LITMIR.BIZ

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and get it sent off to them with the enclosed covering letter and the cheque that’s in there, and then they run the test. It should match if she’s Will’s daughter—and that’s definitely Will in the photos.’

      ‘How do I know that?’ she asked.

      His brow pleated. ‘How do you know? Because we’re identical.’

      ‘Exactly. So how do I know it isn’t you?’

      He stared at her, clearly taken aback. ‘Me? I’ve told you, I was out of the country.’

      ‘I’ve only got your word for that.’

      ‘It’s usually good enough,’ he said drily, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have said he sounded hurt. Then he went on, ‘Anyway, it’s easy. Apart from the passport stamps and minutes of the meetings I attended in Japan, I haven’t had my appendix out—unlike Will. And there’s a scar in the photos.’

      And before she had a chance to say anything, before she could challenge him or express her scepticism, he tugged his shirt out of his trousers, hitched a thumb in the waistband and pushed it down, revealing a taut, board-flat abdomen without so much as a crease in it. ‘See? No scar.’

      Her shoulders dropped. Well, at least she knew he was telling the truth. There was no way a surgeon’s knife had ever scored that skin. She dragged her eyes away from the line of dark hair that arrowed down under that dangerously low waistband, and looked back up at him.

      ‘OK, so it isn’t you in the photos,’ she agreed.

      ‘No—but it might as well be,’ he said quietly. ‘If the baby is Will’s, then she’d be as closely related to me as she would be if she were my own, and I would feel the same obligation towards her. I never thought I would, but it seems blood is thicker than water, after all, and if she’s Will’s child, then in his absence she’s mine, and I’ll do what’s right by her.’

      He ground to a halt, the long speech seeming to open up more than he’d intended to reveal, and he firmed his lips together and looked away—at Jess, awake now and waving her arms and legs happily in the pram.

      ‘You don’t have to explain that to me,’ she reminded him. ‘Why do you think I’m looking after Jess instead of handing her over to Social Services for adoption?’

      He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, of course you understand. You’re in the same boat. Lord, what a coil.’

      His jacket was hanging over the back of his chair, and she could just see one pink ear sticking up against the rumpled grey-green linen.

      She inclined her head towards it and smiled, deliberately lightening the tone. ‘So, Mr Cameron—is that a rabbit in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?’

      For a second of startled silence she wondered if she’d gone too far, but then he gave a soft huff of laughter and pulled it out.

      ‘I’d forgotten all about it. I found it in the lift. I didn’t know if she’d miss it—if she was old enough yet to have fixated on it. I gather babies can be funny like that.’

      ‘Not this young, not at four months, but she does like it. Thank you.’

      He handed it to her and their fingers brushed, sending sparks up her arm. She snatched her hand away, feeling a little silly, and gave the rabbit to Jess, who grabbed it and stuffed one ear in her mouth.

      ‘Instant hit,’ she said with a smile, and scooped the baby up. ‘Here, it’s time to get to know her. Jess, this is your Uncle Patrick. Say hello.’

      She dumped Jess on his lap, and for the first few seconds he looked dumbstruck and awkward.

      ‘She won’t break, you know,’ she told him, taking pity on him after a minute, and he shot her a slightly desperate smile.

      ‘Do I have to support her head?’ he asked. ‘It’s the only thing I can remember.’

      ‘No, she’s fine now. She can stand up if you hold her, and jump on your lap, but she shouldn’t do it for too long.’

      ‘How on earth do I know what’s too long?’ he asked with a thread of panic, and she laughed.

      ‘Don’t worry, she’s not made of glass. She’s just a baby. Don’t drop her on her head and she’ll be fine. They’re tough as old boots.’

      She headed for the door, needing a moment to herself to let it all sink in, and his eyes tracked her like a laser.

      ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his voice rising slightly with alarm.

      ‘The loo. You got a problem with that?’

      He relaxed visibly. ‘Um—no. That’s fine. I just thought—’

      ‘I was going out? One step at a time, cowboy,’ she said with a smile, and left him to it.

      ‘Well, little Jess. So you’re Will’s baby,’ he said softly, staring into her solemn brown eyes. ‘And like the lady said, I’m your Uncle Patrick. What do you think of that?’

      Not much, from the expression on her face. Her lip wobbled, and instinctively he jostled her gently on his knee and smiled at her.

      ‘Hey, hey, I’m not so bad. I may not know anything about babies, but we can learn together. I don’t suppose you know too much about architects or uncles, either, but you’ll learn, just like I will about babies. Oh, yes, you will.’

      He nodded at her, and she blinked, so he did it again, his smile widening, and all of a sudden her face transformed. Her eyes creased up, her mouth opened to reveal one tiny white tooth in a gummy smile, and she giggled.

      Patrick swallowed. There was a lump the size of a tennis ball lodged in his throat, and he had to blink hard to keep her in focus.

      ‘So you think I’m funny, do you?’ he said, his voice a little scratchy, and she giggled again, one arm flailing out to grab at his nose.

      ‘Ouch! Sharp nails!’ he chided gently, easing her surprisingly strong little fingers off while he still had skin. Instead of his nose, she fastened her hand on his finger and clung, pulling it to her mouth and gnawing it.

      ‘I’m not sure that’s clean enough to chew,’ he said doubtfully, but Claire came back into the room at that moment and stood right beside him—close enough for him to smell the new-mown grass that clung to her—and suddenly the germs didn’t seem to matter.

      Instead, the sharp, sweet scent of grass teased his senses, heady as an aphrodisiac, and he had to force himself to concentrate on her words.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ she was saying, ‘children shouldn’t be brought up in a sterile environment, it’s bad for them. I’m sure your fingers aren’t that grubby.’

      ‘Doggy, probably,’ he said, struggling for common sense.

      ‘She’ll live. Did I hear her laughing?’

      He looked up at her, suddenly self-conscious. Had she heard him making a fool of himself with her?

      ‘She giggled,’ he said, still slightly awestruck by that manifestation of personality in someone so very young, and Claire smiled.

      ‘Oh, she does. The sillier you make yourself, the more she likes it. I think it appeals to her sense of humour, watching adults turn themselves into fruit-cakes on her behalf.’

      Fruitcakes, indeed! So she had heard. Oh, well, it might be a point in his favour, and he had a feeling he was going to need all the Brownie points he could get!

      I’ll still want to be involved in her upbringing, to see her first steps, to hear her first words.

      The words had been going round and round in Claire’s head since Patrick had spoken them, and, watching him with the baby now, she still had no clear idea what that implied. What did ‘involved’ mean, exactly? He wanted to see videos of her from time to time? Visit

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