‘I’ll be right there, Maggie,’ he said. And he signed the cheque. Amy could do the warm, emotional stuff and he would pay the bills. Between them, the baby wouldn’t lack for anything.
He stuffed the cheque in an envelope, addressed it and tossed it into his out tray. Now he could get on with the one thing he understood—making money—and forget all about Amy Jones.
He’d been in the meeting for less than ten minutes when the envelope lying in his out tray began to niggle at him, distracting him. He should have enclosed a note…he should have said something. That he was sorry. That he—
‘Jake?’
No. That would put a crack in his armour, a way in, and he refused to be haunted by this woman. He would end it now. ‘Carry on without me,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I have to do something. It’ll just take a minute.’
Back in his office he picked up the envelope. Maybe he should take it down there. Maybe he should…
Dear God, what was it about Amy Jones? It was as if she’d invaded his mind, addled his wits. ‘Call a courier, Maggie. I want this delivered right away,’ he said, dropping it on his secretary’s desk. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘No, wait.’ He’d written the address of the cottage, but she’d be at her shop for the rest of the day. ‘Ring Willow Armstrong at the Melchester Chronicle and ask her for Miss Jones’s business address. Send it there.’
‘No problem.’
No. No problem. Not now.
‘Any problems, Vicki?’ Amy dropped her bag on her desk, along with her shopping.
‘Nothing I couldn’t handle. How did it go? Could you see the baby?’ Vicki grinned. ‘And have you bought up the entire stock of that baby boutique in the shopping mall?’ she asked, taking the bags, putting them on the desk and riffling through them.
Amy laughed. ‘Everything’s perfect. The baby is this big,’ she said, holding her thumb and finger half an inch apart. Vicki, still deep in the bags, picked out the tiniest pair of powderpuff-pink baby bootees.
‘Oh, bless!’
‘I know. I just went in to look but you know how it is.’ Vicki emptied the bags, cooing over the precious little things until Amy made an effort to come back down to earth and called a halt, packing them away. That’s when she saw the courier envelope. ‘Vicki, what’s this?’
‘Oh, gosh. I’m sorry. That arrived just before you got back.’
Amy picked up the big square card envelope, looked at the name of the sender and with fingers that were suddenly shaking she tore it open, took out the thick white envelope inside.
She knew what it contained even before she opened it, but it was still a shock. Her joyful mood, the sweet pleasure of buying tiny clothes for the baby growing inside her evaporated like a dawn mist in August and she said a word that made Vicki blink.
‘Bad news?’ she asked. ‘What is it? The VAT man on the warpath? Death-watch beetle in the attic?’
‘Worse. It’s from my baby’s father.’ And she ripped the contents of the envelope in two. It felt so good that she kept on doing it until the cheque was reduced to confetti. Then she picked up a fresh envelope, and after copying the sender’s address from the courier slip, she scooped the shredded cheque into it. She sealed it and stamped it and tossed it in her out tray.
‘Tea,’ Vicki said, slowly. ‘Camomile tea.’ And she handed Amy a small phial of mandarin oil. ‘And, in the meantime, I suggest you should rub a little of this on your pulse points. It’ll make you feel better.’
She didn’t want to feel better. She wanted to scream. She wanted to smash something. How dared he send her a cheque? She wanted it out of her sight. Out of her shop.
‘I’ll be fine, Vicki,’ she said, with controlled venom.
‘Just as soon as that—’ she pointed to the envelope ‘—that thing…is out of my sight. Forget the tea. Take it to the post office now and send it by recorded delivery. I want to be absolutely certain that he got it.’
‘Um, maybe you should wait ten minutes. Think about it. It’s what you always tell me—’
‘No.’ She was trusting her instincts on this one. Calm thought was not the appropriate reaction. The feeling was too strong to bottle up, keep a lid on. She needed Jake to know exactly how she felt. ‘Just do as I ask, Vicki. Please. Straight away.’
‘Look, if you feel that strongly about it I could ask the courier to take it back with him. He was due for his lunchbreak, so I suggested the café across the courtyard.’ And she blushed. ‘I was going to join him if you got back in time.’
‘Oh, Vicki!’
‘We all have our weaknesses,’ she said. ‘Yours is for pink bootees. Mine is for black leather.’
‘I’m not in the mood to encourage young love,’ Amy warned. Then she shook her head. ‘All right. Use the courier. But don’t blame me if he breaks your heart. And it has to be signed for by Jacob Hallam. No one else. If I’m going to spend a fortune making a statement, I want to be sure I’m getting my money’s worth.’
‘You will,’ she said. And grinned. ‘Just you leave it to me.’
Jake frowned at the note his secretary passed to him. ‘Can’t you deal with it?’
‘Sorry. It has to be signed for by the addressee.’
‘Okay. Let’s take five, gentlemen.’ He got up and followed Maggie into Reception, where the courier was waiting. ‘You’ve got something for me?’
‘If you’re Mr Jacob Hallam?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ve got this, if you could sign for it.’ He offered a pen.
Jake took it, signed for an envelope with ‘Amaryllis Jones’ picked out in elegant black and gold lettering on the top left-hand corner. So, she’d got the cheque. He hadn’t expected such a swift response and he held the envelope for a moment; it was thick and soft and contained more than a polite ‘thank you’ note. As he pushed his thumb beneath the flap and ripped it open, he had a very bad feeling about it.
Jake frowned at the contents. Pink and soft. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Nothing pink and soft, that was for sure. As he pulled it out, a handful of tiny scraps of paper fluttered about him, settling at his feet. The cheque had been shredded so thoroughly that only when Maggie began to gather up the pieces and he saw part of his signature did he realise what it was.
‘What the devil…?’
Maggie handed him the pieces. ‘One of two things, Jake. It wasn’t enough. Or she doesn’t want your money. Take your pick. But if it’s the latter, I’d say you’re in big trouble.’
‘The question was rhetorical,’ he said coldly.
Maggie had been his secretary for too long to be choked off by a chilly put-down. ‘Sorry, Jake,’ she said, almost kindly. ‘I’m afraid trouble doesn’t come in “rhetorical”. Not this kind.’
‘And what kind is that?’ He was just digging a bigger hole for himself, he knew, but he couldn’t stop himself.
‘The kind involving a woman and a cheque. Especially if she’s pregnant.’
‘Pregnant?’ His face remained impassive, even while his gut was churning. ‘What makes you think she’s pregnant?’
‘Well, the