Two Little Miracles

The car. A two-seater, low, sexy, gorgeous open-top sports car with a throaty growl and absolutely nowhere to put baby seats, he thought as he got into it a few minutes later. Never mind. He could change it. He tapped the address into the satnav and headed out of town, the hood down and the icy February wind in his hair, trying to blow away the cobwebs and help him think—because he still had no idea what on earth he was going to say to her.

He still had no idea nearly two hours later, when the satnav had guided him to the centre of the village, and he pulled up in the dusk and looked at the map the PI had given him.

There was the bridge over the river, just ahead of him, so it should be here on the right, down this drive.

He dragged in a deep breath, shut the hood because he suddenly realised he was freezing and it was starting to mist with rain, and bumped slowly down the drive, coming out into an open area in front of the house.

He saw a pretty, thatched, chocolate-box cottage in the sweep of his headlights, and then he saw her walking towards the window in a room to the right of the front door, a baby in her arms, and his heart jammed in his throat.

‘Shush, Ava, there’s a good girl. Don’t cry, darling— Oh, look, there’s somebody coming! Shall we see who it is? It might be Auntie Jane!’

She went to the window and looked out as the headlights sliced across the gloom and the car came to rest, and felt the blood drain from her face.

Max! How—?

She sat down abruptly on the old sofa in the bay window, ignoring the baby chewing her fist and grizzling on her shoulder, and her sister joining in from the playpen. Because all she could do was stare at Max getting out of the car, unfurling his long body, slamming the door, walking slowly and purposefully towards the porch.

The outside lights had come on, but he must be able to see her in the kitchen with the lights on, surely? Any second now.

He clanged the big bell and turned away, his shoulders rigid with tension, hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers, pushing the jacket out of the way and ruining the beautiful cut.

He was thinner, she realised—because of course without her there to nag and organise he wouldn’t be looking after himself—and she felt a flicker of guilt and promptly buried it.

This was all his fault. If he’d listened to her, paid more attention last year when she’d said she wasn’t happy, actually stopped and discussed it— But no.

Don’t expect me to run around after you begging. You know where to find me when you change your mind.

But she hadn’t, and of course he hadn’t contacted her. She’d known he wouldn’t—Max didn’t beg—and she’d just let it drift, not knowing what to do once she’d realised she was pregnant, just knowing she couldn’t go back to that same situation, to that same man.

Even if she still cried herself to sleep at night because she missed him. Even if, every time she looked at his children, she felt a huge well of sadness that they didn’t know the man who was their father. But how to tell him, when he’d always said so emphatically that it was the last thing he wanted?

Then Murphy whined, ran back to the door and barked, and Ava gave up grizzling and let out a full-blown yell, and he turned towards the window and met her eyes.

She was so close.

Just there, on the other side of the glass, one of the babies in her arms, and there was a dog barking, and he didn’t know what to do.

You can’t go tearing in there like this, you’ll frighten the life out of her. You have to take it slowly, work out what you want to say. Oh Andrea, so sage, so sensible. Jules would approve of you.

But he still didn’t know what on earth he was going to say to her.

He ought to smile, he thought, but his mouth wasn’t working, and he couldn’t drag his eyes from her face. She looked—hell, she looked exhausted, really, but he’d never seen anything more beautiful or welcome in his life. Then she turned away, and he felt his hand reach out to the glass as if to stop her.

But she was only coming to the door, he realised a second later, and he sagged against the wall with a surge of relief. A key rattled, and the big oak door swung in, and there she was, looking tired and pale, but more beautiful than he’d ever seen her, with the baby on her hip and a big black Labrador at her side.

‘Hello, Max.’

That was it? A year, two children, a secret relationship and all she could say was ‘Hello, Max’?

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t that. He felt bile rise in his throat, driven by a rage so all-consuming it was threatening to destroy him from the inside out—a year of grief and fear and anger all coming to a head in that moment—but he remembered Andrea’s words and tamped it down hard. He could do this, he told himself, so he gritted his teeth and met her eyes.

‘Hello, Julia.’

He was propped against the wall, one arm up at shoulder height, his hair tousled and windswept, his eyes dark and unreadable. Only the jumping muscle in his jaw gave him away, and she realised he knew.

‘Hello, Julia.’

Julia, not Jules. That was a change. She wondered what else had changed. Not enough, probably. Inevitably. She gathered her composure and straightened up, taking control of the situation if not her trembling body.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said. After all, what else could she do? She had a feeling he was coming in if he had to break the door down, so she might as well do this the easy way.

He followed her back to the kitchen, his footsteps loud on the tiles, and she could hear Murphy fussing around him and thrashing his tail into all the furniture and doors. She thought of Max’s suit and how it would look decorated in dog hair, and stifled a smile. He’d hate that. He was always so particular.

‘Shut the door, keep the heat in,’ she instructed, and he shut it and turned towards her, that muscle jumping in his jaw again.

‘Is that all you’ve got to say? A whole year without a word, and all you’ve got to say is “Shut the door”?’

‘I’m trying to keep the babies warm,’ she said, and his eyes tracked immediately to the baby in her arms, his expression unreadable. Supremely conscious of the monumental nature of the moment, she locked her legs to stop them shaking and said, ‘This is Ava,’ and, gesturing with her free hand towards the lobster-pot playpen near the Aga, added, ‘and this is Libby.’

And, hearing her name, Libby looked up, took the bubbly, spitty teething ring out of her mouth and grinned. ‘Mum-mum,’ she said, and, holding up her arms, she opened and closed her hands, begging to be picked up.

Julia went to move towards her, then stopped and looked at Max, her heart pounding. ‘Well, go on, then. Pick up your daughter. I take it that’s why you’re here?’

He was transfixed.

Your daughter.

Oh lord. It was ages since he’d held a baby. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever held one this age. Older, yes, and probably walking, but not small, dribbly and gummy and quite so damned appealing, and he was suddenly terrified he’d drop her.

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it over a chair, then reached into the playpen, put his hands under her armpits and lifted her out.

‘She’s light! I thought she’d be heavier.’

‘She’s only a baby, Max, and twins are often small, but don’t be scared of her. They’re remarkably robust. Say hello to Daddy, Libby.’

Daddy?

‘Mum-mum,’ she said, and, reaching up, she grabbed his nose and pulled it hard.

‘Ouch.’

‘Libby, gently,’ Julia said, easing her fingers away, and told him to put her on his hip, then handed him Ava, settling her in the curve of his other arm. ‘There you go. Your children.’

He stared down at them. They were like peas in a pod, he thought, wondering how on earth she told them apart, and they smelt extraordinary. Like nothing he’d ever smelt before. Sweet and clean, and somehow…

Then Ava reached out to Libby, and they beamed at each other and turned and stared up at him with brilliant blue eyes exactly the colour of his own, and they smiled at him in unison, and, without warning, Max fell headlong in love.

‘Here, you’d better sit down,’ Julia said with a lump in her throat, and pulled a chair out from the table and steered him towards it before his legs gave way. He had a thunder-struck look on his face, and the girls were clearly as fascinated as he was. They were pawing his face, pulling his ears, grabbing his nose and twisting it, and he just sat there looking amazed and let them do it.

Then he looked up at her, and she saw that behind the burgeoning love in his eyes was a simmering anger fiercer than any she’d ever seen before, and she fell back a step.

He hated her.

She could see it in his eyes, in the black, bitter rage that filled them, and she turned away, tears welling. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said, more to give her something to do than anything. But then Ava started to cry again, and Libby whimpered, and she plonked the kettle down on the hob and turned back and took Ava from him.

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ she murmured, her voice sounding fractured and uncertain, and Ava picked up on it and threw herself backwards. She caught her easily, snuggling her close, and the baby started to tug at her jumper.

Oh, hell. Her breasts were prickling, the babies needed feeding, and Max—Max, who knew her body better than she knew it herself—was sitting there watching her with black, brooding eyes.

‘I need to feed her,’ she said, and then Libby joined in and started to yell. ‘Both of them.’

‘I’ll help you.’

‘I don’t think you can. You don’t have the equipment,’ she said with an attempt at levity, and as the penny dropped a dull flush of colour ran over his cheekbones.

‘Um—here,’ he said, handing Libby to her. ‘I’ll—um—’

‘Oh, sit down, Max,’ she said, giving up and heading for the sofa in the bay window. There was no point in procrastinating. And, anyway, he wasn’t going to see anything he hadn’t seen before. She sat down, pulled the cushions round to rest the babies on, one each side, undid her bra, pushed it out of the way and plugged them in.

He didn’t know where to look.

He knew where he wanted to look. Couldn’t drag his eyes away, in fact, but he didn’t think it was exactly polite to stare.

He stifled a cough of laughter. Polite? This situation was so far from being polite that it was positively off the chart, but he still couldn’t sit there and stare.

‘Kettle’s boiling. I’d love a cup of tea,’ she said, and he realised she was looking at him.

‘Ah—sure.’

He got up, went over to the Aga and lifted the kettle off, then didn’t know where to put it. On the lid? Maybe. He put the lid down, then realised there was room beside it. What a ridiculous system. What on earth was wrong with an electric kettle or the tap for boiling water they had in their apartment?

Their apartment?

Still? A year later?

‘Where are the mugs?’

‘Over the sink. The tea’s in the caddy there by the Aga, and the milk’s in the fridge in the utility room. Put some cold water in mine, please.’

He put the teabags in the mugs, stepped over the dog, fetched the milk and sloshed it in the tea, then put the milk away, stepping over the dog again, and took Julia her mug.

‘Thanks. Just put it there on the end of the table,’ she said, and he set it down and hesitated.

He could see the babies’ mouths working on Julia’s nipples, a bluish film of milk around their lips, fat little hands splayed out over the swollen white orbs of her breasts. They were so much bigger than normal, the skin on them laced faintly with blue veins, and he was fascinated. There was just something basic and fundamental and absolutely right about it.

And he felt excluded.

Isolated and cut off, kept out of this precious and amazing event which had taken place without him.

Cheated.

He turned away, taking his tea and propping himself morosely against the front of the Aga, huddling against its warmth. He felt cold right to his bones, chilled by his exclusion. And angry.

So furiously bloody angry that he was ready to hit something. A door? A wall? Not Jules. Never Jules, no matter how much she might infuriate him. It was only his surroundings that bore the brunt of his recent ill-temper, and right then he was ready to tear the house apart.

‘Max?’

He glanced across at her.

‘Could you take Ava for me? She’s finished, she just needs to burp. Could you walk round with her? Oh, and you’d better have this; she might bring up some milk on you.’

She handed him a soft white cloth—a muslin nappy; how did he know that?—and then his daughter. His precious, precious daughter. God, that was going to take some getting used to. She was sunny now, all smiles again, but then she burped and giggled, and he wiped her mouth with the corner of the cloth and smiled at her.

‘Lager lout,’ he said with an unaccustomed wave of affection, and she giggled again and grabbed his nose. ‘Hey, gently,’ he murmured, removing her hand, and, lifting his tea to his mouth, he was about to take a sip when her hand flew up and caught the mug and sent it all over him.

Without thinking he swung her out of the way, but there was nothing he could do to save himself from it and it was hot—hot enough to make him yelp with shock—and Ava screwed up her face and screamed. Oh, lord. Water. Cold water. He carried her to the tap and sloshed cold water over her, holding her hand under the dribbling tap just in case, while Julia put Libby down and ran over.

‘Give her to me,’ she said, and quickly laid her on the table and stripped off her clothes. The muslin nappy had caught most of it, and there wasn’t a mark on her, but it could so easily have been a disaster, and he felt sick. Sick and stupid and irresponsible.

‘What the hell did you think you were doing? You don’t hold a cup of boiling tea over a child!’ Julia raged, and he stepped back, devastated that he might so easily have caused his tiny daughter harm.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think— Is she all right? Does she need to go to hospital?’

‘No, you must have missed her, she’s fine—no thanks to you.’

‘You gave her to me.’

‘I didn’t expect you to pour tea over her!’

‘It missed her.’

‘Only by the grace of God! It could have gone all over her! Of all the stupid, stupid—’

‘You were holding your tea over them!’

‘It had cold water in it! What do you think that was for? Shush, sweetheart, it’s OK.’ But the babies were both screaming now, upset by the shouting and the whining of the dog, and he stepped back again, shaking his head.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said roughly. ‘Jules, I’m so sorry—’

He scrubbed his hand through his hair and turned away, furious with himself for his stupidity, but he wasn’t to be allowed to wallow.

‘Here, hold her. I need to change her. I’ll get her some clean, dry clothes.’ And then she paused and looked up at him, her lashes spiked with tears, and her voice softened. ‘She’s all right, Max. It was just the shock. I’m sorry I yelled at you.’

‘She could have been—’ He broke off, and Julia’s face contorted.

‘Don’t. It was an accident. Just hold her. I’ll only be a moment.’

He didn’t move a muscle. Just stood there, motionless, until she came back into the room armed with nappies and tiny clothes, and took the screaming baby out of his arms. Then he sat down, buried his face in his hands and sucked in a breath.

‘Can you cuddle Libby, please?’

He pulled himself together and sat up. ‘Do you trust me?’ he asked tersely, and she gave him a grim smile.

‘I have to, don’t I? You’re their father.’

‘Am I?’

‘Max, of course you are! Who else?’

‘I don’t know, but perhaps we should get a DNA test.’

Her face went white. ‘Whatever for? I wouldn’t lie to you about that. And I’m not about to start asking you for money to support us, either.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about money, I was thinking about paternity. And I wouldn’t have thought you would lie about it, but then I wouldn’t have thought you’d leave me without warning, shack up with another man and have two children without bothering to share the information with me. So clearly I don’t know you nearly as well as I thought I did and, yes, I want a DNA test,’ he said, his anger rising to the surface again. ‘Because, apart from anything else, it might be handy in court.’

‘Court?’ She looked aghast. ‘Why court? I’m not going to do anything to obstruct your access.’

‘I don’t know that. You might move again—go into hiding somewhere else. I know you’ve got your passport with you. But on the other hand, if you decide to go for maintenance, I want to be damn sure it’s my kids I’m paying for.’

She gasped, her eyes wounded, and he felt a total heel.

‘Don’t bother to turn the tears on,’ he growled, hating it—because he thought she was going to cry and Jules never, ever cried—but his words rallied her and she straightened up and glared at him.

‘I’d forgotten what a bastard you are, Max. You don’t need a test to prove you’re the father! You were with me every minute of the day and night when they were conceived. Who else could it possibly have been?’

He shrugged. ‘John Blake?’

She stared at him, then started to laugh. ‘John? No. No, John’s not a threat to you. Trust me. Apart from the fact that he’s in his late fifties and definitely not my type, he’s gay.’

The surge of relief was so great it took his breath away. She hadn’t had an affair—and the babies were his. Definitely.

And one of them was still screaming for attention.

He picked Libby up, moving almost on autopilot, and went over to where Julia was dressing Ava. She ran her eyes over his chest. ‘Your shirt’s soaked. Are you all right?’ she asked, without a flicker of compassion, and he told himself he didn’t deserve it anyway.

‘I’m sure I’ll live,’ he replied tersely. ‘Is she really OK?’

‘She’s fine, Max,’ Julia said, her voice grudging but fair as ever. ‘It was an accident. Don’t worry about it.’

Easy to say, not so easy to do. Especially when, some time later, after they’d been fed little pots of disgusting-smelling goo—how lamb and vegetables could possibly smell so vile he had no idea—Julia put the babies down in their cots for a sleep and made him take off his shirt, and he saw the reddened skin over his chest and shoulder. If that had been Ava…

He nearly retched with the thought, but Julia’s soft sound of dismay stopped him in his tracks.

‘Idiot. You told me you were all right!’ she scolded softly, guilt in her eyes, and then spread something green and cool over his skin with infinite gentleness.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, his voice a little hoarse, because it was so long since she’d touched him that the feel of her fingers on his skin was enough to take the legs out from under him.

‘It’s aloe vera gel,’ she murmured. ‘It’s good for burns.’

And then she looked up and met his eyes, and time stopped. He couldn’t breathe, his heart was lodged in his throat, and for the life of him he couldn’t look away.

He wanted her.

He was still furious with her for keeping the babies from him, for leaving him without warning and dropping off the face of the earth, but he’d never stopped loving her, and he loved her now.

‘Jules—’

She stepped back, the spell broken by the whispered word, and screwed the lid back on the gel, but her fingers were trembling, and for some crazy reason that gave him hope.

‘You need a clean shirt. Have you got anything with you?’

‘Yes, in the car. I’ve got a case with me.’

She looked back at him, her eyes widening. ‘You’re planning on staying?’ she said in a breathless whisper, and he gave a short huff of laughter.

‘Oh yes. Yes, Jules, I’m staying, because, now I’ve found you, I’m not losing sight of you or my children again.’

CHAPTER TWO

HE WENT out to his car to get a dry shirt, and she watched him through the window, her hand over her mouth.

He was staying?

Oh, lord. Staying here? No! No, he couldn’t stay here, not with her! She couldn’t let him get that close, because she knew him, knew that look in his eyes, knew just how vulnerable she was to his potent sexual charm. He’d only have to touch her and she’d crumple like a wet tissue.

She was shocked at the change in him, though.

He’d lost weight; she’d been right. He was thinner, the taut muscles right there under her fingers as she’d smoothed the gel on his reddened skin. His hair was touched with grey at the temples, and he looked every one of his thirty-eight years. He’d aged in the last year more than he’d aged in all the years she’d known him, and she felt another stab of guilt.

She told herself it wasn’t her fault he didn’t look after himself, but she hadn’t expected him to look so—so ravaged. His ribs had been clearly visible in the kitchen light, but so, too, had every muscle and sinew, and she realised that, although he was thinner and looked driven, he was fit.

Fit and lean and hard, and she felt her mouth dry as he got his case out of the boot, plipped the remote control and headed back towards the door, showing her the firm definition of those muscles and ribs in the harsh security lighting. He’d been working out, she thought. Or running. Or both. He often did, usually when things were tricky and he needed to think.

Or to stop himself thinking.

Was that her fault? Possibly. Probably. Oh hell, it was such a mess, and just to make things worse he’d scalded himself when Ava had lunged at him. He must be freezing, she thought, with that wet gel over his burn. It wasn’t bad really, but he’d looked so stricken when he’d seen the pink mark across his skin, as if he’d been thinking that it could have been Ava, and she felt dreadful for shouting at him.

She’d just been so tense, and it had been the last straw.

‘Is there a pub or somewhere I can stay?’ he asked, coming back into the kitchen and crouching down to open his case, pulling out a soft sweater and dragging it over his head in place of the shirt.

She opened her mouth to say yes, but some demon in his pay had control of it, because all that came out was, ‘Don’t be silly, you can stay here. There are plenty of rooms.’

‘Really?’ he asked, studying her with concern, and something else that might have been mockery in his eyes. ‘Aren’t you worried that I’ll compromise your position in the village?’

She laughed at that. ‘It’s a bit late to worry about compromising me, Max,’ she said softly. ‘You did that when you got me pregnant. And frankly the village can take a running jump.’

He frowned, and turned his attention back to his case, zipping it shut and standing it in the corner. ‘What about Blake?’ he asked, his mouth taut.

‘What about him? I’m caretaking. I’m allowed visitors, it’s in my agreement.’

‘You have an agreement?’

‘Well, of course I have an agreement!’ she said. ‘What did you think, I was just shacked up with some random man? He’s a friend of Jane and Peter’s, and he was looking for someone to house-sit. Don’t worry, it’s all above board.’

‘The woman in the post office seemed to think otherwise.’

‘The woman in the post office needs to get a life,’ she said briskly. ‘Anyway, as I’ve already told you, he’s gay. Are you hungry?’

He frowned. ‘Hungry?’

‘Max, you need to eat,’ she said, feeling another stab of guilt over who if anyone fed him these days, who told him when he’d worked late enough and that it was too early to get up, who stopped him burning the candle at both ends and in the middle.

Nobody, she realised in dismay, looking at him really closely. Nobody at all, and least of all himself. He was exhausted, dark hollows round his eyes, his mouth drawn, that lovely ready smile gone without trace.