His Child. Sharon Kendrick

had used last night.

      She stopped dead in her tracks and gave him a coolly questioning stare. ‘You didn’t know?’

      ‘I’ve only seen the details.’

      ‘It’s just down the bloody road from me!’

      ‘Handy,’ he murmured.

      She didn’t want him making jokey little asides. That kind of comment could lull you into false hopes. She preferred him hostile, she decided.

      Her breath caught in her throat as they walked past her cottage to the end of the lane, where, beside the old grey Norman church, stood the beautiful old rectory. And her heart stood still with shock.

      The place was practically falling down!

      The yew hedge which her mother had always lovingly clipped had been allowed to overgrow, and the lawn was badly in need of a cut.

      ‘Not very well presented,’ Philip observed.

      ‘They’re getting divorced,’ explained Lisi icily. ‘I don’t think that house-maintenance is uppermost in their minds at the moment.’

      He turned away. People sometimes said to him that death must be easier to bear than divorce. When a couple divorced they knowingly ripped apart the whole fabric of their lives. Only anger was left, and bitterness and resentment.

      ‘At least Carla died knowing that you loved her, and she loved you,’ his mother had said to him softly after the funeral and then, like now, he had turned away, his face a mask of pain. What would his mother say if she knew how he had betrayed that love?

      And the woman who had tempted him stood beside him now, mocking him and tempting him still in her prissy-looking worksuit. He would be tied to Lisi for ever, he realised—because children made a bond between two people which could never be broken.

      ‘Philip?’ Her voice had softened, but that was instinctive rather than intentional for she had seen the look of anguish which had darkened the carved beauty of his features. ‘Shall we go inside, or did you want to look round the garden first?’

      He shook his head. ‘Inside,’ he said shortly.

      Lisi had not been inside since the day when all the packing crates had made the faded old home resemble a warehouse. She had perched on one waiting for the removals van to arrive, her heart aching as she’d said goodbye to her past. Tim had lain asleep in his Moses basket by her feet—less than six months at the time—gloriously unaware of the huge changes which had been taking place in his young life.

      Unbelievable to think that this was the first time she had been back, but Marian had understood her reluctance to accompany clients around her former home. Until Philip Caprice had swanned into the office and made his autocratic demand Lisi hadn’t set foot inside the door.

      Until today.

      Lisi had to stifle a gasp.

      When she had lived here with her mother there had been very little money, but a whole lot of love. Surfaces had been dusted, the floorboards bright and shiny, and there had always been a large vase of foliage or the flowers which had bloomed in such abundance in the large gardens at the back.

      But now the house had an air of neglect, as if no one had bothered to pay any attention in caring for it. A woman’s tee shirt lay crumpled on one corner of the hall floor and a half-empty coffee cup was making a sticky mark on the window-ledge. Lisi shuddered as she caught the drift of old cooking: onions or cabbage—something which lingered unpleasantly in the unaired atmosphere.

      She knew from statistics that most people decided to buy a house within the first few seconds of walking into it. At least Philip was unlikely to be lured by this dusty old shell of a place. She thought of the least attractive way to view it, and she, above all others, knew the place’s imperfections.

      ‘The kitchen is along here,’ she said calmly, and proceeded to take him there, praying that the divorcing couple had not had the funds to give the room the modernisation it had been crying out for.

      She led the way in and let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief. Not only was the kitchen untouched, but it had clearly been left during some kind of marital dispute—for a smashed plate lay right in the centre of the floor. Pots and pans, some still containing food, lay on the surface of the hob, and there was a distinctly nasty smell emanating from the direction of the fridge.

      He waited for her to make some kind of fumbling apology for the state of the place, but there was none, she just continued to regard him with that oddly frozen expression on her face.

      ‘Like it?’ she asked flippantly.

      He narrowed his eyes. ‘Hardly. Where’s the dining room?’

      ‘I’m afraid that it’s some way from the kitchen,’ she said, mock-apologetically. ‘It isn’t a terribly well-designed property—certainly not by modern standards.’

      ‘You really don’t want me to buy this house, do you, Lisi?’

      ‘I don’t want you to buy any house in Langley, if you must know.’ And especially not this one. She put on her professional face once more. ‘Would you like to see the dining room?’

      ‘I can’t wait,’ he answered sardonically.

      The dining room looked as though it had never had a meal eaten in it; instead there was a pile of legal-looking papers heaped up on the table, as if someone had been using it for a office. Philip looked around the room slowly, but said nothing.

      ‘Where next?’ asked Lisi brightly.

      ‘To the next enchanting room,’ he murmured.

      Perversely, his criticism stung her, making her realise that she was still more attached to the place than she was sure she should be. How she wished he could have seen it when she had lived here, particularly at this time of the year. At Christmas it had come into its own. The hall used to be festooned with fresh laurel from the garden and stacks and stacks of holly and great sprigs of mistletoe had been bunched everywhere.

      The choir would come from the church next door on Christmas Eve, and drink sherry and eat mince pies and the big, wide corridors would echo with the sound of excited chatter, while in the sitting room a log fire had blazed out its warmth.

      Fortunately—or unfortunately in Lisi’s case—no neglect could mar the beauty of the sitting room. The high ceiling and the carved marble fireplace drew the attention away from the fact that the curtains could have done with a good clean.

      Philip nodded and walked slowly around the room, his eyes narrowing with pleasure as he looked out of the long window down into the garden beyond.

      A winter-bare garden but beautiful nevertheless, he thought, with mature trees and bushes which were silhouetted against the curved shapes of the flower beds.

      Lisi wandered over to the window and stood beside him, past and present becoming fused for one brief, poignant moment.

      ‘You should see it in springtime,’ she observed fondly.

      He heard the dreamy quality of her voice which was so at odds with her attitude of earlier. ‘Oh?’

      ‘There are bulbs out everywhere—daffodils and tulips and narcissi—and over there…’ she pointed to where a lone tree stood in the centre of the overgrown lawn ‘…underneath that cherry, the first snowdrops come out and the lawn is sprinkled with white, almost as if it had been snowing.’

      The sense of something not being as it should be pricked at his senses. Instincts, Khalim had taught him. Always trust your instincts.

      ‘You seem to know this house very well for someone who only works part-time in the estate agency,’ he observed softly.

      She turned to face him. What was the point of hiding it from him? ‘You’re very astute, Philip.’

      ‘Just observant.’ His dark brows winged upwards in arrogant