Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

must have influenced your choice of where to live?’ he suggested softly. ‘I imagine that if your instantly recognisable face—’

      ‘But I’m not instantly recognisable any more!’ she protested. ‘I’ve had my hair cut off—remember?’

      ‘Maybe not instantly,’ he conceded. ‘But certainly recognisable. Not many women have eyes and bone-structure and height and posture like yours, Triss. If you had chosen to live anywhere else I shouldn’t think it would have been too long before someone was tempted by the lure of money from one of the newspapers to tell the story of the super-model turned single mother.’ His blue eyes glittered. ‘With a lot of speculation as to who the absentee father might be.’

      Triss gave a silent groan as she remembered blurting out Cormack’s identity to Lola. But she trusted Lola.

      ‘But I presume,’ he continued remorselessly, ‘that everyone who lives on St Fiacre’s is so financially secure and so paranoid about their own safety that they’ve barely given you a second look. And even if they did they certainly wouldn’t need to flog your story for cash.’

      Triss wondered whether this whole idea of telling Cormack about his son had been nothing more than a hare-brained scheme. But it was too late to back out now. ‘You need to take the furthest exit on this roundabout,’ she told him in an odd, brittle kind of voice that did not sound like her voice at all. ‘We’re almost there.’

       CHAPTER FIVE

      AS CORMACK drove through the wrought-iron gates of St Fiacre’s, with their distinctive navy- and gold-painted crest, Triss thought that she had never seen the estate look more beautiful or more welcoming.

      It was a brilliantly sunny early March afternoon, and clumps of daffodils swayed in bright yellow patches beneath the hundreds of trees which lined the roads.

      Few of the houses were visible—protected by lush shrubbery and drives which seemed to go on for ever—but occasionally they caught sight of a drift of smoke from a chimney, or heard the muffled barking of a dog.

      The happiness which settled upon her whenever she entered the serene green beauty of St Fiacre’s stole over her, and Triss found herself brightening in spite of everything that had happened. She thought of Simon and hugged her shawl round her shoulders excitedly, her eyes shining brightly at the prospect of seeing her baby again.

      Cormack shot her a swift glance. ‘You’ve missed him.’

      It was less a question than an astute statement, and Triss nodded. ‘Yes,’ she answered quietly. ‘I’ve missed him like crazy, if you must know.’

      He opened his mouth to say something else, then halted as they heard the sound of an approaching engine, which even Triss—who was not remotely interested in cars—could tell powered one hell of a machine.

      She almost smiled when she saw Cormack’s eyes narrow with male competitiveness. A long, low Aston Martin in dark and gleaming green slowed down as it passed them, before roaring off towards the main gates.

      ‘That’s just like your car!’ Triss pointed out in surprise.

      Cormack’s expression tightened. ‘Now what the hell is he doing here?’

      Triss craned her neck to make out who was driving and saw a handsome but disturbingly cruel face, set into grim and determined lines. And for some reason a shiver began to whisper cool fingers all the way down her spine. ‘Who?’

      ‘Dashwood,’ answered Cormack succinctly, a frown pleating his forehead above the dark sweep of his brows.

      ‘Not Dominic Dashwood?’ queried Triss, turning back to get a better look at him over her shoulder.

      ‘So you do know him?’

      ‘I know of him,’ Triss corrected him icily, not liking that judgmental look on Cormack’s face one little bit. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

      ‘Surely not another member of the Dashwood fan club?’ came the sardonic jibe.

      Triss fixed him with a long-suffering look. ‘When a man is that rich and that good-looking, most people get to hear of him.’

      ‘But Dashwood’s proximity naturally had nothing to do with your buying a house here?’

      ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Triss exploded. ‘Why should it?’

      ‘Husband-hunting, perhaps?’ Cormack suggested insultingly.

      Taking a deep breath, Triss resolved to keep her cool. ‘I’m not in the market for a husband,’ she told him with icy emphasis.

      ‘No?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I don’t know that I believe you, Triss,’ he accused softly.

      She forced her voice to sound very faintly bored. ‘I’m afraid that your beliefs are your problem, Cormack. Nothing to do with me. You have to turn left here, by the way.’

      He complied without a word, although Triss heard him draw in an appreciative breath when he caught his first glimpse of her thirties-style house, with its stained-glass windows and its oak door, and its red-brick walls covered with newly budding wisteria.

      ‘Is Simon here?’ he demanded as the car drew to a halt by the front door.

      ‘He’s next door at Lola’s. I’ll let you in, shall I, and then go and fetch him?’

      ‘Oh, no,’ said Cormack grimly. ‘I’m fascinated to meet this “friend” of yours, whom you see fit to entrust with the care of our son. You must think very highly of her, if you grant her a privilege you’ve denied me.’

      ‘I don’t want you coming in there with me if you’re intending to make trouble,’ Triss warned.

      ‘I just want to see him, Triss.’ His searingly blue eyes blazed a question at her. ‘Surely even you can understand that?’

      His appeal came straight from the heart, and Triss felt utterly wretched at that moment. She nodded dumbly.

      ‘Then let’s go,’ he ordered quietly.

      They walked silently, side by side, but that was their only concession to togetherness. The tension and the animosity sizzled between them like sparks crackling from a bonfire. They passed through Triss’s informal gardens and into the rather more elaborate plantings of Lola Hennessy’s house next door.

      Cormack raised his eyebrows as he took in the imposing white building which made Triss’s house seem almost tiny in comparison. ‘This is some place,’ he commented drily. ‘Your friend Lola is clearly a successful woman. What does she do?’

      Lola was an air hostess who had inherited the house from a wealthy man almost forty years her senior. But if Triss told Cormack that he would start leaping to all sorts of unsavoury conclusions! And, quite honestly, Triss was finding the situation difficult and fraught enough; without fanning the flames of his contempt even further.

      Anyway, Lola was successful though not in the way that Cormack meant. She had a job she adored, a busy social life and the fulfilment of working with one of the country’s most popular charities. She also had an outrageously attractive Welshman named Geraint Howell-Williams hovering in the background, though Triss was aware that he had been giving Lola considerable problems.

      They reached the front door, which was flung open before either of them had a chance to knock. In the hall stood a young woman in her twenties wearing leggings and a loose denim shirt. Her gloriously curly dark brown hair was tied up with a red chiffon scarf, although wayward curls were escaping everywhere, and her bright blue eyes sparkled like gems in the sunshine.

      ‘Triss, hi!’ she exclaimed, with a huge smile. ‘I saw you coming down the path! We just weren’t expecting you back so soon!’ She looked from one to the