Morgan's Secret Son. Sara Wood

eyes widened. ‘Because I want to see him, of course! Something doesn’t add up here. I sent those letters. They can’t all have been lost.’

      ‘I agree. He had no letters from you. So you must be lying. I think you’d better leave.’

      She glared and clenched her fists in angry distress, her mouth beginning to tremble. Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes. It would be tragic if this was as far as she got! So near, so far…

      ‘I’m not going till I see my father! I did write!’ she insisted in desperation. ‘Something’s happened to the mail. A wrong zip code, maybe. I spoke to a woman on the phone. I’m not imagining that. I asked for Sam Frazer, said who I was, and she told me he didn’t want to see me—’

      ‘Well, that final comment is true, at least,’ he drawled. ‘I suggest you turn around and go home.’

      He’d turned and was about to shut the door when she lunged forward and jammed herself in the gap. The dog barked excitedly, its teeth snapping close to her thigh.

      ‘Ouch!’ she gasped. ‘Get this door and this dog off me!’

      The pressure of the door was removed from her protesting flesh.

      ‘Leave!’ ordered the man.

      Glowering, she stayed put; the dog backed away obediently. She rubbed her arm and thigh, conscious that she was deliberately being intimidated by the man’s looming bulk.

      ‘What did you do that for?’ he asked impatiently. And then, with a small thread of concern in his voice, ‘Are you hurt?’

      ‘It’s nothing,’ she dismissed. ‘But I couldn’t let you slam the door in my face. I’ve flown across the Atlantic to see my father. Surely he can spare a few moments of his time?’

      ‘No. He can’t.’

      Her imploring face lifted to his. ‘Just a few moments… I won’t bother him for long, but… You must let me in,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘Please! You’ve no idea what it’s like not to know your father! I need to see him so badly—even if it’s just the once and never again! It’s not much to ask, surely? To see what he looks like, to hear his voice…’ Her own voice cracked up annoyingly. ‘I—I don’t even have a photograph! Let me have memories of him to take away with me, if nothing else,’ she added in a croaky husk. ‘Imagine how you’d feel in my position!’

      ‘Hell.’ His growl was followed by a long pause, as if he was struggling against his better judgement. Jodie waited with bated breath, willing him to relent. ‘You’d better come in,’ he muttered grudgingly, to her great relief.

      Then, before she could gather her wits, he’d turned on his heel and was walking into the beamed hall beyond, the dog at his side. She stared at his daunting back with irritation. This guy wasn’t a servant to anyone. He oozed authority with every flicker of his ink-dark eyes. He wasn’t pleasant, either.

      But everything pointed to the fact that he knew her father well. And the hostile welcome must be because he knew that her father had been disappointed and upset when her expected letters didn’t arrive.

      No. Correction. There was another reason. This guy might be the person who’d dissuaded her father from going ahead with the reunion. If so, she had to persuade the guy that he had nothing to fear from her.

      Jodie gave a feeble smile. Fear! He wouldn’t be afraid of the devil himself if he came calling!

      Suddenly she started, remembering the recorded delivery. That must have arrived—proof enough! She would call his bluff.

      In seconds she crossed the dark oak floor and caught hold of the man’s arm. It felt hard and muscled as it tensed beneath her fingers. His whole body became stiff and taut, as if she’d invaded his space. Crushed by his cold dislike, she let her hand slide away.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘But I had to stop you before you reported back to my father. I want you to know I’m not lying. I can prove that I had the right address and that he must have had my letters.’

      The hard, uncompromising gaze pierced into her brain and she felt giddy.

      ‘How?’

      With an effort, Jodie pulled herself together. She might be tired and woozy, but this was important.

      ‘I sent a letter by recorded delivery to say I was coming. It must have been safely delivered into the right hands; it’s guaranteed! And if that arrived, then so did all the other letters!’ she said in triumph.

      ‘Ah.’

      She followed his gaze to a circular table which groaned under a pile of unopened mail. Her letter lay on the top. Her mouth opened in amazement that anyone could be so cavalier. ‘How can you claim the rest of my mail’s gone astray?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘It’s probably all lurking beneath that heap!’

      ‘No. That’s just ten days’ worth,’ he said curtly.

      ‘Ten…! But you can’t leave mail unopened! And where are my previous letters, then? In a landfill site?’ she spluttered, aghast.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous! All his earlier mail has been dealt with. So will this when… You look hot,’ he said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘Let me take your cape.’

      He came up behind her and his hands were on her shoulders before she could move. But his touch seemed tentative, as if he would have preferred to avoid contact. The pure wool cape slid away, slithering across her firm breasts in a shimmer of gold.

      ‘Your hat,’ he ordered, appearing in front of her and holding out his hand.

      He looked her up and down, and then again—perhaps startled by the vibrancy of her colour scheme, she thought with a flash of amusement. She let a smile sneak out, her hopes rising—she’d got this far at least. What did she care what had gone wrong in the past? This was now and she was here, and somewhere in this house was her own dear father.

      Jodie removed her hat with a flourish, giving her head a little shake as she did so.

      ‘Let’s not get twitchy over what happened. There’s obviously been a muddle. The important thing is that I see him now,’ she said happily, silky brown hair still swinging around her delighted face.

      His lips tightened into an uncompromisingly grim line. ‘Come into the study,’ he ordered.

      She was left with her mouth open in astonishment as he strode away. This, she decided angrily, was another control freak. He told women to jump; they asked How high? Chauvinist!

      She followed, the dog prowling alongside her, but she paused on the threshold of the lamp-lit room he’d entered. Her father wasn’t there. Her hands curled into angry fists as she checked the room again.

      The stranger stood with his feet planted firmly apart in an attitude of domination. He leant, squire-like, against a carved beam which spanned an enormous recess…an inglenook, she decided, raking around in her mind for her limited knowledge of medieval houses.

      Logs the size of small tree trunks crackled and blazed in a massive iron basket, filling the timbered room with the sweet aroma of pine. Books lined the walls and a desk, chaotically littered with papers, sat squarely in a mullioned bay window, its deep window seat backed by a dozen or so scarlet cyclamen in oriental pots.

      ‘You’re busy, I’m in a hurry, so I won’t hold you up any longer,’ she said, her chin high. ‘You know why I’m here. Tell me where my father is!’

      Her face went hot. He was examining her in intense detail and warmth was creeping through her as he did so.

      ‘Sit!’ he ordered.

      ‘Good grief! What do you think I am—a dog?’ she declared indignantly.

      ‘I was talking to Satan. He’s just behind you in the doorway. Perhaps you’d like to sit