Her Secret, His Love-Child

Katrina was paying close attention to the conversation. Alex had made a point of keeping his family and Katrina apart, as he did with all of his lovers. He’d wanted to avoid building any expectation of a permanent relationship.

But more and more that looked like it had been a waste of time where Katrina was concerned.

Because, if the baby did turn out to be his, then the future he’d envisaged would be well and truly blown to smithereens.

Alex was trying and failing to process an inbox full of emails when Royce called at eight that night. Once again, the other man got straight to the point. ‘I don’t have a lot to report. One of my people has been watching the apartment since just before you arrived at two-oh-three.’

Alex was impressed they’d moved so quickly. ‘And…?’

‘And nothing. Katrina came out with a pram around three-thirty and walked to the local park and back. Other than that she hasn’t been out. A number of people have come and gone from the apartment building, but it’s been difficult to ascertain whether any of them have visited her. There’s been no sign of the guy who owns the apartment.’

Alex stiffened. ‘What guy?’

‘Let me see.’ Alex heard the tapping of computer keys. ‘The apartment is owned by a guy called Peter Strauss.’

Something shifted in his chest. ‘She’s living with a man?’

‘That’s not clear. We’re still looking into it. Katrina’s name doesn’t appear on any official lease or documentation. At least none that we’ve found so far. She’s either living with the guy or she has a private arrangement with him.’

‘I see,’ Alex said, not seeing at all, and wishing to hell that he did. ‘What else do you know about the guy?’

‘Nothing. We’re doing a background check now. I should have an answer for you tomorrow or the day after.’

‘Make it tomorrow. I want to know everything. When they met. What their relationship is. Everything.’

Alex wasn’t sure why he was so interested.

He tried to tell himself it was because the Strauss chap could be the baby’s father, but he knew he was just fooling himself.

He was a great believer in the saying ‘actions speak louder than words’ and Katrina’s behaviour suggested she was telling the truth.

The scales were now firmly tipped in favour of him being the child’s father.

So why should he care who this guy was?

Frankly he shouldn’t give a flying fig, but he did.

Alex sat stiffly in his chair, body so tense he expected his joints to creak when he moved. A restless sensation attacked the bottom of his spine.

He wanted to storm over to the apartment and demand some answers.

Instead, he cursed under his breath and headed for his bedroom. He pulled on a pair of black running shorts, a white singlet top and a pair of trainers. Leaving the apartment by his private elevator, he headed for the nearby park.

He jogged for an hour most days.

Tonight, he didn’t jog.

Tonight, he pounded the pavement as if his very life depended on it.

Sweat dripped from his body.

His lungs burned and his heart raced.

On his twelfth lap, Alex decided to call it quits. He could run until he cut a groove in the cement and it still wouldn’t ease his frustration.

He ground to a sudden halt, gasped in a breath and swore viciously.

Jogging at a less frantic pace, he headed back to his apartment.

Then, sweaty, tired and so wired he expected to emit sparks at any moment, he snatched up his car keys.

CHAPTER THREE

KATRINA was cleaning the kitchen sink—gleaming stainless-steel was almost as satisfying as glowing white ceramic—when someone pounded on the door as if they were trying to smash it down.

Worried the racket might wake Samantha, she removed her rubber gloves and hurried to the door.

‘Who is it?’ she called softly, trying to keep her voice down.

‘It’s Alex. Open up!’

‘Alex?’ she asked in surprise, blonde eyebrows shooting towards her hairline.

What was Alex doing here?

‘Yes. Alex. Open the door!’

Startled by his forceful order, Katrina slid the door chain along its protective channel and then turned her attention to the lock. In her nervous haste, and hindered by the oversized rubber gloves, her fingers fumbled with the latch and it took her two attempts to get the door open.

‘What do you want, Alex?’ she asked.

Although she hadn’t invited him in, Alex swept past her into the apartment.

As he did, she noticed what he was wearing.

Or, rather, what he wasn’t wearing.

All he had on was running gear. Skimpy runninggear that left very little to the imagination.

A white singlet top bared the steely strength of his broad, bronzed shoulders, and short shorts left the hairroughened length of his powerful legs free for her hungry gaze to feast upon.

In an instant, her mouth was parchment dry and her heart was beating ninety-to-the-dozen. ‘Alex?’ she prompted when he failed to answer her.

Suddenly she realised that while she’d been staring at Alex he’d been staring just as hard at her.

In her eagerness to open the door before Samantha was disturbed, Katrina had forgotten she was wearing her oldest tracksuit. It was tatty and worn, and the black was no longer sharp but faded. She’d taken the jacket off a while ago; scrubbing was hot work. Beneath it she was wearing a black stretchy top with spaghetti-thin straps.

If her outfit wasn’t bad enough, her hair had fallen out of the clip she’d used to fasten it to the top of her head. It was now half up and half down, with several strands sticking to her cheeks. To top everything else off, she wasn’t wearing a touch of make-up—not even mascara.