‘I’m sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘But I had to stop you before you reported back to my father. I want you to know I’m not lying. I can prove that I had the right address and that he must have had my letters.’
The hard, uncompromising gaze pierced into her brain and she felt giddy.
‘How?’
With an effort, Jodie pulled herself together. She might be tired and woozy, but this was important.
‘I sent a letter by recorded delivery to say I was coming. It must have been safely delivered into the right hands; it’s guaranteed! And if that arrived, then so did all the other letters!’ she said in triumph.
‘Ah.’
She followed his gaze to a circular table which groaned under a pile of unopened mail. Her letter lay on the top. Her mouth opened in amazement that anyone could be so cavalier. ‘How can you claim the rest of my mail’s gone astray?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘It’s probably all lurking beneath that heap!’
‘No. That’s just ten days’ worth,’ he said curtly.
‘Ten…! But you can’t leave mail unopened! And where are my previous letters, then? In a landfill site?’ she spluttered, aghast.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! All his earlier mail has been dealt with. So will this when… You look hot,’ he said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘Let me take your cape.’
He came up behind her and his hands were on her shoulders before she could move. But his touch seemed tentative, as if he would have preferred to avoid contact. The pure wool cape slid away, slithering across her firm breasts in a shimmer of gold.
‘Your hat,’ he ordered, appearing in front of her and holding out his hand.
He looked her up and down, and then again—perhaps startled by the vibrancy of her colour scheme, she thought with a flash of amusement. She let a smile sneak out, her hopes rising—she’d got this far at least. What did she care what had gone wrong in the past? This was now and she was here, and somewhere in this house was her own dear father.
Jodie removed her hat with a flourish, giving her head a little shake as she did so.
‘Let’s not get twitchy over what happened. There’s obviously been a muddle. The important thing is that I see him now,’ she said happily, silky brown hair still swinging around her delighted face.
His lips tightened into an uncompromisingly grim line. ‘Come into the study,’ he ordered.
She was left with her mouth open in astonishment as he strode away. This, she decided angrily, was another control freak. He told women to jump; they asked How high? Chauvinist!
She followed, the dog prowling alongside her, but she paused on the threshold of the lamp-lit room he’d entered. Her father wasn’t there. Her hands curled into angry fists as she checked the room again.
The stranger stood with his feet planted firmly apart in an attitude of domination. He leant, squire-like, against a carved beam which spanned an enormous recess…an inglenook, she decided, raking around in her mind for her limited knowledge of medieval houses.
Logs the size of small tree trunks crackled and blazed in a massive iron basket, filling the timbered room with the sweet aroma of pine. Books lined the walls and a desk, chaotically littered with papers, sat squarely in a mullioned bay window, its deep window seat backed by a dozen or so scarlet cyclamen in oriental pots.
‘You’re busy, I’m in a hurry, so I won’t hold you up any longer,’ she said, her chin high. ‘You know why I’m here. Tell me where my father is!’
Her face went hot. He was examining her in intense detail and warmth was creeping through her as he did so.
‘Sit!’ he ordered.
‘Good grief! What do you think I am—a dog?’ she declared indignantly.
‘I was talking to Satan. He’s just behind you in the doorway. Perhaps you’d like to sit down as well, though?’ he suggested, a faintly dry humour briefly appearing in his eyes.
She grinned. At last he was beginning to unbend a little. ‘Sorry!’ she said blithely. ‘I’m not used to orders being barked at dogs.’
His eyebrow rose at her implied criticism. ‘Collies are intelligent and powerful. He knows he’s not allowed in the reception rooms, though he tries it on every now and then. You rule them, or they rule you. All dogs need a pack leader.’
‘And you’re it?’ she said with a smile, wondering if his philosophy extended to women.
‘For the moment. Please, make yourself comfortable.’
The cream leather armchair he’d indicated looked as welcoming as a warm bed and she sank into it in relief. ‘That’s better! It’s been a long journey,’ she confided, stretching her long limbs luxuriantly and giving a little wriggle to ease her stiffness. ‘I’ve been driving on the left side of the road for the past four hours and my brain has been protesting every inch of the way. I suppose I could have stopped overnight somewhere, but I kept going because I longed to be here.’
Misty-eyed again, she ventured a smile, but received nothing in return.
‘I’ll get you some tea,’ he drawled. ‘Stay!’ he ordered.
Jodie wasn’t too sure if this had been directed to her or the dog. ‘I’d rather see my father straight away,’ she said hurriedly. But not quickly enough. His long jean-clad legs had swallowed up space so quickly that he was almost out of the room. Balked again, she called, ‘And if it’s no trouble, I’d prefer coffee… Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she fumed in exasperation.
Morgan strode to the kitchen, and once he was there and out of sight he stopped dead, knowing he had to gather his composure before he faced Jodie again.
He needed space. Time. A brain that wasn’t fuzzy with exhaustion and which could deal with the problem her arrival had created.
Focus. He must concentrate… Cursing softly to himself, he ruthlessly shut out everything but the alarming situation.
He had a choice. To refuse Jodie any access to Sam, or—when Sam’s health improved—he could coax Sam to see his daughter. He closed his eyes, fighting for objectivity.
If he could persuade her to go then life could continue as before. And one day Jack would return to him.
He felt dark emotions swirling inexorably in his mind, denying him clarity of thought. Because he knew with a gut-wrenching pain that if Jodie was ever reunited with Sam then he could lose his son for ever.
Jodie was Sam’s next of kin. When Sam died, which the doctors said would be within a year or two, she would automatically be responsible for Jack’s future welfare.
And he, Morgan, would be out on his ear.
A devil was driving him, whispering in his ear wickedly that he could eliminate all danger by stating the cold, unvarnished truth: that her father had rejected her utterly. It would be so simple—and he wanted his son so badly that he
