Caroline Anderson - With This Baby...

Personally, nor would he, but, then, it wasn’t his car—thank goodness!

‘How much will that cost—this fine you’re talking about?’ she asked, elbowing herself back in front of him with a sharp dig in the ribs.

Not as sharp as her intake of breath, however, at the driver’s reply. ‘That’s obscene!’ she exclaimed, but he just shrugged.

‘Should have used a meter, love. Wouldn’t’ve happened then.’

‘But it broke down!’ she wailed, latching onto Patrick’s fabrication like a real pro. ‘You heard the man!’

‘And pigs fly. Look, love, I can’t winch it back down, I’ve done the paperwork and it’s more than my—’

‘Job’s worth,’ she and Patrick said in unison. The man’s face hardened into implacability.

‘It’s all right for you lot that don’t have to worry about money,’ he said.

Patrick sighed and rammed a hand through his hair, but his companion didn’t pause for breath.

‘You lot?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t bracket me with him! I worry about money constantly, and I haven’t got any to throw around—hence my worthless car! You can’t take it!’ And then, with a masterly touch of pathos, she added, ‘Besides, it’s got all the baby’s things in it—I need them! She’s hungry.’

‘Baby? What baby?’ The man eyed the car worriedly, and Patrick could almost hear her mind working, but then she took pity on him.

‘Don’t worry, I had the baby with me—but all her things are still in the car, you can’t take them away, I need to feed her.’

The driver sighed, clearly relieved that he wasn’t dangling a tiny baby in the car above their heads, and winched it back down with a resigned shake of his head. ‘Look, lady, I shouldn’t do this, but I’ll give you a minute to get what you want from it before I take it away.’

‘But I want my car.’

‘Just do what he says,’ Patrick advised her softly, eyeing the huge traffic jam that was building up behind the truck. ‘You can always get the car later.’

‘If I can find the money, you mean,’ she muttered. ‘And anyway, how am I supposed to get the baby home without a car?’

Patrick’s heart sank. Here we go, he thought, feeling the contents of his wallet slipping further out of his grasp with every second. ‘Don’t worry about that now. Just get your stuff.’

Just? Huh!

Five minutes later, the elegant marbled foyer of his empire was littered with a pile of junk which in total was probably worth less than the loose change in his pocket, and the Franklin girl was standing in the doorway with a ticket in her hand, staring dispiritedly after her vanishing car.

In the background the baby was still grizzling, and Patrick looked wonderingly at the pile of junk at his feet. Ancient trainers, a jumper that had seen better days, a ratty old blanket, half a dozen paperbacks, a briefcase—curiously decent and quite incongruous—and a whole plethora of baby stuff in varying stages of decay. He met his receptionist’s bewildered eyes, rammed his hand through his hair again in disbelief and sighed shortly.

‘Now what?’ he said, half to himself, half to Kate.

‘I’ll get a box,’ she said hastily, recovering her composure, and thrusting the baby back into his arms she abandoned him with it and disappeared.

Patrick looked down into the baby’s miserable, screwed-up little face and felt a surge of compassion. Whatever was going on, this poor little mite was innocent, and, judging by the feel of it, she needed a dry nappy and probably a decent meal.

‘Let me have her,’ the young woman said, and took the baby, cradling it against her shoulder and comforting it as if she’d been doing it all her life.

‘All right, sweetheart. It’s all right, Jess,’ she crooned, but Patrick wondered if it really was or if they were just empty promises.

No. Dammit, he wouldn’t fall for it.

The ticket the truck driver had given her had fallen from her fingers, drifting to the floor, and he picked it up and shoved it in his pocket. He’d deal with it later.

Kate came back with a couple of cardboard boxes and started packing the junk into them, and he crouched down beside her to help, just as the baby started to wail again in earnest.

Her hands stilled and she looked up at the baby with sympathy in her eyes.

‘I’ll deal with this lot,’ she said softly. ‘Why don’t you take Miss Franklin up to your apartment so she can see to the baby?’ she suggested, and with a resigned sigh he nodded and held out his hand to usher the young woman towards the lift.

‘I’ll need the baby seat and that blue bag,’ she said, and he scooped them up and led her to the lift, glancing over his shoulder at Kate still crouched on the floor.

‘Thanks, Kate. I owe you,’ he said softly. ‘Can you ask Sally to deal with my calls?’

She nodded, and he turned his attention back to the more pressing problem in front of him.

‘Come on, let’s get the baby sorted out and then we can talk,’ he said, reminding himself firmly that she was just a blackmailer, even if she did have a figure to die for and the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard in his life…

‘Right, now she’s asleep, let’s sort this out,’ Patrick said firmly, determined to take control of a situation that showed every sign of disintegrating into chaos. ‘As I said before, I don’t know your sister. I told her that when she came to see me, and I can’t imagine why she’s sent you now, because nothing’s happened since I saw her to change anything.’

She looked up at him, those extraordinary grey eyes filled with silent accusation. ‘On the contrary,’ she said. ‘Everything’s changed, because three days after she came to see you, my sister died of an overdose, and I’m holding you responsible—for that, and for your child—so, you see, everything has changed.’

Patrick felt shock drain the colour from his face. That poor girl, so tightly strung, her eyes haunted and despairing, was dead, and her sister was here to take up the cudgels on her behalf. No wonder she was so determined, but despite her assertions nothing had really altered, at least not as far as he was concerned.

The baby wasn’t his, and never would be, and there was nothing he’d said or done that made him in any way responsible for the tragic death of that baby’s mother, however regrettable.

‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ he said, gentling his voice but with no loss of resolve. ‘If I could help you, I would, but it really isn’t anything to do with me.’

‘Nice try, but it won’t work,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ve got the photographs.’

His heart sank. ‘Photographs?’ he asked. She’d been saying something downstairs about evidence just as the car thing had intruded, but it hadn’t really registered. Oh, hell…

‘Yes, photographs. Intimate photographs—if you know what I mean.’

He did, only too well, and he winced inwardly, even though he knew they must be fake like all the others. ‘Anybody can achieve that these days with a digital camera and a bit of chicanery,’ he argued, but she wasn’t finished.

‘Photographs taken in your apartment here? On that sofa, in front of the window? In the bedroom where I changed the baby’s nappy? On your roof garden? Where and how would she have got those? Someone on your staff? Come on, Mr Cameron, you can’t get out of it. All it will take is a DNA test to prove it, and if you won’t submit to it willingly, I’ll just have to take you to court, and, believe me, I fully intend to win.’

He didn’t doubt it for a moment.

‘Get the baby tested, by all means,’ he agreed willingly. ‘My DNA has already been tested for another of these bogus claims, and I can assure you it won’t match this baby’s any more than it’s matched any other. Your sister isn’t the first young woman to try this, and unfortunately I don’t suppose she’ll be the last. I’ll see if I can find the information and send it on to you.’