Catherine Spencer - Passion's Baby

“Sometimes a clean break is best. The sole reason I came here was to be alone. The same’s true for you. We were each doing fine, as long as we kept our distance. But it’s not too late to reverse the damage.”

“Not for you, perhaps.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Janie? Are you saying you might wind up…?

“Pregnant? Isn’t it a bit late for you to be asking me that?”

“Could you be pregnant?”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. If you happen to bump into me six months from now and I’m big as a house, you’ll know—”

“Janie!” he exploded. “This isn’t something to be taken lightly. If you find—”

“Don’t worry, Liam, I won’t come running to you, not when you’ve made your feelings so plain.”

“Your being pregnant would change a lot of things.”

CATHERINE SPENCER, once an English teacher, fell into writing through eavesdropping on a conversation about Harlequin romances. Within two months she changed careers and sold her first book to Harlequin in 1984. She moved to Canada from England thirty years ago and lives in Vancouver. She is married to a Canadian and has four grown children—two daughters and two sons—plus two dogs and a cat. In her spare time she plays the piano, collects antiques and grows tropical shrubs.

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AFTERWARD, when it was too late to go back and do things differently, Jane looked for someone to blame for the chain of events which led to her first meeting with Liam McGuire.

Her grandfather topped the list, because he was the one who’d assured her, “You’ll have our half of the island all to yourself this year. Steve’s spending the summer with his married son in California.”

But when she discovered that her grandfather’s old fishing buddy hadn’t bothered telling anyone he’d decided to rent his place to someone else while he was away, she tried shifting the blame to him. In all fairness though, Steve had the right to do as he pleased with his own property and, on top of that, was getting forgetful in his old age, so perhaps he couldn’t be held accountable.

Of course, there was Liam McGuire himself, surely the messiest man ever born and one who needed to have someone wash out his mouth with soap to cure his bad language. The way he could curse would make a sailor blush! But again, if she were to be scrupulously objective, Jane had to admit that, as the legal tenant of Steve’s house and with a signed lease to prove it, evil-tempered Liam McGuire was under no obligation to live up to her personal standards of socially acceptable behavior.

So, stymied on that front, also, she then tried blaming her dog. If Bounder hadn’t had such a passion for wrapping his jaws around whatever was handiest and offering it as a gift to whomever he happened to meet, she might have been able to acquit herself with a modicum of dignity. On the other hand, if she’d done a better job of training him when he was a puppy, he wouldn’t have developed such bad habits.

So, much though she loathed having to admit it, when all was said and done the blame ended up where it really belonged: squarely on her own shoulders. Which was why, in the middle of the morning on the first day of what was supposed to be her summer of spiritual and physical renewal, she found herself huddled behind a chunk of rock on the beach below the cottages, her face flaming with embarrassment and her heart staggering with shame.

“I’d have been better off staying in town,” she muttered dolefully to Bounder, who alternated between fixing her in a meltingly sympathetic gaze and staring longingly at the waves breaking on the sand, forty yards away.

But the kind of serenity she craved wasn’t to be found in the hectic bustle and pace of Vancouver’s streets, so she’d returned to the haven of her childhood. Arriving at her grandfather’s cottage late the previous night, she’d climbed the winding stairs to the big square room under the eaves, crawled under the goose feather quilt on the high brass bed, and fallen asleep to the sound of waves breaking on the shore and the smell of the sea filling her lungs.

For the first time in months, she had not been haunted by dreams. Instead, she’d slept deeply, certain that the tranquil solitude of Bell Island would cure what ailed her.

She’d woken early the next morning and, blissfully unaware of the turmoil about to descend, had gone to the bedroom’s north window to take in the view of Desolation Sound which defined the very essence of her happy childhood. But rather than deep blue waters snaking into quiet inlets against a backdrop of mountains, her attention had fastened on the thin column of smoke rising into the still air from the chimney next door.

Even then, she might have managed to avoid making such a colossal fool of herself if she hadn’t also happened to notice the windows were still boarded up to protect them against the fury of the past winter’s south-easterly gales. But it was now June, with summer arrived, which had made Jane very suspicious. Why would a legitimate occupant choose to live in semi-darkness when every room in the place could be flooded with sunlight?

“There’s something very fishy about this,” she’d told Bounder. “I think we should investigate.”

It had been an easy decision to make from the safety of her grandfather’s cottage, but a twinge of uneasiness had fluttered down her spine as she approached the wraparound porch of the house. Suddenly, she’d been glad she had the eighteen-month-old Belgian sheepdog at her side.

The front door stood half open. Grasping Bounder by the collar, she’d knocked and called out, “Hello? Anybody there?”

But the shaft of light streaming through the open doorway revealed only dying embers in the fireplace, a pile of dirty dishes on the counter next to the sink, and a sweater flung carelessly over the back of the couch.

Somewhat reassured, she’d stepped fully inside to take a closer look. A cell phone and a dozen or more books lay scattered haphazardly over the coffee table. Whoever had taken up residence obviously enjoyed reading, not to mention instant communication with the outside world.

But apart from a heap of clothes littering the floor beside an open canvas suitcase, and a sleeping bag and two pillows on the single mattress, the slivers of sunshine filtering between the cracks in the boards covering the bedroom windows gave away nothing of the occupant’s identity beyond the fact that he wasn’t trying to hide his untidy presence.

It had to be a “he,” she’d reasoned. The sweater in the living room was too large for a woman and only a man would treat his clothes so carelessly or leave his sleeping bag in wrinkled disarray from a night’s sleep.