‘So?’
‘So I’ve got to stay until her mother gets back,’ said Jake evenly. ‘You’d better order a cab to take you home from the salon.’
‘No!’ Marcie sounded furious. ‘Jake, do you have any idea how difficult it is to order a cab at this time of the evening?’
‘I know.’ Jake blew out a weary breath. ‘I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do.’
‘There is something you can do,’ she retorted angrily. ‘You can leave your wife’s bastard on her own and get over here and pick me up like you promised.’
‘Don’t call her that!’ Jake couldn’t prevent the automatic reproof. ‘For God’s sake, Marcie, she’s not to blame because Isobel’s gone to her mother’s.’
‘And nor am I,’ responded Marcie grimly. ‘Come on, Jake, you know she’s trying it on. She probably guessed how you’d feel when you found—Emily—on her own.’
‘She didn’t have a lot of choice,’ said Jake, wondering why he was defending his wife to his girlfriend. ‘The old lady’s ill, apparently. I guess it could be her heart.’
‘My heart bleeds.’ Marcie snorted, but then, as if realising how unsympathetic she sounded, she took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ she said, capitulating, ‘I’ll take a cab home. And you’ll pick me up in—what? An hour and a half?’
‘Something like that,’ agreed Jake, glancing at his watch. Surely Isobel would be back by half-past six.
‘You haven’t forgotten we’re going out this evening, have you, Jake?’ Marcie had heard the unspoken doubt in his voice and reacted to it. ‘You’ll need at least an hour to shower and change.’
‘I know that.’ Jake was beginning to feel harassed. ‘Back off, will you, Marcie? I’ll be there.’
‘Oh, Jake.’ Marcie groaned. ‘I’m sorry if I sound like a bitch. I’ve just been looking forward to this evening so much. I haven’t spent the best part of the day in the beauty salon to have—well, to have Isobel spoil it.’
‘She won’t spoil it. I promise.’ Jake hoped he wasn’t making promises he couldn’t keep. ‘Gotta go now. I’ll see you later.’
He didn’t give her a chance to argue. Out of the corner of his eye he’d glimpsed Emily hovering just beyond the doorway into the kitchen, and he had no intention of providing her with any juicy gossip to relay to her mother.
As soon as he’d flipped the phone closed she showed herself, however. ‘Finished?’ she asked, and he nodded, wondering if he was being naïve in thinking she hadn’t been listening all along.
But it was too late to do anything about it now and, picking up his coffee, he took a grateful gulp. Thankfully, it was cool enough to drink, and surprisingly good besides. Clearly she hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said she’d done it before.
‘Would you like some more?’ she asked as he set down the empty mug, but Jake declined.
‘Not right now,’ he said, and as she turned away to return the mug to the kitchen he found himself watching her with a curiously critical eye.
In her school uniform, she could have been any one of the hundred or so children who attended the Lady Stafford Middle School. But, despite himself, Jake knew he’d have no difficulty in picking her out of a crowd. Although he’d only seen her a handful of times in the past ten years, he’d have recognised her anywhere, and if it hadn’t been so annoying it would have been pathetic.
Dammit, she wasn’t his daughter. She had never been his daughter, and if Isobel hadn’t been so hell-bent on lying to her, he and the child might well have achieved a friendly relationship. As it was, Emily hated him and he resented her.
She came back then, resuming her seat opposite him, and rather than suffer the discomfort of another prolonged appraisal Jake chose another tack.
‘So, what do you do in your spare time?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Do you have a computer?’
‘Of course I have a computer. Everybody does.’
Emily was scathing, and Jake tried again. ‘How about computer games?’ he suggested. ‘I’m pretty good at them myself.’
‘You play computer games?’
She couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice, and Jake felt an unwilling sense of indignation. Evidently Isobel had been selective in choosing what information to give the child, and he would enjoy exploding her bubble.
‘I invent them,’ he said flatly. ‘Among other things. Didn’t your mother tell you?’
‘No.’ There was a reluctant glimmer of interest in Emily’s eyes. ‘What games have you invented?’
Jake frowned, pretending to think. ‘Let me see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Have you heard of Moonraider? Space Spirals? Black Knights?’
Emily’s jaw had dropped. ‘You invented Black Knights?’ she exclaimed incredulously. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Jake shrugged. ‘You’ve played it, then?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Emily glanced over her shoulder. ‘Mummy bought me a Dreambox for Christmas.’
Jake pulled a wry face. ‘That was good of her.’
‘Why? Oh, God!’ Emily pressed both hands to her cheeks. ‘Did you invent Dreambox?’
‘I own Dreambox,’ Jake told her ruefully. ‘And I don’t think your mother would approve of you saying “Oh, God”, do you?’
‘Granny would report me to Father Joseph,’ agreed Emily, pulling a face. ‘I’d probably have to say a hundred Hail Marys for taking the Lord’s name in vain. But still—’ She stared at him admiringly. ‘You own Dreambox! Cool!’
Jake was surprised at how flattered he was by her reaction. She was only a child, but the hero-worship in her eyes felt good. He was genuinely pleased that she approved of him. It made him want to go out and buy her every game he’d marketed to date.
‘You wouldn’t—like—play Black Knights with me?’ she suggested suddenly. ‘Just till Mummy gets back, I mean. It would give us something to do.’
Jake hesitated. He had the feeling Isobel would not approve of this development. Okay, maybe she’d had some crazy idea that if she threw him and Emily together he might change his mind about her. But the arrangement had to be on her terms, not his.
To hell with that!
Looking at the girl’s expectant face, he made a gesture of acceptance. ‘Why not?’ he said, getting to his feet again. ‘Where’s your computer? In your room?’
Some time later, when Jake’s cellphone began to ring, he was shocked to find it was nearly seven o’clock. He’d been so absorbed in the game, which he’d discovered Emily played extremely well, that he’d forgotten the time. Dodging witches and goblins, vaulting over chasms where dragons lurked, laughing at the obstacles someone’s vivid imagination had created, he’d realised how much fun it was to play with someone who genuinely wanted to beat him. Apart from his second-in-command at McCabe Tectonics, everyone else he employed seemed keener on winning his approval than winning the game.
With a word of apology to the child, he strode back into the living room, where he’d left the phone, and glanced at the small screen with some misgivings. As he’d expected, it was Marcie’s number displayed there and she wasn’t pleased. ‘Where are you?’ she demanded. ‘I thought you were picking me up at seven o’clock.’
‘Seven-thirty,’ he amended, not knowing why he’d bothered making the distinction. Even if he left now, he wasn’t going to make it.
‘Okay,