Morgan's Secret Son

He felt dark emotions swirling inexorably in his mind, denying him clarity of thought. Because he knew with a gut-wrenching pain that if Jodie was ever reunited with Sam then he could lose his son for ever.

Jodie was Sam’s next of kin. When Sam died, which the doctors said would be within a year or two, she would automatically be responsible for Jack’s future welfare.

And he, Morgan, would be out on his ear.

A devil was driving him, whispering in his ear wickedly that he could eliminate all danger by stating the cold, unvarnished truth: that her father had rejected her utterly. It would be so simple—and he wanted his son so badly that he tortured himself by listening to the voice in his head even though he knew he should, in all honour, endeavour to bring father and daughter together.

But Sam had been adamant. ‘She’s like her mother!’ he’d declared with wild conjecture, when he’d given up all hope of hearing from Jodie. ‘Selfish, flighty and heartless! If she knew I was rich she’d be here quick enough! Morgan, she’s broken my heart! I never want to see her—even if she turns up in rags and trailing ten children in her wake, do you hear?’ he’d raged.

‘I hear,’ he’d said quietly, hoping some day to dissuade him.

But that had been before Morgan knew he was Jack’s father. And now Jodie was here, in dazzling scarlet and trailing fire and passion and a steely determination in her wake.

Common sense told him that he should send her away with a photo after a cup of tea. But could he live with himself, knowing that Sam had had the opportunity to enjoy the last year or two of his life in his daughter’s loving company?

‘God!’ he muttered. ‘What a choice!’

Hard on himself, as always, he forced himself to go through the motions of making tea, but his fingers were constantly stilled by the strangely haunting image of Jodie’s face.

What was it about her? Some element of Sam, his honesty, his goodness? It would have been easier if she’d been an out-and-out cow—selfish, flighty and heartless, as Sam had suggested.

But Morgan’s lasting image of her was of her transparent, innocent joy, which had cut through his suspicion and shock like a sword of light.

He stared into space, seeing the blinding smile which had lit up her extraordinary jade eyes till they’d sparkled like gemstones. She’d seemed almost vulnerable in her eagerness to tell him about herself.

Morgan thought of her passion when she’d begged for a crumb, the right to see what her father looked like because she had no photographs of him. Her words had sliced through his heart like a knife through butter. He understood that terrible emptiness of being somehow unfinished because of an unknown parent.

All his life he’d wanted to know who his father was. His rootlessness, his avoidance of committal and his dangerous hunger for love had undoubtedly been a consequence of that empty gap in his life. In that instant he had felt a visceral stab of compassion for her. And so he’d weakened.

Of course she was lying about the letters. But it was like the lie of a vulnerable child who can’t bear to be in the wrong. A greedy child, perhaps, he reminded himself with a frown, before he became too indulgent. Maybe she’d done some research on the Internet and had discovered that Sam Frazer was one of the most prestigious architects in the country.

He rubbed a thoughtful hand over his stubble. With Sam owning half the village and the lucrative practice, she’d be in line for a huge inheritance. And custody of Jack.

Morgan’s hands shook as he filled the kettle. Where would that leave him? Visiting occasionally. Looking on while she brought up his son.

‘No!’ he muttered vehemently. ‘Never in a million years!’

Sam only had a short time to live. Morgan had planned to adopt Jack when the older man died. But if Jodie was on the scene she would be firmly entrenched as Jack’s carer by then.

There’d be a legal tussle which could go on for years, with Jack in the middle—and by that time Jodie would to all intents and purposes be a mother figure to Jack. He couldn’t take his son away under those circumstances. It would be too cruel.

No! Better if he never let that situation arise. He sucked in a harsh breath. That settled it. He’d keep her at arm’s length and respect Sam’s explicit wishes. Tea and sympathy, then pack her off home.

CHAPTER THREE

JODIE sat fuming and twiddling her fingers. She flicked through an elaborately illustrated book about buildings in Brazil, which normally would have interested her, but she had one thing only dominating her mind: her father.

She knew she was ready to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion—but before she did she must see him. Over tea—coffee!—which would revive her and give her the boost her system needed, she’d ask this man if…

No, she’d demand. She was no collie dog. She would not be ruled by him.

Wearily she hauled herself from the chair and followed the sounds of movement, finding herself in the doorway of an enormous farmhouse kitchen fitted out with limed wood units in the country house style.

Unobserved and unheard in her rubber soles, she temporarily forgot why she’d come because he was wearily dumping leaf tea into a pot like a zombie on sedatives. Intrigued, Jodie counted six spoonfuls before he paused and then uttered a brief expletive.

Each one of his movements was slow and laboured as he emptied the pot and then carefully recounted the correct amount of tea in a voice which betrayed his irritation with himself.

After adding boiling water to the brew, a deep sigh welled up from the depths of his body. His head tipped back in an attitude of despair.

Jodie was fascinated. He seemed more than tired. It was as if life itself had become untenable. Why? What was going on here?

Not daring to let him know she’d seen him in an unguarded moment, she tiptoed away and made the approach again, ensuring that she made enough noise on her way to the kitchen to serve as a warning.

When she entered, he was back in control of himself again: stiff, erect, and poker-faced.

‘I thought I’d see if I could help,’ she began crisply. ‘And—’

‘It’s done,’ he said, before she could ask for a coffee. ‘Now that you’re here, we might as well have tea in here instead. Milk or lemon?’

‘Whatever.’ Jodie was too eaten up with curiosity to pursue her preference and she sat down at the scrubbed pine table expectantly. Tea was a stimulant, anyway. And she needed revitalising before she started making waves. ‘Now,’ she continued amiably, hoping to disarm him, ‘tell me who you are.’

‘Morgan Peralta.’

‘Unusual name,’ she said, encouraging him to open up.

‘I have Colombian parents,’ he replied grudgingly.

It explained a good deal: his dark good looks, the sense of lurking volcanic passions, the Latin cheekbones and bred-in-the-bone sensuality. He had a magnificent body: just muscled and lean enough for her taste. Beside him, Chas would look a slob. So would most men.

She looked at his hands, always a give-away, and thought that there was something very sensual in the way his slender—almost graceful—fingers dealt with slicing the lemon. He’d be good with women, she mused. Delicate in his touch. Tantalisingly exploring… She blinked, startled by where her thoughts had taken her.

Feeling warm from the heat of the kitchen, Jodie unbuttoned her jacket. She would have removed it but Morgan’s hooded gaze had honed in like a guided missile on the tangerine shirt beneath and she felt a sudden frisson of sexual danger as something indefinable sizzled briefly between them.

Stupid. How could he possibly be interested in her? It was her over-developed imagination. Static in the air. Besides, he was hardly going to jump her. Not over tea!

She hid a smile at her caution but decided she’d feel more comfortable if she kept the jacket on. The T-shirt fitted snugly and she didn’t want Morgan counting her ribs. Or anything else…

She was astonished to feel a blush creep up her entire body, and she let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Morgan slanted an odd look at her from under his brows then sat opposite her, immediately picking up the teapot and pouring out a thin, almost gold-coloured liquid into their cups and slipping in a slice of lemon. Jodie accepted the offered cup doubtfully. It didn’t look like any tea she’d ever seen.

‘I’m Jodie,’ she offered, anxious to be accepted. ‘Jodie Frazer.’

‘I know.’

He was close to her father, then. She took a deep breath and plunged in.

‘I imagine my father was upset when he didn’t hear from me,’ she ventured.