His Baby!. Sharon Kendrick

the tea, will you, darling?’

      ‘Sure,’ he said immediately, but there was a sardonic glint in his eyes as he handed a cup to Daisy and she had to fight very hard not to let the hurt and bewilderment show in her face, because this new and highly critical Matt seemed so different.

      But why shouldn’t he be different? she thought sadly as she sipped at her tea. Why shouldn’t he be cold and hard and aggressive? He had been married and widowed within the year, left with a baby daughter to look after. His wife’s funeral had been just over a month after the birth of their child, and grief did strange things to people.

      He leaned back in his chair and drank his tea, tall and dark and very faintly forbidding. He looked remote—a glamorous, stylish stranger. It was hard to believe that this was the same Matt who’d taught her to ride, told her which books to read, described the world he’d seen in all his travels. Matt whom she had adored and worshipped for just as long as she could remember.

      She had been only eight when he had gone up to Cambridge, but she could still remember how bitterly she had cried that first night after his departure. Nothing, she had thought, would ever be the same with Matt gone. And how right she had been—for nothing had ever been the same with Matt gone.

      Daisy had been unable to repress that painful jealousy she’d felt whenever he had come home in the college vacations, usually with some bright, smiling golden girl clinging onto his arm, though she’d taken great care not to show him how she felt.

      And now, as she covertly watched those long, lean legs which seemed to stretch endlessly in front of him, Daisy wondered how on earth she had ever had the temerity to imagine that someone as gorgeous as Matt Hamilton would ever be remotely interested in someone like her.

      He finished his tea and when he’d put the cup down he rose elegantly to his feet. ‘Shall I hold Sophie for you while you drink your tea, Mother?’ he said, and at the sound of his voice the baby turned and gurgled, dropping her fluffy pink bear on the carpet as she virtually launched herself out of his mother’s arms and into his, and he smiled, his hard face relaxing again as the baby joyfully settled herself into her father’s embrace.

      Daisy stooped to pick up the bear Sophie had dropped, and when she straightened up it was to find Matt staring at her again, an almost imperceptible disquiet shadowing the narrowed grey eyes.

      Mrs Hamilton was looking from one to the other of them with an expression very like bemusement, and she shook her head slightly as she stood up. ‘I have to ring Harry down in the village to check what time he’ll be delivering the champagne for Christmas morning. Don’t forget that the hordes will be arriving for drinks, will you, darling?’ she asked her son.

      Matt pulled a face and Sophie giggled. ‘Will I be allowed to forget?’ he murmured.

      ‘No, you won’t,’ answered Mrs Hamilton firmly as she breezed out of the room. ‘It’s a family tradition!’

      Matt scooped Sophie further up his chest, so that she was looking with perky interest over his shoulder, and then he indicated a hold-all he’d brought in. ‘Would you mind unpacking that bag for me, please, Daisy?’

      ‘Of course I wouldn’t mind!’ Pleased to have something to do other than try not to keep staring at that peculiarly disapproving face, Daisy crouched down on the floor to unzip the bag, taking out cotton-wool balls and lotion and all the other mysterious baby paraphernalia which lay inside. She could sense that he was still watching her, and it made her conscious as never before of the blue denim clinging to her bottom.

      There was an odd kind of silence in the room, which even Sophie’s occasional glug couldn’t dispel. Daisy could feel more of that self-conscious colour stealing into her cheeks and the increased thud of her heart as she acknowledged the unique tingle of self-awareness which Matt seemed to have bestowed on her like an electric charge. Rather desperately she hunted around for something neutral to say.

      ‘Somehow I can’t really imagine you changing a nappy, Matt!’ she commented, but she saw the sardonic twist of his mouth and knew that she had not succeeded in lightening the mood at all.

      ‘Why ever not?’ he queried, in a mocking drawl. ‘These are the nineties, after all, and fathers are hands-on these days. Or did you imagine that rich, successful tycoons don’t behave like other fathers?’

      There was something so cynical about the way he spoke that Daisy sat back on her heels and looked up at him in bewilderment, wondering what had happened to make his grey eyes shine with that brilliance which was as cold and as hard as a diamond. Was that what bereavement did to you?

      ‘I—didn’t mean anything like that,’ she said in confusion. ‘I don’t know any fathers of your age, for one thing. And for another you’re not some “rich, successful tycoon”, as you put it—you’re just Matt to me. The same Matt you always were.’ Which sounded so naïve that she bit her lip as she said it, wishing that she’d learnt to think before opening her mouth.

      But Matt smiled then, and his real smile, too—not some pale masquerade of the real thing. ‘Of course you didn’t mean it. Take no notice of me, Daisy. I’m tired and I’m jet-lagged and Sophie’s teething—’

      ‘And you’re still not over Patti?’ she prompted gently, praying that he might confide in her. She might have once felt jealous of the woman who had captured Matt’s heart, but Patti was now dead, and Daisy would have done anything to be able to take that bleak, haunted look from his eyes. ‘Oh, Matt—it must have been absolutely awful—I kept thinking about you. That letter I wrote was painfully inadequate.’

      He shook his head. ‘No. Your letter meant a lot to me.’

      ‘I wanted to come to the funeral, and I know that your mother did too—but since it was being held in New York and you didn’t really seem that keen . . .’ Her words tailed off because she could see the sudden, warning tension in his body.

      His mouth tautened as though she’d said something obscene, and Daisy was shocked by the expression which hardened those beautifully angular features. ‘Daisy ...’ He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘I know that you mean well, but I have to tell you that I don’t want or intend to discuss Patti with you. Dwelling on her death will not help anyone, and certainly not Sophie. I have a new life to make for myself, and I have to let go of the past. Do I make myself clear?’

      ‘Perfectly,’ said Daisy stiffly, and for a moment she felt a fleeting pang of sympathy for his dead wife. Who would ever have dreamed that Matt could be such a cold fish as to dismiss the woman he had married as though she were some troublesome item on an agenda Daisy had been proposing?

      What was more, he’d never spoken to her like that before. Never. Not in that curt, abrupt, dismissive manner.

      Inevitably Daisy’s mind drifted back, took her to the last time she’d seen Matt Hamilton, eighteen months ago, before his life was to alter irrevocably . . .

      He was due back from the States for a short holiday and his mother had decided to throw a summer ball in his honour at Hamilton House. Since he’d gone to live in New York after graduating his visits had been few and far between and they’d all missed him terribly, Daisy especially.

      She was over the moon with excitement. Her first ball, and, much more importantly, Matt was to be there . . .

      She was in a real panic about what to wear, and eventually her mother sewed her a dress, made from an old ballgown of her own. Her first really grownup dress.

      Daisy twirled around in front of the mirror, admiring the pale blue gauzy voile of the skirt which floated over a stiffened petticoat down to her slim ankles. The bodice of the dress was in the same silvery blue, but made of satin, and it was strapless and clung to the faint swell of her burgeoning breasts. It wasn’t a particularly fashionable dress, but she loved it.

      The strappy silver sandals were borrowed from a schoolfriend and her hair swung neatly to her small chin in a glossy bob, two boot-lace strands of silver ribbon catching it up at the sides so that it didn’t