A Baby In His In-Tray. Michelle Douglas
honey-brown eyes he had a feeling she was laughing at him.
‘Can’t you think of something more...cheerful?’
Cheerful? Inspiration struck. ‘The Jabberwocky!’
He recited the entire poem and both woman and child stared at him as if mesmerised.
‘Give her your finger.’
He did as bidden. Jemima stared at it for a moment or two, swaying in her protector’s arms, before reaching out and clasping it in one tiny fist. Something inside of him felt as if it were falling.
She pulled it closer and then up towards her mouth, but he gently detached himself from her grip. ‘You might want to wait until I’ve washed my hands first. You’ve no idea where these have been.’
Jemima stared at him and then gave a big toothless grin before letting forth with a sound partway between ‘Gah!’ and a gurgle.
He could feel his entire body straighten—his chin came up and his shoulders went back—and he couldn’t help smiling back. ‘She smiled at me. She...she smiled.’
He glanced at his office manager to find her staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. Something arced in the air between them, and colour flooded her cheeks. She shook herself and sent him a smile that didn’t hide the consternation in her eyes. ‘You’ve just been given the official seal of approval.’ She laughed and suddenly seemed more natural again. ‘Hold tight to the memory. You might just need it at two o’clock in the morning, and at three...and four.’
It hit him then that she’d been right. He couldn’t just walk out of here with Jemima. He was going to need help.
Her help?
Something inside him chafed at the idea. He had a feeling it’d be best for him and Ms Gilmour to get back on a professional footing asap. He could hire someone else. He’d have to come up with a cover story for Jemima of course, but...
‘Mr Tyrell?’
But first he had to stop staring at her! ‘I’ll, uh, just go have that shower.’
When he emerged from the shower, he found Jemima asleep and his hostess making sandwiches.
‘Egg and lettuce,’ she said, setting two in front of him.
They ate in silence. She kept glancing across at him and he knew he should initiate the conversation, but he didn’t know where to start.
‘Do you have any idea who her mother might be?’ she finally asked.
‘None whatsoever.’
She pulled in a breath. ‘I know we’re straying into dangerously personal territory, but...can you recall all of the women you’ve been...intimate with in the last twelve to fifteen months?’
He choked on his sandwich. ‘I’m not Jemima’s father!’
One eyebrow kinked upwards. ‘How do you know that for sure?’ Her lips twisted. ‘Contraception isn’t always a hundred per cent effective.’
He knew that, but... Something in her tone caught at him. He frowned. ‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.’
Her gaze dropped to her plate. ‘Second-hand experience. A, um...girlfriend.’
‘I’m not Jemima’s father.’
She glanced back up at him. ‘How can you be so certain?’
Because he’d not slept with anyone in two years! But he had no intention of confessing that to this woman. It made him sound priestly, saintly, celibate, and he was none of those things.
‘Have you kept in contact with them all?’
He grabbed the branch she’d unknowingly handed him. ‘Yes.’
She leant back and folded her arms, staring at him in outright disbelief. It rankled.
‘I don’t know what kind of man you think I am, Ms Gilmour, but there haven’t been an endless parade of women in and out of my bed. I know every woman I’ve slept with in the past two years, and I’ve kept in contact with all of them. I can assure you that none of them have become pregnant—not with me and not with anyone else.’
She unfolded her arms, but he didn’t know if she believed him or not. He didn’t know why it should matter so much to him either way. She was his office manager, not his moral guardian.
‘Jemima and I can get DNA tests done if it’ll put your mind at rest,’ he snapped out. ‘A paternity test.’
Luscious lips—lips he’d never realised were luscious until this moment—pursed. ‘Could you, though? You’ve not been made Jemima’s legal guardian. You don’t have the authority to give legal consent for such a test.’
He opened his mouth. He closed it again. She had a point.
‘Which is why,’ she continued, ‘I’m not going to let you leave here with Jemima.’
He blinked. Had she just said...? ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m not letting you take the baby.’
He stared at her. ‘You can’t stop me.’
Their gazes locked and clashed. ‘Do you mean to take Jemima by force?’
His hands clenched to fists. Of course he wasn’t going to take the baby by force! Was she threatening him with the police? He pulled in a measured breath. ‘Jemima’s mother entrusted her to my care,’ he reminded her.
‘You’ll have to excuse me for not putting much faith in Jemima’s mother’s reasoning.’ She’d leapt up and now proceeded to pace—back and forth in agitated circles. ‘She left Jemima in my office during my lunch break. What if I’d decided to take a half-day—to skive off because the boss was away?’
His head rocked back. ‘You’d never do such a thing.’
‘I know that and you know that, but she doesn’t know me from Adam. So she couldn’t know that.’
She had a point.
‘She left the baby in your care but you were out of the country. What was she thinking? I mean, you live in Lincolnshire, not in London. Had she put any thought into this at all? Hadn’t she done any research?’
He couldn’t fault her reasoning.
She planted herself back in her chair. ‘Look, this is all beside the point. I wish I wasn’t involved. I don’t want to be involved. But I am, and ethically and morally I can’t just hand that baby over to you and walk away. Not when you aren’t her father. Not when you know nothing about babies.’
He dragged both hands back through his hair. If their positions were reversed he knew he’d feel the same.
‘Why do you want to take her anyway? Why do you feel so responsible for her?’
Finally they came to the crux of the matter. Exhaustion, disgust...and a still searing sense of betrayal momentarily overtook him. He dropped his head to his folded arms. Eventually he lifted it and met her gaze. ‘I suspect Jemima and I are related.’
‘Related?’
He forced himself to maintain eye contact. ‘A niece perhaps.’
‘But...you don’t have any siblings.’
He had to swallow before he could speak. ‘I have no siblings that I know about.’
‘Ah.’ She slumped back as if all the air had gone out of her.
‘Or...’ worse yet ‘...she could be my half-sister.’
‘But—’ she frowned and leaned towards him ‘—your father must be...’
‘Sixty-eight—old enough to be her grandfather, yes.’