'It's all right,' she whispered, and then David had stepped into the room.
'Give the boy to me and finish your packing.'
She had turned towards him, watching as his golden eyes focused on the baby. Reluctantly, she had handed over the drowsing child. He had accepted Jamie awkwardly, holding him as if he were made of glass. Then, to her surprise, his tense features softened and he smiled down at the baby. The child frowned and Rachel stepped forward, anticipating a loud wail. But Jamie's frown changed to a smile. Pain had lanced through her as she looked from the man to the baby. You didn't need birth certificates or blood tests or Cassie's rambling story to prove these two were father and son. There was the same darkly waving hair, the same wide, gold-flecked eyes, the same full lower lip.
The sound of the car changing down on the steep mountain grade brought her back to the present. She glanced at the man beside her. It was hard to picture Cassie with him. Cassie had liked men who were wealthy, yes, and powerful—those qualities had been all too attractive to her. But she had preferred men who laughed and joked a lot, men who would do nothing but dance attendance on her. It was hard to envisage this man dancing attendance on any woman. But her stepsister had told her about David's determined seduction, about the flowers and phone calls and promises that had lured her into his bed for a long Caribbean weekend.
Her eyes moved over David's face, visible in the pale dawn light. There was a grim set to his mouth, a hardness to his jawline, but even so, a hint of sensuality lurked beneath the cold exterior. He wasn't the type Cassie had usually liked. She had preferred her men fair and polished, but there was nothing polished about this man. He was rough and abrasively masculine, in spite of his well-tailored three-piece suit. Rachel could see the faint scar she had noticed earlier, and now, seeing him in profile, she realised that his nose was slightly crooked, as if it had once been broken and improperly healed. He had high cheekbones and a faintly clefted square jaw. His lashes were long and sooty over those strange, gold-flecked eyes that had seemed to look through her hours before.
Her glance drifted to his hands lying loosely on the steering wheel, the fingers long and lean. She could still remember their bite as he'd pulled her into his arms and punished her with a kiss that told her, more clearly than words, what he thought of her. What had he judged her by? she wondered. The way she looked in her Golden Rooster costume? She glanced down at her old corduroy trousers and shapeless sweater. This was the real Rachel Cooper, not the woman who wore black net stockings and four-inch-high heels. 'Don't judge a book by its cover,' had been another of her grandmother's sayings, and it was a good one. She was still the same person she'd been when she was a secretary, and wore dark dresses and suits. The only difference was that she earned more money now, money she needed to support a child. And being a cocktail waitress meant she had the daylight hours free to be with Jamie. Her life was hard, but Jamie made it all worthwhile. He was worth everything. He...
'I should think the boy would be too much for you,' David said suddenly.
Was the man a mind-reader? Rachel wondered. Her eyes met his defiantly. 'He's never been too much for me.'
A thin smile tilted the corner of his mouth. 'We'll get along better if you don't read a hidden message into everything I say, Rachel. I only meant that he seems quite an armful, and I had a special seat installed for him in the back.'
She barely glanced into the shadowed rear of the BMW. 'Yes, so I noticed. You were sure of the outcome, weren't you, Mr Griffin? You never doubted that you'd get your own way, did you?'
'This isn't a contest of wills, Rachel. Jamie is my son. I have legal rights.'
Rachel swallowed past the bitter taste that flooded her mouth. 'You don't have to keep reminding me of that,' she said flatly. 'That's the only reason Jamie and I are here. Believe me, if I thought for a minute I could fight your money and your lawyers and your name....'
He looked at her again. The lightening sky allowed her to see the faint gleam of amusement in his eyes.
'Tell yourself that, if it makes it easier. But you and I will get along better once you accept the facts.'
Her anger overrode her caution at the smug assurance in his voice. 'You and I won't get along at all! Cassie told me exactly what kind of man you were, and she was right. You...' She bit back the rest of her words and turned away from him.
'Don't stop now,' he said in a silky voice. 'So few people have the courage to tell me what they think of me to my face.'
'How on earth my sister could have become involved with someone like you...'
'I suppose I'm everything Cassie said I was.'
Her eyes met his. 'You are indeed. My sister...'
'Your stepsister.'
Rachel shrugged impatiently. 'I never thought of her as anything but my sister. My father married her mother when she was four and I was eight. I took care of her and advised her..
David smiled mirthlessly. 'Not very well.'
A flush rose to her cheeks. 'Cassie didn't ask my advice about you, unfortunately. She was a grown woman— but I wish I'd known how you were pressuring her. I'd have tried to talk her out of going away with you.'
He laughed. 'Is that what she told you?'
'Are you surprised? We were very close. She told me everything—how you treated her when she found out she was pregnant, how you denied the child she was carrying was yours. It's too bad it took her death to change your mind,' she added, bitterness sharpening her voice. 'It's a little late for Cassie.'
'My concern is for my son,' he said coldly. 'Nothing more.'
'I really wish I could find that touching, Mr Griffin. But somehow all this concern seems out of character. I just don't see you as the fatherly type. This sudden interest in Jamie puzzles me. I don't understand...'
'You don't have to,' he said bluntly. 'All you have to do is make the transition period easier for him. After he's made the adjustment, I'll keep my end of the bargain. I'll pay you handsomely. I may even agree to let you see the boy once in a great while.'
The breath caught in her throat as she pictured the loneliness of a future without Jamie. 'Once in a while?' she repeated.
David nodded. 'And I'll keep my word. I've been told that's my greatest asset.'
Rachel's eyebrows rose. 'Well,' she said evenly, 'one asset is better than none.'
She grasped the arm-rest as the car whipped around a narrow curve. They were climbing a ribbon of road that circled around a mountain in smaller and smaller rings. Suddenly the grey stone walls of a house became visible through the trees, glowering over a meadow like a prehistoric beast.
'Is that your house?'
The car slowed before an iron gate that was overgrown with ivy. David nodded and pressed a button on the dash. 'My home,' he said, while the gate slowly opened. 'And Jamie's.'
The way he said it seemed designed to remind her of her status as Jamie's nurse, but it was unnecessary, The enormous house looming before them was as intimidating as its owner and sufficient reminder that she was only an employee. Rachel shifted uneasily, clutching the sleeping child more closely to her as they drove into the circular driveway and stopped before the front door. He switched off the engine just as the. door swung open, and a middle-aged couple emerged from the house. Rachel half expected the man to open the car door, but he stood back, smiling politely, while David let himself out of the BMW.
'Good morning, Barton. The car's stumbling a bit. Check the injectors, will you?'
'Yes, sir. How'd she handle otherwise?'
David grinned, and the hard lines of his face softened as they had when he'd held Jamie in his arms.
'Like a kestrel aching to try her wings,' he said.
The man smiled. 'Then I'll check those injectors right away.' He glanced at Rachel and nodded. 'Morning, ma'am. Nice to meet you.'
Rachel nodded stiffly. They hadn't met, not really, but this man—the chauffeur or the butler, it seemed— didn't seem the least surprised at the sight of a slightly dishevelled w
oman with a baby in her arms. Well, she thought, of course—David Griffin had said his housekeeper had been alerted. The woman probably had told the servants—and there would be servants, many of them, she thought uncomfortably, looking at the house again. And she... she was one of them now.
'Barton will put your things in your room,' said David as she stepped from the car. 'This is Emma, my housekeeper. Give the boy to her.'
Another command, Rachel thought. 'I can manage.'
'I didn't ask if you could manage, Rachel.'
'I know you didn't,' she said carefully. 'I'm simply telling you that I can. I have been, all along...'
'Give him to her!'
His voice snapped like a whip. She lifted her chin and stared into his eyes. Don't anger him, a voice inside her whispered, but the contempt she read in them made her spine stiffen.
'No,' she said. The simple word hung in the air between them.
His eyes narrowed. 'Emma,' he said softly, and the housekeeper stepped forward, wiping her hands on her apron.
'You can trust me, miss,' she said. 'The lad will be fine.'
Rachel looked into the woman's smiling face and then she sighed. 'He's probably hungry,' she said.
Emma nodded. 'I raised five of my own,' she said as Rachel put the. sleeping child into her outstretched arms. 'Ah, he's a beautiful child, isn't he?'
'Take him to the nursery,' David said sharply. 'Rachel, give Emma Jamie's things.'
It was useless to argue. A lump rose in her throat as she handed the suitcase over. She felt as if she were re linquishing Jamie for ever, and she was. This was, after all, the beginning of his life as David Griffin's son.
'He needs changing...' she began, and David's hand closed on her shoulder.
'Emma is quite capable. After we settle some things, you can join him.' His eyes followed hers and he laughed sharply. 'The house isn't going to swallow him. Believe me, you'll have no trouble finding the nursery.'
He was making fun of her, she knew that—but there was an underlying truth in the jest. The house was huge. It wasn't difficult to imagine endless corridors and rooms opening into other rooms, all of it like a gloomy labyrinth. Taking a breath, she followed him through the door, readying herself for an interior as cold and forbidding as its owner. Her apartment was shabby and tiny, but at least it had a warmth this place would never achieve.
She stumbled to a surprised halt as the door swung shut behind her. Instead of the dark Victorian gloom and lumpy velvet furnishings she had expected, the entry foyer was all light woods and smoked glass. There were pots and tubs of plants everywhere. There was even a small tree just beside the door, its oval leaves silvery green in the early morning sun that illuminated the room through a huge skylight. A pale blue Aubusson runner led across the parquet floor towards a curving staircase that climbed to the second-floor balcony. A door slammed shut somewhere overhead, and Rachel tilted her head back, trying unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the housekeeper. David took her by the elbow and led her through the foyer and past the stairs.
'I assure you, he'll be fine. I'm going to arrange for some breakfast. Are you sure you won't have something?'
'No,' she said automatically, although this time the offer made her stomach growl. When had she eaten last? Before she went to work? No, no, she'd been running late... And there hadn't even been time to snatch a sandwich at the club. It had been a busy night, and one of the other waitresses hadn't shown up. The rest of them had had to work their tails off. But she couldn't bring herself to accept anything from David Griffin. Her stomach growled again and she cleared her throat to cover the sound. 'Coffee, perhaps,' she said at last.
He nodded. 'Fine. We'll have it in the library while we talk.'
He motioned towards a closed door. Rachel watched as he started down the hall, his footsteps muffled by the Aubusson. That was pathetic, she thought, as her stomach grumbled again. A lot she'd prove by not eating. Hunger strikes were meaningful for political prisoners, but not for her. After all, she wouldn't help Jamie if she fell fiat on her face or got sick. Call him back and tell him you'll take some toast with the coffee, at least...
No, she thought, pressing her lips together, no, she'd take nothing from David Griffin. Not a damned thing. The housekeeper—Emma—had seemed friendly enough. Later, after she and Griffin had finished their 'talk', she'd ask the woman for some coffee and toast. Wait in the library, he'd said, as if she were a servant to order around. But that was precisely what she was going to be, wasn't she? David Griffin's servant. His employee. His property. Their 'talk' was probably going to be a series of house rules and restrictions.
Don't think that way, she told herself grimly, walking quickly to the closed door. Don't let him intimidate you. All that matters is staying with Jamie.
She stepped into the library and the door swung shut behind her. Shadows darkened the corners of the large, gloomy room. So much for first impressions, Rachel thought, looking around her. Apparently the airy lightness of the entry foyer did not extend to the rest of the house. There were no light woods, no glass, no Aubusson rugs here. And there were no books, either, even though he'd called the room a library. The walls were lined with tapestries that were pale and faded with age, filled with men on horseback and strange birds with great, curving beaks and fierce eyes. There was a strange smell in the air—not unpleasant exactly, Rachel thought, wrinkling her nose, but not like anything she'd come across before.
She moved slowly towards the nearest tapestry-covered wall. A bird—an eagle, she thought—stared out at her in profile, its oval eye filled with an impersonal rage. There was some soft, furry thing held in its taloned foot. Rachel shuddered and moved on, sniffing at the air again. The strange odour was stronger. What was it? Sharp, acidic—maybe it was just as well she hadn't asked for breakfast. Did the entire house smell this way? Her stomach knotted in rebellion.
Something rustled drily and Rachel's heart thumped against her ribs. Over there, in the corner, behind an ornate wooden screen, something was moving. She took a deep breath. Stop it! she thought fiercely. This was not a Gothic novel. These were not the English moors and she was not a swooning governess. A nervous laugh bubbled up in her throat. But you're doing a pretty fair job of pretending to be one, was the unbidden response. The noise came again, papery and somehow alien. A mouse, she thought, moving towards the screen. A house this old was probably mouse heaven. Although it sounded awfully big for a mouse. And the smell was stronger. A rat? Could that be it? An involuntary shudder shook her. Mice were one thing; rats were quite another.
'Come on, Rachel,' she said aloud, 'stop being a fool. Just step up to the screen and...'
She heard the door swing open and then David's voice was sharp behind her. 'Stop, Rachel! Dammit, don't...'
More orders, she thought. More intimidation. Well, it wouldn't work. She was made of tougher stuff. And she wasn't about to click her heels and salute every time he barked out a command. She...
And then everything was happening in slow motion, like a dream from which she could not escape. She walked into something; it was soft and hot, and suddenly a creature from hell launched itself at her face, a thing with a serpentine neck and eyes that blazed with omnipotent fury, a thing with wings and claws. The acidic smell was in her nostrils. She gagged and threw her hands in the air, in front of her face, but not before she'd seen the blood on the thing's breast—and then there was blood on her hands, blood on her sweater, and her screams and the screams of the creature were the same, high and thin and piercing. She stumbled backwards, flailing at it, trying to drive it away.
'Stop it, Isis,' a voice growled', 'get the hell away!' Rachel turned blindly towards the voice, and suddenly strong arms closed securely around her. 'Are you all right? Rachel...'
She shook her head, burying her face against David's chest. 'David,' she gasped, 'thank God—that thing tried to kill me...' She burrowed tightly into the curve of his arm while one of his hands stroked her back.
; 'No,' he murmured, 'no, she didn't. You frightened her.'
Rachel tilted her head back and stared into his face. 'I frightened her? That creature...'
'Isis,' he said. 'She's a goshawk and her name is Isis.'
'I don't care what she is! She attacked me—I'm bleeding! My hands...'
His fingers closed around her wrists and he lifted her hands, turning them carefully. 'You're not bleeding,' he said. 'You're fine.'
Rachel shook her head. 'There's blood all over me,' she insisted.
'There's only a smear on your sweater, Rachel. Isis was eating.' His hands pressed against her shoulders. 'Take ^ look at her perch. There's a piece of meat lying on it. That's what the blood is from.' ., She forced herself to look past him. The goshawk stared back at her with fierce yellow eyes. One taloned foot rested on a chunk of bloody, raw steak. Rachel shuddered and shook her head.
'A thing like that doesn't belong in a house,' she said. 'It should be outdoors, where it can't attack people.'
David's eyebrows rose. 'She didn't attack you, Rachel. You stumbled into her perch. She was only defending herself. If you'd calm down... What the hell were you doing in here? I told you to wait for me in the library.'
'That's right, try to make it sound as if I'm to blame!' she snapped, pulling free of his arms. 'You told me to wait here.'
David shook his head. 'I told you to go into the library.'
'Stop playing word games, will you!' she snapped furiously. 'You pointed to this room. I don't care if it's the library or not. If you're going to keep something that dangerous in here, it should be behind a locked door. What if Jamie had come into this room instead of me? What if that... that thing had bitten him?'
Heart of the Hawk Page 3