The Mother of His Child Read online

  Charisse shook her head. “I don’t think—”

  “I do—think we need to talk,” he told her. “Come on.”

  She resisted the pull on her imprisoned arm. “You can’t make me—”

  “No,” he agreed. “You can scream and someone will call the cops and then we’ll both be taken to the police station to explain to them. Or you can let me buy you lunch and we can explain a few things to each other instead. It’s your choice.”

  Making a scene and involving the police seemed like an extreme overreaction to an invitation to lunch in a public place, no matter how reluctant she was to accept. And he didn’t appear to be bluffing.

  Charisse managed to hold his storm-cloud gaze with an indignant one of her own. “All right. But I don’t have much time...” She stopped there, unwilling to tell him anything further. Let him think she too was on her lunch hour.

  “Thank you,” he said, as if she’d accepted of her own free will.

  She cast him a look of angry scorn.

  Surprisingly, he laughed, taking her breath away as his already handsome features turned stunning.

  “Sorry,” he said immediately, erasing the laughter from his mouth, although it still lingered in his eyes.

  He led her into the café and found them a table. “What would you like?”

  Charisse had no appetite, but she randomly asked for a filled croissant and a cappuccino, while he ordered a slice of frittata, a piece of chocolate cream pie, and black coffee.

  The café was crowded and pop music played over speakers. But their table between her and the man looming at the other side of it was narrow and she couldn’t pretend not to hear when he bent his head toward her and said, “Well?”

  Her gaze slithered away from the challenge in his eyes, and she moistened her lips, giving a small, helpless shrug.

  He asked, “Why were you waiting for me?”

  That brought her eyes back to him. “I wasn’t!”

  “What were you doing then? Spying?”

  “No, of course not.” But her voice sounded weak even to herself. “I had sort of planned to come and see you, but I changed my mind.”

  “It seems to be a habit with you.”

  Charisse shook her head. “No...” Her voice trailed off. The less she said to this man the better.

  He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her, a thoughtful frown between his brows.

  The waitress arrived with their orders and Daniel looked up and thanked the woman absently. When she’d left he didn’t touch the food on his plate, returning to studying Charisse.

  Lowering her head, she broke off a bit of croissant, but instead of eating it crumbled the flaky bits in her fingers.

  “You know, once I thought I knew you,” he said at last.

  “You didn’t.”

  “I realise that now.”

  She looked up, half in apprehension, half in relief. “Then—”

  But he was going on, “I found out how wrong I was when you left me in Perth.”

  “I told you I’ve never been to Perth.”

  The faint frown became a scowl of barely reined-in temper, and the seductive voice turned to crushed ice. “Yes, and you lied. Both of us know it, so let’s cut the pretence, shall we?”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand.”

  “You bet I don’t. I didn’t understand at the time, and I don’t understand now.” He abandoned his pseudolounging posture, leaning toward her again. “On Saturday I let it go—I’d already chalked the whole thing up to experience years ago. Then today you came looking for me—okay, you decided not to follow through. But now I’m curious as hell, and I think you owe me an explanation.”

  “Actually,” Charisse said steadily, “I don’t owe you a thing, Mr. Richmond.”

  He straightened abruptly. “And you can stop calling me Mr. Richmond!” he said without bothering to lower his voice. “My name, as you know damn well, is Daniel.” At a nearby table a woman momentarily turned her head, and his voice dropped to a velvety murmur, his eyelids lowering as he leaned forward, holding Charisse’s eyes with his. “I remember you calling it out when you were going wild in my arms—in my bed. You haven’t forgotten, though for heaven knows what reason you seem determined to convince me that you have!”

  Instant heat rose through Charisse’s entire body, flooding into her cheeks. She sat dumb and witless, willing the flush to subside. “I...I haven’t forgotten,” she managed to choke out, “because I never—”

  He was no longer listening. “Well, at last we’re getting somewhere. You aren’t denying any longer that you are Charisse Lane?”

  “I’m not denying that, no, but—”

  “Is it still Lane?” He looked down at her left hand, lying on the table beside her plate. “I noticed on Saturday you weren’t wearing a wedding ring.”

  Too late to put her naked hand out of sight. She tried to keep herself calm. “Look, this is quite irrelevant. The thing is—”

  “No.” He reached over the inadequate space between them and closed his right hand over her left one.

  The warmth and strength of his grasp—or rather, her unprecedented reaction to it—startled her into speechlessness. She seemed to feel his touch right through her body, and her skin reacted with an extraordinary sensitivity, every nerve end tingling. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe normally.

  Something in his face changed, as if he too had received a small shock, his eyes darkening before he narrowed them. “It isn’t irrelevant,” he argued. “We have unfinished business, you and I. And you did come looking for me today. That isn’t the action of someone who doesn’t care a damn.” He moved his hand and ran a thumb over her bare third finger, looking down at it. Lifting his gaze, he asked without warning, “Why do you have a child’s seat in your car?”

  The question panicked her. Her voice a little higher than normal, she demanded, “What does that have to do with you?”

  He looked perplexed, and very tense. “I’m interested in what you’ve been doing, what happened in your life after you...after we parted.” He paused. “I’m interested in you, Charisse. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since Saturday. Everything we did, everything we were together... it’s all come back to haunt me. I know we can’t exactly pick up where we left off, but I do want to see you again. And quite frankly, if you’re not in a legal marriage I don’t care if there’s another man in your life—” he halted again momentarily, and his eyelids flickered “—unless,” he added slowly, his cheeks tautening, “he’s the father of your child.”

  “I don’t have a child.” Instantly she wondered if it might have been wiser to stick with her vow of silence. But she couldn’t take the words back now. “I have a niece,” she added hurriedly. “My sister’s little girl.” Careful, an inner voice cautioned. Be very careful.

  That transforming smile lit his face. “Then we can see each other again. You do want to, don’t you?”

  “That’s a sweeping assumption—”

  “You came after me,” he reminded her again. “I can’t think of another reason for that. Or am I missing something?”

  He was missing a lot. Ready to hurl it at him, to cut him down with his facile assumptions and his too-confident masculinity that simultaneously attracted and infuriated her, Charisse stopped herself in time, an impossible, outrageous idea hazily forming. This might be the chance she needed, and he was offering it to her on a plate.

  “We had something quite special, Charisse,” he urged. “Something you cut short before we had a chance to see where it might lead us. All I’m asking now is a date, for starters. Dinner...whatever you fancy. Let’s get to know each other again. Wouldn’t you like to do that?”

  She gave him a distracted look, her brain in overdrive, trying to sort out implications, options, pitfalls. Wasn’t getting to know him, or at least finding out what she could, the whole reason why she’d followed that crazy impulse to track him down? “I...I don’t know,” she said. “I
need to think about it.”

  He raised his brows, making her wonder how often a woman was reluctant to accept an invitation from him. With his looks, his very sexy, very male self-assurance, no doubt he’d had more than his fair share of women friends, of lovers.

  And now he was intrigued by the prospect of rekindling an old flame.

  At the thought, a prickling of antagonism brushed her skin.

  His brows drew together, as if he’d seen it in her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” She picked up her croissant and bit into it. Stop talking and start thinking.

  At least eating was an excuse not to speak while she reflected on what she was possibly getting herself into. Because, even though her audacious strategy might work, there were obvious dangers. To Kristy as well as to herself. And Kristy was the one who mattered. If Daniel Richmond found out about her, there would be no going back.

  She finished half her croissant and drank her cappuccino while Daniel demolished his frittata and emptied his coffee cup. The slab of chocolate pie lay untouched on the plate.

  “So...” He pushed his cup away. “Dinner tonight?”

  “Not tonight.” She didn’t know if she could find a baby-sitter at such short notice, and anyway, she hadn’t yet decided what she should do. Maybe she was mad to even think about seeing him again.

  “When? Next week I’ll be out of town.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  He must have noticed the eager leap of hope in her voice. “No,” he said tersely, his eyes cooling. “I’m often out of Auckland, but as it happens, this week I have several meetings in the city so I’ll be staying here. Which evening would suit you?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “If you give me your phone number I’ll call you.”

  Charisse shook her head. “I said I’ll let you know.”

  He regarded her speculatively. “You wouldn’t be planning to walk out of here and leave me with no way to find you?”

  One part of her wanted to do just that. But there was the nagging sense of obligation that she couldn’t escape, knew she would never escape, even if he didn’t hunt her down, which probably wouldn’t be too hard.

  And if he did that, she would have lost control of the situation. Better to keep some measure of initiative if she could, no matter how risky. “I’ll contact you,” she said. “I promise.”

  “As I recall, your promises aren’t worth much.”

  “That’s not fair!” she said loudly. And then, looking down at the table, she muttered, “People change.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Raising her eyes, she saw the bitter mockery in his voice reflected in his expression. “I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly, astonished at the evidence of repressed emotion.

  Maybe he’d been hurt. But he wasn’t the only one. And the hurt went on, spreading ripples, encroaching on the lives of people who’d had nothing to do with the original misunderstandings and betrayals.

  “Yeah, I guess we’re both sorry.” He scraped his chair away from the table. “I have to get back to the office.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat your pie?”

  “You can have it if you like.”

  “They’d give you a bag. It’s a waste to leave it.”

  He cast her a look of surprised amusement, then got up and walked to the counter, returning with a paper bag that he dropped the pie into. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Daniel shrugged. “Please yourself.”

  Kristy would love it. “Thank you,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

  Outside the café she said, “And thanks for the lunch.”

  “Call me,” he said. “You promised, remember?”

  Charisse nodded. “I know.”

  “You still have my card?”

  “Yes.”

  Unexpectedly he leaned down and brushed his lips over her cheek. “Right. I’ll see you.”

  She stared after him as he strode off along the street Her cheek burned where he’d kissed her, and warmth shot through her veins. Dismay mingled with rather alarming pleasure.

  I can’t, she thought, with a clutch of near-terror. I can’t see him again. He was far too attractive, and it was much too dangerous.

  But you should find out what sort of man he really is, conscience said sternly. You owe it to Kristy.

  And for Kristy she would do anything.

  Chapter 3

  “This is delushus,” Kristy declared around a mouthful of chocolate pie. Plump elbows on the table, she swung small bare feet from her chair while she demolished the treat. Her dark, loosely curling hair, so like Charisse’s, was tied in two ponytails with bright scarlet ribbons, one of them coming undone. With a pointed pink tongue she licked a smear of cream from her upper lip.

  Charisse smiled and didn’t correct Kristy’s pronunciation. Sitting at the other side of the table, she sipped her coffee, watching the little girl’s total enjoyment with amused affection.

  “Where did you buy it?” Kristy asked.

  “It was given to me.”

  “Who gived it to you?” At four and half, Kristy’s need to know was insatiable.

  “A man.”

  “Who man?” Kristy demanded.

  “You mean what man. No one you know.”

  “You’re not supposed to take things from strangers,” the child pronounced.

  “He isn’t a stranger. I said you don’t know him. That doesn’t mean that I don’t.”

  Kristy thought about that, the fine, smooth skin of her brow furrowing. “Why don’t I know him?” She bit into the pie again.

  “Well...I only met him recently.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “No! I don’t have a boyfriend—wherever did you get an idea like that? And you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”

  Kristy finished chewing, swallowed, and said reproachfully, “You shou’n’t ask me a question when my mouf is full, then.”

  She always had a ready answer. And of course no notion of rhetorical questions. Resisting an urge to laugh, Charisse gave her a stern look. “Finish your pie, then you can help me wash up and we’ll go for a walk to the dairy.” They needed milk, and although the corner dairy two blocks away was expensive, she should probably buy cheese, too. On her aborted trip to the supermarket she hadn’t got as far as the cheese.

  “Felicity’s mummy’s got a boyfriend,” Kristy announced. She wasn’t easily deflected from a subject.

  “Well, that’s nice for Felicity’s mummy, but I don’t need one.” Felicity’s mother had been solo for almost a year, Charisse knew, since her husband left her for another woman.

  “Felicity’s got a daddy, too.” Wide, clear grey-green eyes fixed a direct stare on Charisse, making her heart falter.

  She’d known this would come up sometime. But why today? “Lots of children don’t have daddies,” Charisse said gently. “You’re not the only one, darling.”

  “Lots of kids do-o!” Kristy affirmed.

  “Yes, well, I’m sorry, but I can’t just produce a daddy for you.” She hoped that one day she might love someone who might like being a daddy to her delightful little girl, but she wasn’t going to make any half-promises to a vulnerable child.

  “Why don’t I have a daddy?”

  “Well...everyone has a daddy somewhere, but yours lives in Australia, and that’s a long way from here.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself.

  “A long, long, long way, like heaven?”

  “Not so far as that. But quite far.” Brushing aside an attack of the guilt that had become all too familiar in the past few days, Charisse added lightly, “So you’ll have to put up with having Just me for now, I’m afraid.”

  Kristy swallowed the last of the pie. “You’re my bestest mummy,” she confided, and climbed down from the chair to come round and twine her arms about Charisse’s waist. “I love you.”

&nbs
p; Charisse lifted the warm, cuddly little body onto her lap. The appealing scent of soap and shampoo and Kristy’s own uniquely childish smell filled her nostrils as she bent her head to drop a kiss on the soft, near-black hair. “I love you, too,” she murmured. “More than anything in the world.”

  Nothing must harm this child. And no one could be allowed to come between them. Not, at least, until Kristy was grown-up and able to make her own decisions and deal with the possible hurts of making the wrong ones.

  But meantime they had a whole childhood to negotiate, and protecting Kristy didn’t give Charisse the right to deprive her of her birthright, did it?

  There was no point in going on stewing about this and not doing anything. Tomorrow she’d phone the Children’s and Young Persons’ Service and make some discreet enquiries.

  “Really, it all depends,” the social worker replied to her carefully worded query. “A single mother is presumed to be the sole legal guardian, unless the father was named on the birth certificate. In that case he would have certain rights if the mother died or became incapacitated or was judged unfit to raise a child. If he wasn’t named and hadn’t been maintaining the child he’d have to provide some kind of proof that he’s the father.”

  “And then?”

  “As I said, it depends. In a dispute between parents—or between a parent and whoever has charge of a child—the court would decide who should have guardianship.”

  “If the child was well and happy surely the court wouldn’t interfere?”

  “That can’t be assumed,” cautioned the voice on the other end of the phone. “They’d weigh the circumstances and the relative rights of the parties. The interests of the child are supposed to be paramount, but I have to say that often Solomon would have a hard time deciding what that is. And sometimes surprising decisions are made. I couldn’t second-guess a judge’s opinion.”

  Solomon, Charisse recalled with a shiver, had suggested cutting the disputed child in half. Not so different, she couldn’t help thinking, from some of the custody arrangements she’d heard of. One child at the kindergarten swapped homes at the end of every week.