The Baby Who Saved Christmas

He was rubbing his forehead with his hand. Pressing his temples with long, artistic fingers that made Alice wonder what he did for a living, which was preferable to feeling put down by her appearance. Was he a surgeon, perhaps, or a musician? The black clothes and the long hair fitted more with a career in music. She could almost see him holding an electric guitar—rocking it out in front of a crowd of adoring fans...

‘I need to get advice.’ Julien sounded decisive now. ‘Luckily, I have my solicitor here in the house with me. And I expect a DNA test will soon sort this out.’

‘There’s no point now.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I came here to meet my father. If he’d needed that kind of proof I wouldn’t hesitate but it’s...too late now. It doesn’t matter because I’m never going to meet him, am I?’

‘But don’t you want to know?’

Did she? Maybe it would be better to find out that André Laurent wasn’t her father, however remote that possibility was, because then she could walk away knowing that she hadn’t lost something that had been real and so close to being within her grasp.

And if he was, she wouldn’t be haunted by knowing that her father was still out there in the world somewhere but impossible to find. She knew in her heart that she was right but there was something to be said for having written confirmation of some things, wasn’t there?

So Alice shrugged. ‘I guess so.’

‘Come with me.’ Julien opened the door. ‘I do not want to be in this room a second longer.’

With what was probably going to be her last glance at her father’s portrait, Alice followed him out of the office. She expected to traverse the length of the enormous room again but, instead, Julien stayed at this end of the house and threw open the glass doors to the conservatory. He waited for her to enter, his face expressionless. Perhaps the effort of keeping that anger under control left no room for anything else.

Even a hint of a smile would do.

The memory of that soft tone in his voice when he’d apologised was fading. Oddly, Alice wanted to hear it again. Or to see something that would suggest it had been genuine. That she was correct in thinking that she’d caught a glimpse of the real person buried under this grim exterior. A person she had, for an instant of time, felt a connection with.

But his tone was just as empty as his face. All that was left was the accent that still tickled her ears and made her feel as if there was a secret smile hovering just over her lips, like a butterfly waiting to alight.

‘Have a seat,’ he said. ‘Are you hungry? I can ask the housekeeper to provide something for you.’

‘No. Thank you. I had lunch not long ago.’

‘As you wish. I shouldn’t be too long. Please, wait here.’

She didn’t really have a choice, did she? She could walk out of the house but those security guards wouldn’t open the gates without getting permission and even if it was given, she would then face the media pack and...and she’d always been hopeless at lying.

Probably thanks to her father’s genes, Alice had failed to receive more than the blue eyes that every member of the McMillan clad had had. She had been quietly thankful that she had escaped the flaming red hair that ran through generations of her mother’s family. It hadn’t been banished entirely, but her version was a rich auburn instead of orange. It was a shame she’d missed the olive skin that had been evident in that portrait of her father, though. She had pale, Scottish skin—inclined to freckle with any sunshine and turn a bright red when she blushed.

Which was what she always did if she tried to tell a lie.

Walking between the cool green fronds of huge, exotic ferns in tall terracotta urns, Alice headed for a cane couch with soft-looking, cream upholstery. Unbidden, a memory surfaced that provoked a poignant smile.

She had been about four years old and she’d done something bad. What had it been? Oh, yes... She’d been rebellious even then and she had gone to play somewhere she hadn’t been allowed to go alone—behind the hen house and down by the creek. Knowing that the mud on her shoes would reveal her sin, she had taken them off and hidden them under a bush. When the query had come about their whereabouts, tiny Alice had given innocence her best shot and she’d said she didn’t know where her shoes were. The fairies must have taken them.

Her mother and her grandmother had simply looked at each other.

‘She’s blushing, Jeannie. She’s no’ telling the truth.’

‘Aye...’

And then the two women who’d ruled her universe had turned their gazes on Alice. She’d never forgotten what that silence felt like as they’d waited for her to confess. The guilt and the shame of it. They’d never had to wait that long again.

Not that she had any intention of confessing to any reporters but Julien was probably right. They already knew her name because they’d been right there when she’d introduced herself to the security guard. It wouldn’t take long for them to chase down a story and if she was confronted by leading questions, her skin would betray her.

She could feel a prickle of heat in her neck, just thinking about having to lie.

At least she was safe here. The world outside those gates could be as far away as her home as she sat here in this quiet space amongst the greenery, looking out over the reflection of palm trees on the swimming pool. Her gaze was automatically drawn further—to where the water fell over the end and made it look as if the cruise ship in the distance was sharing the same patch of ocean.

And then Alice felt a shiver dance down her spine. The atmosphere had changed as noticeably as if a cool breeze had blown through the room. She didn’t have to turn her head to know that Julien had returned.

Maybe she didn’t feel so safe in here after all.

* * *

She was sitting on one of the couches, looking out at the view.

Julien could only see her profile but it made him realise he hadn’t really looked at her until now. Or rather he’d looked at her as simply another issue that had to be dealt with on one of the darkest days of his life.

Now he could see her as media fodder and wouldn’t they have a feast? This Alice McMillan was tiny. A few inches over five feet perhaps and slim enough to wear children’s clothing. That bag she was carrying looked like an accessory to a school uniform.

And there was no denying how pretty she was. That tumble of richly coloured, wavy hair... Given how unpretentious the rest of her clothing was and the fact that her nails weren’t even painted, it was highly likely the colour was natural and it all added up to a brand of woman that Julien had no idea how to handle due to an almost complete lack of experience. Even his own sister had morphed into one of the polished beauties that every man wanted to be seen with. Did other men always have that nagging doubt about how genuine they really were?

The memory of tears slipping from chocolate-brown eyes that had reminded him of a fawn made him groan inwardly. Imagine how that would go down in a television interview. She would have the whole world on her side.

André Laurent and—by association—his sister and then he himself would be branded as heartless rich people who were uncaring of an impoverished relative. If, of course, her claim was true. And why wouldn’t it be? Given the endless stream of women in that man’s life, the probability of a legacy like this was certainly believable and, according to the legal expert he’d just been speaking to, the implications were enormous. He kept his tone light enough not to reveal the can of worms that was potentially about to be opened, however.

‘The news is good,’ he said. ‘We have made some enquiries and apparently there have been great advances in DNA testing and a result can be found within a matter of a few days. All we need is a simple mouth swab from you. Someone is coming to the house soon, to do what is needed.’

She nodded slowly and then bent her head, a thick curl of her hair falling across her cheek. She pushed it back as she looked up again.

‘But they would have to match it, wouldn’t they? It’s too late to get a sample from my...from André. Monsieur Laurent,’ she added quickly, as though she didn’t have the right to be so familiar.

‘M’sieur.’ Without thinking, Julien corrected her pronunciation to make the ‘n’ silent. She really didn’t know a word of French, did she? Then he shrugged. ‘It seems that there are many items that may suffice. Like his toothbrush. Someone is coming who is an expert. He works with the police.’

‘The police?’ A look of fear made her eyes look huge against that pale skin.

It was like that moment after he’d hurled the paperweight at the image of the man he’d despised so much and he realised he’d scared her enough to make her cry. A shameful thing. He didn’t treat women like that. He didn’t treat anyone like that. This whole disaster was turning him into a person he really didn’t like and this woman was making it that bit harder to sort out the issue that was so personally—and urgently—important. This made her someone he needed to remove from his company at the earliest opportunity so it shouldn’t matter at all how she was feeling.

But it did.

It made him want to reassure her. Comfort her even.

He turned away so he didn’t get trapped in those eyes. He shrugged off the unwelcome sensation that something very private was being accessed. Like his heart? How long had it been since he’d felt the urge to protect a woman? Maybe he’d given up on trying to care after Colette had made it so clear he’d been wasting his time. That he didn’t understand. All those years and, in the end, they had counted for nothing.

‘A coincidence,’ he said, the words coming out more sharply than he might have chosen. ‘This man also runs a private paternity testing company.’ A sigh escaped that had a whisper of defeat about it. The need to reassure was too powerful. ‘You are not being accused of anything.’

Yet, he added silently. But then he made the mistake of looking at her again. No. She wasn’t here to chase five minutes of fame or a share in a vast fortune. There was no mistaking her sincerity. Or her vulnerability. She not only believed that André was her father, it held a huge significance for her. It had to be simply another coincidence that she had arrived with such unfortunate timing.

It could be an hour or more before the DNA expert arrived from Nice with his testing kit and it would be extremely impolite to leave her waiting here alone and it would be imprudent to antagonise her. For everybody’s sake, this matter had to be kept as private as possible.