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“You can’t go down the aisle empty-handed and alone!” About the Author Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Copyright
“You can’t go down the aisle empty-handed and alone!”
“I know,” Sophie said, holding out her arms for her son and pressing a kiss on his downy head.
If the guests at the Casson-Winter wedding happened to notice that the mother of the bride carried the bouquet intended for her daughter, they appeared not to care. They were too delighted by the sight of the bride carrying her infant son down the aisle to meet his father at the altar.
“It seemed the right thing to do,” Sophie whispered when she reached Dominic’s side. “Ryan should be part of this, not just an onlooker. We’re a family, after all.”
FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romance novels that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them, all will make it—whether they like it or not!
CATHERINE SPENCER, once an English teacher, fell into writing through eavesdropping on a conversation about Harlequin romances. Within two months she changed careers and sold her first book to Harlequin Mills & Boon in 1984. She moved to Canada from England thirty years ago and lives in Vancouver. She is married to a Canadian and has four grown children—two daughters and two sons—plus three dogs and a cat. In her spare time she plays the piano, collects antiques and grows tropical shrubs.
Dominic’s Child
Catherine Spencer
For Grace Green with love and gratitude for her loyalty and support.
CHAPTER ONE
SOPHIE knew at once who it was rapping on her hotel room door in that imperious “Don’t keep me waiting” manner, partly, of course, because the chief of police had forewarned her that Dominic Winter was en route to St. Julian, but also because there was in the summons nothing of the islanders’ discreet tap tap that begged the favor of admittance.
Instead, this was the peremptory crack of bone on wood—the command of a superior being to one of lesser stature. If he’d bellowed, “Open the door, woman, and let me in!” his message could not have been clearer.
For all that she’d been expecting him, the proof of Dominic Winter’s arrival had Sophie starting up out of the chair in a flurry of agitation. The sound of his knock seemed indecently loud somehow, and not at all fitting to the somber gravity of the occasion.
On her way to answer him, she made an unplanned stop before the mirror, though why she bothered escaped her. She knew her hair was perfectly in place, her attire as suitably subdued as could be achieved, given the sort of clothes she’d brought with her.
Perhaps it was because she needed to be sure that nothing in her face gave her away. Of course she was upset, saddened; under the circumstances, that was to be expected. But there was more. There’d always been something more where Dominic Winter was concerned, and that was what he must never suspect.
He strode into the room and, without the slightest concession to civil good manners, said in a tone as forbiddingly cold as his name, “Well, I hope you’re happy with what you’ve done, Ms. Casson. My fiancée is dead and her parents are shattered.”
“It was an accident,” she heard herself reply defensively, and wondered why she didn’t just set him straight and have done with it. Whatever other guilty secrets she harbored, culpability in Barbara’s death was not among them. But one didn’t launch into a diatribe about a dead woman’s shortcomings, not to the man who’d hoped to marry her in another few months and certainly not within seconds of his arriving at the scene of her untimely demise. There would be opportunity enough for him to learn the details leading up to the accident later, when he’d recovered a little from the shock and from the draining exhaustion of travel.
If Sophie was prepared to show a little sensitivity, however, Dominic Winter was not. “You might call it an accident,” he declared flatly, “but I’ve yet to be convinced that you aren’t guilty of criminal negligence—in which case ‘manslaughter’ would be a more accurate term, or perhaps even ‘murder’.”
Sophie prided herself on being a capable, independent sort of woman. Going weak at the knees when someone tried to intimidate her simply wasn’t her style. But she felt the blood drain from her face at his intimation. “Mr. Winter,” she said, backing away from him unsteadily, “I was nowhere near Barbara when she died. In fact, I was completely unaware of her plans on Wednesday, and if you don’t believe me then I suggest you check my alibi with Chief Inspector Montand, who is perfectly satisfied that I am in no way to blame for what happened to her.”
“But I am not Chief Inspector Montand, Ms. Casson, and I do hold you to blame. You encouraged Barbara to come away with you. If you had not, she would be alive today.”
What could she say that didn’t sound like an excuse? Sophie bit her lip and turned toward the louvered doors that led to the balcony. Outside, the entire world seemed bent on the celebration of life. Everything, from the surf rolling rhythmically up the pale gold crescent of beach to the sultry sway of the coconut palms fringing the hotel grounds, seemed to echo the calypso beat of the everpresent steel band.
A scarlet hibiscus, shot full of burgundy fire from the sun, flamed next to an overpoweringly sweet-scented frangipani. Macaws perched on the backs of unoccupied sun chaises, brazenly flaunting their plumage.
But what she had found breathtakingly lovely only two days before struck Sophie now as obscene. How could there be death in the midst of such vibrant life? Tragedy did not marry easily with the carnival atmosphere that was St. Julian’s stock-in-trade.
Closing her eyes, she struggled to find the words to ease Dominic
