of antipathy down Scarlet’s spine.
Maybe Roman O’Hagan had inherited his arrogance from the paternal side of the equation. It was quite a combination of genes, Italian and Irish, Scarlet reflected, and on the evidence so far she’d say the result of that fusion had produced a person who lacked the charm of the Irish and the charisma of the Italians.
Despite her reassurance as she lifted the glass of water, there was a visible tremor in the older woman’s hand.
‘Let me,’ Scarlet said, taking the glass from her and placing it back on her own desk.
On closer inspection she could see that the scary bluish tinge had receded from around the older woman’s lips. This was good news, but despite these small signs of improvement the woman still looked far from well.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
Natalia O’Hagan lifted her head, her lips formed a weak smile, but she didn’t appear able to respond to the question.
Scarlet’s anxiety increased. She privately called herself every sort of weak idiot for not having stood her ground in the first place and rung for a doctor straight off as she’d wanted.
In that at least her wretched son had been right.
She could have insisted, but when the university bigwigs, who had tagged along with David for the official opening ceremony of the crèche, had overruled her, what had she done? She’d meekly rolled over.
As far as the powers that be were concerned they weren’t going to risk upsetting the woman whose generous donation had been responsible for the refurbishment and extension of the crèche facilities, not to mention the new state-of-the art IT building. And Natalia O’Hagan had managed to make it quite clear despite her weak condition, that she did not want a doctor.
That was fine and their call to make, but where were they now, those men and women in suits who knew better? Their absence from the vicinity was pretty conspicuous.
Scarlet had only been half joking when she’d called herself a scapegoat. If anything went wrong it wasn’t difficult to figure out who would be left to carry the can, especially if Roman O’Hagan had anything to do with it. She couldn’t see the men and women in suits leaping up to take responsibility.
‘Won’t you let me get someone down from Occupational Health, at least—?’ Scarlet began, only to be cut off by an impatient, slightly imperious nod of the smooth dark head.
‘You sound just like my sons.’
Scarlet had no control over the expression of horror that spread across her face. ‘Me?’
‘You know, I consider myself a lucky woman,’ Natalia revealed. ‘Two sons who I love dearly, and they are so good to me. But,’ she explained with a shake of her head, ‘they are both ridiculously overprotective. Roman is possibly the worst.
‘He has a terrible habit of thinking he knows what is best,’ Natalia continued ruefully. ‘If I’d let him he’d run my life, I swear he would.’
‘You have to stand up to him!’
Natalia’s delicate brow lifted at the heat of Scarlet’s stern declaration.
Scarlet coloured self-consciously and forced her expression to relax. ‘I suppose it’s a son’s job to be protective of his mother. I expect mine will one day,’ she added lightly.
‘You have a son?’ Liquid dark eyes scanned Scarlet’s slim figure. She was wearing her usual work garb, jeans and one of the bright child-friendly tee shirts all the helpers in the crèche wore. It had been suggested that, as the manager of the centre, she ought to wear something more in fitting with her management role, but Scarlet, a hands-on sort of manager, had stuck to her guns and her tee shirt.
‘Goodness, you look so young, or maybe that’s just me getting old.’
‘You’re not old.’
‘When I look at those little ones I feel…’ She suddenly went very still as she looked through the plate-glass partition to the room beyond. It should have been empty; the children were enjoying the party on the lawn. ‘That child—what is his name?’
It was a casual enough question, but casual in Scarlet’s experience didn’t equate with the lines of tension bracketing the older woman’s soft mouth or the tortured twisting of the hands clasped in her lap.
‘Which one? We’ve got quite a few here. Should you lie down, perhaps…?’ she suggested tentatively. ‘If you’re not feeling well?’
‘I’m feeling fine.’ The strained smile she produced to prove the point did nothing to soothe Scarlet’s fears. ‘The little boy I’m talking about is the one who gave me the flowers? The one sitting there.’
Scarlet followed the direction of the ashen-faced woman’s strangely haunted gaze as Natalie nodded through the glass partition that separated Scarlet’s office from the big, newly equipped play room, towards a small dark-haired figure sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Sam was meant to be outside with the other children watching the magician they’d engaged as entertainment. With the party in full swing he had obviously managed to slip away unnoticed. Sam was a very resourceful child.
He had wanted to finish his jigsaw earlier, and when he wanted something, as she knew to her cost, he could show remarkable focus. His little face was a mask of concentration as he slotted the final piece into a complicated wooden jigsaw and gave a triumphant smile.
‘Sam,’ Scarlet replied, a puzzled frown forming between her brows as she registered the throb of emotion in the other woman’s attractively accented voice.
‘I hope I didn’t alarm him.’
‘Sam takes most things in his stride,’ Scarlet returned honestly.
‘I thought he might,’ came the puzzling dry rejoinder. ‘His mother…does she work at the university?’
‘Sam’s my son, the one I mentioned.’ Scarlet was trying very hard not to glow too obviously with pride. ‘One of the perks of running the university crèche is I get to bring him to work with me.’
This hadn’t happened by accident. Early on Scarlet had realised to leave Sam on a daily basis would be too painful, not necessarily for the child, who possessed an adaptable and sunny personality, but for herself.
‘You?’
Scarlet endured with equanimity the astonished, searching scrutiny that came her way. The reaction didn’t surprise her. Sam was an exceptionally beautiful child, and Scarlet knew the only thing exceptional about herself was her ordinariness, but even so the softly breathed, ‘Unbelievable!’ did bring a faint flush to her pale cheeks.
As if she realised her lapse in manners, a flicker of something akin to embarrassment flickered across the beautiful features of the VIP guest.
‘And how old is Sam?’
‘He was three in April.’
‘He seems very advanced for his age.’
