Looking After Dad. Elizabeth Oldfield

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      His blue eyes glittered. “You’re guarding Harriet and only Harriet.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT Copyright

      His blue eyes glittered. “You’re guarding Harriet and only Harriet.”

      “All right, but the note referred to both of you, so surely it—”

      

      “Must you always argue?” Lorcan demanded.

      

      “I am not arguing,” she said. “I’m suggesting that if I have a quick reconnoiter—”

      

      “And I’m suggesting that you shut up!”

      

      Jess felt the hot smack of anger. She did not know how it had happened, but a flash fire seemed to have erupted between them and they were fighting like fiends.

      

      Lorcan lowered his tone to a husky snarl. “Did anyone ever tell you that you can be an infuriating woman?”

      

      She straightened her shoulders, which thrust out her breasts. “All the time.”

      

      “How about a sexy one?” he growled and, hooking a hand around her neck, he yanked her close and kissed her.

      FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them. All will make it—whether they like it or not!

      

      ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage, the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and a son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance accepted in 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. They live in London, England, and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the background of her books.

      Looking After Dad

      Elizabeth Oldfield

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS one of those days when it would have been smarter to ignore the bossy beep-beep of the alarm, pull the covers up high over her head and stay in bed.

      Clutching a half-eaten prawn and mayonnaise sandwich in one hand and with a magnum of champagne in the other, Jess Pallister sped along the busy city street. First she had forgotten to buy fresh muesli so had had to miss breakfast, then the showers at the pool were out of order, next she had received a worrying gift, and finally, when she was looking forward to a calm afternoon at her easel, an unexpected interview had been sprung on her.

      She was a darn sight too pliable, Jess thought as she swerved to avoid a youth dispensing a confetti of ‘cheap pizza’ vouchers. Instead of saying an outright, blunt and forestalling no, she had listened—and allowed herself to be sweet-talked into going along.

      ‘Sounds like a dream assignment,’ her brother had declared, when relaying the brief details, but she had been on what he had claimed were ‘dream’ assignments before and they had turned out to be nightmares. Her fingers tightened around the throat of the champagne bottle. Like the one with Roscoe Dunbar.

      Reaching a glistening white tower block, Jess pushed around revolving doors and into a vast marble-floored lobby. A look was snatched at her watch. She hated to be late and there was five minutes to spare. Five minutes in which to finish her lunch on the hoof and present herself—cool, calm and collected—at the twentieth and top-floor offices of Sir Peter Warwick, business tycoon and international hotelier.

      She scanned the bank of lifts and on seeing one with doors smoothly closing leapt forward. Using her bulging sports bag as an impromptu battering ram, she hurtled in through the gap, which forced the half-dozen or so occupants into a collective backwards shuffle.

      ‘Made it,’ she mumbled, shining a general smile of apology, and turned to inspect the wall indicator panel. Someone had already pressed the ‘20’ lozenge.

      As the lift began to rise, Jess took another bite of her sandwich. She might have been persuaded to attend the interview, but that did not mean she would be pliable again and meekly accept the job. No chance. As Kevin had acknowledged it was her decision, and it only required one snag and she intended to refuse. Mutiny simmered in her hazel brown eyes. The days of being Miss Amenable were over. From now on, she did what she wanted to do and ran her life her way.

      The lift stopped to allow a couple of middle-aged men with briefcases to get out and, in the pause, Jess ate the remainder of her sandwich. As the ascent restarted, she licked crumbs from the corners of her mouth and wiped her fingers on a tissue. Before she faced the business tycoon lipstick needed to be applied and her hair brushed through, but she would do that when the surprisingly lethargic lift reached the top floor.

      Jess hitched the sports bag higher onto her shoulder. Her fellow passengers were all prime examples of city-smart sartorial elegance, whereas in a paint-dotted pastel pink tunic and black leggings which looked as if they might date from the Battle of Trafalgar she was casual. Casual, flustered and disgruntled. Lowering her head, she gave a discreet sniff. Yuck. She also smelled faintly of chlorine.

      For a second time the lift halted, disgorged people and resumed its leisurely journey. Now the only other occupant was a man who stood beside the opposite wall. She cast him a glance. With his arms folded across his chest and his head bent, he was lost in thought. He looked sombre and tense. As if this September day had not turned out to be exactly a bundle of laughs for him, either.

      He was in his late thirties, tall—she estimated around six feet four—and had a lean, rangy frame. Thick dark hair fell over his forehead in engaging windswept disarray and his skin bore the golden remains of a tan. Clad in an immaculate navy pin-striped suit, he looked like a business executive; yet the hair, which was worn long enough to brush his collar, and a jazzy pink, blue and white patterned silk tie suggested he was not the conventional city type, but had a touch of the maverick about him.

      She could not see his eyes, but he had a broad brow, straight nose and granite jaw. His features were too tight-drawn for him to be classified as handsome, yet even standing still he possessed an inherent masculine vibrancy which made him magnetic. The darkness, almost blue-black, of his hair hinted at a Latin lineage...or could it be Irish? She settled on Irish. His mood seemed tinged with the melancholy of the Celt.

      He would be someone who was accustomed to command, she assessed, and who did not suffer fools—

      Abruptly realising that the man had noticed her examination