Reluctant Father

it should be “Not worth it, sir”.’ A dark brow rose a fraction. ‘You must’ve heard of establishing good customer relations—or don’t you aim to win the employee of the month award?’

‘I’m not an employee, I’m a volunteer,’ Cass told him crisply.

‘Whatever your status, I am a customer,’ he responded. ‘Which entitles me to a little…courtesy.’

Her full mouth thinned. He was deliberately baiting her. Once she would have found his sardonic humour amusing, but not now. Now she felt tempted to tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier—or something far coarser—but instead she slitted her eyes at him.

‘In your dreams,’ she said.

His lips twitched. He had always liked her verve and had enjoyed the cut-and-thrust repartee which they had often shared.

‘Sassy as ever, I see.’

‘You better believe it,’ she responded, and stalked away.

In the kitchen, Cass swung into action, collecting eggs from the fridge, locating a pan, setting a tray. She had always imagined that when they did meet again—at her bidding, and at her choice of location—Gifford Tait would leave her cold, she reflected as she worked. Stonecold. Alas, it was not so. With his thickly lashed grey eyes, features which were a touch too strong to be described as handsome, and lean, muscular physique, he continued to be disruptively—and alarmingly—virile. He also had undeniable charisma.

Reaching for a whisk, she beat the eggs fiercely. Snap out of it, she ordered herself. The dynamic Mr Tait may possess more than his fair share of sex appeal, but when it comes to caring and sharing and common-or-garden decency he rates a whopping great minus. Any charisma is superficial.

Gifford had been unwell. What did that mean? she wondered. She shrugged. He had not wanted to tell her and she would not ask.

The eggs were scrambled, sprinkled with chopped herbs, and arranged on a plate with triangles of hot, buttered toast. Lifting the tray, Cass steered out through the saloon-style swing doors which separated the kitchen from the restaurant. When she drew near, she saw that her customer was tapping the pepper pot up and down on the table in a sombre distracted rhythm. He looked uncharacteristically tense, like a man with a lot on his mind. As well he might, she thought astringently.

At the pad of her rubber-soled thongs on the plank floor, he glanced round.

‘Quick service,’ he said, as though she had caught him unawares in his introspection and caught him out.

‘You’ll be writing a letter of commendation to the Tourist Board?’ she enquired.

‘And faxing copies to the Prime Minister and President of the Seychelles,’ he assured her, deadpan. As she served his food, a slow grin angled its way across his mouth. ‘Do you finish off by bobbing a curtsy?’

‘Don’t push it,’ Cass warned. ‘You may be getting a kick out of this, but I have my limits.’

‘A generous tip won’t persuade you to curtsy?’

‘I wouldn’t curtsy if you sank to your knees, clasped your hands together and begged.’ She tilted her head.

‘Or perhaps I might. Going to try it?’

‘Not my style,’ Gifford replied.

‘I thought not.’

He noticed that she had put down two cups and saucers. ‘You’re joining me?’

She nodded. They had to talk about the baby.

‘I’m ready for a break,’ she declared, thinking that what she really needed was a lie-down in a darkened room with cold compresses on her eyes and complete silence. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, a touch belligerently.

‘Be my guest,’ he said, and, lifting his knife and fork, he began to eat.

As Cass poured the rich, dark, steaming coffee, she studied him from beneath her lashes. She had not noticed it when she had been looking down, but sitting directly

across from him she saw that his face was leaner than she remembered and his high cheekbones were more sharply defined.

He had lost weight. Gifford also looked drawn—which could be due to jet-lag, or to the shock of being confronted by her and the knowledge that he must soon meet the child whom they had both created.

‘The restaurant may not open until noon, but everything seems remarkably organised,’ he said, indicating the surrounding tables which were neatly set with gleaming cutlery and sparkling glasses.

‘I was awoken at the crack of dawn, so I was able to

get a good start,’ Cass explained, and waited for him to ask about who had woken her up so early.

‘Monday is a busy day?’

‘Er—no. The busy days are Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, when we provide a buffet lunch for tour parties of around twenty or so. The rest of the time, it’s quiet The road outside is unmade and full of potholes—’

‘I noticed when I was in the taxi,’ he cut in, frowning, and briefly placed a hand on his thigh.

‘And the prospect of such a bumpy ride puts people off. We get a few holidaymakers wandering down from Club Sesel, and the occasional determined backpacker, but it’s the tour lunches which keep the place ticking over.’

‘What do the tours take in?’

‘They start off with a nature trail through the Vallee de Mai, which is an eerie and rather forbidding place, thick with palms, in the heart of Praslin. It’s a World Heritage site. Next they come here for lunch, and then they drive up to Anse Lazio, a beach on the northern tip of the island which is great for swimming and snorkelling. You should go there some time.’

‘Maybe,’ Gifford said, frowning. He ate a few more mouthfuls. ‘Your uncle was happy for things to just tick over?’

‘Yes. Oscar was an ex-hippy who just wanted enough to get by on, and to “hang loose”.’ Cass smiled, thinking fondly of her pony-tailed and somewhat eccentric uncle. A member of the peace-and-love brigade, he had been so laid-back as to be almost falling over. There’s no word for “stress” in the Creole dictionary, so when he decided to live here he came to the perfect spot.’

‘What about paying guests?’ he asked.

‘Oscar rarely advertised or did much in the way of repairs, so unfortunately those who managed to find their way here were not inclined to come again. The food is good—Edith’s an excellent cook—but the accommodation’s in urgent need of updating.’

‘What is the accommodation?’ Gifford enquired.

‘Just the cottages,’ she said, gesturing across the restaurant and out over an oval lawn of thick-bladed grass to where three pale blue wooden cottages sat in the dappled shade of stately palm trees. Tricked out with pointed arches and gingerbread eaves, they possessed a shabby, fairy-tale charm.

Gifford turned to look. ‘No one’s in residence?’

‘I’m in the nearest one, but the others have been unoccupied since I arrived, and there are no forward bookings. Edith lives in the main house here, in a flat above the kitchen,’ she added.

He set down his knife and fork. The plate was clean.

That was ambrosia,’ he told her.

Thanks.’

‘Thank you. I feel a darn sight more human now,’ he said, and, easing back his chair and splaying his legs, he stretched lazily.