For The Sake Of His Child. Lucy Gordon

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      “Joey needs his father. You’re his father. Not me. Not someone you hire from an agency, but you.”

      Gina continued, “My terms are simple. Joey has six weeks of the summer holiday ahead of him. You’ve got to make use of that time. You learn sign language. Talk to him. And listen to him. Plus you leave work early—no more getting home at ten. You take at least a week off to give him a holiday somewhere. I want your solemn word. If I don’t get it, I leave this minute.”

      “You warned me you were tough,” he said.

      “I had to be. You’ll discover that Joey’s tough, too.”

      “If I give you these promises, I want one in return.”

      “What?”

      “That you’ll stay with us the whole six weeks. I can do it, Gina, but not without you.”

      Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books.

      She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days, and have now been married for twenty-five years. They live in the Midlands, U.K. with their two dogs.

      Two of her books, His Brother’s Child and Song of the Lorelei, won the Romance Writers of America RITA award, in the Best Traditional Romance category.

      For the Sake of His Child

      Lucy Gordon

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER ONE

      YOU’RE PERFECT, my darling, do you know that? A bit small, perhaps, but size isn’t everything, is it? To me, you’re perfect. And you’re the love of my life!

      Gina came out of her happy dream, and looked around hastily in case she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. But nobody in the car park had noticed her. Relieved, she patted the little car lovingly, and it seemed to shine more brightly, basking in her adoration.

      It was, as she’d admitted, tiny. It was also twelve years old and had come at a knock-down price. People had been known to chuckle at the sight of it. But it was hers. It served her faithfully in a chug-chug fashion. And she loved it.

      Her smile faded as she tried to open the door to get in. On one side of her was a brick wall. On the other side was a large Rolls-Royce, whose owner plainly felt entitled to take up more than his own parking space. She was tightly hemmed in.

      ‘Now, that’s not on,’ she muttered. ‘I can’t even open the door far enough to get in.’

      Luckily the car had no barrier between the boot and the seats. By climbing through the back, Gina was able to reach the driver’s seat. It was squashed, undignified, and did nothing to improve her temper.

      ‘Who does he think he is?’ she muttered.

      She began to back out slowly, holding her breath. At first all went well, but suddenly the little car threw a temper tantrum, slewed to the side and slammed into the shiny Rolls with an ugly grating sound.

      Horrified, she squeezed out of the back again and went down on one knee to inspect the damage. Both vehicles were badly scratched and dented but on the Rolls it looked worse.

      ‘That was clever,’ said an ironic male voice above her head. ‘I’d just had it resprayed, too. Ten out of ten for timing!’

      From this angle he looked enormous. His head of thick, dark hair towered over her from a great height and his shoulders seemed broad enough to blot out the sun. Hastily Gina got to her feet, but he still had eight inches over her, and it was exasperating to have to express her righteous indignation looking up.

      ‘Clever isn’t the word I’d choose,’ she said. ‘Selfish and arrogant, maybe.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Whoever parked this Rolls using two parking spaces, and leaving me no room to get out.’

      ‘Just how much room does this peanut on wheels need?’

      ‘We can’t all drive a Rolls,’ she said, incensed at this slur on her beloved.

      ‘Just as well. If you drove a Rolls the way you drive this—this—’

      ‘You’re encroaching on my space. You didn’t even leave me enough room to open the door. You had no right to park like that.’

      ‘Actually, it wasn’t me. My chauffeur parked it.’

      ‘I might have known.’

      ‘I see! If owning a Rolls is a crime, having a chauffeur is a hanging offence, right?’

      ‘It’s all of a piece, isn’t it? Anyone who can afford a chauffeur doesn’t need to think of other people. Why didn’t you stop him doing this?’

      ‘Because I wasn’t in the car at the time. This is the first I’ve seen of it, and I’ll agree he didn’t do a brilliant job. But let’s face it. He still left you room to back out, if you’d gone in a straight line. You’re not supposed to do a sharp turn, or did nobody tell you?’

      ‘If you’d left me my rightful space,’ Gina said crossly, ‘I’d still have missed you, no matter how many sharp turns I did.’

      ‘Your steering is defective,’ the man said, with exasperated patience. ‘And you’re damned lucky it came to light now and not when you were trying to avoid a truck.’

      He was right, of course. That just made it worse. Now she was faced with a huge repair bill.

      ‘So what shall we do?’ the man asked. ‘Exchange insurance details, or would you prefer pistols at dawn?’

      ‘This isn’t funny—’

      ‘If we make a fight of it, I could say a few things about your wonky steering—’

      ‘Will you stop casting aspersions at my car?’

      ‘Considering what your car has done to mine, aspersions are the least I’d like to cast at it. The insurers will probably declare that little rabbit hutch a write-off.’

      ‘Now, look—’

      ‘So why don’t I just accept all the blame and pay for your repairs and mine?’

      His sudden capitulation cut the ground out from under her. Her indignation died.

      ‘You’d—do that?’

      ‘Yes, despite my disgraceful chauffeur and my reprehensible Rolls, I have some human qualities after all.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she said meekly.

      A middle-aged man had approached and was watching the scene. The other man turned to him.

      ‘You’ve landed me in it, Harry. What were you thinking of to park like this?’

      ‘Sorry, guv, but the bloke on the other side—he’s gone now—was taking