‘Nice try, but it won’t work,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ve got the photographs.’
His heart sank. ‘Photographs?’ he asked. She’d been saying something downstairs about evidence just as the car thing had intruded, but it hadn’t really registered. Oh, hell…
‘Yes, photographs. Intimate photographs—if you know what I mean.’
He did, only too well, and he winced inwardly, even though he knew they must be fake like all the others. ‘Anybody can achieve that these days with a digital camera and a bit of chicanery,’ he argued, but she wasn’t finished.
‘Photographs taken in your apartment here? On that sofa, in front of the window? In the bedroom where I changed the baby’s nappy? On your roof garden? Where and how would she have got those? Someone on your staff? Come on, Mr Cameron, you can’t get out of it. All it will take is a DNA test to prove it, and if you won’t submit to it willingly, I’ll just have to take you to court, and, believe me, I fully intend to win.’
He didn’t doubt it for a moment.
‘Get the baby tested, by all means,’ he agreed willingly. ‘My DNA has already been tested for another of these bogus claims, and I can assure you it won’t match this baby’s any more than it’s matched any other. Your sister isn’t the first young woman to try this, and unfortunately I don’t suppose she’ll be the last. I’ll see if I can find the information and send it on to you.’
‘You do that. I’ll give you a week, and then I’m taking action—starting with sending the photographs to the press.’ She delved into the blue bag that seemed to contain her entire life’s resources, and produced a slightly dog-eared card that she thrust at him.
‘Here. If you don’t contact me by next Monday morning, you’ll be hearing from my solicitor and the tabloids, probably simultaneously. Now perhaps you’ll be good enough to call me a taxi. I’ll arrange to have my other things collected in the next few days.’
On the point of telling her to take a hike, he caught sight of the sleeping baby and his irritation evaporated.
Poor little scrap. She didn’t deserve this, and it was a long way to—he glanced down at the card.
Suffolk. Ms Claire Franklin, Lower Valley Farm, Strugglers Lane, Tuddingfield, Suffolk. Nice address, but she didn’t look like a farmer. A farm worker? Lodger? Nanny? Nothing too highly paid, judging by the car and her remarks about money.
Claire. He savoured it on his tongue. Interesting, how an ordinary name had suddenly become somehow musical.
‘How are you going to get home?’ he asked her, refocusing. ‘Have you got enough money for the train?’
The confidence in her eyes faltered for a moment, then firmed again. ‘I’ll manage.’
He sighed, opened his wallet and pulled out several notes. ‘Here—that should be enough to get you and your things home in a minicab.’
She eyed the cash and her eyebrows arched eloquently. ‘You must have a hell of a guilty conscience, Mr Cameron.’
He hung onto his temper with difficulty. ‘On the contrary, Miss Franklin, I have a perfectly clean conscience—and I want it to stay that way. Now, are you going to take the money, or are you going to be stubborn and independent and make the baby suffer all the way home on the tube and the train?’
For a moment she hesitated, then she took it with a curt nod and tucked it into the bottomless blue bag. ‘I’ll pay you back,’ she said, and something in her voice made him believe her against all the odds.
Drawing her dignity around her like a cloak, she picked up the carrier with the baby in it, slung the blue bag over her shoulder and stood patiently waiting.
‘I’ll call the cab,’ he said, a trifle curtly because he didn’t want to admire her for anything. Picking up the phone, he asked Kate to order a minicab. ‘On second thoughts,’ he added to his beleaguered receptionist, ‘get George if he’s free. Usual arrangement.’
He cradled the phone, then escorted his visitor and her now sleeping charge to the lift. ‘I’ve ordered a minicab. He’ll take your things, as well, so you won’t have to get them picked up.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Miss Franklin.’
She took it almost graciously, her palm cool, her grip firm and capable, and inclined her head. ‘Goodbye,’ she murmured, but he had a feeling she wasn’t finished, and he was right. She carried the baby into the lift, turned and met his eyes with a steady look that held the promise of another skirmish to come. ‘I mean it,’ she said before the doors sighed shut. ‘One week, and then all hell breaks loose.’
He didn’t doubt it for a moment.
He held that clear grey gaze until the doors interrupted it, and then turned away with a shrug. Let her do her worst. There was no way the child was his, cute though she might have been, regardless of some bogus photographic evidence.
Of course, if Will had still been alive he would have blamed him. It wouldn’t have been the first time his brother had got him in a scrape, by a country mile, and it was just the sort of damn fool thing he might have done, Patrick thought with a fondness touched with irony.
He could just imagine him now, pretending to be his richer and more successful twin, capitalising on his brother’s success without bothering to earn the right to it. Had he entertained women here, told them his name was Patrick?
Surely he would have outgrown that kind of prank? They’d often pretended to be each other, with no thought of the consequences, driving their teachers and then later on their girlfriends mad, but then they’d grown up.
Or he had.
Will, on the other hand, had never considered the consequences of his actions—like getting the dog, for instance. It was just like Will to take pity on the poor, scruffy little black bundle he’d been and then all but abandon him when the responsibility for looking after a lively puppy got too irksome.
If it hadn’t been for Patrick, Dog would have ended up being rehomed. Instead, he’d found a master who struggled in the midst of the city to find time to exercise his intelligent mind and his restless body, and who took his care seriously.
Even if he hadn’t ever given him a proper name!
He summoned the lift, and as the doors opened he saw a small pink rabbit lying on the floor.
The baby’s. It must have fallen out of the little baby seat. Damn. He’d get Sally, his long-suffering PA, to send it—or, better still, Kate. She seemed to have a soft spot for the child and Sally would ask him endless questions.
He went into his office, the pink rabbit in his hand, and dropped it in his desk drawer just as Sally came in.
‘Everything OK?’
She tried hard to keep the curiosity out of her voice, but failed dismally. Dog, on the other hand, greeted him with cheerful and unquestioning enthusiasm, and seemed a much safer bet. He wasn’t going to ask awkward questions about his visitor!
‘Fine,’ he lied. ‘I’m going to take Dog in the park,’ he added hastily as she started to open her mouth again, and picked up the dog lead. ‘Hold my calls.’
‘Still?’ Sally said, but he pretended not to hear her. He went down to the now tidy foyer, Dog bouncing excitedly at his heels, and ignored Kate’s frantic gestures as she dealt with a phone call that was obviously for him.
The park beckoned—the park, and peace and quiet, time to think, because a troubling thought was beginning to take shape in the back of his mind.
It was early April—and Will had been dead a little over a year. If that baby was more than four months old, it could have been his.
And—because they were identical twins—the DNA