Secret Wedding. Emma Richmond

      Her sigh deeper, she persisted, ‘If you aren’t her father, then why would your name be put on the birth certificate?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘And you don’t even remember her? Elaine?’

      ‘I didn’t know her.’

      ‘Yet she told Fran she’d never loved you, hadn’t wanted you to know.’

      ‘Even though she thought me wealthy?’ he asked derisively.

      ‘What?’

      ‘The newspaper clipping—it mentioned it.’

      ‘Oh.’

      Turning, he glanced at her, gave a cruel smile.

      ‘And you think that makes a difference? It doesn’t,’ she told him quietly, ‘because I’m sure this has nothing whatsoever to do with your wealth.’

      ‘Are you? So why now?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Why has she suddenly decided to look me up now?’ he elaborated with heavy patience.

      ‘Because she said she only found out last week that she wasn’t Tom’s, because she was unhappy at boarding school.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I don’t know. She’s a teenager. Aren’t teenagers always unhappy?’

      ‘Are they? Were you?’

      ‘No,’ she replied helplessly. ‘But, whether you’re her father or not, please, please try to understand what this is doing to her,’ she urged earnestly.

      ‘To her?’ he queried. ‘What do you think this is doing to me?’

      ‘I don’t know, do I?’ she asked aggravatedly. ‘I doubt anyone ever knows what anything does to you!’

      ‘Then guess. I’ve had some man on the phone hysterically insisting I do something! What?’ he demanded rhetorically. ‘Mount a search-and-rescue?’

      ‘When?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘When did he ring?’ she demanded, teeth still gritted.

      ‘Does it matter?’

      ‘Yes!’ she insisted. It didn’t, of course, but she was much too cross actually to make sense.

      With a dismissive gesture, he muttered, ‘I don’t know—half an hour ago, an hour.’

      ‘Tom.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Maybe it was Tom,’ she offered with helpless impatience.