ‘I’m not Jemima’s father.’

  She glanced back up at him. ‘How can you be so certain?’

  Because he’d not slept with anyone in two years! But he had no intention of confessing that to this woman. It made him sound priestly, saintly, celibate, and he was none of those things.

  ‘Have you kept in contact with them all?’

  He grabbed the branch she’d unknowingly handed him. ‘Yes.’

  She leant back and folded her arms, staring at him in outright disbelief. It rankled.

  ‘I don’t know what kind of man you think I am, Ms Gilmour, but there haven’t been an endless parade of women in and out of my bed. I know every woman I’ve slept with in the past two years, and I’ve kept in contact with all of them. I can assure you that none of them have become pregnant—not with me and not with anyone else.’

  She unfolded her arms, but he didn’t know if she believed him or not. He didn’t know why it should matter so much to him either way. She was his office manager, not his moral guardian.

  ‘Jemima and I can get DNA tests done if it’ll put your mind at rest,’ he snapped out. ‘A paternity test.’

  Luscious lips—lips he’d never realised were luscious until this moment—pursed. ‘Could you, though? You’ve not been made Jemima’s legal guardian. You don’t have the authority to give legal consent for such a test.’

  He opened his mouth. He closed it again. She had a point.

  ‘Which is why,’ she continued, ‘I’m not going to let you leave here with Jemima.’

  He blinked. Had she just said...? ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m not letting you take the baby.’

  He stared at her. ‘You can’t stop me.’

  Their gazes locked and clashed. ‘Do you mean to take Jemima by force?’

  His hands clenched to fists. Of course he wasn’t going to take the baby by force! Was she threatening him with the police? He pulled in a measured breath. ‘Jemima’s mother entrusted her to my care,’ he reminded her.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me for not putting much faith in Jemima’s mother’s reasoning.’ She’d leapt up and now proceeded to pace—back and forth in agitated circles. ‘She left Jemima in my office during my lunch break. What if I’d decided to take a half-day—to skive off because the boss was away?’

  His head rocked back. ‘You’d never do such a thing.’

  ‘I know that and you know that, but she doesn’t know me from Adam. So she couldn’t know that.’

  She had a point.

  ‘She left the baby in your care but you were out of the country. What was she thinking? I mean, you live in Lincolnshire, not in London. Had she put any thought into this at all? Hadn’t she done any research?’

  He couldn’t fault her reasoning.

  She planted herself back in her chair. ‘Look, this is all beside the point. I wish I wasn’t involved. I don’t want to be involved. But I am, and ethically and morally I can’t just hand that baby over to you and walk away. Not when you aren’t her father. Not when you know nothing about babies.’

  He dragged both hands back through his hair. If their positions were reversed he knew he’d feel the same.

  ‘Why do you want to take her anyway? Why do you feel so responsible for her?’

  Finally they came to the crux of the matter. Exhaustion, disgust...and a still searing sense of betrayal momentarily overtook him. He dropped his head to his folded arms. Eventually he lifted it and met her gaze. ‘I suspect Jemima and I are related.’

  ‘Related?’

  He forced himself to maintain eye contact. ‘A niece perhaps.’

  ‘But...you don’t have any siblings.’

  He had to swallow before he could speak. ‘I have no siblings that I know about.’

  ‘Ah.’ She slumped back as if all the air had gone out of her.

  ‘Or...’ worse yet ‘...she could be my half-sister.’

  ‘But—’ she frowned and leaned towards him ‘—your father must be...’

  ‘Sixty-eight—old enough to be her grandfather, yes.’

  * * *

  Liv ran a hand across her brow in an effort to shift the tightness that gripped it like a vice. The poor man looked exhausted. Not physically exhausted the way he had when she’d opened her door to him earlier, but deep-down-in-his-soul exhausted. ‘I guess that explains the scandal you want to avoid.’

  His head swung up to meet her gaze again. ‘I’ve given up trying to quash scandal where my parents are concerned.’

  Given how often they appeared in the pages of the tabloids, that was probably just as well. It might also explain why Sebastian wanted to present such a squeaky-clean image himself.

  She wanted to see him smile again, the way he had when Jemima had smiled at him. It was probably crazy, but... ‘I don’t believe half of what the papers say. They inflate everything.’

  His lips twisted—not into a smile. ‘Where Hector and Marjorie Tyrell are concerned, you can believe pretty much everything that you read.’

  She winced.

  ‘My parents are selfish people, Ms Gilmour, and have been all their lives. Chasing
their own pleasure is more important to them than anyone’s welfare.’

  Including their son’s? A weight pressed down on her chest.

  ‘I’ve no interest in protecting their reputations—they don’t have reputations worth protecting. However, if Hector has taken advantage of some young woman and left her feeling desperate, then she does deserve protecting. And until I can discover who she is, I mean to shield her from the spotlight.’

  Liv lifted her chin. ‘Good. Good for you!’

  This time he did give a smile, though it was only a small one...and tinged with disillusion. ‘In the meantime we—’ he gestured first to her and then to himself ‘—have this problem to sort out.’

  ‘No problem,’ she assured him. ‘You go off and find Jemima’s mother. In the meantime Jemima can stay here with me. Ms Brady is doing a fine job holding the fort at the office. I’ve been checking in with her every afternoon.’

  ‘No.’

  No? What did he mean, no?

  ‘Just as you’re not comfortable letting me take the baby, I’m not comfortable leaving the baby with you.’

  She couldn’t prevent air from hissing out between her teeth. ‘You didn’t seem to mind her spending the last three nights with me when it suited you. From memory, I had your undying gratitude.’

  ‘I believe that’s a slight embellishment.’ Just for a moment light danced in his eyes, making him look younger and less troubled. ‘But you mistake me, Ms Gilmour.’

  The formality of that Ms Gilmour was starting to chafe at her, but she didn’t have an answer for it. She didn’t want him calling her Liz or Eliza. Every time he did it’d bring home, all the more acutely, the deception she was playing on him. She was finding it hard enough to maintain the charade as it was, without an additional load of guilt every time he called her by her sister’s name. At least she was Ms Gilmour.

  It’s a situation of your own making.

  Yes, thank you—she knew that well enough. She pulled in a breath. She only had to survive for another few days. ‘I mistake you?’

  ‘I don’t doubt your ability to look after Jemima, and I don’t doubt your integrity.’

  Darn it all! Why did he have to make her sound mean-spirited for doubting him? ‘Then why aren’t you comfortable continuing our arrangement?’