throat felt tight. ‘Loren is dead.’
‘Yes, yes, so you keep telling me.’
‘It’s true!’
‘I believe it.’ He expelled his breath on a long sigh. ‘So: where is the kid?’
‘In London. Spending the day with some friends who live in the adjoining flat to mine. Laura—that’s the girl’s name—she’s expecting a baby herself in three months.’
‘Really.’ He sounded uninterested, and she wished she hadn’t volunteered the information. She had only wanted to assure him that the child was in good hands. ‘How soon can I see him?’
‘You mean—you mean you’ll have him?’ Suddenly it all seemed totally unreal.
‘You’re prepared to give him away, aren’t you? To a complete stranger?’
‘You’re his father,’ she protested, but he shook his head.
‘You can’t prove that.’
‘You can’t prove you’re not.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that, if I were you.’
‘Oh, please!’ Caryn’s cry was ragged. ‘Will you or won’t you take him?’
‘Let’s say I want to examine the goods first, hmm?’ He paused. ‘Does he have a name?’
‘Yes.’ Caryn was reluctant to admit it. ‘Loren called him Tristan, but I—I—’
‘You couldn’t bring yourself to use it, is that it?’ he questioned dryly.
‘Maybe.’
He began to pace again, measuring the room with his lean, pantherlike strides. ‘So—where do you live?’
‘I can drive back and fetch him—’
‘No.’ He halted once more. ‘No, don’t do that. I’ll come to London. You’d better give me your address.’
Caryn was loath to do so. ‘I can easily bring him here.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ he agreed, ‘but I prefer to do it my way.’
‘You can’t pay me off!’ she burst out uncontrollably, and his lips curled.
‘I don’t intend to.’
A knock at the study door curtailed any response she might have made, and without waiting for his summons, Angela Ross appeared in the doorway. Her eyes flickered over Caryn without liking, and then she looked at her father.
‘Tris, how much longer are you going to be? Marcia’s made a pizza for your supper, and it’s going to be ruined if you don’t eat it soon.’
His features changed as he looked at his daughter. Watching him, Caryn felt a curious pang at the gentleness of his expression. Why couldn’t he have looked at Loren like that? she thought resentfully. Why should this girl feel herself so secure when he owed just as much allegiance to the woman who had borne his child, and to his son …
‘We’re almost through,’ he told Angela now. ‘Miss—er—Stevens is leaving.’
Caryn squared her shoulders. ‘If you’ll give me a sheet of paper, I’ll give you my address.’
She was aware of his daughter’s raised eyebrows, but she didn’t care. Angela would have to know sooner or later, and why should she protect her? It was up to her father to explain, if he could.
Angela hung around as Caryn wrote her address on the pad he handed to her, adding her telephone number in case it was needed. Tristan barely glanced at it as he tossed it on to his desk, and she was aware that he was waiting for her to go.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he assured her politely, his eyes glinting, with suppressed anger. She guessed he had not cared for her referring to some future association in front of his daughter, but that was just too bad, she thought half defensively.
Outside, the air had never smelt so sweet, and she walked up to where she had left the car on legs that threatened to give out on her. Well, she had done it, she thought defiantly, and wondered why she was suddenly so doubtful …
Caryn spent the night at the hotel in Carmarthen and travelled back to London the next morning. The journey seemed so much shorter going back, but perhaps that was because she had more enthusiasm towards her destination.
Her flat was on the second floor of a house in Bloomsbury. It was not the most fashionable area of London, but it was civilised, and the tall Victorian houses had an atmosphere that was missing from the stark concrete and glass sky-scrapers that had sprung up all around them. Mrs Theobald, who lived on the ground floor, had window boxes, and at this time of the year they were bright with geraniums, and gave a distinct individuality to Number II Faulkner Terrace. Caryn had rung her friends from the hotel that morning, and when she reached the second floor the door of the Westons’ flat opened and Laura appeared with the baby in her arms.
‘Hi,’ she said, smiling, her freckled face showing sympathy for Caryn’s aching legs. ‘Come in and have a cuppa. Bob’s already gone to the studio.’
Bob Weston was a commercial photographer, working for a small agency in Notting Hill. He photographed weddings and christenings, and occasionally did spreads for small magazines, but his ambition was to move into the more lucrative world of television.
‘Thanks.’ Caryn barely glanced at her nephew as she followed Laura into the flat, a facsimile of her own except that it was much tidier. She tried never to let herself feel any attachment for the child, knowing as she did that the authorities would not let her keep him much longer.
‘He’s been so good,’ Laura exclaimed, closing the door before walking to a folding pram standing in the comer. ‘He didn’t even wake during the night.’
‘No. He’s very good.’ Caryn sounded weary and indifferent, and Laura looked at her anxiously.
‘Well?’ she ventured. ‘What happened? You were very vague on the phone this morning.’
Caryn flung herself into an armchair. ‘I told you I saw—him.’
‘Yes.’ Laura padded through to the tiny kitchen to put on the kettle. ‘But you didn’t say what was going to happen.’
‘He wants to see him.’
‘Who?’ Laura came to the door of the kitchen. ‘Tristan Ross wants to see the baby?’
‘Yes.’
Laura grimaced. ‘So when are you taking him?’
‘I’m not. He wants to come here.’
Laura ran a hand over the swelling mound of her stomach and subsided into a chair with evident relief. ‘Heavens!’
Caryn forced a rueful smile. ‘Yes. I’d better see about tidying my place up.’
‘I
