The Secret Sinclair (5 page)

‘I think you’ll agree that that’s fair enough, given the circumstances,’ he continued as he looked at her closed, shocked face.

‘You just need to take one look at him … I can tell you his birth date … and you can do the maths …’

‘Nothing less than a full DNA test will do.’

Sarah swallowed hard. She tried to see things from his point of view. An accidental meeting with a woman he’d thought left behind for good, and, hey presto, he discovered that he was a father! He would be reeling from shock. Of course he would want to ensure that the child was his before he committed himself to anything! He was now the leading man in his very own worst nightmare scenario. He would want proof!

But the hurt, pain and anger raged through her even as she endeavoured to be reasonable.

He might not want her around. In fact he might, right now, be sincerely hoping that he would wake up and discover that their encounter had been a bad dream. But didn’t he know her at all? Didn’t he
know
that she was not the type of girl who would ever
lie
to try and wrangle money out of him?

Unhappily, she was forced to concede that time had changed them both.

Whilst she had been left with her dreams in tatters around her, a single mother scraping to make ends meet and trying to work out how she could progress her career in the years to come, he had forgotten her and moved on. He had realised his burning ambitions and was now in a place from which he could look down at her like a Greek god, contemplating a mere mortal.

She shuddered to think what would have happened had she managed to locate him all those years ago.

‘Of course,’ she agreed, standing up.

She could feel a headache coming on. In the morning, Oliver would be at playgroup. She would try and catch up on some sleep while the house was empty. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Raoul still hadn’t shown any appetite for finding out what his son was like.

‘I should go.’

In the corner of her eye, the cleaning trolley was a forlorn reminder of how her life had abruptly changed in the space of a few hours and suddenly become much more complicated. She doggedly reminded herself that whatever the situation
between them
it was good that he knew about Oliver. She sneaked a glance at him from under her lashes and found him staring down at her with an unreadable expression.

‘I’m very sorry about this, Raoul.’ She dithered, awkward and self-conscious in her uniform. ‘I know the last thing you probably want is to have bumped into me and been told that you’ve fathered a child. Believe me, I don’t expect you to do anything. You can walk away from the situation. It’s only going to clutter up your life.’

Raoul gave a bark of derisive laughter.

‘What planet are you living on, Sarah? If … if I am indeed a father, then do you really think I’m going to walk out on my responsibility? I will support you in every way that I can. What possible choice would I have?’

Tacked on at the end, that flat assertion said it all. He would rise to the occasion and do his duty. Having wanted nothing in life but to be free, he would now find himself chained to a situation from which he would never allow himself to retreat. She wondered if he had any idea how
that made her feel, and felt painful tears push their way up her throat.

She found a clean white handkerchief pressed into her hand, and she stared down at the floor, blinking rapidly in an attempt to control her emotions. ‘You never owned a hankie when I knew you,’ she said in a wobbly voice, reaching for anything that might be a distraction from what she was feeling.

Raoul gave her a reluctant smile. ‘I have no idea why I own one now. I never use it.’

‘What about when you have a cold and need to blow your nose?’

‘I don’t get colds. I’m as healthy as a horse.’

It was only a few meaningless exchanged words, but Sarah felt a lot better as she stuck the handkerchief in the pocket of her overall, promising to return it when it had been washed.

‘I’ll need to be able to contact you,’ he told her. ‘What’s your mobile number? I’ll write mine down for you, and you can contact me at any time.’

As they exchanged numbers, she couldn’t help but think back to when he had walked out on her with no forwarding address and no number at which he could be contacted. He had wanted to be rid of her completely—a clean cut, with no loose threads that could cause him any headaches later down the road.

‘I’ll be in touch within the week,’ he told her, pocketing his mobile, and then he watched as she nodded silently and walked out of the room. He saw her yank off the overall and dump it in the trolley, along with the headscarf. She left it all just where it was in a small act of rebellion that brought a smile to his lips.

Alone in the office, and alone with his thoughts, Raoul contemplated the bomb that had detonated in his life.

He had a son.

Despite what he had said about wanting evidence, he knew in his gut that the child was his. Sarah had never cared about money, and she had always been the least manipulative woman he had ever known. He believed her when she said that she had tried to contact him, and he was shaken by the thought of her doing her utmost to bring up a child on her own when she had been just a child herself.

The fact was that he had messed up and he would have to pay the price. And it was going to be a very steep price.

S
ARAH
was at the kitchen sink, finishing the last of the washing up, when the doorbell went.

The house she rented was not in a particularly terrific part of East London, but it was affordable, public transport was reasonably convenient, and the neighbours were nice. You couldn’t have everything.

Before the doorbell could buzz again and risk waking Oliver, who had only just been settled after a marathon run of demands for more and more books to be read to him until finally he drifted off to sleep, Sarah wiped her hands on a dishcloth and half ran to the front door.

At not yet seven-thirty she was in some faded tracksuit bottoms and a baggy tee shirt. It was her usual garb on a weekend because she couldn’t afford to go out. Twice a month she would try and have some friends over, cook them something, but continually counting pennies took a lot of the fun out of entertaining.

She had spent the past two days caught up in trying to find herself some replacement shift work. The cleaning company that had hired her had been appalled to find that she had walked out on a job without a backward glance, and she had been sacked on the spot.

Her heart hadn’t been in the search, however. She’d been too busy thinking about Raoul and tirelessly replaying
their unexpected encounter in her head. She’d spent hours trying to analyse what he had said and telling herself that it had all happened for the best. She’d looked at Oliver and all she’d seen was Raoul’s dark hair and bitter chocolate eyes, and the smooth, healthy olive skin that would go a shade darker as he got older. He was a clone of his father.

If Raoul saw him there would be no doubt, but she still hadn’t heard from him, and her disappointment had deepened with every passing hour.

On top of that, she couldn’t make her mind up what she should tell her parents. Should they know that Raoul was Oliver’s father and was back on the scene? Or would they worry? She had confessed that she had had her heart broken, and she wasn’t convinced that they had ever really believed it to have been fully pieced together again. How would they react if they knew that the guy who’d broken her heart was back in her life? She was an only child, and they were super-protective. She imagined them racing up to London wielding rolling pins and threatening retribution.

She pulled open the door, her mind wandering feverishly over old ground, and stepped back in confusion at the sight of Raoul standing in front of her.

‘May I come in, Sarah?’

‘I … I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you said that you were going to phone …’

She was without make-up, and no longer in a uniform designed to keep all hint of femininity at bay, and Raoul’s dark eyes narrowed as he took in the creamy satin smoothness of her skin, the brightness of her green eyes in her heart-shaped face and the curves of her familiar body underneath her tee shirt and track pants.

He recognised the tee shirt, although it was heavily
faded now, its rock group logo almost obliterated. Just looking at it took him back in time to lying on the bed in the small room in Africa, with the mosquito net tethered as best they could manage under the mattress, watching and burning for her as she slowly stripped the tee shirt over her head to reveal her full, round breasts.

Raoul had planned on phoning. He had spent the past two days thinking, and had realised that the best way forward would be to view the situation in the same way he would view any problem that needed a solution—with a clear head. First establish firm proof that the child was his, because his gut instinct might well be wrong, and then have an adult conversation with her regarding the way forward.

Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to play the waiting game. He hadn’t been able to concentrate at work. He had tried to vent his frustration at the gym, but even two hours of gruelling exercise had done nothing to diminish his urgent need to
do something
.

Sarah read everything into his silence and ushered him into the house.

‘I didn’t know if I should be expecting a call from … somebody … about those tests you wanted …’

‘On hold for the moment.’

‘Really?’ Her eyes shone and she smiled. ‘So you
do
believe me.’

‘For the moment I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt.’

‘You won’t regret it, Raoul. Oliver’s the image of you. I’m sorry he’s asleep. I
would
wake him …’

Raoul had no experience of children. They weren’t part of his everyday existence, and in the absence of any family he had never been obliged to cut his teeth on nephews or nieces. He was utterly bewildered at the notion of being
in the presence of a son he had never laid eyes on. What did a four-year-old boy
do
, exactly? Were they capable of making conversation at that age?

Suddenly nervous as hell, he cleared his throat and waved aside her offer. ‘Maybe it’s best if we talk about this first …’

‘Then would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? I think I might have some wine in the fridge. I don’t keep a great deal of alcohol in the house. I can’t afford it, anyway.’

Raoul was looking around him, taking in the surroundings which were a stark reminder of how far he had travelled. Now he lived in a massive two-storeyed penthouse apartment in the best postcode in London, furnished to the very highest standard. Frankly, it was the best that money could buy—although he barely glanced at his surroundings and was seldom in to take advantage of the top-of-the-range designer kitchen and all the other jaw dropping features the high-tech apartment sported.

This tiny terraced house couldn’t have been more different. The carpet, the indeterminate colour of sludge, had obviously never been replaced, and the walls, although painted in a cheerful green colour, showed signs of cracks. Standing in the hall with her, he was aware there was practically no room to move, and as he followed her into the kitchen there was no change. A pine table was shoved against the wall to accommodate random pieces of freestanding furniture—a half-sized dresser, a chest of drawers, some shelves on which bottles with various cooking ingredients stood.

He had managed to climb up and away from these sorts of surroundings, but it still sent a chill through his body that but for a combination of brains, luck and sheer hard
work beyond the call of duty he might very well have still been living in a place very much like this.

This was precisely why, he told himself, he had refused to be tied down. Only by being one hundred percent free to focus on his career had he been able to fulfil his ambitions. Women were certainly an enjoyable distraction, but he had never been tempted to jettison any of his plans for one of them.

The more wealth he accumulated, the more jaded he became. He could have the most beautiful women in the world, and in fact he had had a number of head-turning girlfriends on his arm over the years, but they had always been secondary to his career.

Dim memories of living in a dingy room with his mother while she drank herself into a stupor had been his driving force. This house was only a few steps up from dingy. He imagined the landlord to be someone of dubious integrity, happy to take money from desperate tenants, but less happy to make any improvements to the property.

The notion of
his son
had somehow managed to take root in his head, and Raoul was incensed at the deplorable living conditions.

‘I know,’ Sarah apologised, following the critical path of his eyes. ‘It’s not fantastic, but everything works. And it’s so much better than some of the other places I looked at. I don’t even know where
you
live …’

Raoul, who had been staring at a dramatic rip in the wallpaper above the dresser, met her eyes and held them.

He couldn’t understand whether it was her familiarity that was making him feel so
aware of her
—inconveniently, frustratingly,
sexually
aware of her—or whether he had just managed to make himself forget the attraction she had always had for him.

‘Chelsea,’ he said grimly, sitting on one of the chairs
at the table, which felt fragile enough to break under his weight.

‘And … and what’s it like?’ She could feel hot colour in her cheeks, because he just dominated the small space of the kitchen. His presence seemed to wrap itself around her, making her pulses race and her skin feel tight and uncomfortable.

Coffee made, she handed him a mug and sat on the other chair.

‘It’s an apartment.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t spend a great deal of time in it. It works for me. It’s low maintenance.’

‘What does that mean? Low maintenance?’

‘Nothing surplus to requirements. I don’t like clutter.’

‘And … and is there a woman in that apartment?’ She went bright red as she asked the question, but it was one that had only occurred to her after she had left him. Was there a woman in his life? He didn’t give the impression of being a married man, but then would he ever?