Ben inhaled, dredging deep into his inner resources to force his features into something that passed for a smile. ‘I had words with my grandfather.’ It suddenly seemed a long time ago.
The explanation was accepted by Elizabeth, who held out her arms for the child, the furrow between her brows deepening as he made no move to react.
The question he’d refused to acknowledge slid into his head. Was the child...his child? His daughter?
This was surreal...
It was impossible!
His eyes slid to the baby in his arms and she looked back at him, solemn and serious, then with a grin as she grabbed his soggy tie again.
‘Mine!’
Ben felt something break loose inside him and swallowed, reluctant to put a name to the uncomfortable emotion that tightened like a band across his chest.
‘No, Emmy! Sorry, Ben...’
This time Ben reacted to the extended arms. As he handed the child over he breathed in the scent of her hair and felt the smooth softness of her cheek. He swallowed. It simply wasn’t possible.
Of course it was and he knew it.
Elizabeth took a moment to disentangle the determined chubby hands from the tie, ignoring the shrill yell of frustration when she succeeded.
‘Your grandfather misses you, you know.’
Ben shook his head to clear the loud static buzz in his brain. ‘He hides it well.’
This was one of life’s crossroad moments, when choices changed lives...his life...a life he liked the way it was...the life he had chosen. The inner struggle didn’t last long, though the resentment of finding himself in this position deepened.
Knowing for sure he had fathered a child was not news he would welcome, but it was preferable to not knowing, to live with that question mark.
His shoulders squared with decision as he masked his feelings behind a casual smile.
‘So you’re babysitting?’ Losing the battle to maintain objectivity, he struggled to keep the disapproval he felt out of his voice. He never had understood why people had kids if they couldn’t wait to farm them out.
‘Actually I have her all week, don’t I, darling?’ Elizabeth, her expression doting, tucked a shiny curl behind Emmy’s ear as the child’s head dropped on her shoulder. ‘Lily won a prize in a competition,’ she explained. ‘A week’s holiday in the sun.’
His jaw clenched. So motherhood hadn’t cramped Lily’s style.
‘She was going to refuse it.’
Sure she was, Ben thought, hiding his disbelief behind an interested smile.
‘I all but had to tie her up to get her to the airport, but it’s just what she needs, a bit of sun. She’s basically put her whole life on hold, but that’s never healthy. I keep telling her, she has to have a life outside of Emmy. But does she listen?’
As Elizabeth chuntered on the image of Lily in a bikini set up a string of images that Ben, despising his lack of control, breathed his way through. He came out the other side feeling resentful and furious at his lack of self-control. Even if this wasn’t his kid, he had nothing but contempt for a parent who put their own selfish needs ahead of their child.
‘That’s an unusual birthmark she...?’ He watched for any sign of reaction to his question on the housekeeper’s face. Either she was the world’s best actress or didn’t know either.
‘Emmy... Emily Rose.’ Her grandmother brushed aside a hank of burnished hair from the child’s forehead and touched the small mark near her right temple. ‘It looks like the moon, doesn’t it?’
Jumping to conclusions in his business was often the difference between success and failure. Sure, gut instinct came into it, but you had to gather data, sift through the evidence, calculate the probabilities before you made a call.
Ben never jumped to conclusions, and now was not a good time to start. In his experience the best way to kill crazy ideas was throw facts at them.
Clutching at straws, Ben?
Ignoring the inner ironic voice, he asked casually, ‘How old is she?’
‘Two. She was actually due on the twins’ birthday but Lily took a tumble and she came a month early.’
‘My mother has a birthmark similar to that one, or she did.’ His mother had had it removed while they were doing her first facelift.
‘How is your mother?’ Elizabeth asked politely.
Ben, who knew the question was inspired by good manners not genuine interest, shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’ Then, acting on an impulse that he had no control over, he touched a shiny curl before drawing his hand back as though burnt. ‘Her hair is just like her mother’s.’