His Wedding-Night Heir. Sara Craven

stifled a sigh, and pulled a silly face at the baby in the pushchair, an act rewarded by a lopsided grin.

      ‘Not a thing,’ she responded briskly. ‘But we don’t live in each other’s pockets, you know.’

      She’d said it before so often, but no one seemed to take her denials seriously. Kit Matlock was the director of the Centre, and the man with whom she worked most closely. They were both, on the face of it, single, so assumptions were made.

      Nor could Cally deny that, before the recent bombshell, Kit had been making it clear he’d like to shift their professional relationship to a more personal level—which was, in itself, another excellent reason for moving away.

      Not that she disliked him. How could she? He was attractive, pleasant, and endearingly short on temperament. But they were not an item, and never would be. And Cally had resolutely made excuse after excuse to refuse his invitations.

      Their most intimate involvement to date had only been the sharing of sandwiches and coffee at lunchtime, in her small, crowded office at the rear of the Centre. And that was as far as it would ever go.

      Because, she told herself, I don’t cheat.

      ‘Oh,’ Tracy said, obviously disappointed. ‘I thought maybe he’d found a loophole in the law or something. And obviously he’d tell you first.’

      Cally buried her bare hands in the pockets of her black jacket and forced a smile. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Tracy—honestly. Kit’s a lovely guy, but I’m moving on very soon. I’ve been offered another job—in London,’ she added with sudden inspiration.

      Tracy stared at her, woebegone. ‘You’re leaving?’

      ‘I have to. Technically, I’m unemployed, so I need to find work pretty urgently.’ Kit too, she thought.

      Tracy groaned. ‘It’s all falling apart,’ she said dismally.

      Cally felt intensely sorry for her. Tracy’s house had been one of the first in the terrace to be overhauled. There had been serious damp in the upstairs rooms, and little Brad had been seeing a local doctor with non-stop chest complaints. Now he was well enough to use the Centre, and Tracy had found part-time work as a supermarket checkout assistant. Things had been looking up for both of them. Now the coin was in the air again.

      Most of the others were already there, hunched awkwardly on miniature chairs in the playroom, drinking coffee and nibbling half-heartedly on the Danish pastries Kit had brought.

      The air of gloom was almost tangible as he stood up. ‘Sorry to drag you here so early, everyone. I asked for this meeting because, thanks to Leila, we now know who’s bought Gunners Wharf.’

      There was a murmur of surprise. ‘How did you manage that?’ someone asked.

      Leila looked round with open complacency. ‘My mum’s next door neighbour works in the planning department at the Town Hall. The company’s called Eastern Crest Developments, and they’re going to be in town the day after tomorrow. Roy says they’re putting on an exhibition at the Town Hall to show how they’re going to redevelop Gunners Wharf with the Council.’ She nodded. ‘So this is our chance.’

      ‘To do what?’ Cally asked.

      ‘To show them they can’t just walk all over us,’ Leila informed her triumphantly. ‘I say we picket the Town Hall. Carry banners saying “Save our Homes” and “Hands off Gunners Wharf”. Chain ourselves to the railings if necessary.’

      Cally groaned inwardly. ‘Why stop there?’ she said. ‘Why not march down the High Street and put a brick through Hartleys’ windows?’

      Leila’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea.’

      ‘You’re right,’ Cally said shortly. ‘It’s more than bad. It’s appalling—and illegal as well.’

      ‘Well,’ Leila said defiantly, ‘so is what they’ve done to us.’

      ‘I was going to suggest a slightly softer approach,’ said Kit. ‘Why don’t a few of us go to the exhibition and actually talk to the developers? See if their scheme couldn’t be adapted somehow to include Gunners Terrace. Suggest it could show the human side of big business. After all, they may not even know we exist down here. I bet the Hartleys won’t have mentioned it during negotiations,’ he added grimly.

      There were a couple of upturned noses. ‘I’ve heard it’s all going to be yuppie flats and designer boutiques,’ someone said. ‘They won’t want the likes of us making the place look untidy.’

      ‘And won’t this Town Hall thing be invitation only?’ another voice asked.

      ‘Well, Roy could get us the invites,’ said Leila.

      ‘And it has to be worth a try, surely?’ added Tracy.

      Kit gave her a warm smile. ‘I certainly think so.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you should be part of the deputation, with Cally and myself.’

      ‘Just three?’ Leila queried with a touch of belligerence.

      ‘I think small could be beautiful under the circumstances,’ Kit said smoothly. ‘No use going in mob-handed. That could be seen as aggressive, and we want a discussion, not a confrontation.’ He paused. ‘Of course we’ll be relying on you for the entry passes.’

      There was a silence while Leila weighed her own disgruntlement against the good of the Gunners Terrace community as a whole. At last, ‘Not a problem,’ she said grudgingly, and there was a collective sigh of relief.

      ‘Is it really necessary for me to go?’ Cally asked later, when she and Kit were momentarily alone.

      Kit shrugged. ‘If we manage to talk to Eastern Crest’s big bosses, it would be useful to have an accurate note of what’s said.’

      ‘Tracy could do that.’

      He shook his head. ‘Tracy gets flustered, and she’s too involved to be objective anyway. She’ll hear what she wants to hear. Besides, she’s there for the sympathy vote,’ he added, grimacing slightly. ‘Pretty blonde single mother, whose baby used to be always ailing. That might tug at their hard heartstrings.’

      ‘Good PR—if slightly callous.’ Cally doodled aimlessly with a pencil. ‘What do you think the chances are?’

      ‘Of getting them to listen? Pretty good—especially without Leila threatening to kneecap them. Overall?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not hopeful. Major property companies are moneymakers, after all, not social workers.’

      ‘Yes,’ Cally said quietly. ‘They’re generally not famous for their humanitarian qualities. They tend to have their own agenda.’

      ‘Therefore,’ Kit went on, ‘we need to present our case in an articulate and reasonable way—and pray like hell.’ He paused. ‘Of course, what we really need is a deus ex machina—another rich philanthropist to make a counter-offer and save us all at the eleventh hour.’ He grinned at her. ‘Got many millionaires in your address book?’

      The pencil snapped suddenly in her fingers. ‘No,’ she said, her voice faintly hoarse. ‘Not many.’

      ‘Nor me,’ he acknowledged ruefully, and was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant. ‘After the meeting, we could maybe have some dinner—at that Italian place in the High Street. What do you think?’

      ‘Fine by me,’ Cally agreed. ‘But you’d better warn Tracy to get a babysitter,’ she added disingenuously. ‘It will do her good to get out for the evening.’

      Kit’s face fell a little, but he knew better than to argue.

      When she was by herself again, Cally wondered whether that would have been a good time to tell him she was leaving—if he hadn’t guessed already. After all, the Hartleys must have him under notice too, although they’d reluctantly agreed to let the Children’s Centre