The Love-Child

Better, she smiled at her reflection. Pearce Tyrone would be easy, she told herself confidently.

She heard Tyrone’s voice before she could see him. She followed the deep booming sound of his displeasure down the stairs. He sounded formidable, and with every step towards his office door she could feel her confidence faltering.

‘Well, your agency assured me of a prompt service,’ he was saying in an irate tone.

Somebody had well and truly rattled the man’s cage, Cathy thought as she stopped in the doorway to his study. Her eyes scanned the room with professional interest, trying to store every detail while he was otherwise occupied.

He was sitting behind an enormous desk in a very beautiful room. The walls were covered in bookshelves and French doors looked out over a picturesque garden, lit by the rosy hue of evening. Beside him there was another desk with a computer and fax machine on it, and angled to one side was a coffee machine.

Pearce didn’t see her immediately. His head was bent and he was raking one hand through his dark hair in an angry way as he listened to whoever was at the other end of the line. Cathy didn’t envy whoever it was. She wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of Peace Tyrone’s temper—he sounded most indomitable. She only hoped that she could get her story and be out of here before he discovered her deception.

‘It’s just not good enough. I pay good money and expect—’ Pearce broke off as he looked up and caught sight of Cathy in the doorway.

His eyes moved over her from her shoes right the way over her body, studying her intently with a blatantly male interest. The in-depth scrutiny made her feel extremely self-conscious and there was the strangest feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she had just stepped off a high diving board.

‘Never mind.’ Pearce continued abruptly now. ‘Leave it. I’ll phone you back.’ Then he slammed down the phone.

‘Problem?’ Cathy asked with an innocent lift of one eyebrow.

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ Pearce’s voice was crisp and businesslike, his expression remote and distinctly unfriendly, making Cathy wonder if she had imagined his earlier look of approval. ‘You look different,’ he said.

‘Different?’

‘Your hair,’ he said curtly. ‘You’ve left it loose.’

The way he spoke was almost like an accusation. ‘Oh.’ She put a hand awkwardly to the long honey gold length and tucked it behind her ears. ‘Poppy had pulled it and I just thought I’d tidy up before coming down here.’

‘Come in and sit down.’ He cut across her rambling explanations and waved a hand imperiously towards the chair opposite him.

Feeling a bit like a child who had transgressed and had been summoned to the headmaster’s office, Cathy obediently took her place opposite him. For a moment he didn’t say anything—just looked at her. It took all of her self-control not to squirm uncomfortably under that probing stare.

He was examining her as a scientist would study something under a microscope, she thought angrily, as his eyes swept over her lightly tanned complexion, the heavy thickness of her hair and the scoop neckline of her white dress with deep contemplation.

‘So,’ he spoke sharply, ‘you are Ms Cathy Fielding, nanny extraordinaire?’

‘Well...I...I try my best.’ She held his gaze with difficulty, trying not to feel intimidated by him. No one had ever made her feel so on edge before but, then, she had never pretended to be anything other than what she was before.

‘Can you type?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Yes.’ She inclined her head.

‘Excellent.’ He smiled at her, a warm smile that did very weird things to her pulse rate. His swings of mood were dizzying, she thought hazily. ‘As you just overheard, my secretary has let me down. I’ve got a deadline to make with a book and I need someone to type up my notes.’

‘That’s no problem,’ she assured him. In fact, it was probably the only thing that he needed that she was qualified to do.

‘Right, let’s take a look at your references.’

Her heart gave a double beat and she was just opening her mouth to make a feeble excuse for not having them with her when he leaned across to the filing cabinet next to him. ‘They faxed them to me yesterday but, to be honest, I haven’t had a chance to study them in depth.’

She watched, wide-eyed, as he pulled out a paper folder. ‘The agency did speak very highly of you,’ he told her.

‘Did they?’ She sounded as breathless as she felt. She waited helplessly as he pulled out the pages inside, knowing full well that as soon as he looked at them he would know that she was an impostor. For one thing, the wrong surname would be at the top of the page.

She coughed and then caught her breath. ‘Do you think I could have a drink?’ she asked in a desperate attempt to forestall him.

‘Certainly.’ He swivelled his leather chair towards the coffee machine behind him. ‘Black all right?’

She didn’t get a chance to answer because at that juncture the shrill ring of a bell split the silence of the house.

‘Damn, someone is at the gate.’ Pearce hesitated and then stood up. ‘Excuse me a moment. I’d better see to it as Henri is watching Poppy for us.’

‘Of course.’ Cathy felt her blood rushing through her veins in hot waves as she wondered if this would be the real nanny.

Well, what could she expect? she told herself with a sinking feeling. It stood to reason that she couldn’t get away with this for very much longer.

As soon as Pearce left her she got up and wandered around the room. She flicked idly through a pile of papers at one side of his desk. They were just normal household accounts. Her eyes moved quickly over the references Pearce had spread out over the desk—from an agency called Elite Nannies of London. Cathy pulled a face as her eyes moved down over it. Any moment now she would probably be confronted with an indignant Mabel Flowers and an absolutely furious Pearce Tyrone.

Frantically, she opened a couple of drawers in his desk but found only paper and discs. What she was looking for, she couldn’t have said; she was just desperate for something...anything...she could use for her story before she was bodily thrown from the building.

She was in the process of closing the drawer when the telephone rang next to her. It rang and rang and Pearce didn’t come to answer it.

Impulsively, Cathy snatched it up. ‘Pearce Tyrone’s residence,’ she said in an efficient tone.

A woman with dulcet English tones asked to speak to Mr Tyrone.

‘I’m afraid he isn’t available at the moment,’ Cathy said without hesitation. ‘Can I take a message?’

There was the briefest pause before the woman asked to whom she was speaking.

‘Mr Tyrone’s secretary.’ Cathy bit her lip. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. Tyrone had asked if she would do some typing for him.

‘This is Janet Mercer of the Elite agency in London. I’m afraid the nanny we are sending you, a Ms Mabel Flowers, has run into some difficulty getting out to you. It’s this French air-traffic control strike.’

Cathy’s eyes widened; she could hardly believe her luck. ‘We were wondering where she had got to.’ She managed to sound slightly disapproving as she darted nervous glances towards the doorway in case Pearce should suddenly arrive.

‘Yes, I know you wanted her right away and I did promise, but it’s been chaotic trying to make other arrangements. The best we can do is book a train and the first available one is Monday next week, I’m afraid.’

‘Dear me.’ Cathy had difficulty keeping the glee from her voice.

‘If you’d like to cancel our contract and get someone closer to home then we would understand.’

‘No, leave it as it is,’ Cathy told her nonchalantly. That would give her a week’s grace to get her story, not that she intended to stay that long. She’d probably be out of here tomorrow morning with enough information to make Mike’s year.

‘Well, that’s very good of you,’ the woman said with evident relief.

Isn’t it? Cathy thought, mentally patting herself on the back.

She was just putting down the phone when Pearce came back through the door.