His Child: The Mistress's Child / Nathan's Child / D'Alessandro's Child. Catherine Spencer

suit you far more to have me as far away from you as possible! Well, just don’t use him as a pawn in our little disagreement—do you understand, Lisi!’

      Little disagreement? If this was his idea of a little disagreement, then she’d hate to enter into all-out warfare with him!

      Marian was still staring at her with a question in her eyes, and Lisi shook her head.

      ‘No,’ she said slowly, in answer to her boss’s question. ‘It isn’t exactly what I’d call amicable—even though that’s what we both wanted originally.’

      ‘You should talk to him about it!’ urged Marian.

      But there didn’t seem anything left to say, thought Lisi as she picked up the telephone which had just begun to ring. ‘Good afternoon, Homefinders Agency.’

      ‘Lisi? It’s Philip.’

      Of course it was Philip—no one else had a voice that rich, that deep, that dark. ‘Hello, Philip,’ she said, cursing her body’s reaction as she felt the inevitable prickle of excitement. ‘What can I do for you?’

      Silently, he cursed. How shocked she would be if he answered that question truthfully.

      ‘I’m up at the house,’ he said.

      ‘Here?’ she questioned stupidly, her heart racing. ‘In the village?’

      ‘Yeah. I drove up early this morning.’

      He was here, just down the road and he hadn’t even bothered to tell her he was coming. Just why that should hurt so much she didn’t know, but it did.

      ‘I’m having the house decorated,’ he was saying. ‘Someone is over here now with some sample fabrics.’

      She certainly wasn’t going to pander to his ego by telling him that she had seen the plush van driving by. ‘Really?’ she asked pleasantly.

      ‘Really,’ he echoed, mocking her insincere tone. ‘And I wondered whether you were free for half an hour?’

      Her pulse began to race. ‘Why?’

      She could be so damned abrupt, he thought. ‘I didn’t know if you wanted to choose some colours for Tim’s room.’

      Time stopped. He seemed to be speaking in some strange, terrible language. ‘T-Tim’s room?’ she croaked.

      Something in the way she said it made him want to offer reassurance, until he remembered her monstrous accusation on Christmas night, and he hardened his heart against the tremor in her voice. Did she think that he didn’t have feelings, too?

      ‘That’s right. He will need his own room, Lisi—surely you realise that?’

      The only thing she realised was that she was fighting to control her breath. ‘I have to discuss this with you, and we can’t do it on the phone,’ she said.

      ‘Then come up to the house.’

      ‘I’m working.’

      ‘Doesn’t Marian owe you a few hours? For your unscheduled work when I demanded that you show me around the rectory?’

      ‘I’ll ask her,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘I can’t promise anything.’

      His voice sounded noncommittal. ‘Suit yourself. It’s up to you, Lisi—you’re the one who wants to talk.’

      She put the phone down, feeling close to tears, and saw Marian looking at her with concern.

      ‘Philip?’ she asked.

      ‘How did you guess?’

      ‘Normal clients don’t usually leave the agent looking as though the bottom has just fallen out of their world.’

      Maybe it just had. Lisi cleared her throat. ‘Marian—would it be possible to take an hour off? I need to talk to Philip and he’s up at the rectory.’

      ‘Of course it would.’ Marian hesitated. ‘Listen, my dear—have you thought about consulting a lawyer?’

      Lisi shook her head. ‘There’s no point—it would achieve precisely nothing. He isn’t being unreasonable. Tim adores him. He’s his father—by law he is allowed contact. It’s just me who has the problem with it.’

      Marian nodded. ‘Take as long as you need.’

      Lisi gathered up her coat and wrapped herself up in it, but once outside it seemed to offer little protection against the bitter wind, although maybe it was the bitter heartache which was making her teeth chatter.

      She trudged up the lane to The Old Rectory, and for a moment she stood stock-still with amazement, for she had seen the comings and goings of various vans and contractors, but had deliberately stayed away from the place, telling herself that it would be too traumatic to see her former home being completely changed.

      But her amazement was tinged with admiration, because, whatever Philip was doing inside the house, on the outside, at least—his taste could not be faulted.

      The exterior had been painted a cool, pale grey and all the mildew had been removed. Window frames were gleaming, as was the newly painted front door, and the garden had obviously been lovingly attacked by experts.

      The front door was slightly ajar, and when she received no reply to her knock she pushed it open and walked into the hall where another shock awaited her. The walls were a deep, vibrant scarlet—red as holly berries—and the floorboards gleaming, with an exquisite long, silk runner in shades of deepest cobalt and scarlet and jade.

      It looked utterly beautiful, she thought, and a lump rose in her throat as she called.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Hello, Lisi,’ came a voice from upstairs. ‘Come on up—we’re up here.’

      We? And then she remembered the interior design van.

      With reluctant feet she made her way slowly upstairs in the direction of the voices she could hear speaking and laughing, and she felt a wave of objection that he should feel happy enough to laugh while her world seemed to be caving in.

      To her horror, the voices were coming from the direction of a room she knew only too well—her old childhood bedroom—and her heart sank even further. Had he known, or guessed, she wondered, or was it simply coincidence which had made Philip select that particular room for Tim?

      Drawing a deep breath, she walked straight in, and then stopped.

      Two heads were bent close over a swatch of fabrics—one dark and nut-brown, the other blonde, and Lisi almost gave a hollow laugh. She had imagined Tricia Brady to be blonde with legs up to her armpits, and in that she had been uncannily accurate—but she had imagined the blonde hair to have come out of a bottle and for an aging face to be caked in heavy make-up.

      But this woman fulfilled none of those criteria.

      Her shiny blonde hair was fair and pale and completely natural, and when she lifted her head at the sound of Lisi’s footsteps she didn’t appear to be wearing any make-up at all. But then she didn’t need to—skin that flawless and china-blue eyes that saucer-like did not need any help from nature to enhance them.

      She was dressed practically and yet stunningly—in a pair of butter-soft suede trousers which must have cost what Lisi earned in a month. A cream silk shirt and a sheepskin-lined waistcoat completed the look and Lisi shuddered to think what her off-the-peg department store workaday suit must look like in comparison.

      Philip smiled, but the expression on his face was as cool as it had been since Christmas. ‘Lisi, hi,’ he said. ‘This is Tricia Brady—she’s helping me with decor for the house.’

      She’s helping me. It didn’t sound like a strictly working relationship, did it? thought Lisi indignantly. He could have said, Tricia is the designer, or, Tricia is working for me.

      ‘Hello,’