Morgan's Secret Son

She swallowed nervously. The dishevelled, raven-haired man was glaring at her suspiciously from the shadowy doorway. Darkness surrounded him, a mere chink of light coming from the door he’d pulled to, as if he were defending his castle from intruders.

Extreme tiredness made her head swim with odd, fanciful images—the black-watered moat, the medieval manor and with its looming, jettied upper storey, and the sinister stranger.

She noted that his hair was wild and wind-tousled, his black brows thick and fierce and the angular jaw covered in five o’clock shadow. Wide-eyed with apprehension, she took in his hostile stare, crumpled crew-neck sweater and jeans and wondered if she’d come to the wrong house.

‘Great…Luscombe Hall?’ she queried shakily.

‘Yes!’ he clipped.

No mistake, then. And he was just a man, she reminded herself. Bad-tempered, unfriendly and unwittingly threatening, but nothing more. It was time her adrenaline climbed down to normal.

‘Then, hi!’ she called, rallying her spirits. When she took a step forward she felt the dog’s nose against her thigh and her courage faltered. ‘You’re sure I can move without losing a leg or two?’ she asked, worried.

Searingly dark eyes brooded on her poppy-coated lips and she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. He’d just stared, that was all. But a flash of something almost sexual had slid briefly through her body.

‘He’s eaten already,’ he dismissed. His mouth remained hard, as if hacked from granite by a sculptor who didn’t know how to do curves. ‘You want something?’ he shot.

It wasn’t the most gracious welcome she’d ever had! Jodie thought he sounded as if he’d got out of the wrong side of bed—and not long ago, judging by his rumpled state. Who could he be—the gardener? No—he’d been indoors. And the house might look grand enough for a butler, but not one who looked so untidy and…dangerous.

Handyman perhaps. He could have been under the floor-boards fixing something, hence his mussed-up hair.

Mystified, Jodie risked walking to the house. The dog bounded about her, circling as if she were a wayward sheep to be brought into line, and she smiled at its antics—though her city upbringing stopped her from trusting it enough to offer it a friendly pat.

‘Here, Satan!’ ordered the man sharply.

She hid a grin. Satan! That said volumes about his owner! She watched thoughtfully as the dog whirled around and flew over to its master, sitting to heel and gazing up anxiously. How severely had the dog been chastised till that level of obedience had been achieved? Fresh from living with a bully of her own, she felt her dislike of the man rack up a notch.

Close up, he seemed to tower over her slender frame, and she felt almost smothered by the tense atmosphere which surrounded him. It was clear from his manner that he was harassed and impatient, suggesting he had better things to do. Boilers to repair, pipes to lag, she thought with a sublime ignorance about maintenance. So she got to the point.

‘I’ve come to see my father,’ she told him briskly, though her joy suddenly shone through as she thought of their imminent meeting. Her fears vanished completely and she beamed, suddenly awash with happiness. This was a moment to cherish.

The man drew in his breath sharply and his eyebrows collided fiercely over his nose, as if she’d just confirmed his worst suspicions.

‘Your…father?’ he repeated ominously.

‘Sam Frazer,’ she confirmed, before the frown screwed up the man’s entire face.

‘Sam!’

He looked devastated. He’d gone quite pale beneath his olive complexion. Jodie took pity on him. Thinking only that she was seconds away from seeing her father for the first time, she gave an ecstatic grin and said, ‘Yes! It’s going to surprise a lot of people, I imagine. I’m pretty knocked out too—this house isn’t what I’d expected at all. I’d imagined my father in a little cottage with roses over the door, and wearing tweedy things with leather patches on the elbows. This is really grand!’

‘Is it?’

Jodie’s voice faltered a little at the contempt in the man’s eyes. But she wasn’t to be put off. ‘Sure it is. Now, if you’re wondering, I’m his long-lost daughter from New York,’ she explained. ‘You’ll want credentials, I suppose. Understandable. You can’t let anyone in, can you? Somewhere…I have his letter…’ Eagerly she scrabbled in her bag and produced it. ‘It’s a bit blurred in places because I cried over it,’ she pointed out hurriedly. ‘And it’s coming apart at the folds because—’

‘I get the picture,’ he said tightly.

He shot her an unreadable look from under his brows then switched on the porch light and bent his tousled head to study the first few lines. Jodie restrained her urge to leap about from one foot to the other and yell, Let me in—now! and contented herself with idly observing him as an exercise in self-discipline.

It surprised her to see that his hair was gorgeous: thick and silky, gleaming with the brilliance of a raven’s wing in the light. Her thick brown lashes fluttered with unwilling feminine admiration as her gaze took in his killer looks and the sheer masculinity of his angled jaw and powerful shoulders. Then her eyes widened in wonder. There were some creamy stains on his black sweater.

She was just pondering on this odd fact when the hairs began to rise on the back of her neck and she sensed that he must be studying her again, with that bone-slicing stare. She looked up and gasped. His expression was one of utter repugnance.

‘He wrote this six months ago,’ he said icily.

‘I know that! I replied immediately—’

‘Really?’

‘Yes!’ Her face went hot at his disbelief. ‘I did!’ Her brow furrowed when she realised what his doubt must mean. ‘Are you telling me that my father didn’t get my letters?’ she asked in dismay.

‘Correct.’

Exasperated by the monosyllabic responses, she drew her brows into an even deeper frown.

‘That’s impossible. I wrote several times in quick succession—and I telephoned twice—’ she said with dignity.

‘If that were true—if,’ he interrupted coldly, ‘why did you come?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Because I want to see him, of course! Something doesn’t add up here. I sent those letters. They can’t all have been lost.’

‘I agree. He had no letters from you. So you must be lying. I think you’d better leave.’

She glared and clenched her fists in angry distress, her mouth beginning to tremble. Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes. It would be tragic if this was as far as she got! So near, so far…

‘I’m not going till I see my father! I did write!’ she insisted in desperation. ‘Something’s happened to the mail. A wrong zip code, maybe. I spoke to a woman on the phone. I’m not imagining that. I asked for Sam Frazer, said who I was, and she told me he didn’t want to see me—’

‘Well, that final comment is true, at least,’ he drawled. ‘I suggest you turn around and go home.’

He’d turned and was about to shut the door when she lunged forward and jammed herself in the gap. The dog barked excitedly, its teeth snapping close to her thigh.

‘Ouch!’ she gasped. ‘Get this door and this dog off me!’

The pressure of the door was removed from her protesting flesh.

‘Leave!’ ordered the man.

Glowering, she stayed put; the dog backed away obediently. She rubbed her arm and thigh, conscious that she was deliberately being intimidated by the man’s looming bulk.

‘What did you do that for?’ he asked impatiently. And then, with a small thread of concern in his voice, ‘Are you hurt?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she dismissed. ‘But I couldn’t let you slam the door in my face. I’ve flown across the Atlantic to see my father. Surely he can spare a few moments of his time?’

‘No. He can’t.’

Her imploring face lifted to his. ‘Just a few moments… I won’t bother him for long, but… You must let me in,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘Please! You’ve no idea what it’s like not to know your father! I need to see him so badly—even if it’s just the once and never again! It’s not much to ask, surely? To see what he looks like, to hear his voice…’ Her own voice cracked up annoyingly. ‘I—I don’t even have a photograph! Let me have memories of him to take away with me, if nothing else,’ she added in a croaky husk. ‘Imagine how you’d feel in my position!’

‘Hell.’ His growl was followed by a long pause, as if he was struggling against his better judgement. Jodie waited with bated breath, willing him to relent. ‘You’d better come in,’ he muttered grudgingly, to her great relief.

Then, before she could gather her wits, he’d turned on his heel and was walking into the beamed hall beyond, the dog at his side. She stared at his daunting back with irritation. This guy wasn’t a servant to anyone. He oozed authority with every flicker of his ink-dark eyes. He wasn’t pleasant, either.

But everything pointed to the fact that he knew her father well. And the hostile welcome must be because he knew that her father had been disappointed and upset when her expected letters didn’t arrive.

No. Correction. There was another reason. This guy might be the person who’d dissuaded her father from going ahead with the reunion. If so, she had to persuade the guy that he had nothing to fear from her.

Jodie gave a feeble smile. Fear! He wouldn’t be afraid of the devil himself if he came calling!

Suddenly she started, remembering the recorded delivery. That must have arrived—proof enough! She would call his bluff.

In seconds she crossed the dark oak floor and caught hold of the man’s arm. It felt hard and muscled as it tensed beneath her fingers. His whole body became stiff and taut, as if she’d invaded his space. Crushed by his cold dislike, she let her hand slide away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘But I had to stop you before you reported back to my father. I want you to know I’m not lying. I can prove that I had the right address and that he must have had my letters.’

The hard, uncompromising gaze pierced into her brain and she felt giddy.

‘How?’

With an effort, Jodie pulled herself together. She might be tired and woozy, but this was important.

‘I sent a letter by recorded delivery to say I was coming. It must have been safely delivered into the right hands; it’s guaranteed! And if that arrived, then so did all the other letters!’ she said in triumph.

‘Ah.’

She followed his gaze to a circular table which groaned under a pile of unopened mail. Her letter lay on the top. Her mouth opened in amazement that anyone could be so cavalier. ‘How can you claim the rest of my mail’s gone astray?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘It’s probably all lurking beneath that heap!’

‘No. That’s just ten days’ worth,’ he said curtly.

‘Ten…! But you can’t leave mail unopened! And where are my previous letters, then? In a landfill site?’ she spluttered, aghast.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! All his earlier mail has been dealt with. So will this when… You look hot,’ he said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘Let me take your cape.’

He came up behind her and his hands were on her shoulders before she could move. But his touch seemed tentative, as if he would have preferred to avoid contact. The pure wool cape slid away, slithering across her firm breasts in a shimmer of gold.

‘Your hat,’ he ordered, appearing in front of her and holding out his hand.

He looked her up and down, and then again—perhaps startled by the vibrancy of her colour scheme, she thought with a flash of amusement. She let a smile sneak out, her hopes rising—she’d got this far at least. What did she care what had gone wrong in the past? This was now and she was here, and somewhere in this house was her own dear father.

Jodie removed her hat with a flourish, giving her head a little shake as she did so.

‘Let’s not get twitchy over what happened. There’s obviously been a muddle. The important thing is that I see him now,’ she said happily, silky brown hair still swinging around her delighted face.

His lips tightened into an uncompromisingly grim line. ‘Come into the study,’ he ordered.

She was left with her mouth open in astonishment as he strode away. This, she decided angrily, was another control freak. He told women to jump; they asked How high? Chauvinist!

She followed, the dog prowling alongside her, but she paused on the threshold of the lamp-lit room he’d entered. Her father wasn’t there. Her hands curled into angry fists as she checked the room again.

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.