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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.
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.’
