The Baby Plan. Liz Fielding

too long. Why else would she feel breathless? ‘No one ever calls her anything but Miss Garland when I’m around,’ she said, with feeling. Except Beth, but they had been together since the beginning. She’d been the first temp she taken on her books and within a week had been running the office for her.

      ‘Definitely not a Mandy, eh?’

      He had put on a pair of dark glasses and his eyes were hidden. ‘Not in the office,’ she agreed.

      He stopped talking then, as the traffic began to move, and gave the business of getting out of London his full attention. For a moment she watched his hands as he manoeuvred the big car through the busy morning streets, then with a start she dragged her attention away, opened her laptop, switched it on, began to make some notes. But she found concentration tougher than usual. It had been so long since her heart-rate had picked up for anything except a workout at the gym that she’d almost forgotten how it felt.

      She glanced out of the window at the relentless tedium of grey concrete office buildings as they sped along the Chiswick flyover. Nothing to distract her there, so she gave up trying to avoid staring at the back of Daniel Redford’s neck. He didn’t wear a cap, or uniform of any kind. The car hire company he worked for apparently dressed their drivers in wellcut grey double-breasted suits, a white shirt and burgundy tie with the company logo. Smart but unobtrusive. She made a note to think about what Garland nannies might wear.

      Daniel’s bulk filled his suit to perfection. His light brown hair was skilfully cut, not too short, layered into his neck and brightened by the sun. Nice profile, too, what she could see of it from this angle. He had a good jaw line, hard cheekbones, and she remembered the kind of nose that looked as if it had lived life head-on. Not particularly pretty, but strong, like his big hands, with their long, square-tipped fingers, neatly trimmed nails. They held the wheel lightly, but he was a man in complete control of his environment, a man who would be in complete control of anything he touched …

      ‘Have you worked for Capitol Cars for long?’ she asked, distracting herself from the disturbing direction in which her thoughts were heading.

      ‘Twenty years.’

      ‘Really?’ His cheeks had moved so that she knew he was smiling, and even though he’d adjusted his mirror so that she could no longer see his mouth she remembered the lazy lift to one corner, the deep crease that had appeared like magic down his cheek as he had swept open the door for her. He was a heartbreaker and no mistake. And undoubtedly married; his kind always were. Forget it, Amanda, she told herself firmly. Stick to the plan. ‘You must enjoy the work, then.’

      ‘I suppose I must.’ She saw him glance at the mirror. Was he looking at her, or the traffic behind them? With his eyes hidden behind dark glasses it was impossible to tell. ‘The tips are good, too. I was given a couple of theatre tickets the other day.’ He mentioned the new musical that had opened to rave reviews a few weeks earlier.

      ‘That’s quite some tip. I’ve heard the tickets are like gold dust.’ Then she realised that he might think she was angling for an invitation. Maybe she was … ‘What was it like?’ she asked, quickly.

      ‘I’ve no idea.’

      ‘You don’t like the theatre?’ Or maybe his wife didn’t like the theatre. Not that he was wearing a ring. But then, these days it didn’t have to be marriage. A good-looking man in his late thirties, early forties was scarcely likely to be living alone. Not if he was straight. Oh, please let him be straight!

      ‘They’re for next week. What about you?’

      ‘What? Oh, the theatre.’ She swallowed. ‘Love it,’ she said, her heart leaping into overdrive as she anticipated his next question. He didn’t ask it. Definitely spoken for, she told herself as he mentioned a couple of plays he’d seen. Not that it mattered. Right now she needed to keep her life as simple as possible. Complications in the form of a sexy chauffeur were not in the plan. ‘I saw that,’ she interrupted. ‘It was incredible. Did you see …?’

      Their tastes seemed to have a pleasant syncronicity. He might have been a dockland brat but he obviously appreciated good theatre. ‘I went to Pavarotti-in-the-Park, a couple of years ago,’ he said, after a while. ‘It rained all through, but it was worth it. Do you like that sort of stuff?’

      Amanda had avoided mentioning opera, which would teach her to be such a damned snob, she thought. ‘Yes. I was there under my umbrella.’ Then, in for a penny, she thought. ‘I like the ballet, too.’

      He wrinkled up his battered nose. ‘No. Sorry. There’s passion in opera. Ballet …’ He left her to fill in the blank.

      ‘Maybe you just haven’t seen the right ballet,’ she persisted.

      ‘Maybe.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘I like football, though.’

      ‘I think I’ll stick to ballet, thanks all the same.’

      She saw his jaw lift in a smile. ‘Maybe you should try it before you judge.’

      Touché. ‘What about your wife?’

      Damn! She hadn’t meant to say that. Now he would know she was fishing.

      ‘My wife?’ He paused as they approached road-works, concentrated on dealing with a busy contra-flow of traffic.

      ‘Does she like football?’ Amanda held her breath. Her heart stopped beating.

      ‘I’ve never met a woman who does,’ he said. So? What did that mean? As if she didn’t know. ‘We’re almost there,’ he said, as they threaded through the cones and down the sliproad. ‘It looks like you’ll be on time after all.’

      ‘Wonderful.’ Fine. Perfect. Her head continued to churn out adjectives, none of which were wonderful, or fine, or perfect. In fact every one of them would have had Beth’s eyebrows glued to the ceiling.

      For some minutes they sped through thickly wooded lanes, conversation at an end. Amanda, finding it essential to do something with her hands, reknotted the silk scarf at her throat, closed her laptop, gathered her case. By the time Daniel stopped in front of the portico of one of the most expensive hotels in England, she was ready to step out of the car and walk away. It was only determination to prove to herself that she was not desperate to escape that kept her in her seat, waiting for him to open the door for her.

      Daniel slipped off the dark glasses, tucked them into his breast pocket, then walked around to open the door. High heels and gravel were a treacherous mix, and he offered his hand as she swung her legs out of the car. She placed her cool fingers on his without hesitation and straightened with all the poise of a model. All part of the ‘Garland Girls’ training, no doubt. ‘We’ve made it with two minutes to spare. You won’t get your wrist slapped by the dragon lady, after all,’ he said.

      Only a man could be that patronising, Amanda decided, then amended the thought to a married man. A married man whose strong, work-hardened fingers were curled protectively about her own.

      She very carefully removed her hand from his and glanced at her wristwatch to check the time. ‘Thank you, Daniel,’ she said, formally.

      ‘My pleasure, Miss Fleming.’ He moved to close the car door. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’

      ‘Will you?’ Her breath stilled in expectation.

      ‘At five.’

      Of course. Why else would he see her? He had a wife. It was just as well. It wasn’t as if she needed him. Not for hard-to-get theatre tickets, not for anything. She could get her own tickets for any show in town, and all she had to do was click her fingers and half a dozen men would be fighting to lend her an arm, and anything else she wanted, for the evening.

      Unfortunately she had never been able to work up much enthusiasm for any man who could be brought to heel like an eager puppy with his tongue hanging out, which was why she was making her own arrangements for the ‘anything else’.

      But right now she was the one with