Alison Fraser - Her Sister's Baby

Dray Carlisle reached to switch on a bedside lamp.

“Yes,” she confirmed as light filled the darkness. “Me.”

“I don’t believe it. What are you doing here?”

“Right at the moment, trying to get Ellie back to sleep,” she responded as the baby’s cries escalated. “Unless you’d like to do it? In which case, could I suggest a slightly less aggressive tone?”

She offered the baby to him, but it was purely a mocking gesture.

His eyes bored into her as he responded, “Very funny…I’ll wait outside.”

“If that’s what you want.” Cass’s tone was dismissive.

“No, what I want,” he growled back, “is to go to bed.”

Cass shrugged. She wasn’t stopping him.

“Don’t worry, that wasn’t a proposition.”

“I wasn’t worried,” she returned sharply.

It backfired, however, as he paused briefly to murmur, “Now, that is interesting.”

ALISON FRASER was born and brought up in the far north of Scotland. She studied English literature at university and taught math for a while, then became a computer programmer. She took up writing as a hobby and it is still very much so, in that she doesn’t take it too seriously! Alison currently lives with her husband, children and dogs in Birmingham, England, and is in her forties—she doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up!

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CASS walked from the tube station with her eyes down. It was well after dark and, though the streets were lit, few people were about in the driving early summer rain. She had no umbrella, her suede jacket was becoming quickly sodden and her hair hung like rat-tails round her face.

It was times like these she wished she had a car to service instead of a student bank loan. She was just too tired to run. She’d worked the entire weekend and longed for her own bed and eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep.

When she turned into her home street, she was in no state to notice anything, even the sleek expensive car that didn’t quite belong in her neighbourhood. She sailed past it, thinking only of getting the key in her door and reaching shelter.

The driver noticed her, however. He’d been there over an hour and he wasn’t a man used to waiting. Impatience had sharpened his powers of observation and he was out of the car before she’d reached her gate. He followed quickly, having an idea she would close the door on him if she were given the chance.

Cass heard the footsteps behind her and felt the unease most women had on a dark night. She rifled in her bag as she walked and had her key ready by the time she reached her front step.

The echo of footsteps stopped at her gate and made her fingers clumsy as she tried to fit the Yale in the lock and dropped it instead. Unease became alarm as she turned, prepared to cry out at the dark-coated figure bearing down on her.

‘Don’t panic,’ a deep, dry voice told her. ‘It’s me.’

For a moment Cass didn’t recognise the voice—or him—then her nerves steadied and she realised who it was.

‘Drayton Carlisle,’ he added, as if it might be necessary.

Did he imagine she’d forgotten? That was an insult in itself.

It had only been three years and he’d changed little. His hair was still dark, the face angular, blue eyes as mocking as ever. The most beautiful man in the universe—that was what her sister Pen called him—and she wasn’t far off. It was just a pity that he was a complete bastard.

‘Yes?’ She matched his haughty tone, although hers wasn’t innate. She hadn’t been born sucking on a silver spoon.

He stooped to pick up the key she’d dropped. ‘May I come in?’

‘Do I have a choice?’ she muttered at the action.

‘Of course.’ He handed her back the Yale, then stated shortly, ‘It’s about Pen.’

She had assumed as much. His brother Tom was married to her sister Pen. She wondered if Pen had done something silly again.

His expression was closed, giving nothing away. ‘Look, can we do this inside?’

‘Can’t it keep?’ she appealed. ‘I’m tired.’

He noted the shadows under her eyes, even as he replied, ‘No, it can’t.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Reluctantly she unlocked the door and let him follow her into the hall. ‘But if we can make this brief, because I really am exhausted.’

His mouth twisted. ‘Busy weekend?’

‘Somewhat.’ She wasn’t about to go into it; let him think what he liked. He usually did.

‘I’ve been phoning you since first thing yesterday,’ he informed her in repressive tones.

‘I was out.’

‘So I gathered.’

On the town, that was what he imagined. That she had some high social life, the last of the good-time girls. She should be so lucky.

‘At work,’ she stressed.

‘At six in the morning?’ He clearly didn’t believe her.

It was true, however. Cass had been on call and slept Friday and Saturday in a room in the hospital.

She gave up defending herself and said, ‘Is this really any of your business?’

Dark brows gathered in displeasure and his mouth thinned, but he surprised her by backing down.

‘No, possibly not,’ he agreed, before adding, ‘If we could go and sit somewhere…?’

He took off his coat, waiting for her to hang it up.

Her reluctance couldn’t have been plainer as she stood, dripping in her own wet clothes and guarding the living-room door.

‘I’m not going to leap on you, you know,’ he stated with an impatient edge.

The thought hadn’t entered her mind, but now it did, it hung between them. Not that he’d ever leapt on her. It had been more a mutual thing.

Their eyes met for a second, acknowledging, remembering, then burying the emotions that had briefly coloured their relationship.

She finally took his coat from him and put it on a hook on the wall, then led the way through to the living room.

It always looked shabby, with its odds and ends of furniture bought at junk shops, inherited from friends or simply rescued from skips. He made it look shabbier, dressed as he was in silk shirt and tailored grey suit of impeccable cut.

He was overdressed for a casual visit to her, and the niggle of a bad feeling in her stomach became worse. Was Pen in some kind of trouble?

She watched as he adjusted his long, supple frame in one of her old armchairs and waited for him to speak.

He ran a critical eye over her, too, saying, ‘If you want to change and get dry first, I’ll wait.’

‘No, I’m fine.’ She took off her jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. The blue cotton shirt underneath was damp, as were her navy trousers, but she decided to live with the discomfort. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked out of mere politeness.

It was a surprise when he accepted. ‘A small whisky if you have it.’

She’d meant tea, but she crouched down to what passed for a drinks-cabinet in the bottom of the sideboard. ‘I’m afraid it’s vodka and lemonade or martini.’

‘Vodka—as it comes.’ He said it like a man who needed a drink, and, when she took out only one glass, added, ‘I think you should pour yourself one, too.’

Definitely bad news, but then what other kind would this man bring her?