and led her to the lift, glancing over his shoulder at Kate still crouched on the floor.
‘Thanks, Kate. I owe you,’ he said softly. ‘Can you ask Sally to deal with my calls?’
She nodded, and he turned his attention back to the more pressing problem in front of him.
‘Come on, let’s get the baby sorted out and then we can talk,’ he said, reminding himself firmly that she was just a blackmailer, even if she did have a figure to die for and the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard in his life…
‘Right, now she’s asleep, let’s sort this out,’ Patrick said firmly, determined to take control of a situation that showed every sign of disintegrating into chaos. ‘As I said before, I don’t know your sister. I told her that when she came to see me, and I can’t imagine why she’s sent you now, because nothing’s happened since I saw her to change anything.’
She looked up at him, those extraordinary grey eyes filled with silent accusation. ‘On the contrary,’ she said. ‘Everything’s changed, because three days after she came to see you, my sister died of an overdose, and I’m holding you responsible—for that, and for your child—so, you see, everything has changed.’
Patrick felt shock drain the colour from his face. That poor girl, so tightly strung, her eyes haunted and despairing, was dead, and her sister was here to take up the cudgels on her behalf. No wonder she was so determined, but despite her assertions nothing had really altered, at least not as far as he was concerned.
The baby wasn’t his, and never would be, and there was nothing he’d said or done that made him in any way responsible for the tragic death of that baby’s mother, however regrettable.
‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ he said, gentling his voice but with no loss of resolve. ‘If I could help you, I would, but it really isn’t anything to do with me.’
‘Nice try, but it won’t work,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ve got the photographs.’
His heart sank. ‘Photographs?’ he asked. She’d been saying something downstairs about evidence just as the car thing had intruded, but it hadn’t really registered. Oh, hell…
‘Yes, photographs. Intimate photographs—if you know what I mean.’
He did, only too well, and he winced inwardly, even though he knew they must be fake like all the others. ‘Anybody can achieve that these days with a digital camera and a bit of chicanery,’ he argued, but she wasn’t finished.
‘Photographs taken in your apartment here? On that sofa, in front of the window? In the bedroom where I changed the baby’s nappy? On your roof garden? Where and how would she have got those? Someone on your staff? Come on, Mr Cameron, you can’t get out of it. All it will take is a DNA test to prove it, and if you won’t submit to it willingly, I’ll just have to take you to court, and, believe me, I fully intend to win.’
He didn’t doubt it for a moment.
‘Get the baby tested, by all means,’ he agreed willingly. ‘My DNA has already been tested for another of these bogus claims, and I can assure you it won’t match this baby’s any more than it’s matched any other. Your sister isn’t the first young woman to try this, and unfortunately I don’t suppose she’ll be the last. I’ll see if I can find the information and send it on to you.’
‘You do that. I’ll give you a week, and then I’m taking action—starting with sending the photographs to the press.’ She delved into the blue bag that seemed to contain her entire life’s resources, and produced a slightly dog-eared card that she thrust at him.
‘Here. If you don’t contact me by next Monday morning, you’ll be hearing from my solicitor and the tabloids, probably simultaneously. Now perhaps you’ll be good enough to call me a taxi. I’ll arrange to have my other things collected in the next few days.’
On the point of telling her to take a hike, he caught sight of the sleeping baby and his irritation evaporated.
Poor little scrap. She didn’t deserve this, and it was a long way to—he glanced down at the card.
Suffolk. Ms Claire Franklin, Lower Valley Farm, Strugglers Lane, Tuddingfield, Suffolk. Nice address, but she didn’t look like a farmer. A farm worker? Lodger? Nanny? Nothing too highly paid, judging by the car and her remarks about money.
Claire. He savoured it on his tongue. Interesting, how an ordinary name had suddenly become somehow musical.
‘How are you going to get home?’ he asked her, refocusing. ‘Have you got enough money for the train?’
The confidence in her eyes faltered for a moment, then firmed again. ‘I’ll manage.’
He sighed, opened his wallet and pulled out several notes. ‘Here—that should be enough to get you and your things home in a minicab.’
She eyed the cash and her eyebrows arched eloquently. ‘You must have a hell of a guilty conscience, Mr Cameron.’
He hung onto his temper with difficulty. ‘On the contrary, Miss Franklin, I have a perfectly clean conscience—and I want it to stay that way. Now, are you going to take the money, or are you going to be stubborn and independent and make the baby suffer all the way home on the tube and the train?’
For a moment she hesitated, then she took it with a curt nod and tucked it into the bottomless blue bag. ‘I’ll pay you back,’ she said, and something in her voice made him believe her against all the odds.
Drawing her dignity around her like a cloak, she picked up the carrier with the baby in it, slung the blue bag over her shoulder and stood patiently waiting.
‘I’ll call the cab,’ he said, a trifle curtly because he didn’t want to admire her for anything. Picking up the phone, he asked Kate to order a minicab. ‘On second thoughts,’ he added to his beleaguered receptionist, ‘get George if he’s free. Usual arrangement.’
He cradled the phone, then escorted his visitor and her now sleeping charge to the lift. ‘I’ve ordered a minicab. He’ll take your things, as well, so you won’t have to get them picked up.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Miss Franklin.’
She took it almost graciously, her palm cool, her grip firm and capable, and inclined her head. ‘Goodbye,’ she murmured, but he had a feeling she wasn’t finished, and he was right. She carried the baby into the lift, turned and met his eyes with a steady look that held the promise of another skirmish to come. ‘I mean it,’ she said before the doors sighed shut. ‘One week, and then all hell breaks loose.’
He didn’t doubt it for a moment.
He held that clear grey gaze until the doors interrupted it, and then turned away with a shrug. Let her do her worst. There was no way the child was his, cute though she might have been, regardless of some bogus photographic evidence.
Of course, if Will had still been alive he would have blamed him. It wouldn’t have been the first time his brother had got him in a scrape, by a country mile, and it was just the sort of damn fool thing he might have done, Patrick thought with a fondness touched with irony.
He could just imagine him now, pretending to be his richer and more successful twin, capitalising on his brother’s success without bothering to earn the right
