The Bachelor's Baby

‘Worse. It’s from my baby’s father.’ And she ripped the contents of the envelope in two. It felt so good that she kept on doing it until the cheque was reduced to confetti. Then she picked up a fresh envelope, and after copying the sender’s address from the courier slip, she scooped the shredded cheque into it. She sealed it and stamped it and tossed it in her out tray.

‘Tea,’ Vicki said, slowly. ‘Camomile tea.’ And she handed Amy a small phial of mandarin oil. ‘And, in the meantime, I suggest you should rub a little of this on your pulse points. It’ll make you feel better.’

She didn’t want to feel better. She wanted to scream. She wanted to smash something. How dared he send her a cheque? She wanted it out of her sight. Out of her shop.

‘I’ll be fine, Vicki,’ she said, with controlled venom.

‘Just as soon as that—’ she pointed to the envelope ‘—that thing…is out of my sight. Forget the tea. Take it to the post office now and send it by recorded delivery. I want to be absolutely certain that he got it.’

‘Um, maybe you should wait ten minutes. Think about it. It’s what you always tell me—’

‘No.’ She was trusting her instincts on this one. Calm thought was not the appropriate reaction. The feeling was too strong to bottle up, keep a lid on. She needed Jake to know exactly how she felt. ‘Just do as I ask, Vicki. Please. Straight away.’

‘Look, if you feel that strongly about it I could ask the courier to take it back with him. He was due for his lunchbreak, so I suggested the cafе across the courtyard.’ And she blushed. ‘I was going to join him if you got back in time.’

‘Oh, Vicki!’

‘We all have our weaknesses,’ she said. ‘Yours is for pink bootees. Mine is for black leather.’

‘I’m not in the mood to encourage young love,’ Amy warned. Then she shook her head. ‘All right. Use the courier. But don’t blame me if he breaks your heart. And it has to be signed for by Jacob Hallam. No one else. If I’m going to spend a fortune making a statement, I want to be sure I’m getting my money’s worth.’

‘You will,’ she said. And grinned. ‘Just you leave it to me.’

Jake frowned at the note his secretary passed to him. ‘Can’t you deal with it?’

‘Sorry. It has to be signed for by the addressee.’

‘Okay. Let’s take five, gentlemen.’ He got up and followed Maggie into Reception, where the courier was waiting. ‘You’ve got something for me?’

‘If you’re Mr Jacob Hallam?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ve got this, if you could sign for it.’ He offered a pen.

Jake took it, signed for an envelope with ‘Amaryllis Jones’ picked out in elegant black and gold lettering on the top left-hand corner. So, she’d got the cheque. He hadn’t expected such a swift response and he held the envelope for a moment; it was thick and soft and contained more than a polite ‘thank you’ note. As he pushed his thumb beneath the flap and ripped it open, he had a very bad feeling about it.

Jake frowned at the contents. Pink and soft. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Nothing pink and soft, that was for sure. As he pulled it out, a handful of tiny scraps of paper fluttered about him, settling at his feet. The cheque had been shredded so thoroughly that only when Maggie began to gather up the pieces and he saw part of his signature did he realise what it was.

‘What the devil…?’

Maggie handed him the pieces. ‘One of two things, Jake. It wasn’t enough. Or she doesn’t want your money. Take your pick. But if it’s the latter, I’d say you’re in big trouble.’

‘The question was rhetorical,’ he said coldly.

Maggie had been his secretary for too long to be choked off by a chilly put-down. ‘Sorry, Jake,’ she said, almost kindly. ‘I’m afraid trouble doesn’t come in “rhetorical”. Not this kind.’

‘And what kind is that?’ He was just digging a bigger hole for himself, he knew, but he couldn’t stop himself.

‘The kind involving a woman and a cheque. Especially if she’s pregnant.’

‘Pregnant?’ His face remained impassive, even while his gut was churning. ‘What makes you think she’s pregnant?’

‘Well, the pink bootees are a bit of a giveaway,’ Maggie said. ‘It would seem she’s—you’re—expecting a girl. Congratulations.’

‘Bootees…’ He realised what he was holding. Bootees. Blossom-pink, thistledown-soft. ‘Oh…’ he said. Then, ‘Sugar.’

‘I think, under the circumstances, a little more enthusiasm is called for.’

‘Sorry, Maggie. I can’t do enthusiasm. Not for this.’ He continued to stare at the bootees. They were so…so…small. He tried to imagine feet tiny enough to fit them. Toes… He snapped his mind back from the brink. ‘She knows that. I thought the cheque would help.’

‘Did you?’ Maggie shook her head. ‘And I thought you were quite bright, for a man. Never mind, keep trying. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.’

‘You think that I’m heading for wedding bells and happy ever after?’ He could read her like a book. ‘Give me a break.’ She said nothing, but she was thinking for England, he could see. ‘Okay, what would you do? If you were me? Forgetting the white lace and promises bit,’ he added quickly.

‘That would depend on what I—as you—wanted.’ Maggie waited a moment. Then asked, ‘What do you want, Jake?’

‘Me? I’ve got everything I ever wanted.’ He was successful, rich. His father would have been proud… ‘I don’t want this.’

Maggie gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘It appears that you don’t have a choice. It is yours?’ She quirked an eyebrow. ‘There’s no doubt?’ He shook his head. It was his. The only thing he could imagine worse than this situation was knowing that Amy was expecting someone else’s baby. It didn’t make sense, he knew, but then emotional stuff never did. ‘You know, Jake, having a baby is a bit like a bacon and egg breakfast.’

He dragged his thoughts back from the golden moment when they’d made the baby. ‘This should be good.’

‘It takes two to make it happen,’ she said, ignoring his muttered interjection. ‘But while the chicken makes a contribution, the pig is totally committed. The mother of your baby can’t walk away, Jake. Or pretend it isn’t happening. Or pay someone else to feel the pain.’ About to say more, she apparently changed her mind.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. At least… Well, maybe you shouldn’t take the way she handled your cheque too seriously. Her hormones are probably acting up. Leave it a few weeks. Try again when everything’s settled down.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Or you might get lucky. It might just take an extra nought.’

What did he want?

That was easy. He wanted Amy. He wanted to stop the world, rewind the tape, replay those hours they’d spent together. He wanted to breathe in the sweet scent of her skin, he wanted to wake with her in his arms, wanted to hear her whimpering softly as he took her over the edge, followed her there, briefly, to a place beyond pain. For now. He knew it was a fleeting thing. An ache that would soon pass.

Unlike fatherhood.

He didn’t want to be a father. He didn’t know how to be a father. Not the kind of father any baby would want. What he wanted, what he needed, was for Amy to take the money so that he could walk away with a clear conscience. Money to pay for help. Money to pay for everything.

Maggie was being over-sentimental about that. Money would do it every time. One way or the other. And Amy would take it. Eventually. She’d have no choice. But maybe sending it like that had been a mistake. It had been cold and impersonal, and she was a warm and caring woman. In her place, he realised, he would have been angry, too.

That she was angry he didn’t doubt for a moment. It would take a really angry woman to reduce his cheque to such tiny shreds of paper. What the bootees meant, why she had enclosed them with the cheque, was a mystery he refused to confront. He suspected he already knew the answer. She wanted him. On his knees.

He crumpled the bootees in his hand, stuffed them out of sight in his pocket. No way.

But Maggie was right, he acknowledged belatedly. The cheque had been crass. His father would have sent a cheque. He should have thought of something less direct, something that she could have accepted without losing her dignity. A trust fund for the baby, maybe. She wouldn’t, couldn’t refuse that, not once she accepted that he wasn’t to be turned to marshmallow by a pair of pink bootees.

He’d go down there tonight. Apologise. Check that she was keeping well. Not overdoing it. She shouldn’t be on her feet all day…

Dammit, he was doing it again. Thinking about her. Worrying about her. He spat out an expletive that had once earned him a beating from…