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He pulled up outside the house she’d indicated, double-parking as all the marked spaces were already occupied.
‘There’s a garage around the back. Rod has a vehicle that’s been adapted for a wheelchair but there’d be room for another car. Drive on and I’ll show you how to get into the lane. Sorry, I didn’t think of it earlier.’
Clare knew she was babbling as he followed her directions, but sitting in the close confines of the car with Oliver was even worse than she’d imagined. Somehow she’d been transported back to when they’d met and she’d fallen so helplessly in love—to when any time with Oliver was special. Her stupid body was responding to his presence, her physical delight totally uncontrollable no matter how much she tried to overcome it with strong mental warnings.
Even the panic and worry she was feeling over Em did little to dampen her reactions.
‘Park here—I’ll get the gate. You can ease the car into the yard while I go in and check with Rod if it’s okay to use the garage.’
Finding the gate shut had been a relief. She all but leapt from the vehicle, opening the two sides of the gate, then hurrying to the rear door of Rod’s flat.
He was in the small conservatory at the back, his gnarled arthritic fingers pecking furiously at the keyboard of his laptop. She knocked on the glass.
‘I hope I haven’t ruined your train of thought,’ she apologised, ‘but Oliver, Dr Rankin, has arrived and has a car. Can he park it beside yours in the garage?’
Rod waved away her apology and wheeled towards her, coming out to meet his new tenant.
‘Can’t help you with your cases, mate,’ he said to Oliver a little later when the car was snug inside the garage and Oliver was heaving two cases from the trunk.
‘I can,’ Clare found herself offering, but Oliver, being Oliver, refused her offer, carrying them both himself.
‘Come through my place,’ Rod suggested, and led the way into his flat, always neat and tidy, the minimum of furniture allowing his chair to move freely through the apartment. He opened his front door, showed them into the foyer and handed Oliver a set of keys.
‘Clare will take you up,’ he said.
‘No papers to sign? No lease agreements?’ Oliver asked.
‘If you’re working for Alex, you’re okay,’ Rod replied. Then he smiled. ‘Actually all the financial details will be in a folder on your kitchen bench. Annie, my daughter, organises all of that for me. Her phone number is there as well as mine, so phone if you need anything or have any questions.’
He then looked from Oliver to Clare before he added, ‘Or ask Clare—she’s been here a week now, settling in, so she knows her way around.’
He turned from Oliver to Clare and added, ‘Have you heard from Emily this week? Does she still think the school’s the best in the world?’
Emily! Emily! Emily!
The name hammered in Clare’s head, but she had to reply.
‘She still loves it,’ she managed to say, although her vocal cords were so tight it was a wonder the words came out.
‘Emily?’ Oliver repeated as he followed her up the stairs.
Could she faint? Clare wondered. Faint and topple backwards down the stairs, possibly breaking her neck which right now, extreme though it might be, seemed preferable to answering Oliver’s question.
‘My daughter,’ she managed, forcing the words through even tighter vocal cords, so she sounded shrill, if not hysterical.
‘Fancy that! So you got the child you wanted,’ Oliver said as they reached the landing. The ice in his voice was visible in his eyes as he looked down at her and added, ‘Got the child and dumped the husband once his usefulness was over? Was that how it worked?’
Clare could only stare at him, her mind a chaotic battlefield, one voice yelling at her to tell him right now, another suggesting physical assault, while a third was advocating flight. She steeled herself against them all, looked him in the eyes and, hoping she sounded far more cool and in control than she felt, said, ‘You never used to be spiteful, Oliver.’
After which she turned away to unlock her door, and dive into the sanctuary of her flat. Oliver’s voice saying her name was the last thing she heard before she shut him out.
She leaned against the door, shaking with the hurt he’d inflicted, trying to breathe deeply, desperate to stem the waves of panic that washed through her mind and body.
Ten deep breaths, wasn’t that the rule—no, maybe that was counting to ten before you murdered someone. Well, there was an idea!
Three deep breaths…
Now think rationally!
Monday was as good as done, which meant she had four more days—four days to find a way to tell Oliver Emily was his daughter before Em came home and almost inevitably met him in person.
Clare’s mind went back into panic mode and breathing deeply didn’t seem to help.
Of course she had to tell him. Forget that his reaction just now had been so hateful. He had to know!
But the hub of it all was Emily. As far as Clare was concerned, Emily’s welfare, her happiness and emotional stability, had to be protected at all costs. Forget how Oliver might feel about Em’s mother, forget how Em’s parents might feel about each other—or whatever kinds of messes they’d made of their respective lives—at the heart of whatever lay ahead was Emily’s well-being.
CHAPTER TWO
OF ALL the impossible things to have happened! Oliver set his cases down in the small foyer and took a look around. Small sitting area, the open plan revealing a dining nook in a bay window and a kitchen behind a high bench at the back.
She had a child.
Stop thinking about Clare; look around your new home.
He could move; Alex had said it would be okay.
No, look around.
Neat, tastefully furnished, all he needed in the way of space. He turned aside, into a reasonably sized bedroom, again a bay window, this one overlooking the front yard and the street and park across the road, while down a small hall he discovered a bathroom and a second bedroom, small, but furnished with a good-size desk as well as a bed, so it was obvious any single tenant would use it as a study.
Or a tenant with a child could use it for the child.
How could he live next door to Clare’s child—the child he’d denied her?
A child who wasn’t a toddler, if she was at school. Why hadn’t he realised just how desperate Clare had been?
Because he’d assumed getting pregnant had been a whim, that’s why. Possibly something to make his commitment to her more—
More what?
Binding?
No, she’d known all along he had no intention of marrying and he’d assumed she’d understood that meant no children.
He closed his eyes but her image was once again imprinted in his mind. Not the image from the past, but the image of the new Clare, more heart-stoppingly beautiful than ever.
He swore quietly to himself. Why was he letting her affect him this way? On top of which, the fact that she had a child was none of his business. Where was his self-discipline? Surely he was professional enough that he could treat her as a colleague.
But even as that thought formed in his head another part of his brain was echoing with mocking laughter. As if that’s possible, it was saying, when your libido jolts to attention any time she’s around. Ectopic heartbeats indeed—be honest, it’s lust, mate!
Had it been more than lust the first time? Maybe not love—he wasn’t sure what love entailed—but definitely he’d felt a deep affection for her. How could he not when she’d been so beautiful and open and honest?
So loving!
Did she still see their relationship as five wasted years?
No! It was in the past. This was now. And if the child—Emily, Rod had said—was at school, Clare hadn’t exactly hung around mourning their break-up.
He gripped his head hard in his hands and squeezed to stop the mental arguments and to shut out the memories.
He would not think about Clare! He would not think about the past. He would move on, continue moving on, and if a tiny part of his mind kept questioning whether he’d ever really moved on from Clare emotionally—well, it was such a quiet voice he could ignore it.
She’d moved on, that was for sure. Changed careers, had a child—he doubted she’d ever given him a passing thought.
Until today, of course…
So?
Forget the past!
He took a deep breath, retrieved his cases, carried them through into the bedroom and began unpacking. He had chests with household items awaiting despatch in Melbourne, wanting to settle in and make sure he liked the flat before having them forwarded on, but for now all he needed to unpack were clothes, the one set of sheets he’d brought with him, a couple of towels and books—lots of books, although many more were in the chests. Reading had become his escape, but from what?
It was the first time he’d asked himself that question and now he had to probe further. Was it an escape from thinking too deeply about the sterility of his life? Or an escape from the inner emptiness his old girlfriend had pointed out to him? Or even an escape from feeling anything at all—for anyone…?
He gave a scoffing laugh, and shook off the stupid introspection. Reading was an escape from the intensity of his work, nothing more! And this unfamiliar delving into his psyche was the result of tiredness, having driven through the night to make the meeting this morning, stopping only for a couple of short breaks for safety’s sake.
And considering work, rather than the escape from it, he should read up on tomorrow’s op. With specialists all over the world, someone was always trying something new—discovering a tidier, or more effective, solution for the myriad problems they encountered.
He found his laptop, opened it on the desk in the second bedroom and settled down to search the internet. Hours later, stiff and tired, he closed the laptop and went in search of food—or information about food.
He found the folder in the kitchen and leafed through it. There was a selection of takeaway menus at the back of the notes—ha, food! He selected one and made a phone call. He’d eat, then shower, and get a good night’s sleep—practical, sensible decision making, that’s what was needed here.
A tap at the front door, his flat’s front door, made him wonder how people got in—how his pizza would get in. Did the outer door have a bell of some kind, an arrangement whereby it could be opened from upstairs? Had Annie’s notes explained? He’d read them again, but first see who was at the door.
Clare!
A very twitchy, uptight-looking Clare for all she smiled politely at him before explaining, ‘I thought I should tell you about the doors. On your keys you’ll have a bigger shiny silver key, it’s for the deadlock on the outside door, but if someone comes to visit you there are bells outside the front door. I’ve just labelled your bell with your name. You’ll hear the ring inside, and the button on that phone thing in the hall—this…Pressing it releases the door lock.’
She’d come in to show him the door-opening mechanism and was so close he could have taken her in his arms right there and then. He could feel her in his arms, feel her curves snug against his body, smell the perfume of her hair in his nostrils. He’d bend his head, just a little, to capture her lips—
He was losing it! Seriously insane! He had to pull himself together, get sorted, all that stuff.
‘Thanks,’ he managed when she turned to look at him, perhaps puzzled by his wooden stance and lack of response.
‘No worries,’ she said, then she frowned and looked more closely at him. ‘Are you okay? I know it’s hardly flattering to tell someone they look terrible, but you look exhausted.’
‘Car trouble on the way from Melbourne meant I had to drive through the night. One good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.’
Clare turned to leave, uncertain whether to be glad or sorry. She’d buoyed herself up to tell Oliver about Emily, using the key explanations as an excuse to knock on his door. The plan was she’d casually offer dinner, and they could sit down in a civilised fashion and discuss the situation, though the problem of quite how she’d bring it up still loomed large in her mind.
But seeing how tired Oliver looked and finding out why, it was immediately obvious this wasn’t the time to be telling him he had a daughter, especially as he was operating the next morning. What he needed was a good night’s sleep, not a bombshell that was likely to rock his world and quite possibly prevent any sleep at all.
Part of her was relieved, but the other part aggravated that the telling would continue to hang over her head.
Then there was dinner—he had to eat…Should she still ask?
‘Thanks for explaining about the locks and keys,’ he said as she dithered in the doorway, so conscious of his body she wondered if he could feel the tension building in hers. In her mind his hand reached out for her, touched her shoulder, drew her close. She’d sink against him, feeling her body fit itself to his and—
The jangling buzz of the outside bell sounded in his flat, shocking her out of the stupid dream. He smiled as she looked at him, ashamed of her thoughts and puzzled by the intrusion.
‘Good thing you labelled my bell,’ he added. ‘I ordered a pizza for dinner.’
As Oliver pressed the button to release the front door lock, using the phone to tell the delivery person to come on up, Clare scuttled back across the landing, all but diving into the safety of her own flat.
Although as a refuge it was now severely lacking in serenity and peace, given who her neighbour was, and the wayward turns her mind was taking.
Back when he hadn’t replied to her letters, she’d put him out of her life, swearing never to think of him again.
But not thinking about him had proven difficult when their child had inherited his green eyes and curving, inviting lips.
* * *
Clare knew she needed a good night’s sleep, but how could sleep come when the huge, insurmountable problem of how to tell Oliver was cluttering up her mind and sitting like an elephant on her chest?
Earlier, when she’d gone in with the key excuse, she’d decided just coming out with it would be the best. Oh, by the way, my daughter, Emily, is your child.
But now that seemed impossibly, horribly flippant. She had to find some better way to say it.
Oliver, there’s something you should know?
No, that wouldn’t work. She’d lose courage after the Oliver part and ask about his mother or something equally inane.
Could she begin with self-justification? I did try to contact you; I phoned and wrote, then—
No, she couldn’t do that because it would mean explaining about Dad dying and even now thinking of that time still hurt too much for her to talk about it.
Finally, with herculean determination, she lulled herself to sleep, only to wake before dawn, tired, cranky and so uptight she thought her limbs might snap apart as she moved.
But move she did. Although she’d spent many hours at the hospital the previous week, getting to know the machine she would be operating, now she was anxious to get up to the theatre for one last check.
She showered and dressed, blotting everything from her mind except work, excited yet slightly apprehensive about her first day as part of the team.
Slightly apprehensive?
Understatement of the year, and although she was focusing on work, the other problem set aside, it had to be the thought of working with Oliver that had her twitching like a snake on drugs.
An image of him flashed across her mind—the now-Oliver with silver streaks in the tawny hair, and fine lines at the corners of his green eyes. More lines forming parentheses in his cheeks when he smiled, his lips still as mesmerising as ever, a pale line delineating their shape.
