chapter SIX
TEN minutes later, Stephen scanned the busy courtyard for a second time, the bagged lunches growing tepid and soggy in the afternoon heat. Colette, true to form, had not done as she’d been told.
The stubborn minx.
Fortunately, he could prove just as stubborn as she. So he spun on his heel and headed toward HR, intent on finding her address and tracking her down regardless. He wanted to meet this roommate of hers, anyway.
By the time he found her house, a cozy little cottage nearly twenty minutes outside Manhattan, his curiosity had been more than piqued. To keep his arrival off her radar, he’d driven a less flashy car, a small black BMW that blended in with the other vehicles of the city. He was grateful for his anonymity now, seeing the house she’d chosen. The tidy, whitewashed home looked like it had been built fifty years ago, with neat yellow shutters and window boxes overflowing with pink and purple flowers. His brow furrowed in confusion.
Colette had always claimed to prefer low-maintenance flats, the smaller the better. He’d never known a female to care less about material things, and she’d had no interest in shopping for home décor. Aside from her kitchen, she’d spent no money on feminine fripperies or coordinated furniture. She’d told him she was all about functionality and efficiency, and his one foray into her personal space had proved her claim.
Looking at the modest little house, surrounded by a well-groomed lawn, tidily trimmed bushes, and a pocket-size flower garden, he felt an unexpected spike of jealousy stab at his chest. Colette, who’d only allowed him in her flat one time, had set up a proper home with a roommate. A roommate who called her in the middle of the day to talk about nonsensical things. A roommate she didn’t want Stephen to meet.
Unwilling to mull over the possibilities any longer without knowing the truth, he shoved open his door, exited his car, and strode across the narrow paved street. The punishing slap of his heels against the blacktop matched his mood exactly. He’d be damned if he’d allow her to keep lying to him. After all the time they’d spent together, she owed him the truth.
He’d already framed his opening sentence when he stabbed his thumb into the doorbell.
The doorbell echoed somewhere in the back of the house, followed by a high-pitched squeal and a low, feminine murmur.
The front door opened to reveal a miniature version of Colette, dressed in a cloud of ruffled pink, her tousled yellow curls forming a bright halo of gold about her small upturned face.
“Hi!” she said with a grin, just as a plump gray-haired woman in a flowered housedress joined her at the door.
“Emma!” she said in exasperation. “How many times have I told you not to open the door to strangers?”
The child’s eyes widened and she gasped aloud before slamming the door shut between them.
For a protracted beat of time, Stephen simply stared at the closed door in shock. Colette was a mother?
The door opened again, this time to reveal the older woman and child standing side by side.
“Sorry,” the woman began. “We—”
“You’re a stranger,” the girl announced, cocking her head in a perfect imitation of her mother. “'Cause I don’t know you yet.”
Stephen blinked, trying to adjust to his sense of vertigo while taking in the child’s small rosebud mouth, obstinate chin, and large, wide-set eyes the color of a summer sky. “Yes, I guess I am.” Recovering his manners, he bent to address the child. “My name’s Stephen. What’s yours?”
Rather than answering, the child turned her inquisitive face toward the older woman and whispered, “Can I tell him?”
“As I was saying,” the woman said, her face creasing in a smile, “we’re still working on how we interact with strangers.” She returned her focus to the little girl and nodded. “Yes, you may tell him your name.”
“I’m Emma Huntington.” She gripped the woman’s skirt in one small white hand and hopped to a sneakered foot. “An’ I like jumping.”
“I can see that,” he said, slowly straightening as the child’s full name sank in. Apparently this enchanting child belonged to Colette and Colette alone. Where was the father? Had he abandoned them both? Or was he her roommate? Suddenly, the thought of her bearing another man’s child, sharing his bed and opening her heart when it had always remained closed to him, had jealousy pinching his chest. But he forced a bland calmness to his voice and lifted his attention to the older woman. “Is Colette home?”
“Not at the moment,” said the older woman, her brows lowering as she scanned his face. “May I deliver a message?”
Aware that he didn’t wish to arouse her suspicions, Stephen schooled his features into the smile guaranteed to make any woman soften. “When do you expect her back?”
“Momma’s working at the hotel,” volunteered Emma as she switched to hop on the other foot, stabilizing her balance with a twisted grip in the older woman’s skirt. “She makes desserts.”
Stephen’s lungs tightened as he looked down at Colette’s daughter. He didn’t like that Colette had moved on without him, that she’d made a life, created a child, and cut him so completely out of her future. She’d never looked back, even once, and the proof of her decision stared up at him with bright blue eyes. “Yes, I know,” he agreed. “Your mother is a very good chef.”
“She’s gonna teach me to make cookies!”
“Then you are a lucky girl. Just like I’m lucky to have her as an employee.”
Emma’s face screwed up in confusion and her hopping stalled. “What’s a employee?”
“You’re Colette’s new boss?” the older woman gasped. “The one from England?”
“Yes,” he said, lifting his head and smiling in acknowledgment. “I’m Stephen Whitfield. Did Colette mention me?”
“Of course she did!” she scolded as she swung the door wide. “And if I’d known who you were, I’d have invited you in right away!”
What did she tell you? “Thank you,” he said as he stepped over the threshold.
“Colette called about a half hour ago,” she said as she and the child moved to make room in the narrow hallway. “She should be home any minute.”
“Excellent,” he said, flashing a smile that felt uncomfortable and strained. “I was hoping I’d catch her.”
“Momma likes to tuck me in for my nap,” offered Emma.
The nanny reached to collect the child’s small hand and ushered her down the hall before turning right into another room. “Can I fetch you some iced tea while you wait?” she called over her shoulder.
“Thank you, Mrs….?” he said, as he followed the duo into a small, cheerful room littered with toys.
“Smith,” she said, releasing her young charge and then turning to face Stephen with a wide, flattered smile. “Though you can call me Janet.”
Stephen nodded while Emma bounded toward a toy box in the corner. Within seconds she’d retrieved a half-dressed doll with pink marker all over its face. “This is Chrissie,” she said, returning to his side and holding the doll out for his inspection. “I accidentally drawed on her face, but she didn’t get mad.”
“Emma, why don’t you come help me fetch Mr. Whitfield’s tea?”
“But I wanna show him—!”
“It’s all right,” Stephen interrupted, moving to lower himself into a chair upholstered in striped fabric and then beckoning toward the child. “Emma can keep me company while I wait.”
Mrs. Smith hesitated while Emma rushed forward to shove Chrissie into his big hands. “She’s got blond hair, just like me. An’ she likes pink, too.”
“Does she, now?” he said, lifting the doll and setting it atop his knee.
“I don’t know about this, Mr. Whitfield,” said Janet as she hovered near the doorway looking worried. “Have you much experience with children? Emma can be quite a talkative handful.”
“Please. Call me Stephen,” he said easily. “And, yes. Between all my maternal cousins I’ve had practice with dozens of children of assorted shapes and sizes. Emma and I will get along just fine while we wait.”
“Oh. I suppose it’ll be all right, then,” she said, pointing a finger toward Emma. “You be a good girl, you hear? Don’t ask too many questions and mind your manners.”
“I will!” the child assured her with a sunny smile.
“I’ll be back in a tick,” the woman said, bustling off to the kitchen.
Before Janet disappeared from view, Emma had already shifted her attention back to Stephen. “You talk funny.”
“That’s because I live in England.”
“Momma lived in England,” the child said, her expression a skeptical combination of accusation and scold. “But she doesn’t talk funny.”
“You’re right,” he admitted with a smile, realizing that the child was just as wary of liars as her mother was. “She doesn’t. But she didn’t live there as long as I have.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy her, because Emma moved closer to adjust her doll into a sleeping position on his lap. “Chrissie’s tired,” she said. “She needs lots of naps ‘cause she’s just a baby.”
“I can tell,” he agreed amiably as he eyed the bedraggled Chrissie, with her vandalized plastic skin and closed eyes. “She must spend a lot of time sleeping.”
“I only have to take one nap,” she confided, leaning close against his knee. “'Cause I’m a big girl.”
“Are you, now?”
She grinned, exposing a row of tiny white teeth as she held up four dimpled fingers. “Yes. I’m four-'n-a-half.”
“Four and a half!” He gasped in feigned shock, while mentally tacking on nine months and coming up long. Colette certainly hadn’t wasted any time finding another man. “How did you get to be so old?”
“I have birthdays, silly!”
“You do?” He cocked his head and studied the small child, wondering exactly how old she was. “Do you know when your birthday is?”
“'Course I do!” She abandoned his knee and rushed to forage for yet another prize to show him, this one a pink ruffled strip of fabric with some sort of sparkly tiara attached to it. “Santa brought this for my birthday.”
“He did?”
“Uh-huh.” She pushed the crown on over her curls and arranged the pink train over her shoulder before coming back to show him the multiple tiers of lace and ribbon. “Momma says I get extra-special presents ‘cause I’m her extra-special Christmas gift.”
He stopped breathing as he did the mental math, his thoughts reeling with the implications of Emma’s birth date. Emma had been born on Christmas. Christmas. Which meant either Colette had cheated on him, made a child with another man at the same time they’d been together, or he was a father.
But that was impossible. They’d used protection.
Every time.
“I’m a princess, see?” Emma pointed out, dragging his attention back to the here and now.
“What?” He stared at the child as she curtsied before him, his sense of vertigo rushing back tenfold as belated recognition slammed hard into his gut.
Emma didn’t look up at him with the curious hazel eyes of her mother.
No. She looked at him with the bright, distinctive blue eyes every single Whitfield for countless generations had shared. The eyes she’d inherited from her father. From him.
“You look funny,” she said, leaning forward to tug on his hand.
His breath escaped in a ragged rush. “Does your tummy hurt?” she asked, screwing up her tiny nose.
He blinked and drew in a steadying breath, forcing a smile to his face. “No, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m just thinking about your mother and how happy she must be to have you.”
“Momma loves me a lot,” Emma agreed. “She says I’m her angel. But I don’t want to be an angel. I want to be a princess.”
Suddenly everything clicked into place: Colette’s reason for leaving, her continued secrecy, her roommate. She’d borne him a daughter and she’d never breathed a word of it to him.
“Do you like princesses?”
He looked down at his beautiful daughter, the daughter he hadn’t even known existed, and anger at missing her birth, her first breath, first tooth, first everything twisted low in his gut. How could Colette have stolen four years from him? Four and a half years!
“I adore princesses,” he said in a soft voice. “Especially pretty princesses with blond hair and blue eyes.”
Now that he knew to look for it, he could trace the stamp of the Whitfield genes even more readily than before. He saw the trademark cowlick on the right side of her forehead that he and grandfather shared. He saw his own straight brows and the same bow in her upper lip.
“You do?” Emma’s face—his daughter’s face!—lit up with her smile and an unexpected tightness took hold of his chest. Damn Colette. She had some serious explaining to do, and this time she wasn’t escaping without telling him the truth.
The front screen door squeaked open and he heard Colette step into the home she’d chosen for their child. “Janet?” she called. “You haven’t put Emma down for her nap yet, have you?”
Stephen watched as Colette rounded the corner into the living room. Stumbling in shocked recognition, she froze and the blood drained from her face.
“Welcome home, Colette,” he said grimly, surprised that he sounded so calm when he felt like wringing her beautiful, duplicitous neck. “Or should I say Mummy?”
“Stephen,” she started, her lips trembling within her white face. “What are you doing here?”
He surged to his feet, the urge to shake her tearing through him with seismic fury. “I don’t think you’re in any position to ask questions,” he said, in an ominously quiet voice.
“I—”
“How is it that you have a four-year-old daughter I knew nothing about?”
Her hazel eyes darted frantically toward Emma and then back again. Fear was stamped in every fierce line of her face. “Not here, Stephen. Please not here—”
“Mr. Whitfield held Chrissie while she taked her nap,” interrupted Emma. “An’ he likes princesses, too. He said so.”
“That’s right, Emma,” he said, in a low, conversational voice. “Little blue-eyed princesses are a personal favorite of mine.”
“Don’t …” Colette began again, her arms wrapping about her ribs while a glimmer of tears gathered in her distressed eyes. “She doesn’t …”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“B-because,” she stammered, her gaze ricocheting from Emma’s curious face to his and back again. “I …”
“You?”
“I wanted to keep her safe.”
A rage he hadn’t felt for twenty-five long, long years made his chest burn hot and laced his words with a dangerous, deadly calm. “I suggest you tell Janet she’s on duty for a little while longer,” he said grimly. “You and I have some serious items to discuss.”
She flinched, and then swiftly recovered, her chin lifting while her slim shoulders braced for the worst. Her flashing hazel gaze, limned with a disconcerting blend of righteous indignation and fear, collided with his and held. “Fine, we’ll talk. In private,” she said, smiling down at Emma as if she needed to protect her. “Emma, sweetheart, why don’t you go find Janet while Mr. Whitfield and I have a grownup talk outside?”