by Sara Wood
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 tortured himself by listening to the voice in his head even though he knew he should, in all honour, endeavour to bring father and daughter together.
But Sam had been adamant. ‘She’s like her mother!’ he’d declared with wild conjecture, when he’d given up all hope of hearing from Jodie. ‘Selfish, flighty and heartless! If she knew I was rich she’d be here quick enough! Morgan, she’s broken my heart! I never want to see her—even if she turns up in rags and trailing ten children in her wake, do you hear?’ he’d raged.
‘I hear,’ he’d said quietly, hoping some day to dissuade him.
But that had been before Morgan knew he was Jack’s father. And now Jodie was here, in dazzling scarlet and trailing fire and passion and a steely determination in her wake.
Common sense told him that he should send her away with a photo after a cup of tea. But could he live with himself, knowing that Sam had had the opportunity to enjoy the last year or two of his life in his daughter’s loving company?
‘God!’ he muttered. ‘What a choice!’
Hard on himself, as always, he forced himself to go through the motions of making tea, but his fingers were constantly stilled by the strangely haunting image of Jodie’s face.
What was it about her? Some element of Sam, his honesty, his goodness? It would have been easier if she’d been an out-and-out cow—selfish, flighty and heartless, as Sam had suggested.
But Morgan’s lasting image of her was of her transparent, innocent joy, which had cut through his suspicion and shock like a sword of light.
He stared into space, seeing the blinding smile which had lit up her extraordinary jade eyes till they’d sparkled like gemstones. She’d seemed almost vulnerable in her eagerness to tell him about herself.
Morgan thought of her passion when she’d begged for a crumb, the right to see what her father looked like because she had no photographs of him. Her words had sliced through his heart like a knife through butter. He understood that terrible emptiness of being somehow unfinished because of an unknown parent.
All his life he’d wanted to know who his father was. His rootlessness, his avoidance of committal and his dangerous hunger for love had undoubtedly been a consequence of that empty gap in his life. In that instant he had felt a visceral stab of compassion for her. And so he’d weakened.
Of course she was lying about the letters. But it was like the lie of a vulnerable child who can’t bear to be in the wrong. A greedy child, perhaps, he reminded himself with a frown, before he became too indulgent. Maybe she’d done some research on the Internet and had discovered that Sam Frazer was one of the most prestigious architects in the country.
He rubbed a thoughtful hand over his stubble. With Sam owning half the village and the lucrative practice, she’d be in line for a huge inheritance. And custody of Jack.
Morgan’s hands shook as he filled the kettle. Where would that leave him? Visiting occasionally. Looking on while she brought up his son.
‘No!’ he muttered vehemently. ‘Never in a million years!’
Sam only had a short time to live. Morgan had planned to adopt Jack when the older man died. But if Jodie was on the scene she would be firmly entrenched as Jack’s carer by then.
There’d be a legal tussle which could go on for years, with Jack in the middle—and by that time Jodie would to all intents and purposes be a mother figure to Jack. He couldn’t take his son away under those circumstances. It would be too cruel.
No! Better if he never let that situation arise. He sucked in a harsh breath. That settled it. He’d keep her at arm’s length and respect Sam’s explicit wishes. Tea and sympathy, then pack her off home.
CHAPTER THREE
JODIE sat fuming and twiddling her fingers. She flicked through an elaborately illustrated book about buildings in Brazil, which normally would have interested her, but she had one thing only dominating her mind: her father.
She knew she was ready to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion—but before she did she must see him. Over tea—
coffee!—which would revive her and give her the boost her system needed, she’d ask this man if…
No, she’d demand. She was no collie dog. She would not be ruled by him.
Wearily she hauled herself from the chair and followed the sounds of movement, finding herself in the doorway of an enormous farmhouse kitchen fitted out with limed wood units in the country house style.
Unobserved and unheard in her rubber soles, she temporarily forgot why she’d come because he was wearily dumping leaf tea into a pot like a zombie on sedatives. Intrigued, Jodie counted six spoonfuls before he paused and then uttered a brief expletive.
Each one of his movements was slow and laboured as he emptied the pot and then carefully recounted the correct amount of tea in a voice which betrayed his irritation with himself.
After adding boiling water to the brew, a deep sigh welled up from the depths of his body. His head tipped back in an attitude of despair.
Jodie was fascinated. He seemed more than tired. It was as if life itself had become untenable. Why? What was going on here?
Not daring to let him know she’d seen him in an unguarded moment, she tiptoed away and made the approach again, ensuring that she made enough noise on her way to the kitchen to serve as a warning.
When she entered, he was back in control of himself again: stiff, erect, and poker-faced.
‘I thought I’d see if I could help,’ she began crisply. ‘And—’
‘It’s done,’ he said, before she could ask for a coffee. ‘Now that you’re here, we might as well have tea in here instead. Milk or lemon?’
‘Whatever.’ Jodie was too eaten up with curiosity to pursue her preference and she sat down at the scrubbed pine table expectantly. Tea was a stimulant, anyway. And she needed revitalising before she started making waves. ‘Now,’ she continued amiably, hoping to disarm him, ‘tell me who you are.’
‘Morgan Peralta.’
‘Unusual name,’ she said, encouraging him to open up.
‘I have Colombian parents,’ he replied grudgingly.
It explained a good deal: his dark good looks, the sense of lurking volcanic passions, the Latin cheekbones and bred-in-the-bone sensuality. He had a magnificent body: just muscled and lean enough for her taste. Beside him, Chas would look a slob. So would most men.
She looked at his hands, always a give-away, and thought that there was something very sensual in the way his slender—almost graceful—fingers dealt with slicing the lemon. He’d be good with women, she mused. Delicate in his touch. Tantalisingly exploring… She blinked, startled by where her thoughts had taken her.
Feeling warm from the heat of the kitchen, Jodie unbuttoned her jacket. She would have removed it but Morgan’s hooded gaze had honed in like a guided missile on the tangerine shirt beneath and she felt a sudden frisson of sexual danger as something indefinable sizzled briefly between them.
Stupid. How could he possibly be interested in her? It was her over-developed imagination. Static in the air. Besides, he was hardly going to jump her. Not over tea!
She hid a smile at her caution but decided she’d feel more comfortable if she kept the jacket on. The T-shirt fitted snugly and she didn’t want Morgan counting her ribs. Or anything else…
She was astonished to feel a blush creep up her entire body, and she let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
Morgan slanted an odd look at her from under his brows then sat opposite her, immediately picking up the teapot and pouring out a thin, almost gold-coloured liquid into their cups and slipping in a slice of lemon. Jodie accepted the offered cup doubtfully. It didn’t look like any tea she’d ever seen.
‘I’m Jodie,’ she offered, anxious to be accepted. ‘Jodie Frazer.’
‘I know.’
He was close to her father, then. She took a deep breath and plunged in.
‘I imagine my father was upset when he didn’t hear from me,’ she ventured.
‘Devastated.’ His expression was uncompromisingly hostile.
‘That’s awful. I wish I’d known.’ She leaned forward earnestly. ‘But you’ve heard my explanation. You must understand that I wouldn’t want to hurt him for the world.’
She took a sip of the surprisingly refreshing tea and looked at him over the rim of her cup. He seemed to be having a mental struggle over something. Hopefully she was coaxing him round.
‘He’s been through a lot recently. I won’t let anyone disturb his peace of mind,’ he stated flatly. ‘Your rejection—’
‘But I didn’t reject him!’ she cried in frustration.
‘He thinks you did.’ Stern and forbidding, he leaned forwards. ‘I’ll find you some snapshots of him to take away. Don’t give yourself grief by pursuing this. He won’t see you. Accept that and get on with your life.’
‘I can’t!’ she persisted. ‘He’s only upset because he was hurt when he didn’t hear from me. When he knows what happened—’
‘He won’t hear about it because I’m not telling him your story. Frankly, I just don’t believe that you answered him straight away.’
Incensed, she jumped up. ‘Then I’ll go look for him and tell him myself!’
His arm snaked out to stop her and he rose in one swift and graceful movement, coming to stand menacingly in front of her.
‘And I will be forced to prevent you,’ he said, very softly.
Jodie squeezed her eyes tightly, to prevent herself from crying in sheer helplessness.
‘Please hear me out!’ she begged, opening her eyes and staring miserably at his blurred face.
There was a long pause. She stopped breathing. She could hear his breath rasping loudly, feel it hot and quick on her mouth.
‘I’ll listen,’ he muttered. ‘But that’s all. Sit down. Sell yourself to me if you must.’
She sank gratefully into the seat. A brief reprieve. The next few minutes were crucial. Feeling oddly hot and flustered, she began to tremble.
‘You’re…being protective,’ she began croakily. ‘I understand that. It’s good to know someone’s been looking out for him. But, like you, I swear I only want what’s best for him.’
He grunted and slanted her a cynical glance. ‘I wonder. Would you surrender your own needs for his?’
‘Can you explain that remark?’ she asked in a guarded tone.
‘If you really cared for him,’ he said quietly, ‘you’d do what was in his best interests, not yours.’
She raised one eyebrow. ‘And his best interests are…?’ He didn’t answer and dropped his gaze with a frown. Jodie felt a spurt of hope. ‘You’re not sure, are you?’ she cried shakily. ‘He’s insisting that he doesn’t want to see me—and you’re now wondering if he’s making a mistake! Morgan, think about this! You can’t in all decency stand between us! You’d have it on your conscience all your life if you didn’t at least try to persuade him to change his mind! You know that. I can see it in your face. Oh, please give me a chance!’
Morgan drew in a long, hard breath, his eyes betraying the doubts in his mind. Jodie’s pulses raced and she twisted her hands together nervously.
‘I need some time to think about it,’ he growled.
She beamed in delight. ‘That’s wonderful! Thank you!’ she cried passionately.
‘I’m only taking time to consider the situation. Nothing’s fundamentally changed. Don’t build up your hopes,’ Morgan warned.
She flung back her head and laughed, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’m an optimist. I have to hope! I want to hold my own father in my arms so much that I ache with longing!’
‘Then protect yourself from that hope. You could be badly hurt if I decide you must not see him,’ he said, his voice low and thick.
Jodie felt a tremor run right through her body. ‘It would break my heart,’ she breathed.
‘Better than you breaking his,’ Morgan observed.
‘But…why would I?’ she asked, bewildered. ‘How could I?’
‘Do you know anything about him?’ he sh
ot.
‘No, nothing! That’s what’s so awful—’
‘You know he lives in a large house,’ he pointed out cynically.
She drew herself up, insulted by the implication. ‘You think I care about his money? That’s not why I came! If you can’t identify truth and honesty and real affection when you hear it, then I feel sorry for you!’
His eyes flickered. ‘You’re making it very difficult for me, Jodie,’ he said, almost to himself.
She bit her lip, hardly able to bear the suspense which hung in the air between them so tautly she thought it almost crackled with tension. He seemed unable to tear his gaze away from her—and she found herself locked in his thrall.
‘Just…what is your connection with him?’ she asked, sobered by the power he could wield over her future.
‘I’m his right-hand man. He trusts me and my judgement.’ The dark eyes continued to bore remorselessly into hers.
She gulped, her head swimming. Tiredness. She had to push this on. ‘You could sway him, then?’ she said with difficulty.
‘If I wanted.’
‘Please want!’ she pleaded.
He jerked back a little, as if startled by what she’d said. There was a brief, hot melting of that intent gaze and she felt that at last she was getting somewhere.
He wasn’t as hostile. A faint warmth was emanating from him, an imperceptible softening of his hard-hewn face as he contemplated her, weighing her up, assessing everything about her.
She flushed, her mouth drying as his thick lashes fluttered and his downward gaze wandered to her bare throat, her breasts, and then to her legs, which she’d hooked over one another. She wanted to tug down the suddenly embarrassing short skirt to hide an inch or two of slender thigh, but that would have drawn attention there.
And now he was studying her parted lips, and she could actually feel them plumping up in some odd biological response. Hastily she sipped her tea, to occupy her wayward mouth and to avoid his scrutiny.
‘I stick to the bargain,’ he said huskily. ‘Try convincing me some more.’