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Living with her in-laws wouldn’t suit Morgan, and she knew that it hadn’t suited Glenna, although in the beginning she had been too much in love to object to anything Mark decided. Her one stubborn bid for freedom, that of having her baby born in the States, seemed to have caused their deaths.
Morgan pulled herself together with effort; she was not one to allow emotional trauma to take her to the hysterical stage. ‘You should be getting back, Sam,’ she told him in a firm voice. ‘I shall be all right now, and you do have that scene to finish.’
‘Jerry told me to stay with you.’
‘But I don’t need “being with"!’ She sounded brittle, highly strung, knowing she needed to be alone for a while to come to terms with her loss. She deeply appreciated Sam’s gentle care, but no amount of talking was going to help her through the next few hours as she waited for Alex Hammond’s call. ‘Really, Sam,’ she insisted as he made to protest. ‘I need time to—accept.’
‘Time alone,’ he nodded understandingly, having lost his young wife in an automobile accident four years ago when they had only been married a year. He stood up, tall and assuring. ‘If you need me, any time day or night, just call, hmm?’ He framed her face tenderly with his large capable hands.
She appreciated his lack of argument, knowing she didn’t have the strength to fight him if he insisted on staying. ‘Thank you,’ she blinked back the tears. ‘Until I get this call from Alex Hammond my hands are tied. I can’t go to England where the crash happened, and I can’t go to Dad either.’
Sam bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘I’m sure he won’t be long.’
But the evening passed, and then the night-time hours, and still Alex Hammond hadn’t called her. Morgan paced the room most of the night, the time dragging slowly, until finally in desperation she telephoned the Hammonds’ house herself. She wasn’t proud, and if they wouldn’t come to her then she would go to them.
It took some time to convince Symonds, the Hammond butler, that she really was Glenna’s sister and not a reporter trying to get a story. It seemed the Hammond telephone hadn’t stopped ringing since the news broke.
‘Mrs Hammond has been sedated and is in her bedroom,’ she was informed in a haughty voice, and for a moment it took her back that the Mrs Hammond he was talking about was Rita and not Glenna. ‘Mrs Fairchild,’ he spoke of Mark’s married sister, ‘is at home with her own family.’
‘And Mr Hammond?’ she asked breathlessly, not giving a damn where Rita and Janet were, not having taken to either of them at the wedding. Mother and daughter were too much alike, both narrow-minded and condescending, believing all actresses to be promiscuous sirens.
‘Mr Hammond isn’t at home,’ she was told.
‘Not there?’ she frowned.
‘No, miss,’ the man sounded affronted that she should dare to question his statement, ‘he left the house several hours ago.’
‘To go where?’ she demanded impatiently.
‘I wouldn’t know, Miss McKay.’ Symonds sounded surprised by such a question. ‘Mr Hammond doesn’t inform me of his movements.’
‘Then in the circumstances he damn well should!’ Morgan slammed the receiver down, too angry to question more.
Damn the man! Where could Alex Hammond have disappeared to, and apparently without telling anyone where he was going? No doubt Rita Hammond knew of her son’s whereabouts, but it seemed she was taking the joint deaths as badly as Morgan’s father had. From what she had been able to tell, Mark was the favourite son, a late edition to the family who had been cossetted by all around him. Rita Hammond would have felt his death severely.
But all this didn’t change the fact that Alex Hammond had promised to call, that she had held off calling the hospital about her father in case she missed that call, and now he had disappeared. She had been relying on his authority to find out what was happening, having called the airline herself only to be told things were too confused and panicked at the moment for any information to be given out by them. It was their way of saying they didn’t know what was happening either!
But that didn’t help her now, and after calling the hospital to check that both her mother and father were sleeping comfortably she rang the airport to book a flight out to England, only to be told the first available seat was late morning. She took it, knowing she was doing no good sitting here.
Dawn saw her seated at the breakfast bar in her galley-kitchen, drinking the remains of her third pot of coffee, the heavy look in her eyes evidence that she hadn’t slept at all, her almost fixed gaze on the wall telephone telling its own story. Alex Hammond still hadn’t called.
Her mother telephoned a short time later to assure her that her father was doing well, that he seemed a lot better. She seemed as perplexed as Morgan over Alex Hammond’s silence.
Her suitcase was packed, her creased denims changed in favour of a tailored dress, her hair flowing freely about her shoulders, and she couldn’t stand to sit here in her apartment another minute longer waiting for a call that obviously wasn’t going to come, so she telephoned for a cab to take her to the airport.
When the doorbell rang a few minutes later she expected it to be the driver, but she opened the door to a barrage of questions and flashing intrusive lights.
‘How do you feel about your sister’s death, Morgan?’
‘Will the funeral be here or in England?’ asked another reporter.
‘Will Glenna and her husband be buried together, Morgan?’ persisted another.
Morgan had blanched at the sea of faces outside her apartment door; microphones and cameras were pushed into her face, a couple of them for television.
She had remained undisturbed by reporters all night, as her address was known to few but her closest friends, although it now seemed someone had released the wolves at her heels.
‘Were you close to your sister, Morgan?’ a beautiful, chic female asked at her continued numbed silence, and this avid curiosity about her grief sickened her.
‘We hear your father collapsed when told of the crash—can you confirm this, Miss McKay?’ one determined reporter pounced.
Morgan swallowed hard, unable to comprehend this hounding over such a private grief. What sort of people were they, to ask her such questions!
‘Did you—–’
‘That will be enough!’ rasped an authoritative voice, startling the members of the media into stunned silence.
A man was pushing his way through the crowd to Morgan’s side, although he didn’t need to push for long, for people stepped aside as they recognised a force stronger than themselves.
Alex Hammond. It could be no other man. She might only have met him once, but the memory of him had stayed indelibly printed on her brain for some unknown reason. Possibly because she had never met anyone quite like him before.
Tall, taller even than Sam, he had a force of energy and determination that would make him stand out in any crowd; the dark hair was showing signs of greying at the temples now, the eyes were still the same icy grey she remembered, his nostrils flaring angrily now in his displeasure, his mouth thinned for the same reason. He wore a dark three-piece suit and snowy white shirt, and looked for all the world as if he hadn’t just spent an exhausting eleven hours on a plane.
He grasped her arm in a vice-like grip. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he muttered.
Morgan was only too pleased to comply, wondering why Alex Hammond had felt it necessary to fly over here rather than just telephone her. Unless he felt her father’s collapse was enough on his conscience for one day! She could have told him she was past collapsing, that the long hours she had spent beside the telephone had at least given her time to calm, to realise that Glenna really was dead.
‘Who the hell is he?’ The members of the media weren’t silenced for long. They might have recognised the authority of this man, but it was a recognition that had only made their curiosity all the deeper. ‘Where did he come from?’
‘With shoulders like that I don’t care where he came from,’ drawled the beautiful chic television reporter. ‘I’m just glad he’s here. Sir, are you a friend of Morgan McKay’s?’ There was more than a little personal interest in the blonde woman’s question, although a microphone was thrust aggressively into Alex Hammond’s face.
‘I thought she was seeing Sam Walters,’ murmured someone else.
Alex Hammond’s hand had tightened on Morgan’s arm at the intimacy of the woman reporter’s words, and he pushed the microphone away from him with a dark scowl. ‘I believe Miss McKay’s privacy has been invaded enough for one day,’ he snapped, his hand firm on her arm now as he turned her back into her apartment. ‘If you’ll excuse us—lady, gentlemen,’ he nodded dismissively.
‘Hey, the guy’s English—–’
‘Your powers of deduction are amazing,’ Alex Hammond taunted dryly, caring nothing for the ruddy hue that coloured the younger man’s cheeks, pushing Morgan the rest of the way into her apartment and closing the door in the face of the renewed questioning. ‘Like vultures!’ he muttered as he followed her through to the lounge, then his silvery-grey eyes narrowed as he saw her packed suitcase standing next to a chair. He looked up at her with a frown. ‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘I—I’d given up on your call.’ Her voice came out husky—and slightly defensive. She shouldn’t need to explain herself to this man, damn it! ‘I’m booked on a flight to England in a couple of hours’ time.’
He merely nodded acknowledgement of the fact, seeming impatient to end the conversation before it had started. ‘Is it true, has your father collapsed?’
Her antagonism faded as quickly as it had begun. Of course, her mother had said her father collapsed after Alex Hammond called—he didn’t even know about it! ‘It’s true,’ she admitted heavily. ‘There’s no danger, but it’s hit him hard, harder than I realised. He wanted boys, you see,’ she knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to control herself. ‘That’s why we were named Glenna and Morgan; he didn’t have any names for girls.’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear all this.’ She avoided his all-seeing gaze, realising she had revealed too much of herself with these unguarded words.
She and Glenna had never doubted their father loved them, but they had always known of his desire for a son, had known their names had been chosen for boys and converted for the girls that had come in the place of the sons he wanted. She hadn’t even realised her own feelings of inadequacy until she found herself telling it to Alex Hammond!
‘I had no idea your father had collapsed.’ He chose to ignore her lapse into the melancholy, confirming her thoughts that he hadn’t known; his silver eyes were icy, his expression cold. ‘Although it’s been a shock to all of us.’
Then how did he manage to look so unmoved! Morgan knew she looked haunted, her parents and his mother were deeply shocked, and yet Alex Hammond looked—detached. There was no other way to describe the way he looked.
Morgan swallowed hard in the face of that detachment. ‘They said—on the television—that there were no survivors.’ She searched his face for some sign of that information being wrong. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he show emotion. Oh, he was a cold bastard! She shuddered at the vehemence of her feelings, having taken even more of a dislike to this man.
‘They were wrong,’ he stated flatly.
Hope leapt in her heart. ‘They were?’
‘Yes. It appears—Sit down, please,’ he told her abruptly.
She looked startled. ‘I—I’m fine. I—–’
‘I said sit down, Morgan.’ He didn’t raise his voice, his expression didn’t change, and yet Morgan sat, knowing the words were an order and not a request. ‘It appears there were half a dozen survivors—all of them severely injured, but alive nonetheless.’
‘Glenna—–’
‘Was not one of them. Neither was Mark.’ Still the man showed no emotions.
Her breathing became ragged as the full impact of his words hit her. ‘They—they’re both dead?’ she choked, having been given hope for a few seconds only to have it taken away from her again.
‘Yes,’ Alex Hammond stated flatly.
‘Oh, God!’ She hadn’t realised how much hope she had still been harbouring, secretly believing that no news was good news. It was all gone now. She didn’t doubt for a minute that Alex Hammond knew what he was talking about.
‘But their son is very much alive,’ his softly spoken words interrupted her weeping. ‘And well.’
Morgan raised a tear-wet face, swallowing hard. ‘Their—son?’
He nodded. ‘Glenna was one of the survivors. She lived for two hours after the crash, badly—fatally injured herself. And somehow she kept alive long enough to give birth to her child. She had a son. His name—the name she chose for him—is Courtney.’
This time Morgan cared nothing for his lack of emotions. ‘Courtney …!’ she gave a choked sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a cry. ‘That’s my father’s name!’
‘Yes,’ Alex Hammond acknowledged. ‘And I’m sure your father will be very proud of his grandson.’
‘You—you’ve seen him?’ She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.
‘Briefly,’ he acknowledged tersely.
She was under control again now, hardly able to believe what he was telling her. Glenna had a son, a son who was alive! ‘What does he look like? Is he like Glenna or Mark? Is—–’
‘He’s like all newborn babies,’ Alex Hammond dismissed impatiently. ‘Small, pink, and he cries a lot. And incredibly like Glenna,’ he added gruffly, showing he wasn’t quite as unmoved by the baby’s existence as he appeared.
‘I want to see him,’ she decided firmly.
‘I have no doubt you will,’ he drawled. ‘But there’s something else I think you should know before we go any further. Glenna also made provision for her son’s future. She made you and me Courtney’s legal guardians. Jointly,’ he added pointedly.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f8749575-42ca-54cd-ae85-743ead9a3eca)
MORGAN blinked; she was too stunned to do anything more than that. She was overjoyed, thrilled, at the thought of her nephew being alive and well. But she had no idea how both Alex Hammond and herself could be the baby’s guardians, one living in England, the other in America.
Obviously Alex Hammond couldn’t either. ‘Of course it’s impossible,’ he said abruptly, placing his briefcase on her dining table. ‘I have some documents here,’ he unclicked the lock. ‘Legal documents, drawn up by my lawyers, relieving you of all moral and legal obligation to Courtney.’
Morgan stood up slowly, feeling the anger burning up from within her. Just who did this man think he was! He came here and told her that her beloved sister was dead but that the child she had been expecting was alive. And now he calmly suggested she reliquish all rights to that child. The man was insane!
‘No,’ she told him bluntly.
He raised dark brows, halting in the removal of the official-looking papers from his briefcase. ‘No?’
‘Certainly not!’ Her green eyes sparkled in challenge, her tall slender body as taut as a ripcord in her fury. ‘Courtney is my nephew, and if my sister wanted me to be his guardian then that’s what I intend being.’
‘He has two guardians,’ Alex reminded her. ‘You and I.’
‘So Glenna made a mistake,’ Morgan snapped. ‘Nobody’s perfect!’
The haughty face took on an even more withdrawn expression. ‘I don’t believe insults are going to help the delicacy of this situation,’ he told her quietly.
‘Neither is your insensitivity,’ she glared at him. ‘My sister has just died,’ weakness washed over her in waves, ‘and now you calmly suggest I reject her son from my life—my own nephew, my parents’ only grandson!’ Her voice rose shrilly.
‘My nephew too, my mother’s only grandson,’ he pointed out dryly.
‘But not her only grandchild! And when you have a son—–’
‘The same applies to you in regard to your own parents.’
She gave an impatient sigh at the way this man had an answer for everything. ‘Giving up my guardianship of Court is not—–’
‘Courtney,’ he substituted firmly.
‘Court is short for—–’
‘He was named Courtney, let’s stick to that, shall we?’ he said abruptly.
‘I’m sure Glenna meant it to be shortened to Court, like my father,’ she insisted stubbornly.
‘But Glenna isn’t here—–’
‘You bastard!’ Morgan choked raggedly. ‘You cold-blooded, unfeeling bastard! You—–’ she sank slowly to the floor as blackness overcame her.
She woke up to find herself stretched full length on the corner unit sofa, her head propped up by several cushions, the darkly intent face of Alex Hammond bent over her. She snatched her hand away selfconsciously as she realised it was held between long tapered fingers, the fingers of the other hand lightly tapping against her pale cheek.
Alex Hammond moved back instantly and sat back on his heels, seeming unexerted from having to carry her to the sofa; and she might be thin, but she wasn’t a lightweight. Still, those shoulders and arms looked capable of great strength.
She sat up awkwardly, moving back and away from him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said abruptly.
He nodded distantly. ‘I’ve been expecting something like it ever since I arrived and found the press harassing you.’
‘How clever of you!’ Her voice was brittle.
Alex stood up, very dark and forbidding in Morgan’s openly bright apartment, dwarfing it. ‘You were at cracking point. I doubt you’ve slept all night. I had no idea of the added worry of your father’s illness.’
