Anne Mather: Jack Riordan's Baby

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COMING NEXT MONTH

‘THERE’S A YOUNG lady to see you, Mrs Riordan.’

The housekeeper had emerged through the long windows at the back of the house and now stood looking at Rachel as she finished clipping a long-stemmed white rose and laid it in a trug at her feet.

Rachel straightened. She was neither in the mood nor dressed for visitors. The woman couldn’t be someone she knew or Mrs Grady would have said so. She had to be either one of Jack’s clients or collecting for charity. In which case, why hadn’t Mrs Grady dealt with it herself?

‘Didn’t you tell her that Mr Riordan’s not here?’ she asked, deciding it must be one of Jack’s clients. How she’d got his address, heaven knew, but then, Jack rarely abided by any of the rules that she’d always been taught to obey.

‘She doesn’t want to see Mr Riordan,’ said Mrs Grady at once. ‘She asked to speak to you, Mrs Riordan. She says her name’s Karen Johnson. She seemed to think you’d know who she was.’

All the blood seemed to drain out of Rachel’s body at that moment. She felt both sick and dizzy. She might have lost her balance had it not been for the trellis close by that provided a convenient place to rest her trembling hand. But Mrs Grady knew her too well not to notice her sudden pallor, and, hurrying across the terrazzo tiles of the patio, she took Rachel’s arm in a reassuring grasp.

‘There now,’ she said reprovingly. ‘I knew you shouldn’t have been working out here in the hot sun without a hat. You’ve overdone it, haven’t you? Come along inside and I’ll get you a nice cool glass of iced tea.’

‘I’m all right, really.’ Rachel could feel faint colour coming back into her face as she spoke. ‘Um—where is Miss—Miss Johnson? Perhaps you’d better show her into the drawing room while I go and wash my hands.’

‘Now, is that wise?’ Mrs Grady had picked up the trug of roses, and with the familiarity of long service she gave her mistress a doubtful stare. Then, retaining her hold on Rachel’s arm, she urged her towards the house. ‘I can easily tell the young lady you’re not available. If it’s important, I’m sure she can come back another day.’

Rachel was tempted. Unbearably tempted. But putting it off wasn’t going to make it go away. All the same, she was stunned by the woman’s nerve in coming here. Had Jack put her up to this? Somehow, despite his faults, Rachel doubted even he would be that cruel.

‘Just show her into the drawing room, Mrs Grady,’ she said now, firmly putting all thought of changing her mind aside. ‘I won’t be long. You can serve us both some iced tea in the meantime.’ Though whether she would be able to swallow anything in Karen Johnson’s presence was uncertain.

Rachel took the back stairs to the upper floor, entering her bedroom with some relief. Despite what she’d told Mrs Grady, she still felt a little unsteady, so she went into the adjoining bathroom and sluiced her hot face with cold water from the gold-plated taps.

The beauty of her surroundings went some way to calming her. This suite of rooms—sitting room, bedroom and bathroom—was hers and hers alone, and although it was more extravagant than she could have wished, she couldn’t deny it soothed her frazzled nerves.

That that woman should have the audacity to come here, she thought incredulously. And then, hard on the heels of that thought, Why on earth had she come? What could they possibly have to say to one another? She was Jack’s mistress; Rachel was Jack’s wife. Surely anything she had to say should be said to him?

She stared at her reflection in the long mirror above the vanity. God, she looked as shocked as she felt. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, she mused raggedly. With just as much sense of how to prevent the inevitable from happening.

But this wouldn’t do. She couldn’t let this woman come here and intimidate her in her own home. She was the mistress here, not Karen Johnson. If she had any sense she’d send the woman packing without even hearing what she had to say.

But it was too late to be thinking that. Already Karen Johnson was in her drawing room, being served iced tea by her reluctant but unfailingly polite housekeeper. She couldn’t keep her waiting. She shouldn’t keep her waiting. She mustn’t give the woman any reason to believe that she was too timid to confront her husband’s whore.

Taking a deep breath, Rachel surveyed her appearance with a critical eye. It was a very warm day, and because she hadn’t been expecting any visitors, she’d chosen to wear pale green linen shorts and an aqua silk top. The top was loose and sleeveless, exposing the faint reddening of sunburn on her arms.

Should she change? Should she put on some make-up before meeting her guest? Perhaps some eyeshadow, she decided, shading her lids from beige to umber. And a brown-tinted lip gloss to complement the sun-streaked colours in her blond hair.

Surveying her appearance once more, Rachel professed herself satisfied with the result. In any case, she’d taken long enough. She didn’t want Karen thinking she’d dressed especially for her. Taking another deep breath, she glanced about the elegant room to give herself confidence. But she had the uneasy feeling that, whatever happened between her and this woman, nothing was ever going to be the same again.

Karen was seated on one of the trio of velvet sofas that flanked the fireplace in the drawing room. Another elegant apartment, the windows here were open to the garden at the back of the house. Although the place had an efficient air-conditioning system, Rachel much preferred fresh air. When she was alone in the house, as now, she invariably had all the windows open.

Rachel hesitated on the threshold, for once less than confident as a hostess. Karen looked so relaxed, so at home here, she thought tensely. A stranger might be forgiven for mistaking Rachel as the intruder and Karen as the mistress of the house.

Unlike Rachel, Karen was quite formally dressed, considering the heat of the day. A short-skirted pale pink suit exposed her legs and her cleavage and, although she didn’t appear to be wearing any stockings, she had high-heeled pumps on her feet.

She looked—sure of herself, thought Rachel uneasily. Smart and sophisticated, confident in her ability to catch a man’s eyes. She was also a redhead, Rachel noticed, although she doubted that was any more natural than the smile that spread over her full lips when she saw Rachel in the doorway.

She got to her feet at once and, despite Rachel’s initial impressions, there was tension in the way she clutched her handbag with both hands. She wasn’t as tall as Rachel, who was five feet ten even in her bare feet, but she was voluptuous, her heavy breasts almost spilling from a scarlet bustier.

She didn’t immediately say anything, however. She just stood there, looking at Rachel, waiting for her to make the first move. Rachel wanted to shout, What the hell are you doing in my house? But that would have sounded childish. So, instead, she moved into the room and said with what she thought was admirable coolness, ‘Miss Johnson, I presume?’ as if she hadn’t already seen pictures of her with Jack. ‘If you’re looking for my husband, I’m afraid he’s not here.’

‘I know that, Mrs Riordan.’ The confidence was back, and if she’d been surprised that Rachel should recognise her so easily she managed to hide it. ‘He’s in Bristol, signing the contract for the new shopping development.’