Her mother had died when she was small. Foster-parents had brought her up, and now she recognised that they had begun the curbing of her naturally happy, outgoing nature with their rigid rules and punishments. Love had never figured. Not true, unselfish, accepting love. But now things would be different.
Jodie beamed cheerfully at a cab driver who was trying to cut her up and she let him through with a friendly wave. She laughed out loud when the man hesitated, unable to believe what he was seeing. But she was on top of the world and in love with everyone—Chas excepted!—even cab drivers.
Soon, she thought dreamily, she’d be arriving at her father’s house in the south of England. He would have her letter announcing her arrival by now, and he could hardly refuse to see her when she’d come so far.
Just in case he did, there was Plan B. She’d booked into a nearby hotel, from where she planned to work on his heartstrings until he agreed to a meeting.
She felt sure he wouldn’t reject her. Something, someone, had dissuaded him from answering her many letters, she was sure. She understood only too well how other people could cloud one’s judgement.
It had taken her this long to realise that Chas’s advice—to forget her father—had been totally selfish. For years she’d relied on Chas, becoming increasingly dependent and subservient. But now she saw him for what he was: a bully and a control freak.
Her present confidence came from the fact that her father had been so eager for her to visit, and had even asked for her mother’s address. A pang went through her. The weeks of loneliness and bewilderment after her mother’s death had been so awful that she could recall them with crystal-clearness even now.
That was all over, though. Her eyes sparkled. This was the happiest she’d ever been in the whole of her life. No clouds on the horizon, no thongs, and a case stuffed to the brim with sizzling citrus and scarlet clothes!
‘Brace yourself, England,’ she cried with a laugh, seeing the sign for the airport. ‘Here I come!’
With Jack hooked expertly over his shoulder and his hands slippery with suds, Morgan finally succeeded in opening the door.
Why did people always call when he’d just got the baby in the bath? It was one of life’s irritating mysteries—and it was getting beyond a joke.
He grunted when the postman’s cheery, gossip-ready face hove into view. Village life in rural Sussex had its drawbacks. People expected to chat, to share information. And there were too many busybodies around trying to find out what the devil he was doing in Sam Frazer’s house.
The postman had taken a step back. Morgan realised he’d been scowling and modified the severity of his expression.
‘Morning,’ he muttered. It still sounded like a veiled threat, even to his ears. Must do better!
‘Recorded delivery,’ the postman said, warily handing over the package.
‘Thanks,’ he said, mustering a little more grace.
He signed for the letter with his free hand and gave it a cursory glance. For Sam. He dropped it onto the pile of unopened mail on the hall table which was waiting till Sam’s health improved, and made to shut the door. He had a million things to do.
‘Er…baby all right?’ enquired the postman meekly.
With a concealed sigh, Morgan mused that curiosity must be stronger than fear.
‘Fine.’
‘Must be five weeks old now. I love kids. Can I have a peep?’
It would have been churlish in the extreme to refuse, tempting though it was. Resigned to having Jack poked about by any number of strangers in the next few months, he pushed back the folds of the hooded towel which he’d wrapped around Jack’s wet body and his face softened as two tiny boot-black eyes stared back at him.
‘Like his father,’ observed the postman, making funny faces for Jack’s benefit.
‘Is he?’
How a snub-nosed scrap of humanity could look anything like an adult, he couldn’t imagine! Ironically everyone declared that Jack resembled Sam.
Guilt and resentment sucked relentlessly at his stomach. It was terrible being torn in two like this… He stared bleakly at the baby, despising himself for what he’d done, almost sick with anger and worry.
‘We were all sorry to hear Mr Frazer had been rushed into hospital again. How is he?’ persisted the postman with genuine sympathy.
‘Critical,’ Morgan jerked, all hell breaking loose in his heart.
‘That’s bad! He’s had some rotten luck since he moved in last summer.’ The postman patted his hand comfortingly. ‘It was a nice funeral you gave his missus,’ he said soothingly. ‘Lovely oration.’
Morgan winced and didn’t correct him. Teresa hadn’t been married to Sam—a fact which had virtually caused her death.
He supposed that the postman was trying to be kind, but Morgan did not want to be reminded too vividly of that terrible day when he’d stood in the driving rain watching Teresa’s coffin being lowered into the ground.
And then there’d been the expressions of sympathy to deal with. Teresa’s London friends knew his secret: that he’d had an affair with her, before she’d switched to Sam.
They had stared with open curiosity at his hollow eyes and shocked appearance, whispering salaciously behind their hands.
He had known what they were saying. He’d overheard a comment: ‘Did he never stop loving her? Is that why he’s so distraught?’
The knife twisted even more sharply in his guts. What a hypocrite he was, a sham, a fraud! God! reliving it all was unbearable. He had to get away.
‘Thanks,’ he croaked, and had to stop to clear his throat of the clogging emotion.
The postman took advantage. ‘Good on you for looking after their baby—not many men would do that. Close relative, are you?’
‘Not exactly. Excuse me,’ he said stiffly, before the relationship could be investigated—and endlessly dissected during some idle coffee morning. ‘His bath water’s getting cold.’
He shut the door with a sigh of relief and instinctively hugged Jack closer, as if that could protect him from anything bad anyone might say or do.
But danger had literally threatened. Perhaps it was just as well that Sam had been rejected by his daughter. She would have jeopardised Jack’s future. And that, Morgan thought darkly, was something he couldn’t bear.
The baby felt soft and warm against his chest and a lump came back into Morgan’s throat as emotion spilled in a flood of liquid heat through his body.
Teresa’s death had stunned him. It had been the last thing he’d expected. And now…
What had he got himself into? The deception was getting harder to maintain. Every time he visited Sam the secret of Jack’s birth burned inside him like a red-hot poker, souring his relationship with the man he admired and respected and loved more than any other.
Morgan groaned. Blurting out the truth would make him feel a hell of a lot better—but it would crucify Sam. Probably catapult him into a fatal decline.
‘I can’t do it!’ he rasped in despair.
But…he loathed deceit and despised people who were so feeble they had to tell lies.
His eyes darkened with pain as he tried to face the inevitable and make the ultimate