Looking After Dad

His blue eyes glittered. “You’re guarding Harriet and only Harriet.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT Copyright

His blue eyes glittered. “You’re guarding Harriet and only Harriet.”

“All right, but the note referred to both of you, so surely it—”

“Must you always argue?” Lorcan demanded.

“I am not arguing,” she said. “I’m suggesting that if I have a quick reconnoiter—”

“And I’m suggesting that you shut up!”

Jess felt the hot smack of anger. She did not know how it had happened, but a flash fire seemed to have erupted between them and they were fighting like fiends.

Lorcan lowered his tone to a husky snarl. “Did anyone ever tell you that you can be an infuriating woman?”

She straightened her shoulders, which thrust out her breasts. “All the time.”

“How about a sexy one?” he growled and, hooking a hand around her neck, he yanked her close and kissed her.

FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them. All will make it—whether they like it or not!

ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage, the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and a son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance accepted in 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. They live in London, England, and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the background of her books.

Looking After Dad

Elizabeth Oldfield

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS one of those days when it would have been smarter to ignore the bossy beep-beep of the alarm, pull the covers up high over her head and stay in bed.

Clutching a half-eaten prawn and mayonnaise sandwich in one hand and with a magnum of champagne in the other, Jess Pallister sped along the busy city street. First she had forgotten to buy fresh muesli so had had to miss breakfast, then the showers at the pool were out of order, next she had received a worrying gift, and finally, when she was looking forward to a calm afternoon at her easel, an unexpected interview had been sprung on her.

She was a darn sight too pliable, Jess thought as she swerved to avoid a youth dispensing a confetti of ‘cheap pizza’ vouchers. Instead of saying an outright, blunt and forestalling no, she had listened—and allowed herself to be sweet-talked into going along.

‘Sounds like a dream assignment,’ her brother had declared, when relaying the brief details, but she had been on what he had claimed were ‘dream’ assignments before and they had turned out to be nightmares. Her fingers tightened around the throat of the champagne bottle. Like the one with Roscoe Dunbar.

Reaching a glistening white tower block, Jess pushed around revolving doors and into a vast marble-floored lobby. A look was snatched at her watch. She hated to be late and there was five minutes to spare. Five minutes in which to finish her lunch on the hoof and present herself—cool, calm and collected—at the twentieth and top-floor offices of Sir Peter Warwick, business tycoon and international hotelier.

She scanned the bank of lifts and on seeing one with doors smoothly closing leapt forward. Using her bulging sports bag as an impromptu battering ram, she hurtled in through the gap, which forced the half-dozen or so occupants into a collective backwards shuffle.

‘Made it,’ she mumbled, shining a general smile of apology, and turned to inspect the wall indicator panel. Someone had already pressed the ‘20’ lozenge.

As the lift began to rise, Jess took another bite of her sandwich. She might have been persuaded to attend the interview, but that did not mean she would be pliable again and meekly accept the job. No chance. As Kevin had acknowledged it was her decision, and it only required one snag and she intended to refuse. Mutiny simmered in her hazel brown eyes. The days of being Miss Amenable were over. From now on, she did what she wanted to do and ran her life her way.

The lift stopped to allow a couple of middle-aged men with briefcases to get out and, in the pause, Jess ate the remainder of her sandwich. As the ascent restarted, she licked crumbs from the corners of her mouth and wiped her fingers on a tissue. Before she faced the business tycoon lipstick needed to be applied and her hair brushed through, but she would do that when the surprisingly lethargic lift reached the top floor.

Jess hitched the sports bag higher onto her shoulder. Her fellow passengers were all prime examples of city-smart sartorial elegance, whereas in a paint-dotted pastel pink tunic and black leggings which looked as if they might date from the Battle of Trafalgar she was casual. Casual, flustered and disgruntled. Lowering her head, she gave a discreet sniff. Yuck. She also smelled faintly of chlorine.

For a second time the lift halted, disgorged people and resumed its leisurely journey. Now the only other occupant was a man who stood beside the opposite wall. She cast him a glance. With his arms folded across his chest and his head bent, he was lost in thought. He looked sombre and tense. As if this September day had not turned out to be exactly a bundle of laughs for him, either.

He was in his late thirties, tall—she estimated around six feet four—and had a lean, rangy frame. Thick dark hair fell over his forehead in engaging windswept disarray and his skin bore the golden remains of a tan. Clad in an immaculate navy pin-striped suit, he looked like a business executive; yet the hair, which was worn long enough to brush his collar, and a jazzy pink, blue and white patterned silk tie suggested he was not the conventional city type, but had a touch of the maverick about him.

She could not see his eyes, but he had a broad brow, straight nose and granite jaw. His features were too tight-drawn for him to be classified as handsome, yet even standing still he possessed an inherent masculine vibrancy which made him magnetic. The darkness, almost blue-black, of his hair hinted at a Latin lineage...or could it be Irish? She settled on Irish. His mood seemed tinged with the melancholy of the Celt.

He would be someone who was accustomed to command, she assessed, and who did not suffer fools—

Abruptly realising that the man had noticed her examination and was looking coolly and somewhat aggressively back, Jess switched her gaze to the indicator panel. Did he think she had been sizing him up? As other women had doubtless sized him up on numerous occasions before. If so, he was wrong. Her job meant she was trained to be observant and to take note, and he had intrigued her as a case study, that was all. She chewed at her lip. Should she make a comment—perhaps about his tie—which would show she had absolutely no personal interest and defuse the situation?

As the light illuminated for the eighth floor, she turned towards him. ‘I do like—’

Bang! The champagne exploded. The cork shot out from the bottle like the obligatory speeding bullet, whistled past the man’s ear and thudded with a thwack against the wall behind him. Ribbons of white foam followed, spurting crazily. All of a sudden, it was New Year’s Eve.

Startled, Jess jumped. She blinked. Her mouth fell open and she gaped. The man was being sprayed. He had brought his right arm up to shield his eyes, but froth was spewing over his dark hair, across the width of his broad shoulders, splattering like fast-melting snow on the pinstriped jacket.

‘Oh, dear!’ she bleated, holding helplessly onto the magnum with two hands as the foam turned into a high-pressure liquid jet.

Now champagne rained onto his face, swamped his sleeve, was flowing in fast bubbly rivulets down his suit.

‘Away,’ the man rasped.

Jess looked blankly at him through the downpour. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Hold the’bloody bottle away!’ he bellowed.

‘Oh...yes.’

She straightened up the magnum, which meant the champagne hit the roof of the lift like a geyser and showered down onto the two of them. Though only for a moment for, with a violent oath, the man leapt forward, grabbed hold of the neck and directed the torrent down and into a corner. There it gushed for a couple more seconds before diminishing into a harmless dribble.

‘For God’s sake!’ he rasped, glaring at her.

His eyes proved to be an astonishing pale blue, fringed with thick black lashes. They were beautiful eyes, the kind of eyes about which poets waxed lyrical and whose soft gaze would reduce maidenly hearts to marshmallow—though right now they blazed with the hard flame of anger.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Jess said. ‘Everything happened so fast, I was taken by surprise.’

‘But why did it happen?’ her victim demanded, swiping hanks of dripping jet-black hair back from his brow.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied, and stopped.

A giggle had bubbled up in her throat. He looked so furious and bedraggled that, all of a sudden, his plight took on a comical air and she was stricken by an acute urge to laugh. Or was it nerves? Whatever, if the last couple of minutes had been videoed and shown on prime-time ‘Candid Camera’ TV, audiences worldwide would be in tucks.

‘Don’t risk it,’ he warned, showing himself to be disconcertingly alert.

Jess gulped down the giggle. He was in no mood to join her in mutual mirth. Indeed, if her lips as much as twitched she would be inviting mayhem.

‘The bottle was secure when I took it out of the box half an hour ago,’ she continued, now resolutely straight-faced, ‘and all I’ve done is come here.’

Pulling a white handkerchief out of his pocket, the man began to mop his face and hair. ‘You ran?’ he asked, and answered his own question. ‘Yes, when you barged into the lift and damn near knocked everyone flying, you were bright red and panting.’

Jess’s lips tightened. He exaggerated. There had been no danger of her knocking into anyone. Nor did she appreciate his ‘bright red’ comment, which made her sound like a beetroot. To be wearing grungy clothes was disadvantage enough without him downgrading her appearance.

‘I have an appointment and am short of time,’ she said, in a taut justification.

‘So you jogged and bounced up the champagne?’ His lip curled. ‘Great!’

The lift was slowing for the sixteenth floor. When the doors opened should she make a quick exit? Jess wondered. Escape might be the coward’s way out, yet it was tempting in that it would save her from more embarrassment and the risk of further condemnation. But, though the lift had dallied on the point of stopping, it suddenly speeded up again. Floor sixteen had come and gone.

With a disgusted look at his now sodden handkerchief, the man pushed it gingerly back into his pocket. ‘Pity the cork didn’t pop when the lift was full, then you could’ve drenched en masse and really had a chuckle,’ he said, in a low, gravelly voice which, she registered, contained a trace of an American accent.

‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ Jess protested.

‘You just didn’t think?’

She glowered. Must he be so accusing and patronising—and so right?

‘No,’ she was forced to agree.

Again the lift reduced speed, dawdled tantalisingly around the seventeenth floor and went at full lick again.

‘Do you suppose we might break down?’ she asked, in sudden alarm.

Enduring his company now was bad enough, but to be trapped with him—maybe for hours!—would be a real bed of nails.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing would surprise me,’ the man said, as though she might have been tinkering with the lift’s motor and was responsible for its malfunction. ‘But if we’re marooned I shan’t be a happy bunny, especially as I also have an appointment and—’ looking down at his suit, he spread his hands in a curt gesture of impatience ‘—I’m wet through.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Jess said again.

‘I should damn well think you are!’

She bridled. She resented being bawled out quite so thoroughly.

‘Tell me, are you always this tetchy?’ she enquired.

‘When I’m doused in champagne from head to foot, pretty much.’

‘It was an accident,’ she defended.

He arched a brow. ‘The hand of fate?’

‘Yes.’ Putting down the bottle, Jess rooted around in her sports bag and found a tissue. ‘Let me soak up the worst.’

In grim silence, her victim held out his arm and she began to blot at his sleeve. All of a sudden, she halted. The tissue she was using was the one she had used to wipe her fingers and now a streak of pale lemon mayonnaise smeared the fine navy cloth.

The man raised his eyes as if appealing to the heavens to grant him forbearance. ‘Why don’t I strip off all my clothes and you can jump up and down on top of them,’ he suggested, ‘and perhaps kick them around the floor for a while?’

Jess gave a strained smile. She wanted to kick herself—and him. ‘It won’t stain,’ she vowed, finding a wad of new tissues and frantically scrubbing, and to her huge relief the mayonnaise disappeared.

As he stood erect and cautious, she mopped the wet from his shoulders and started to dab at his chest. Her pulse rate quickened. She might be performing a practical chore for a hostile stranger, yet it was difficult to ignore the muscled physique beneath his clothes. It was also difficult not to imagine what he would look like if he did strip naked. Lithe, honey-skinned and of Greek god proportions.

‘No more,’ the man instructed, taking a sudden step backwards.

Jess looked at him. He wanted her to stop, but why? Surely he had not recognised her rising tension and—oh, horror—sensed her vivid imaginings?

Don’t be silly, she told herself, he’s not a mind reader. It must be a case of him being affected by the physical contact, too. Even if her face had been red and might still be a little pink, she was not too hard on the eye. Indeed, her combination of blonde gamine looks, tall, slim figure and long legs had been known to make men go weak at the knees.

Jess was smugly congratulating herself on having unsettled him, when she realised that the damp tissues had begun to break up and were leaving tiny white flecks over his jacket. She groaned. Why, when he had confirmed her assessment of him as not suffering fools, must she play the clown with her every move?

‘I should never’ve got up this morning,’ she muttered.

‘It would have made my life one heck of a sight easier,’ the man agreed stingingly.

‘The bits’ll come off,’ she said, refolding the tissues to a dry patch.

He raised a long-fingered hand. ‘Leave it,’ he ordered.

‘But—’

‘Would you do me a favour and keep away from me? Well away.’

She stuffed the tissues back into the sports bag. So much for trying to help—and so much for her sex appeal. The only way to make his knees weaken would be to hit them with a mallet!

The lift was stopping and when Jess looked at the panel the light showed that, in her do-gooder confusion, the slow-pause-start procedure at the two previous floors had passed unnoticed and they had reached their destination. Heaven be praised.

‘I’ll pay for your suit to be cleaned,’ she said, delving in amongst her swimming gear to find her purse.

‘Thanks for the offer, but there’s no need.’

‘I’d like to pay.’

The man hoisted a brow. ‘With what—notes which glue themselves to the hand or dye the skin bright purple or give off that fragrant aroma of swimming pool which I’ve detected? If you don’t mind, I’ll pass.’

Her temper flared. The yellow flecks burned in her hazel eyes. Where pure unvarnished sarcasm was concerned, he ranked as a Grand Master.

‘I do mind,’ she began to insist, but he ignored her.

‘I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Indeed, my only regret is that we shall never meet again,’ he said, his tone as dry as dust, and as the doors slid aside he stepped out onto the wide pale-carpeted corridor and strode away.

Jess stuck out her tongue at his broad back. It might have been a juvenile yah-boo response, yet it felt immensely satisfying.

She frowned down at the note which she held in her hand. Her instinct was to chase after him and thrust it stubbornly into his pocket—why should he be allowed to dictate everything?—but after a moment she returned it to her purse. She had no wish to be ordered to keep away again and, in any case, once she embarked on a full-time painting career she was going to need all available cash.

Her eyes went to the champagne-spattered walls and patch of soggy carpet. The lift required attention. Walking out to drop the empty bottle into a convenient waste bin, she looked up and down the corridor. The stranger had disappeared off to the right, but in the distance on the left two women in overalls were chatting beside a vacuum cleaner. She alerted them to the state of the lift and asked for directions to the ladies’ room.

Jess washed her hands, coloured her lips with ‘Rosy Amber’ and brushed her hair. Whether it was due to being sprinkled with champagne or because of the chlorine she could not decide, but her corn-blonde urchin cut felt like fuse wire.

She checked her wristwatch. Damn. She was now almost ten minutes late and had still to locate the required suite of offices.

After consulting the cleaning women, who had become busy in the lift, she trekked off down what seemed like miles of corridors until she reached glass swing doors emblazoned with the gold-etched words ‘Warwick Group’. Both the reception area and the secretary’s room to where she was directed were elegantly decorated with neutral cream walls and carpet, offset by richly coloured curtains and upholstery in dark green and magenta. Solid walnut desks and bookshelves gave a feel of bygone years, while the only contemporary note was struck by a cool white computer.

‘I’m Jessica Pallister from Citadel Security and I have an appointment with Sir Peter Warwick,’ she informed the secretary, who was a bustling middle-aged brunette.

‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’ the woman said, with a smile, and disappeared through a connecting door. ‘He’s not quite ready and asks if you would kindly wait a few minutes,’ she reported, coming back. ‘Please, take a seat. I must collect a fax,’ she continued, hurrying towards the outer door. ‘Do excuse me.’

Grateful that her lack of punctuality had been of no consequence, Jess sat down. As she waited, she recapped on the few facts which Kevin had been given about the job. It seemed that Sir Peter had received a note which threatened the safety of an associate who was involved in the construction of a hotel which the Warwick Group were building in Mauritius. A female relative of the person was also at risk and they wished to discuss the employment of two bodyguards, one a woman, initially for a period of three months.

‘All the guys are tied up today, but this is just an exploratory talk,’ her brother had said, ‘so we can decide who goes with you later.’

‘If I go,’ she had pointed out.

Working on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean would put her way beyond Roscoe Dunbar’s reach, Jess reflected, which was a plus. But, on the minus side, whilst blue skies, swaying palms and silver-white beaches had a glamorous spin and were fine on holiday, as a three-month working environment they could become repetitive. Boring. Dull. Yet the bottom line was that after almost five years of shooting off here, there and everywhere on the spur of the moment she had had enough.

She frowned down at her ankle-booted feet. She wanted to stay home, pick up the threads with old friends and concentrate on her painting. This morning she had been all set to announce the decision which, although reached on the spur of the moment, had been building for a long time and cut loose, but Kevin had had his say first. And because she had idolised him from being a tiny girl—as she idolised her other two brothers, Jess thought wryly—she had fallen in with his wishes and agreed to consider the job. Though only consider.

All of a sudden, she tilted her head. The secretary could not have closed the connecting door properly for it had sprung open and through the gap she could hear voices. A trio of male voices. Two of them were low and indecipherable, but the third was plummily, youthfully strident and rang out.

‘I believe it’s for real and I insist we take precautions, for our protection as well as yours,’ the voice said. ‘But don’t fret, you’re not going to be landed with two hulking brutes of ex-boxers, because one of them is a woman.’

Jess sat straighter. They were discussing security. One of the other men spoke earnestly and in what could be recognised as objection, then the ringing voice intruded.

‘Ease up, Lorcan. I’m sure your idea of an Amazon who splits bricks with her bare hands and has hairs sprouting from her chin is way off the mark,’ it said, and its owner guffawed.

Her hazel eyes burned. Whoever Lorcan was, he had a vivid and insulting imagination!

More indecipherable conversation followed, with the third man joining in, and again the strident voice sounded.

‘Let’s bring Miss Pallister through and—’

‘You have this all fixed?’ the objector demanded, his voice lifting in protest, but the connecting door had already been swung open and a baby-faced young man was strolling out.

With gelled fair hair slicked back from his brow and wearing a pearl-grey designer suit, grey shirt, white tie and white leather shoes, he had the self-satisfied air of someone who considered himself to be a cool dude.

Jess rose from her chair. ‘Hello.’

Taking a deep drag on the cheroot which he held between two fingers, the young man looked her up and down.

‘Gerard Warwick, delighted to meet you,’ he murmured, with a smile which was a touch too smooth, a touch too intimate, and, hooking an arm around her shoulders, he steered her with him into the adjoining office. ‘See, Lorcan,’ he said triumphantly, and indicated a portly, silver-haired man in his sixties, who was seated behind a leather-topped desk. ‘My father, Sir Peter.’

‘Good afternoon,’ Jess said, smiling, and when the business tycoon came round to greet her she shook his hand and introduced herself.

Her smile and introduction were automatic. All she could focus on was the fact that Lorcan, the man whom she had just passed and who had also risen to his feet, was the man from the lift. Though she ought to have guessed, she thought sourly. That ‘hairs on her chin’ remark could only have come from him!

CHAPTER TWO

SIR PETER thanked her for responding to his call at such short notice, which allowed Jess to apologise for her casual appearance.

‘You look charming, my dear,’ he declared, with a benign and patently sincere smile. ‘May I introduce Lorcan Hunter?’ he continued. ‘Lorcan is a highly esteemed and much sought-after architect, and we’re fortunate that he’s building us the most magnificent hotel village in Mauritius.’

She held out her hand. ‘Good afternoon.’

After a millisecond’s hesitation, when she wondered if he might refuse, her erstwhile victim shook it. His grip was firm and brief. It had occurred to her that it might also be sticky, but it was not. He, too, appeared to have diverted into a bathroom, for his dark hair was neatly combed and no tissue speckles marred the navy pinstriped splendour of his suit. In fact, the only visible evidence of the champagne fiasco was the slightly marinated appearance of his right sleeve.