The Love-Child

The Love-Child
Kathryn Ross

NANNY WANTED Prominent author, Pearce Tyrone, seeks nanny to care for adorable baby girl. Must be experienced and discreet. Must also be utterly trustworthy and have no connections with the press… . Unfortunately Cathy Fielding didn't comply with any of the required criteria - but she wasn't going to let a little thing like that stop her!An enthusiastic reporter, Cathy was determined to uncover, once and for all, whether baby Poppy was really Pearce Tyrone's love-child. But what Cathy didn't reckon on was her growing and unprofessional interest in the man himself… .

Cathy looked across at Pearce and her heart twisted (#u404cb3fb-9fa1-585e-ba39-01abfd04c15f)Letter to Reader (#u8768957a-e33a-5cce-b200-855f5f627d86)Title Page (#u426b2133-b532-5a84-9660-dd60d0c31d01)CHAPTER ONE (#uefca5db7-03f6-55e1-af49-028bb9b1d504)CHAPTER TWO (#ub7193fcd-7b61-571c-88f3-6a190efb427a)CHAPTER THREE (#ueca2fce5-0bb5-5e34-8508-80f5f85dc6cf)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Cathy looked across at Pearce and her heart twisted

She had fallen for him but how it had happened she didn’t know. All she knew was that she loved him with every fiber of her soul. She needed to tell him the truth about herself. Her article for the paper was unimportant, compared with the depth of feeling inside her.

If she told him now, what would his reaction be? she wondered. Obviously he would be livid to begin with, but whether he would forgive her or not was down to how much he felt for her.

He was watching her silently and she knew that her confusion—her indecision—was there for him to see.

Dear Reader,

A perfect nanny can be tough to find, but once you’ve found her you’ll love and treasure her forever. She’s someone who’ll not only look after the kids but could also be that loving mom they never knew. Or sometimes she’s a he and is the daddy they are wishing for.

Here at Harlequin Presents we’ve put together a compelling new series, NANNY WANTED!, in which some of our most popular authors create nannies whose talents extend way beyond taking care of the children! Each story will excite and delight you and make you wonder how any family could be complete without a nineties nanny.

Remember—Nanny knows best when it comes to falling in love!

The Editors

Look out next month for:

A NANNY NAMED NICK by Miranda Lee

(#1943)

The Love-Child

Kathryn Ross

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

THE French Riviera shimmered in blistering heat. Cathy lay on a sun-lounger next to the pool at her hotel and tried to gather up the energy to move into the shade.

This was really quite blissful, she told herself dreamily. Coming away on holiday on her own wasn’t as awful as she had feared; it was a chance to recharge her batteries. London and her job at the newspaper had been getting very hectic, very stressful.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she was interrupted by a waiter, telling her there that there was a phone call for her.

‘For me? Are you sure?’ She frowned and swung long shapely legs over the side of the lounger, drawing admiring glances from two men who were sitting at the pool bar.

‘Definitely for you, Mademoiselle Fielding,’ the waiter said patiently.

‘OK, merci.’ Brushing her long blonde hair back from her face with impatient fingers, she took the cordless phone from him.

‘Cathy, it’s Mike. Have I got news for you,’ a cheerful voice boomed down the line, sending ominous shivers down her back.

It was her editor, Mike Johnson. Forty-five, crusty and as hard as nails. He sounded far too cheerful for her liking. ‘Only if the premises have burnt down or the Prime Minister has run off with a nun can this phone call be justified, Mike,’ she told him straight. She didn’t want to be reminded of work...it wasn’t fair. Everyone was entitled to a vacation.

‘Come on, Cathy, I’ll lay money on the fact that you are bored to tears and just dying to get back to work,’ her editor shot back quickly. ‘I know you. You’re a damn good journalist and you are never happier than when I give you a good assignment. You’d rather be in the pouring rain with a good story than sunning yourself in the South of France.’

‘Dream on,’ Cathy murmured abrasively.

Mike continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve got a real scoop and it’s right on your doorstep.’

There was a brief pause while Cathy fought with herself not to ask. She bit down on her lip but the words refused to be held back. ‘So, what is it?’

‘Pearce Tyrone is staying at his villa ... just down the road from your hotel.’

‘So?’ Cathy frowned. ‘What’s the big deal? He’s a successful writer; I’m sure he stays at his French home a lot.’

‘Jody Sterling’s child has been sent to him. It’s all strictly hush-hush and as yet none of the other papers are on to it—’

‘How reliable is your information?’ she interrupted swiftly.

‘Very.’ He emphasised the word heavily. ‘I have it on good authority that little Poppy arrived at the Tyrone house early this morning.’

Cathy felt a flicker of interest. Jody Sterling had been all over the newspapers recently, having had a near-fatal car accident. She was a phenomenally talented actress. Blonde and beautiful, she was frequently the centre of a lot of media attention, but never more so than when she had given birth to an illegitimate child nine months previously and had refused to name the father.

Speculation had been rife. Cê Va magazine had featured the actress on the arm of prominent, married politician Jonathan Briars and the scandal had deepened to almost ruin the man’s career. The other name to be linked with the actress was Pearce Tyrone.

Pearce was an enigma. No one knew much about the thirty-seven-year-old except that he was an exceptionally successful author, persistently in the bestseller list. Cathy had seen his photograph on only a few occasions when someone had surreptitiously managed to snap him leaving a restaurant or hotel.

The man shunned interviews and refused to let a journalist within striking distance. He held his privacy like a dark protective cloak around him. There was no information about his life on the covers of his books, and no photograph—even though he had the fabulous dark looks of an Adonis. The more he refused to be drawn into giving an interview the more interested the public became in him.

Was he the father of Jody Sterling’s baby? The question hovered tantalisingly in Cathy’s mind.

‘Well are you interested?’ Mike’s gruff voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘It’s certainly juicy,’ Cathy murmured. ‘But it’s hardly my line, Mike. You know I like harder news...scandal and tittle-tattle are more up Linda Hardman’s street.’

‘Linda’s in New York. You are on the spot.’ Mike’s voice rasped harshly, all hint of amusement gone. ‘And, anyway, the French air-traffic controllers went out on strike last night; I can’t get anyone there quick enough. You’ll have to step in. Get down there and interview him before the other papers get wind of it.’

‘Hey, give me a break!’ she howled. ‘This is a guy who thinks that even a book-signing session is an invasion of privacy. How will I get an interview?’

‘Use your initiative; you’re good at that.’ Her boss’s voice brooked no argument. ‘Oh, and don’t forget to take pictures.... I’m relying on you.’ Then, in a deeper, more sinister tone, he added, ‘Your job’s relying on it.’

The line went dead at that.

Oh, wonderful, Cathy thought as she put down the receiver. There was nothing like finishing with an ultimatum. Totally unnecessary, she decided with a shake of her head, but, then, that was Mike all over—he liked the forceful approach. He would be laughing with glee now at the thought of her sitting outside Pearce Tyrone’s gates, desperate to get in.

Just under an hour later Cathy drove her hire car along the Corniche in search of Pearce Tyrone’s villa.

She had asked at the hotel and one of the receptionists had told her that it was along here somewhere, hidden behind huge gates with stone lions on pillars at either side. She slowed down, scanning the abundant greenery that covered the mountainous slopes. No houses were visible from the road; they were all well hidden behind a profusion of trees and shrubs.