Reluctant Father

She nodded. ‘As general dogsbody. For example, this morning the cleaner has a dental appointment so I’ve been cleaning.’

His eyes trailed from the top of her tousled head, over her sweat-dampened top and creased shorts, and down the length of her legs to her thonged feet When he had known her before she had worn smart, city-slicker suits and high heels, and had had her pale hair swept back in a smooth chignon. She had been elegance with a capital E. The only time she had looked tumbled was when they had been in bed. But she looked evocatively tumbled now. He frowned, remembering how good their lovemaking had been. How good they had been together in so many ways.

‘So I see,’ he muttered, making Cass feel even more conscious of her rumpled appearance. ‘And Edith is—who?’

‘She was my uncle Oscar’s girlfriend. He died three months ago. Of cancer.’

Gifford lowered thick straight, dark brows. ‘This is your uncle’s place?’ he queried. ‘I remember you telling me how he owned a guest house and restaurant on Praslin—you spent holidays there—but I thought he’d sold it last year.’

‘Oscar thought so, too, but at the very last minute the sale fell through and it’s taken until now for another buyer to appear.’ Cass hesitated, frowning. ‘Though the deal’s still to be finalised. Edith is a lovely lady, but not too worldly-wise,’ she continued. ‘When my uncle visited London last winter, he’d realised his days were numbered. He knew Edith would be out of her depth when it came to handling a sale, so he asked if I’d be willing to keep a long-distance eye on things.’

‘Because he was aware that you are super-efficient?’

‘Because I’m the only member of our family who’s the least bit organised,’ she countered, wondering if his comment should be interpreted as sarcastic. After all, she had been anything but efficient eighteen months ago.

‘I was happy to agree,’ she went on. ‘But Edith took my agreement to mean hands-on help, and when the second purchaser surfaced she phoned to ask if I’d fly out. She was desperate for some support, and a change of scene suited me, so—’

Cass broke off. She was talking too much; it was an unfortunate tendency whenever she felt flustered. But there was no need to give him chapter and verse. Nor was there any reason to feel flustered. He was the villain of the piece and the one who should be weighted down with embarrassment, not her.

‘So you’re taking a sabbatical?’ Gifford said.

‘I suppose you could call it that. What about you? Are you holidaying here or—’ she offered up a silent prayer ‘—have you come over from Mahe for the day?’

Although only seventeen miles long and, at its widest, five miles across, Mahe was the largest of the one hundred-plus islands of the Seychelles archipelago and the home of the only town and capital, Victoria. Quiet and unspoilt like all the islands, it boasted the most hotels, the widest variety of watersports and the best choice of boats.

A keen sportsman who thrived on action, Gifford would want to sail, water-ski and snorkel. Yes, he would be based there. Please. If she was to regain her equilibrium, she needed some distance between them—and a distance filled by deep blue sea would surely help to restrict his visits.

‘I hate to dash your hopes,’ he said curtly, ‘but I’m staying on Praslin.’

Her stomach churned. ‘At Club Sesel?’ she asked, naming the only nearby hotel, which was a couple of miles along the beach to the east and hidden behind a headland.

She had, Cass realised, heard no sound of a car, and for him to have arrived on foot it seemed he must have come from there.

Gifford shook his head. ‘No.’

‘No?’ she said, puzzled yet giving thanks for small mercies. Almost all of the island’s other hotels were situated on the opposite coast. True, they were only seven or eight miles away, but it was better than nothing.

‘I’m not booked into a hotel, I’m renting a house. I arrived yesterday evening.’

‘A house? Where’ she demanded.

He jerked a thumb. ‘Thataway.’

Her thoughts hurtled in the same westerly direction, travelling around a small deep-water cove and up to a sprawling white bungalow which was surrounded by tall, flamboyant trees and bushes of pink and purple bougainvillea. Luxuriously furnished, the bungalow came with a wide rear terrace which provided panoramic views of the sea, and had a barbecue pit and a small indoor gym. It ranked five stars in the rental market.

‘Maison d’Horizon?’ Cass asked, and this time she did croak.

He gave a terse nod. ‘I decided to spoil myself rotten.’

She glanced out of the restaurant to the wooden cottage where she was installed. ‘But—but that makes you my neighbourl’

‘Yup,’ he said crustily. ‘I’m the boy next door.’

Cass swallowed. Gifford Tait was not a boy, he was a man. A mature, experienced male who had done some serious damage to her heart, then strolled away and stayed away, leaving her to deal with the consequences.

‘How long are you here for?’ she enquired.

‘Two months. Don’t blame me,’ he said, when she looked at him, appalled. It’s your fault that I decided to come to the Seychelles.’

‘My fault?’ Cass protested.

‘I remembered you saying how life here was peaceful and relaxed, and—’ stretching out long fingers, he realigned the position of the white ceramic pepper pot ‘—I’m in need of relaxation.’ His gaze swung to the vivid blue sea, along the arc of silvery coral sand, to green, shiny-leafed palm trees which were stirred by the balmy breeze. ‘You also waxed lyrical about the beauty of the islands, and you didn’t exaggerate.’

So coincidence was not responsible for this visitation; the culprit had been her and her big mouth! And now they were destined to live with only a metaphorical garden fence between them. Her insides hollowed. It was much too close for comfort.

‘The fourteen-hour days finally caught up on you?’ she enquired, thinking that, as he played hard, so he worked hard, too.

‘No, though I was overdoing it. For years I’ve been far too work-orientated.’ Gifford poked at the pepper pot again. ‘I’ve been…unwell, so I’m here to convalesce,’ he said, and paused, plainly unwilling to go into detail. ‘You couldn’t find me something to eat in addition to coffee?’

Cass blinked. ‘Excuse me?’

All the time they had been speaking, a thought had been hammering at the back of her mind—when would Gifford mention the baby? He might have ignored his existence this far, but he could not ignore it now. Yet she was damned if she would make things easier for him by referring to their son first.

‘The rental agency was supposed to lay on a box of start-up groceries, but they’ve forgotten. They’re sending one later, but I had nothing to eat last night and I’m starving.’

‘Edith does the cooking, and she’s out,’ Cass said flatly.

His brows had lifted in an upward slant of appeal, but she refused to respond. She was no longer the adoring escort who rushed to obey his every request. The days of being charmed stupid were over. And if he fainted dead away from hunger, tough!

‘It doesn’t have to be something cooked. Bread and butter will do. Or fruit. You must have some fruit? If there’s a packet of stale Cheezy Doodles or whatever lying around, I’ll take that,’ Gifford declared, with an air of stark desperation.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘After travelling for damn near two days and crossing half the globe, I’m in no mood to be given the runaround,’ he rasped, his grey eyes glittering. ‘We both know the larder can’t be completely bare, so—’

‘How about scrambled eggs?’ Cass suggested stiffly.

Being too uncooperative was not a smart move. Like it or not, there could be times in the future when she might need his goodwill, so she must bank down her hostility and keep things civil between them. It would not be easy, but…

‘Scrambled eggs sounds great.’ He flicked her a dry look. ‘You aren’t planning to poison me?’

‘And risk the health authorities closing down the restaurant?’ Her smile was razor-thin. ‘Not worth it.’

‘You’ve forgotten something,’ Gifford said as she swung away.

She stopped and turned back. ‘What?’

‘You greeted me with “Good morning, sir” and now