Tell me the truth, dammit. That’s all I want. The truth.
He caught the shimmer of tears in her big blue eyes. Hell, she might look like a Girl Guide in her white blouse and baggy pants, but she was as green as her trousers if she thought he’d crumple and back off at a few tears.
This was a personal attack. If it were just him targeted, he’d cope, but they’d dragged his parents into the mess. While his father could weather everything life chucked at him, his mother was vulnerable and recently out of the hospital after a series of tests and an operation to remove a cancerous growth. She didn’t need reporters trampling her prize rose bushes and photographers aiming their long lenses at her windows. His mother required a stress-free environment in which to recuperate, and he intended to see she received it.
“How much are the papers paying you? Or more to the point, how much money do you want?”
“Money?” she spluttered, her pouty pink lips opening and shutting like his nephew’s prized goldfish. She jerked upright, eyes flashing. Her stance reminded him of a boxer, prepared to strike his opponent. Lane stepped back, keeping a wary watch on her clenched fists.
A voice calling down the passage interrupted the pending fistfight.
“Kate, honey. Sorry to take so long.”
Lane’s head jerked up. A man. Go figure. “I didn’t know you had company.”
She smiled at the tall blond man who sauntered into the room. The smile swelled wide, genuine, and hit Lane with the strength of a sucker punch. He wanted that smile.
Damn. What the hell was he thinking? She was the enemy.
Irritation and the hint of jealousy made him concentrate on the man instead of the woman. He knew that face.
The man’s return flash of smile clued in Lane. An actor…in the hospital soap…something…street.
“Had to stop to take a call on my cell phone.” The husky blond turned to grin at Lane. “Are you Kate’s next appointment? She gives a wicked massage. Ask for her special,” he added with a wink before strolling from the room. Seconds later the front door opened and closed.
Lane’s gaze shot to Kate Alexander in disbelief. Hell, if that didn’t beat all. Mary Poppins was a masseuse. One who offered extras by the sound of it. That explained things. And showed how desperate she was. Sympathy for the child bloomed in Lane. Hell of a life for a kid.
“Massage?” Lane raised one brow. “You have the gall to plant nasty innuendoes in the papers about our supposed love child and you operate a massage parlor?”
Fiery color pooled in her cheeks, leaving the rest of her face pale apart from two blotchy circles the size of a plum.
“I’m a qualified aromatherapist who works from home, not a…a two-bit whore running a massage parlor. Adam Wright is a business client. My friend,” she gritted out, her chest heaving in agitation.
Lane averted his gaze from her attractive feminine attributes and looked her straight in the face. “Does his wife know?”
She drew herself up, her face still scarlet with suppressed fury. “That’s it! I’ve had enough of your smutty insinuations.” She marched over and shoved him toward the door, grunting when he balked. “Leave now or I’ll call the police. That’ll make a good story for the press,” she added nastily while backing up.
Hell. None of this was going the way he’d planned. He stepped toward her, holding out a placating hand, but she pounced on the phone, clutching the receiver as if it were a life jacket. “I mean it. If you don’t leave in five seconds, I’m calling the police.”
Two could play at that game. “Don’t bother. I’m going,” he growled. “It’s time to contact the lawyers. Let them make sense out of your lies.”
Chapter Two
“I bet he slams the door,” Kate muttered, turning to watch Lane Gerrard storm from the den. Her mouth twisted when seconds later an explosive slam echoed down her hall.
Men. A shaky laugh escaped as reaction to the hostile Mr. Lane Gerrard set in. The story was fabricated from pure lies. But who had informed the press, and where had the informant obtained his or her facts?
After a quick trip to her bedroom to change into jeans and a shirt, Kate plodded to the kitchen. For once the familiar teal blue cupboards, the terracotta pots planted with maidenhair ferns and her tubs of fragrant herbs failed to soothe her agitation.
She worried her bottom lip while she brewed a pot of licorice and orange tea. Love nest? Huh! Kate strode over to the pantry to grab a small chocolate bar, unwrapped it and bit into the rich, dark chocolate. The second mouthful tasted just as good as the first but did nothing to quell her tension.
Who would do this to her, to Jamie? She set aside the partially eaten chocolate treat to dunk the teabags vigorously. Steve? No sooner had the thought entered her head than she dismissed it. Not him. After losing the court case and serving time for assault, Steve had moved home to Australia. He still lived in Melbourne as far as she knew.
Kate nudged a courier package aside, making a mental note to unpack it later, and plunked onto a wooden stool at the breakfast bar. If only she’d managed to pry the identity of Jamie’s father from her sister before she died. Nicole had stubbornly resisted naming the man and, in the interest of peace, Kate had finally given up asking.
The death of their parents in a car accident had left Nicole responsible for both Jamie and Kate. Three and a half years ago, Kate’s world had turned upside down again when Nicole lost her battle with cancer. Since that time, Jamie had been Kate’s responsibility.
Kate took a deep breath and clamped down on her self-pity. Her son now. And this mess was her problem to deal with. Her chin lifted. If Mr. Lane bloody Gerrard thought to bulldoze her into leaping when he said jump, he needed to rethink his strategy.
She stomped into the den to retrieve the article and returned to the kitchen before reading it again.
Lane’s Love Child
Successful rugby star, local hero and bachelor Lane Gerrard has a nine-year-old son living in Auckland.
Lane has returned home to New Zealand after a publicized code switch to play rugby for the Auckland Blues. He has spent the last ten years playing for the English rugby league club Wigan.
Despite his bachelor lifestyle, Lane is discreet and cultivates a clean public image. He works as hard as he plays and his sponsorship deal with Rickard International is reportedly worth several million. He is the figurehead for the children’s charity Wishes.
One of his former companions stated, “I am stunned at the news. It is unbelievable there has been a cover-up all this time.”
The mother of his child Katherine Alexander lives in the Auckland suburb of Newmarket. They met at an after-match function before Lane left New Zealand. Witnesses tell of an instant rapport between the two and say they were inseparable before the split. The relationship foundered when Lane accepted an overseas contract. Friends confirmed Katherine appeared inconsolable when Lane left. Katherine found she was pregnant several weeks later but was unable to contact Lane.
Our source stated, “Now that Lane has returned, he can face the consequences.”
Lane Gerrard was unavailable for comment.
Kate flung the paper down. Disgusting lies. The Mirror sold thousands of copies in the Auckland area each day despite the reporting being nothing more than malicious gossip. Kate didn’t know how the reporters were able to look at themselves in the mirror when they shaved each morning.
She frowned into the depths of her tea then slammed the mug down on the pitted Formica counter.
Think proactive.
Time to go through Nicole’s records. Jamie’s birth certificate must be somewhere. And once she found it, she’d thrust it in Lane Gerrard’s face and demand his apology.
She leapt to her feet, glad to be taking some sort of action. “Spiders, here I come.”
Kate climbed the stairs, heading for the crawl hole that led up into the small storage space they called the attic. She wasn’t sure why, but she had assumed Nicole’s mystery man was
married with ties elsewhere. Things had been confused back then. Nicole had announced her pregnancy around the time Kate was dealing with Steve. Involved in her own problems, Kate hadn’t seen much of her parents or sister. Instead, she’d buried her head down a hole, pretending Steve didn’t have a problem with alcohol. And agreed the constant physical and verbal abuse was her fault, just as Steve said.
At least she’d wised-up.
Kate climbed the wooden ladder and fumbled for the light switch. A jumbled heap of boxes piled against one wall. She sneezed. A layer of dust rose and resettled when she stepped inside.
Over to her right, the light caught on an enormous spider web. A black spider the size of a ten-cent piece sat in the middle. Kate edged past it with careful respect.
Of course nothing was labeled. That would have been smart. Sighing, she lifted the top box off the pile and opened the flaps.
Two hours later, Kate still worked hard at her self-imposed chore. Her initial enthusiasm had long since disappeared. In fact, if Lane Gerrard were to make an appearance right now…
“Ouch!” Kate sucked her thumb for an instant before studying a paper cut on her forefinger. She swore under her breath while struggling with the last of the large cardboard cartons. She opened it to find manila folders full of yellowed bank statements and a stack of old invoices.
“It has to be here,” she muttered, pausing to rub a grimy hand across her perspiring face. Kate rifled through the contents rapidly before pouncing on a folded piece of paper with unsteady hands. The dusty folders in her lap slid unheeded to the floor while she unfolded the crumpled certificate. Success.
Her gaze fastened on the spot where the father’s details normally appeared. Damn. Someone, probably Nicole, had scribbled out the father’s name with black felt-tip pen, obliterating every single detail.
Kate had no idea why Nicole would deface the certificate, but she figured temper accounted for the act because the single page was badly creased and looked as if someone had screwed it up into a ball before smoothing it out again.
“Fat lot of help this is,” she muttered, flinging the offending article from her in disgust. Disappointment made her throat ache. There would be no quick fix for this problem.
She climbed to her feet and stretched out the kinks garnered from sitting in one position for a long time. The attic looked as if a cyclone had struck. Irritation edged up to fury. Bother the man and his snide accusations.
Kate clambered down the ladder, paused, and went back to grab the certificate. She shoved it in her jeans pocket, flicked off the light and pulled the door shut.
Kate heard the front door slam and paused at the top of the stairs. The crash, followed by the thud of a bag and sound of running feet told her Jamie had arrived home. She hadn’t realized it was so late. Her nine-year-old son burst through the doorway, his face red with exertion.
“Kate! Kate!”
“Up here, Jamie,” Kate called.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Is it true?” he demanded, his dark hair as ruffled as the nuance of his words.
Kate walked down the staircase to join him. “What’s true?” she asked, playing for time. Unfortunately, she suspected she knew what he wanted to know.
“This!”
Kate’s heart fluttered uneasily then sank when Jamie thrust a newspaper at her. She studied his face, his olive-skinned coloring, trying to superimpose what she remembered of Lane Gerrard on her son. They had the same hair and similar features. But that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted positive proof. Her mind skittered away from DNA tests and the extra expense. No, she needed to order another copy of Jamie’s birth certificate first.
Jamie gestured at the newspaper, thumping his screwed up fist at the bold headline. “Everyone in my team laughed at me, except the twins. Is it true?” He looked to her, silently pleading with her to tell him everything would be okay.
Kate’s stomach contracted to a hard ball on seeing his hurt and confusion. She wanted to make it right for her son but couldn’t. What was she going to tell him? How was she going to explain? She hesitated before plunging ahead, even though she didn’t know what to do. “Jamie, we need to talk.”
“Reporters came to rugby practice,” he said.
“They did?” Slimy snakes. She swallowed hard, trying to conceal her fury. Why couldn’t they leave Jamie out of this? Lane Gerrard could cope with the publicity, but Jamie shouldn’t have to suffer. He was only nine, an innocent child.
Jamie stared at her, accusation on his young face. “They said Lane Gerrard is my father. That’s not true. Mum said my father died.”
Kate’s stomach lurched again in reaction. Jamie started to wheeze, and she jumped up to retrieve his inhaler from his school bag. “Sit down, Jamie. What else did they say?” she asked, feeling her way in the conversation in much the way a blind man would—cautiously and carefully.
“Coach made them leave. He called the police.”
Kate gave a mental cheer for the team coach. From today, he had her unreserved support and maybe she’d think harder on accepting one of his numerous requests to take her out for dinner.
“Jamie, sit.” She placed her hands on his thin shoulders, forcing him to follow instructions this time, and dropped to the stair at his side. “I found out about the newspaper story today when Mr. Gerrard came to see me. I’m not sure what’s going on, but Mr. Gerrard isn’t happy either. I don’t think your mum would lie to you, do you?”
Jamie used his inhaler before shaking his head.
Kate made her smile reassuring. “I don’t either. Tomorrow I’ll go to the Registrar’s office and buy a copy of your birth certificate. That will tell us the name of your father and we can sort this mess out. Okay?”
Jamie nodded, his eyes brightening with a little more of his natural enthusiasm.
“How was school today?” Kate asked. “Do you have any homework?”
“Miss Petrie is giving us a spelling test tomorrow. I have to learn ten new words tonight.”
Kate ruffled his dark hair, her eyes misting with the fierce tug of love she felt for him. “Why don’t you have a shower and change? You can sit in the kitchen while I start dinner, and I’ll help you with your spelling.”
“Okay,” he agreed, bounding away and up the stairs.
“Don’t forget your school bag and bring your lunch box back with you,” Kate called after him. She grinned when he thumped back down the stairs to grab his bag.
She walked through to the kitchen and dragged a handful of potatoes from the pantry. Lane Gerrard. The man might look like calendar material, but he presented a major disturbance Jamie and she didn’t need. Especially Jamie. She reached into the cupboard for a pot and thumped it down. Potato peel shot into the sink, pinging like gunshots in a Western shoot-out.
Arrogant. Cynical. Impatient. Too handsome…
Jamie clattered into the kitchen, his lunch box tucked under his arm. Kate rinsed a potato, dropped it in the pot and wiped her hands on a towel.
“Would you like a glass of orange juice?” she asked.
“Yes please.”
The phone rang just as she reached for the jug. “Can you answer that please, Jamie?”
He galloped over to the phone with his usual noisy thumps. Kate winced at the crash of a chair and poured the juice, setting it in a safe place on the counter.
“Hello, Jamie Alexander,” he said in his best phone-answering voice. “Hello? Hello?” He turned to Kate, still holding the phone to his ear. “No one there.”
“They must’ve rung the wrong number.” Kate dropped the last potato in the pot and placed them on the stovetop ready to cook. “What’s your first word?”
Jamie climbed onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Newmarket.”
“Do you know how to spell it?” She lifted the lid on the crock-pot she’d set going earlier in the day and prodded the corned beef with a fork.
“That’s easy,” he said. “N-e-w—” His head snappe
d around to stare at a box on the end of the counter near where he sat. “Kate, what’s in this box? It’s making funny noises.”
“What box? What noises?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
Jamie picked up the courier parcel. “This one.”
“A courier dropped it off earlier. It’s probably the aromatherapy supplies I ordered a few days ago. What sort of noises?” she asked, amused.
Jamie hesitated. “Sorta rustling,” he said finally.
As a broad hint to open a parcel, his wasn’t a bad one. Original. Kate turned to the stove to hide her wide grin. “You can open it if you want.”
Kate peeked over her shoulder, watching Jamie open the box. Pieces of brown tape and paper flew in all directions as he attacked the package.
“The box has holes in it,” he said, and he pried the lid open. “Oh Kate. Look!” Both awe and excitement shaded his voice.
Kate stepped closer to look over his shoulder and promptly jumped back. “Ugh! Put the lid on!”
The long black and white body lying amongst the lining twitched at her sharp screech of distaste.
Jamie peered into the box and made low, reassuring sounds. “Aw, it’s sick. You frightened it.”
Kate moved back another step and took the precaution of standing on a chair, safely out of harm’s way before offering further instructions. “Don’t touch it.”
The “it” in question gave another feeble twitch. Kate struggled for control. She didn’t like the way its small beady eyes peered in her direction.
“Can I keep it? I’ve never had a pet rat before.”
Kate swallowed as she eyed the box and contents. And he’d never have a pet rat if she had anything to do with it. She improvised wildly. “We don’t have the special cage a rat needs…and it looks very sick,” she finished, hope in her heart. Her head snapped around when the doorbell rang in a timely interruption. “I’ll answer the door.” Kate climbed down from her safe perch. She cast an apprehensive look at the flimsy box, the only thing holding the rat in captivity, and shivered. “Don’t let it out.”
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