A Baby In His In-Tray. Michelle Douglas

       CHAPTER TWO

      SEBASTIAN WOKE TO the scent of coffee. His nose told him it was seriously good coffee too. He sat up gingerly, stretched... All the kinks were gone. His back didn’t hurt, his shoulders didn’t hurt, his head didn’t hurt.

      He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up feeling so rested!

      Obviously a nap was exactly what he’d needed. A couple of hours to—

      His jaw dropped when he caught sight of the bedside clock. It was after one-thirty in the afternoon. He’d been asleep for over seven hours?

      Dear God! What would Ms Gilmour think? He’d left her holding the baby...again!

      He shot out of the bedroom and came to a halt. His office manager turned from pouring out two steaming mugs of coffee to send him a smile that momentarily dazzled him. She looked utterly together. She looked like his efficient office manager again. Except rather than a black pencil skirt and business jacket she wore jeans and a jumper, and that magical autumn hair. And the smile.

      ‘Come and have a coffee.’

      He forced himself forward. He was careful not to look into the living room as he went past, even though he was sure the ‘don’t look at the baby’ embargo had been lifted.

      Critical eyes roamed over his face and she gave a satisfied nod. ‘You look much better.’

      He collapsed into a seat and pulled a mug of coffee closer. ‘So do you. You managed to get more sleep?’

      ‘A blissful three hours.’

      She poured milk into her coffee. Whenever he visited the London office she drank it black—like him. But...she preferred it with milk? She did know she was free to order milk in for her coffee, didn’t she? Where the Tyrell Foundation was concerned he’d accept the charge of penny pinching, but he could stretch to milk for his office manager’s coffee.

      ‘You should’ve woken me.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because we have things to sort out.’

      ‘People make better decisions when they’re well-rested.’

      She looked so perky and chipper he felt at a distinct disadvantage. He leaned across the table towards her. ‘The baby?’ he whispered.

      ‘Happily engrossed with her baby gym at the moment,’ she answered at a normal tone and volume. ‘She’s an absolute angel during the day. It’s only at night she turns into a demonic creature from the deep.’

      How could she sound so cheerful? She’d been sleep-deprived for three whole nights. How could she look so...delectable?

      ‘Drink your coffee, and then have a shower while I make us some lunch and—’

      ‘I couldn’t possibly impose on you more than I already have—’

      ‘You can and you will. You can’t just up and leave with the baby. Besides, Jemima is due for a feed soon and then she’ll go down for a nap. There’s really not much point in trying to do anything before then. There’s a fresh towel for you in the bathroom.’

      He supposed she had a point. And he was dying for a shower.

      He collected a few things from his suitcase—left by the front door when he’d arrived earlier. On his way past he peeked at the baby. She lay on a quilted rug, batting at the soft toys suspended above her. Her head wobbled around to look at him, the tiny body went rigid and then she let forth with such a piercing wail he had to cover his ears.

      Ms Gilmour came racing in from the kitchen. ‘What did you do to her?’

      ‘Nothing! I... I just looked at her.’

      ‘And what were you told?’

      ‘Don’t look at the baby,’ he mumbled, feeling all of two inches tall.

      She leant down to sweep the baby up in her arms, cuddling the tiny body against her chest. Her jeans pulled tight around the soft swell of her backside and that damn pounding started up at the centre of him again, sending warm swirls of appreciation and need racing through his bloodstream.

      He swallowed when she turned back around to face him.

      ‘Did the big, bad man scare you, pretty girl? Did he sneak up on you and frighten you?’

      He watched in amazement as baby Jemima snuggled into her rescuer, her crying ceasing as if a switch had been flicked. Ms Gilmour then blew a raspberry and the baby gave her a big smile and waved her arms about in evident delight.

      ‘How...?’ He stared at the baby and then his office manager. ‘How did you do that? You took her from crying to laughing in seconds!’

      She blew on her nails and polished them against her shoulder. ‘Just call me Poppins, Mary Poppins.’

      She said it in the same tones James Bond always used when introducing himself, Bond, James Bond, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

      She hitched the baby a little higher in her arms. ‘Jemima, meet...’ She frowned. ‘What would you like her to call you?’

      He had no idea. Did she have to call him anything? He frowned. Hold on, she couldn’t call him anything. She was too young and—

      One look at his extraordinary office manager told him that wouldn’t wash. ‘What does she call you?’

      ‘Auntie...uh... Liz.’

      Her gaze slid away, and he understood why. He knew her Christian name was Eliza, but he didn’t want to call her that. He wanted things to remain on as formal a footing as possible.

      He let out a long, slow breath. ‘Uncle Sebastian,’ he clipped out.

      ‘Right. Baby Jemima, meet Uncle Sebastian.’

      She said his name impersonally and yet something inside of him stretched and unwound as she uttered it.

      He did his best to ignore it.

      ‘Well, say hello,’ she ordered him. ‘Talk to her.’

      He shuffled a step closer.

      ‘Don’t frown or you’ll make her cry again.’

      He smoothed out his face and tried to find a smile. ‘Hello, Jemima, it’s nice to meet you.’ He fell silent. The baby frowned at him. ‘What do I say?’

      ‘Say something nice. Tell her she’s pretty. Tell her you’ve been on a big plane...recite a poem. It doesn’t matter. She just needs to know you’re friendly.’

      A poem? He used to love poetry. Once upon a time. It felt like a hundred years ago now. He pulled in a deep lungful of air. ‘“The Assyrian came down like a wolf on—”’

      ‘Good God, not Byron!’

      Both woman and child swayed away from him.

      ‘You’ll scar her for life.’

      Behind those honey-brown eyes he had a feeling she was laughing at him.

      ‘Can’t you think of something more...cheerful?’

      Cheerful? Inspiration struck. ‘The Jabberwocky!’

      He recited the entire poem and both woman and child stared at him as if mesmerised.

      ‘Give her your finger.’

      He did as bidden. Jemima stared at it for a moment or two, swaying in her protector’s arms, before reaching out and clasping it in one tiny fist. Something inside of him felt as if it were falling.

      She pulled it closer and then up towards her mouth, but he gently detached himself from her grip. ‘You might want to wait until I’ve washed my hands first. You’ve no idea where these