Liam's Secret Son. Carole Mortimer

perhaps you’re already meeting someone here?’ she suggested lightly as she noted that glance.

      ‘As a matter of fact, I am,’ he admitted. ‘But not for a few more minutes yet,’ he added with satisfaction, moving around the chair she sat in to sprawl his long length into the chair opposite.

      Laura would have never actually said that Liam sat in a chair; his exceptional height meant that chairs were either usually too low or too lacking in depth for him.

      At five feet eight inches tall in her stockinged feet, Laura was quite tall herself, an image she deliberately nurtured nowadays by wearing tailored suits and blouses. Her suit was dark charcoal today, her blouse emerald-green. It was an image she was more than grateful for at this moment, Liam always having had the effect in the past of making her feel tiny. And very feminine.

      ‘Would you like coffee?’ she offered, her hands calmly clasped on her skirt-covered thighs as she coolly faced him.

      ‘No, thanks,’ he refused. ‘I find it almost as addictive as the cigarettes I once smoked.’ His mouth twisted with distaste.

      Laura’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve given up smoking?’ When she had known him eight years ago he had smoked at least thirty a day. More so when he was working. When…?

      Liam grinned at her surprise. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it? Liam O’Reilly, the hard drinker, hard smoker is a reformed character.’

      ‘I doubt it’s quite as serious as that,’ she replied mockingly.

      He gave a low laugh, those dark blue eyes gleaming as he looked across at her. ‘You’ve grown up, little Laura,’ he pronounced admiringly.

      ‘At twenty-nine, I should hope that I have!’

      Which made him now thirty-nine, Laura realised, also noting, now that she could see him more clearly, that her first impression of his not having changed wasn’t quite correct. The last eight years had definitely left their mark. There were lines now beside his eyes and mouth that owed nothing to laughter, a sprinkling of grey in the blue-black hair at his temples.

      ‘Twenty-nine,’ Liam repeated thoughtfully, blue eyes narrowed. ‘And what have you been doing with yourself the last eight years, Laura?’ he prompted hardly, his gaze moving—subconsciously, it seemed—to the ring finger on her left hand.

      A finger that, although completely bare, nevertheless showed the mark of her having once worn a ring there…

      ‘This and that,’ she dismissed unhelpfully, having no intention of telling him anything about herself. ‘And what about you? What have you been doing the last eight years?’

      His mouth twisted. ‘Obviously not writing,’ he observed harshly.

      ‘No?’ Laura didn’t give away, by word or facial expression, the fact that she was well aware that no new Liam O’Reilly book had appeared on the bookshelves for over eight years. ‘But then, you probably didn’t need to write again after the amazing success you had with Time Bomb,’ she went on lightly.

      “‘Didn’t need to write again!’” Liam repeated accusingly, no longer lounging back in his chair but sitting tensely forward, eyes gleaming like twin jewels, his face intensely alight with emotion.

      ‘I meant from a monetary angle, of course,’ Laura continued, still meeting the fierceness of his gaze unflinchingly. That she had hit upon a raw nerve she didn’t doubt. But she had a need to see his response to that direct hit. ‘You must have made millions out of Time Bomb. The film rights alone—’

      ‘And what good has all that money been to me when I haven’t written a word since?’ he rasped.

      She shrugged. ‘Presumably it’s kept you in relative comfort over the last eight years—even without the drink and cigarettes!’ she teased. ‘You certainly seemed to be enjoying your life the last time I saw you,’ she couldn’t resist adding.

      Which had to be an understatement! Liam had achieved a certain amount of success with the four books he’d published before the political thriller Time Bomb. But nothing like the explosion—and she excused the pun!—that had followed the publication of his fifth book.

      Three weeks after the release of the hardback edition, Time Bomb had been number one in the bestseller lists. Liam had appeared on numerous television programmes, the film rights had been bought, and Liam had been whisked off to Hollywood to write the screenplay and help with the casting.

      The last Laura had seen of Liam had been a photograph in the newspapers, when he’d married the beautiful blonde-haired actress who had been about to play the female lead in the film of his book.

      And Laura Carter, the student Liam had been seeing before he’d left England, had been left behind and forgotten.

      At first she had been bewildered by Liam’s abandonment, disbelieving that she could mean so little to him when she had been slavishly devoted to him. But as the days and then weeks had passed, with no word from him, she had become angry. This had been followed by bitterness when she’d seen the photograph in the newspapers of him with his bride, and finally had come acceptance that Liam no longer considered her a part—even remotely—of his new life in America. With that acceptance had come her desire to move on, to make a success of her own life.

      Her poise now, the expensive cut of her clothes, the large diamond solitaire ring she wore on her right hand, all bore testimony to the fact that she had done exactly that.

      Liam’s expression was bleak. ‘That must have been a long time ago,’ he answered her last remark sarcastically.

      ‘Maybe it was.’ Another lifetime again, she acknowledged inwardly. ‘So, what’s important enough now to bring you back from sunny California to a cold English winter?’ she prompted with a casual change of subject.

      Liam forced himself to relax with obvious effort, once again leaning back in the chair, although his eyes still gleamed fiercely blue. ‘I didn’t come from California,’ he corrected. ‘I moved back to Ireland five years ago.’

      Which was probably the reason his Irish brogue sounded slightly stronger than it had eight years ago, Laura decided. She hadn’t known of the move, of course, had deliberately not interested herself in any of Liam’s movements after learning of his marriage.

      ‘That must have been something of a cultural shock to your American wife,’ she remarked.

      ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he drawled scathingly. ‘Diana divorced me seven years ago. The marriage only lasted six months, Laura,’ he explained as she raised her brows questioningly. ‘Because of work commitments we only spent about six weeks of that time together,’ he added bitterly. ‘Not my idea of a marriage!’

      Liam had only been married for six months! Six months! If she had only known—

      What would she have done differently if she had known? Nothing, came the flat answer. Liam had made his choices, as she had made hers. Nothing, and no one, could ever change that.

      Liam gave another glance at his wristwatch. ‘Look, I really do have to meet someone in a few minutes. In fact…’ He glanced around the crowded lounge with narrowed eyes. ‘I have to go now,’ he murmured as a man who had just entered the lounge caught and held his eye. ‘But I would like to see you again, Laura—

      ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she cut in briskly, also glancing across the room at the man who had just entered, returning the polite inclination of his head with one of her own. ‘It’s been—interesting seeing you again, Liam,’ she said without any trace of sincerity. ‘But I have to be going myself now.’ She stood up, slim and elegant in her fitted suit and blouse, the strap of her patent black leather bag thrown over her shoulder.

      ‘Laura!’ Liam grasped her arm as she would have moved smoothly past him. ‘I want to see you again,’ he told her determinedly.

      She looked at him. ‘To talk about old times,