Promise Of A Family. Jessica Steele

Leyne only just managed to hang on to her manners. ‘Thank you, I will,’ she replied, and came away from the phone finding that she could be every bit as stubborn as the other females in her family when she had to be.

      She penned the letter straight away.

      Dear Mr Dangerfield,

      I need to speak with you on an urgent matter of family business.

      She was very tempted to add something to the effect that it was about time he woke up and, instead of squiring elegant females to social functions, devoted some time and attention to his daughter. But she wanted to see him herself first; wanted first to judge if, despite him looking affable enough in his picture, he might turn out to be someone she would not want Pip to have any contact with. So, having written just that brief note, she signed herself, ‘Yours sincerely, Leyne Rowberry.’

      And a fat lot of good it did her. A whole week went by, and—having decided not to give her mobile phone number or her office number—she did not want to take his call there but had written both her home phone number as well as her address—she had heard not a word from Mr Jack Dangerfield.

      Pip had suffered a small asthma attack yesterday. It had proved nothing to be too alarmed about. But Leyne was concerned, and could not help wondering if the sensitive child was getting herself in something of an emotional stew with regard to her unknown father. Leyne had checked her niece over carefully on Monday morning before deciding she was well enough to go to school.

      Leyne waited until ten o’clock and then, regardless that she was at her office, she rang J. Dangerfield, Engineers. ‘Mr Jack Dangerfield, please,’ she said, her tone businesslike. And was put on to voice number two. Leyne dug her heels in. ‘Mr Dangerfield is in today?’ she enquired, in her best professional manner.

      ‘He is. But he’s very busy. If I could—’

      That the man was in business that day was all Leyne needed to know. ‘Thank you,’ she cut in on number two, injecting a smile into her voice—and rang off. Next she rang Dianne Gardner. ‘I have a bit of a problem,’ she began.

      ‘Anything I can help with?’

      ‘I may be a bit late collecting Pip tonight,’ she explained, hoping Dianne would think she was working late. ‘Would it be any trouble for her to stay on with you until I can get there?’

      ‘No trouble at all. Don’t rush. She can have dinner with us,’ Dianne offered. Their reciprocal back-up arrangement was working well.

      Leyne went to see her boss just after lunch. ‘I need some time off. Is it all right with you if I work from home?’

      Tad Ingleman sighed dramatically. ‘It will be a dull afternoon without you,’ he said, his eyes appreciative of her dainty features and shining hair. But, with the scheduled move to larger premises delayed yet again, ‘If you can clear your desk before you go we can all spread out a bit.’

      ‘I’ll be in tomorrow,’ she promised, and, armed with work she would have to catch up on that evening, she went to her car. Instead of heading home, though, she made for the offices of J. Dangerfield, Engineers.

      Her telephone enquiry had yielded the information that Mr Dangerfield was in, but was busy. She smiled. No problem.

      Glad that it was a non-rainy October day, Leyne parked her car and went and found herself a vantage point. Without doubt chairmen as busy as Jack Dangerfield appeared to be did not keep to nine-to-five hours. Though if he was going to work very late—and Leyne was prepared to stay there until midnight if need be—she would have to ring Dianne again.

      That phone call, however, proved unnecessary when, at half past four, the main doors of J. Dangerfield, Engineers, opened and a man she instantly recognised from his newspaper picture came, briefcase in hand, out through the doors.

      He was a fast mover, and was down the steps before she had got over her surprise and budged an inch. Then she was galvanised into action. Fortunately he was heading her way.

      ‘Mr Dangerfield!’ She accosted him before they drew level.

      His eyes flicked over her neat and curvaceous figure, taking in her lovely face and hair, and superb blue eyes. ‘You have the advantage,’ he paused to drawl charmingly.

      ‘Leyne Rowberry,’ she supplied, and looked into his eyes for a flicker of recognition at her name. There was none, but a small gasp of breath escaped her. Oh, my word, those eyes! There was no need to ask from where Pip had inherited her lovely green eyes. Nor too her jet-black hair. ‘Er—I wrote to you.’ She gathered herself back together to explain.

      ‘You did?’ He glanced at his watch, all too plainly a man in a hurry.

      ‘You didn’t reply.’

      ‘And what did you write about, Miss Rowberry?’ he enquired, everything about him telling her she had about five seconds before he strode off and left her standing there.

      ‘It’s a family matter,’ she replied, adding for good measure, lest he thought the problem was solely hers, ‘Your family.’

      He did not like that. All too clearly, as a chilly expression came over his good-looking features, his family were sacrosanct. He made to move off.

      There was no time to dress it up. ‘To be more precise, I wrote to you because of your daughter!’ she said quickly.

      That stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘My what?’ he demanded, an expression of such total astonishment replacing his chilly look that Leyne had the most appalling sensation that he did not even know he had a daughter.

      Immediately she discounted that notion. That couldn’t be right—could it?

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘I WROTE to you about your daughter,’ Leyne repeated firmly, determined, as disbelief and total scepticism replaced his look of astonishment.

      But it was that look, his seemingly genuine look of this being the first he had heard that he had a daughter, that caused Leyne to falter, that odd notion starting to grow and grow that he had not even known that Max had given birth to his child. And Leyne found herself asking, ‘You do know that you have a daughter?’ She was beginning to feel a shade awkward. If he had been entirely unaware of Pip’s existence, Leyne realised she had just dropped something of a very big bombshell on him.

      A few moments later, however, and she was feeling more infuriated than awkward when, ‘You’re an attractive woman, Miss—er—Rowberry,’ he drawled. ‘Not to say quite beautiful—in a good light,’ he added mockingly. ‘Which makes me positive that had I had the—hmm—pleasure—I would most certainly have remembered it.’

      His meaning was obvious, and colour flared to her face. Embarrassment mingled with anger. ‘Your daughter wants to know who you are—your name!’ she flared. ‘And if—’

      ‘The hell she does!’ he retorted. But, giving her a steady-eyed stare, ‘You have a daughter old enough to make such a request?’

      ‘I’m twenty-three…’ Leyne began, and was at once impatient with herself and him. ‘Pip, Philippa, is eleven and a half—twelve next April. She—’

      ‘You’re not her mother,’ he stated, clearly wanting to know what any of this had to do with her.

      ‘I’m her aunt. Max—Maxine, Pip’s mother, is my sister.’

      ‘Maxine Rowberry,’ he said, chewing over the name before pronouncing, ‘Never heard of her. Therefore, never met the lady.’

      ‘Her name’s not Rowberry; it’s Nicholson.’

      ‘Same applies,’ he replied, plainly not even having to think about it. ‘Mrs Nicholson?’ he enquired.

      ‘Miss,’ Leyne enlightened him. ‘Max is my half-sister. She isn’t married.’

      ‘Why