Reluctant Father. Elizabeth Oldfield
don’t expect him to be an every-day daddy,’ Cass continued, becoming grave, ‘but I believe that every child has the right to know its father, and I want him to show a respectable amount of care and consideration. Like remembering your birthdays and taking you on the occasional holiday when you’re a big boy, and being available at times when you particularly need a dad.’
‘Blah.’ her listener said.
‘I was going to tell him all this when you were two. When you’d be starting to realise that other children have daddies and wondering where yours had got to. Only he’s turned up now.’
The baby stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked noisily.
There could, of course, be a second reason for Gifford’s abrupt departure from the restaurant, Cass reflected. He might have been eager to return to a companion. A female companion, whom he had left in bed. He was a red-blooded male with all the usual appetites—as she could confirm, she thought astringently—and whilst he might be here to convalesce she could not imagine him spending the days alone and doing nothing. So it seemed possible that he had a woman in tow.
Halting, she lowered the buggy into its recline position, laid down her son and drew forward the hood. Jack’s chubby arms and legs were lightly tanned, but she was wary of him getting too much sun.
Cass walked on. Might Gifford’s companion be the glamorous Imogen Sales? The more she thought about his attitude the previous day, the more she felt there had been an air of strained secrecy about him. He had been hiding something. What? The fact that he had come to the Seychelles with the actress who had followed her into his arms and his affections with insulting, hurtful speed?
She pushed the buggy down into a crater of a pothole and up out of it again. A few months ago she had seen the American woman in a TV film. Cass grimaced. She had had the kind of shiny, swinging raven-black bob which was more usually seen in shampoo adverts, a serenely aloof face and, wearing a succession of slinky numbers, had been disgustingly slim. Imogen had also, she thought cattily, displayed an inescapable need to pose and possessed all the acting skills of cardboard.
Her expression shadowed. She did not welcome the idea of producing Jack and discussing what were essentially private matters with Imogen Sales around Yet, even if the actress or some other woman was living with Gifford in the villa, it was vital that they should talk. For her son’s sake, lines of communication needed to be established.
Cass strode on. Once upon a time, she had considered herself to be a good judge of character. She had been convinced that her lover was conscientious, reliable, trustworthy, but it had been all smoke and mirrors.
‘How could I have been so wrong?’ she muttered, and fell silent, bombarded with memories of the past…
It had been Henry Dexter, Stephen’s elderly father and, at that time, head of the company, who had first brought the Tait-Hill Corporation to her attention.
‘Those two will go far,’ he had declared, marching into his son’s office one morning to thrust a trade magazine at him. ‘Read the article and see how ambitious they are, how well informed and on the ball.’ He had frowned. ‘Take note of how hard they work.’
‘Yes, Pa,’ Stephen had replied obediently, but he had put the magazine aside and not bothered.
Cass had read the article; as a new and keen secretary she’d read all the memos and reports which the young man was supposed to read but often did not. It had told how two Americans, Gifford Tait and Bruce Hill, had once been skiers representing their country at worldclass level and winning medals. Both business graduates, they had seen a need in their sport for better-designed equipment and decided to satisfy it.
Over the next few years, the old man’s prophecy had come true. Tait-Hill had flourished, widening their product range to other sports and developing an eclectic spread of business interests which included property, a hot-air-balloon company and a million-dollar stake in a computer software manufacturer.
However, after Henry suffered a stroke and was forced to retire, Dexter’s had gone downhill. A traditional, slightly old-fashioned firm whose name on cricket bats, tennis rackets and running shoes guaranteed top quality, its future had begun to look shaky. Then a letter had been received from Tait-Hill, suggesting talks about a rescue package and possible buy-out.
Despite Stephen’s claim that he could turn things around—and much to his chagrin—his father had decreed that Tait-Hill must be allowed to vet the company for potential acquisition. A short while later, Gifford had flown in.
After a week spent poring over balance sheets at the London headquarters and assessing financial information—information which Cass had invariably provided—he had requested that she give him a crash course on the workings of Dexter’s and provide details of the company’s forward plans.
‘Why me?’ she asked, thinking of how she had left Stephen sulking in his office.
‘Because you’re the smart kid around here.’ Gifford grinned at her across the desk. ‘And because I like you.’
She laughed. From the start they had worked well together, and had soon discovered that they shared the same sense of humour.
‘I quite like you, too,’ she said.
‘Only quite?’ he protested, with mock anguish. ‘I must switch my manly charm up a gear.’
‘You have charm?’ Cass enquired, straight-faced
‘You never noticed?’
‘Maybe just a flicker, now and then.’
‘Which means I’m starting virtually from scratch.’ Gifford gave a noisy sigh. ‘So be it.’
In the days which they spent closeted together, Cass grew to like Gifford Tait a lot He knew what he wanted and could be autocratic, but he was also modest, funny and easy to be with. He exuded an inherent vitality which dimmed the memory of every other man she had known. Plus he was indecently sexy.
When, unexpectedly, he had to fly back to the States to deal with an urgent business matter, she had felt confusingly bereft and had spent every spare moment thinking about him.
‘Did you miss me?’ Gifford enquired, on his return a week or so later.
‘Yes,’ she said truthfully.
‘I missed you, too,’ he told her, his grey eyes serious. ‘I figure I need to spend a month getting to grips with Dexter’s, so—’
‘That long?’ she interrupted.
He gave a crooked grin. ‘That long. So I wondered whether you’d be free to show me around London at the weekends.’
‘With pleasure,’ Cass said.
They visited museums and art galleries, watched the street performers at Covent Garden, went to the theatre. They sailed down the river to Greenwich and the gleaming silver stanchions of the Thames Barrier, and shared candlelit dinners.
Their relationship deepened. Away from the office, Gifford would reach for her hand, and when he returned her to her Putney flat in the evenings he kissed her goodnight. They were passionate kisses which left her weakkneed and breathless—and wanting more.
Time flew and, all too soon, they reached the final week of his stay when they set off on a fact-finding tour of the Dexter factories.
‘How did you first start up in your business?’ Cass asked curiously one evening when they were sitting in his hotel suite.
They had spent the wet, blustery April day at a shoemanufacturing unit in the north of England. On their return, she had typed out the notes which her companion had required on her laptop, and now they were unwinding with a bottle of good white wine.
‘Thanks to dumb luck,’ Gifford replied. ‘Bruce and I were bursting with ideas, but we didn’t have either the cash or the know-how to put them into action. Then a ski-wear