Reluctant Father

‘You can go next door and get those water glasses,’ Edith said, deftly filleting the freshly caught kingfish which would be baked with garlic and served in a tangy lemon sauce. ‘And while you’re there you can hop on that exercise bike.’

‘The tour group’ll be arriving soon,’ Cass demurred.

She knew she must confront Gifford—and for her to choose the time and place would be preferable to him coming into the restaurant again and surprising her—yet she was not sure she felt ready to confront him right now.

‘The tour group won’t be here for another hour, which gives you plenty of time. And they’re the reason why we could do with the glasses. Marquise and I’ll keep an eye out for bébé waking up.’ Edith shooed her off with a wave of her hand. ‘Now go!’

Once in her cottage, Cass changed into a lavendercoloured leotard, pulled on a pair of grey knit shorts and tied the laces on her trainers. She would, she decided, start by saying that their son was, naturally, with her, and suggest that Gifford might like to see him. Her demeanour would be cool, calm and uncritical. Whilst she longed to deliver a volley of vitriolic home truths and savagely denounce him, for Jack’s sake she could not afford to turn him into an enemy.

The Forgotten Eden sat on a tongue of lush land which ended in a strip of white coral sand at the Indian Ocean. To the east stretched a long, shallow bay, while to the west was the tight horseshoe of the granite boulder-edged cove. Taking a path which skirted the cove and cut up through the trees, Cass set off towards Maison d’Horizon.

Sunlight dappled the yellow-green fronds of palms and lit strands of purple orchids which hung from the trees. There were glimpses of sun-sparkled sea. Dragonflies whizzed around like miniature coloured helicopters.

According to a guide book she had read, when General Charles Gordon, the hero of Khartoum, had visited Praslin in the late 1800s he’d believed he had found the biblical Garden of Eden. She smiled. She could understand his belief.

With thickly wooded hills strewn with huge, cathedral-grand boulders and a wealth of wild blossoms, Praslin had to be one of the most beautiful islands on earth. It was also one of the safest, she mused. Crime was rare, and people seldom bothered to lock their doors.

As Cass padded up the stone steps leading onto the terrace which stretched across the back of the house, her smile faded. Maybe the meeting would be easier if she brought Jack with her and let him work his not unconsiderable charm. Maybe she should turn right around and come back this afternoon. A retreat smacked of cowardice and would mean missing out on the water glasses, but—

She halted. Gifford was walking on the treadmill. The gym was installed in a corner room, and she could see his shadowy outline through the side window. Cautious now, she climbed the remaining steps. Was anyone with him? Imogen Sales, for example? The clinging, rail-thin Imogen. She cast a glance down at the slight swell of her stomach. If so, it would be heel-swivel and exit.

Tiptoeing across the terrace, Cass rounded the corner of the house and peeped cautiously in through sliding glass doors. Wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts, and with his muscled torso glistening with sweat, Gifford continued to pace the treadmill. Her gaze swept past him and swiftly around—there was no one else in the room—then returned.