November Harlequin Presents 2(177)

He had tried to encourage her into chatting about whatever was on her mind but Francesca had just smiled politely at his kindly, encouraging face and assured him that she would take his advice, put her feet up and do something about regulating her diet.

Dr White presented a very sympathetic father figure but Francesca had no desire to spill her feelings out to him or to anyone else. Angelo had walked out of her house, apparently taking her at her word, which was good, and she had not heard a word from him since. Maybe he had gone away, had thought about the ramifications of what she had told him and decided to take the most logical path to dealing with the situation. He was, after all, a highly logical man. He would be in touch, she assumed, in due course, when the need to discuss financial arrangements for the baby became necessary. That wouldn’t be for months yet, by which time she intended to be out of London for good, which would be all to his advantage. A child living an hour and a half out of the city was a child he could visit maybe once or twice a month, just enough to salve his conscience and certainly not enough to arouse any suspicions amongst his friends and colleagues. So much for all that talk about wanting to be involved in every aspect of his baby’s life. So much for marriage.

Well, could she blame him? He had reacted exactly as she had predicted. Her past had brought the shutters crashing down because, at the end of the day, he just couldn’t afford to go out with someone whose credentials were not just average but downright insalubrious.

Francesca, lying flat on her bed, stared up at the ceiling. Next to her was a tray with the remnants of breakfast, brought in by Jack, who had taken to checking up on her three or four times a day and insisting that she eat, like a tyrannical mother hen chivvying a poorly chick into obedience. She half expected that guilt had something to do with that. She hadn’t delved into the details of Angelo’s reaction to what she had told him, but she had disclosed enough for Jack to realise that there had been no cheerful brushing aside of the past. So now he had taken to fussing around her, even though, with her out of action, he was handling the catering business pretty much on his own, only allowing her to do the books and whatever else she could accomplish from the end of a telephone.

In a couple of hours’ time the breakfast tray would be replaced by a lunch tray, complete with a flower in a vase, and some bracing chat about lots of positive things that she should be looking forward to.

Francesca was learning fast how to avoid the concern in his eyes by a barrage of light-hearted patter, just the sort to put his mind at rest, while her own mind relentlessly continued to gnaw over her memories of Angelo. Several times she found herself poised to dial his number. She could always use the excuse of needing to sort things out, but the thought of hearing from his own lips that he wanted nothing further to do with her, that she should cease calling him, that he would do what was necessary but no more, terrified her. In his eyes, she would have been tarnished by her past and she knew that he would not want her to infect his own golden future.

She could feel herself being sucked down the familiar grim path when she became aware of the door downstairs being unlocked and Jack’s footsteps coming up the stairs. Earlier than usual.

Francesca wearily plastered a welcoming smile on her face. She made herself go to the chair by her window, which she knew would make him happy because it would show that she was doing a little bit more than just lying down in bed in a maudlin, defeated manner, and was smiling when he strode into the bedroom.

‘You’re a bit early for lunch, Jack,’ she greeted him cheerfully. ‘I know you want to feed me up, but a hot meal at ten forty-five in the morning is a bit much!’ The smile made her jaws ache. ‘Tell me how that job went last night. Did you have to provide waiter service in the end? I’ve called up the Hamiltons and confirmed that we’ll cater for them on the twenty-third and they’re going to let us do our own thing with the food, thank Heavens.’

Jack tossed a newspaper on her lap and then stood back with his arms folded. ‘Something in there you need to read.’

Glancing at the headlines, Francesca wondered what the urgency was to read a report on pre-election opinion polls.

‘Centre spread,’ Jack elaborated. ‘And, while you’re reading that, there’s someone downstairs who wants to see you.’

‘Who?’ Francesca asked suspiciously.

‘The same person who brought me the newspaper. I think your ex might have guessed that in the normal run of things I wouldn’t go near a broadsheet. You know I always try to steer clear of any newspaper that has enough pages to wallpaper my lounge.’