The Love-Child

She rounded a very sharp bend and then suddenly saw the gates up ahead. There was no mistaking them, tall and imposing with lions at either side, looking proudly out across the blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

She pulled the car in to the side of the road and sat looking at the gates, her heart thudding nervously. Now she had to fathom out how to gain access.

One good thing was the fact that there was nobody else around. Either the other members of the press hadn’t got wind of the developments here or Mike’s information was wrong. She studied the gates with anxious eyes. They were obviously electronically operated and there were cameras pointing down from either side of the pillars. That didn’t bode well for an easy entry.

Cathy bit down on the softness of her lips. She could drive up there and try the direct approach—‘I’m here to interview Mr Tyrone’—then get sent away with a curt ‘get lost’ ringing in her ears. Or she could try the more devious tactic of a woman in distress. Not a very virtuous ploy but it might get her through the gates. She turned the rear-view mirror and checked her appearance.

Cool emerald-green eyes, fringed with long dark lashes, stared back at her from a heart-shaped face. She put a hand to her honey-blonde hair, wondering if she should take it out of the rather severe plait that held it back from her face. Her hair was her crowning glory, long, thick and naturally blonde; it always got her noticed. At the office they had nicknamed her ‘Barbie’ because of her hair and shapely figure. It was a nickname that irritated Cathy intensely; sometimes she felt that because she was blonde with long legs her work was not taken seriously enough.

However, there were times when looking glamorous had its advantages and this could be one of them. She could effect a pouty and breathy helplessness at the gates and say that there was something wrong with her car, then ask to use their phone. Her hand paused on the velvet tie that held her hair neatly in place, and suddenly she thought better of the idea. No, she wouldn’t stoop so low...she would get this interview fair and square.

With determination, she put the car into gear and moved slowly forward towards the gates. As she’d suspected, the cameras were immediately trained on her as she stopped and wound down her car window.

‘Please state your business,’ a male voice ordered in broken English over a crackling intercom.

For a fraction of a second she hesitated and then stated with perfect confidence, ‘I’m here to see Mr. Tyrone.’

There was a moment’s silence and then, to her absolute amazement, the voice issued the command for her to enter and the large gates ground slowly open in front of her.

There you are, she told herself crisply as she drove through; honesty is always the best policy. Even as she spoke the words she had the feeling that something wasn’t right here. This was just too easy.

Cautiously she proceeded up the long winding driveway and when the pretty pink villa came into view, with its dark green shutters still tightly closed against the heat of the sun, she drew in her breath with delight. There was nothing ostentatious about the place, yet it was simply perfect—an oasis of peaceful beauty, surrounded by trees and beautiful flowers. Terracotta pots filled with bright red geraniums lined the steps up to a front door which had been left invitingly open.

What more could I ask? Cathy thought with glee as she parked the car and stepped out into the warm air, fragrant with geraniums and lavender. She ran a smoothing hand over her white linen sun-dress as she slowly walked towards the door. Now all she had to decide was what track her interview should follow. Should she start by asking Tyrone outright if he was the father of Jody Sterling’s child? Or should she word the question differently—just ask if the actress had officially named him as the child’s next of kin? Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Pearce Tyrone himself on the front steps.

Hell! He’s gorgeous! Cathy’s business-like thoughts disintegrated as her gaze met with flint-like sapphire-blue eyes. It was totally out of character but her mind went completely blank and her senses were sent into chaos as she noted the powerful breadth of his shoulders, the elegant cut of his summer suit.

He was nine years her senior at thirty-seven, and six feet two with ruggedly handsome good looks and jet black hair. The few photographs she had seen of him had prepared her for the fact that he was attractive, but what she hadn’t expected was the magnetising power of his looks. But there was something else as well. It was really very strange, but she almost felt as if she knew him—as if they had met before somewhere. Yet she knew for certain that they hadn’t.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he rasped angrily. ‘I’ve been expecting you for hours.’

Cathy could do nothing but stare at him, totally taken aback by his sudden outburst.

His eyes raked her face impatiently. Then suddenly he frowned. ‘You are from the agency?’ His voice deepened ominously and his eyes moved, taking in every detail of her shapely figure in the white dress.

The tone of his voice left Cathy in no doubt that if she didn’t just say yes he would throw her bodily back out onto the road.

She gave a slight nod, although what she was agreeing to she had no idea. All she could think of was that she didn’t want to spoil her chances of getting through his front door.

‘Thank heaven for that.’ He waved a hand rather imperiously for her to proceed with him into the house. ‘The child hasn’t stopped crying for hours.’ His voice grated with a mixture of anxiety and annoyance.

Cathy searched for something intelligent and noncommittal to say...nothing came to mind. All she could think of was that he had verified that there was a child here. Silently she walked ahead of him and then stood aside as he closed the front door behind them and pulled a heavy bolt across it.

Too late, Cathy found herself thinking sardonically as she glanced around the gracious hallway. The stranger from the press had already entered the lion’s den. She shivered as she glanced back and met those deep blue eyes head on again. She just hoped that the lion wouldn’t eat her alive when he discovered the truth.

‘Did the agency fill you in with the details?’ He glared at her.

Nerves twisted and spiralled as she wondered what on earth he was talking about. She gave a brief nod.

‘Good. I’ll take you straight up to Poppy,’ he said grimly. ‘We can get down to business later.’

Better and better, Cathy thought as she followed him up a curving staircase with wrought-iron banisters. Or perhaps she should say curiouser and curiouser. Mike Johnson wasn’t going to believe her luck. And obviously her editor’s information had been quite correct. Jody Sterling’s child was here.

Pearce led her swiftly down a long corridor and it was then that she first heard the muffled cry of a child. As they approached the room at the end the crying grew louder until—when he opened the door—the full wail of the infant’s lungs ripped the air apart.

The room was primrose-yellow, the sprigged white muslin curtains moved gently in the soft breeze from the open window and in the centre of the room a middle-aged man was bending over a cot, trying to soothe a distressed child. When they entered he turned towards them a relieved look on his lined face.

‘Au secours, ça suffit!’ He spoke in deep rapid French, his eyes darting from Pearce to Cathy, his manner clearly agitated.

‘Don’t worry, Henri. You did what you could and I am most grateful. But the nanny is here now, and she will take care of things.’

Pearce’s voice was rich, dark and hypnotically authoritative. Cathy looked behind her to see where the nanny was. Anyone who could quieten this child had her full admiration. Suddenly her spirits sank as reality dawned. He was talking about her! Somehow he had mistakenly taken her for the child’s nanny!

‘Well don’t just stand there.’ Pearce Tyrone’s voice lifted derisively as the child seemed to bellow even more furiously, her breath catching painfully.

It crossed Cathy’s mind to just come clean with the truth—tell him that she didn’t know anything about babies and that she was from the press.

She looked into Pearce Tyrone’s eyes. They seemed to have darkened to deepest midnight, his lips set in a grim, uncompromising line. Maybe the truth could wait, she countered hastily. Once told, her feet wouldn’t touch the ground, and before leaving she should at least try to find out something about this situation. Get some angle for a good story.

As the older man left the room, still noisily bemoaning his failure with his charge, Cathy moved over to the side of the cot and looked down at the child—trying to guess what was causing her so much distress. Perhaps she was hungry or needed to be changed?

Cathy racked her brains. She had done an article on modern-day child care not so long ago; she had done a lot of research for it, but unfortunately it had been more theoretical than practical.

‘She has cried almost continually since she arrived today,’ Pearce informed her, an edge of strain clear in his voice. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’

Cathy glanced at him, an expression of genuine sympathy in her eyes. She remembered her sister telling her how distressed she had felt when her young daughter had suffered from colic and had cried almost continuously.

The infant let out a particularly loud wail and Pearce Tyrone crossed to stand next to her at the cot. ‘I’ve tried holding her over my shoulder, feeding her, changing her, and still she cries.’ He raked a hand through the thickness of his dark hair. ‘I’ve never felt so damn helpless.’

Cathy’s eyebrows lifted a little. It was amazing that one small baby could reduce such a powerful, dominant male into making such a statement. She was willing to bet her last franc on the fact that nothing had ever made Pearce Tyrone feel helpless before.

Tentatively Cathy put out a hand and gently stroked the infant’s brow. Magically the sobbing lessened as though the child had recognised the touch of her hand. Quick to press her advantage, Cathy leaned down and crooned close to her ear. ‘What’s the matter, then, sweetheart?’

The little face turned briefly to look at her. It was red from crying and Cathy felt a rush of tenderness that almost choked her. Almost at once the child started to cry again with renewed vigour, pushing the back of her small dimpled hands into her eyes.

Poor little thing, Cathy thought sadly. She had expected to see her mother and instead she had found another stranger.

‘Would you like to come out of that nasty cot and have a little cuddle, then?’ Cathy coaxed gently and reached in to gather up the wriggling flurry of cherubic arms and legs. Carefully she supported the child’s back and head until she had her safely in her arms. The crying stopped almost immediately and a pair of speedwell-blue eyes, fringed with dark curtly, lashes, looked up into Cathy’s face in astonishment. The relief of silence was heady.

‘What was all that noise about, then?’ Cathy asked softly, placing a playful finger under the baby’s chin. She was only about nine months old and very beautiful. Immediately the child’s small fingers encircled Cathy’s and held on for dear life, as though frightened she was going to be left alone once more.

For a moment the importance of getting a story from Pearce Tyrone paled under the awful fact that this child might lose her mother. Jody Sterling was in a coma in hospital in Paris and might never recover. Perhaps this was a contributing factor to Tyrone’s obvious distress.

She had obviously caught the man in a rare unguarded moment of stress, otherwise she would never have got past the front gate. With a bit of luck she could admit to him now that she wasn’t really a nanny and he would be so grateful to her that he would grant her a full interview.

‘Poppy seems to have taken a liking to you, Miss...?’

Cathy hesitated just a fraction of a second before giving him her real name. ‘Fielding ... Cathy Fielding.’