Morgan's Secret Son. Sara Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ that feverish excitement of seeing one of his designs take shape on his drawing board—and then grow in reality on the site, at one with its environment.

      But in one brief moment with Teresa Frazer he had created and designed something which had turned his world upside down. For the rest of his life he’d never forget the moment when he’d turned up at the hospital and she had confessed that Jack was his son, not Sam’s. Jack had been conceived while they were still together—before Sam even knew of Teresa’s existence.

      He winced, seeing again that once-beautiful face, hideously mangled by the car crash which had brought him hurrying to Sussex from his London flat. He hadn’t doubted her word for a second. She had been so desperate to tell the truth, and too aware that she was close to death to waste her time with lies.

      Morgan thought of Sam’s breakdown when news of the crash had come through, how it had been he, Morgan, who’d been with Teresa for her last conscious moments before the emergency Caesarean.

      It had been he who’d first held his baby, he who’d wept with unrestrained joy and amazement. He hadn’t shed tears since he was eleven, but the suddenness of fatherhood had overwhelmed him.

      Emotion had filled his heart to bursting. He’d wanted this child. His child! And yet he had known even then that he’d have to surrender him for the sake of a slowly dying man. Jack must be registered as Sam’s son.

      Such joy and sorrow mingling together as he had never known…

      Morgan passed a shaky hand over his face. He owed everything to Sam. But this was the cruellest price to pay!

      Racked with despair, he bent his weary head and gently kissed the downy forehead. The warmth of the fire and the accumulation of several sleepless nights began to blur his mind. His thoughts became less focused and finally he slept, briefly free from his troubles and the destructive, shameful deceit.

      The closer Jodie came to the village where her father lived, the more breathless and excited she became. Discovering his existence had been the most wonderful thing that had happened to her. Her heartbeat quickened. She dearly wanted this to work. It must! All her hopes were resting on it.

      Her eager eyes took in the scenery with its voluptuously smooth hills—incongruously called Downs, according to the map. Sheep grazed on the emerald grass of the tiny fields and swans were lazily decorating a meandering river.

      And then she saw it: an old-fashioned signpost pointing the way down a country lane. She turned off the main road, her heart singing with unrestrained delight.

      It was getting dark, even though it was only about four o’clock in the afternoon. In her headlights she could pick out quaint flintstone cottages strung out sporadically along the lane. Occasionally there would be a small Tudor cottage, with black and white timbers, a thatched roof and pretty garden.

      As she passed each house she slowed the car to a crawl, so she could read the names, her mouth increasingly dry with nerves. At last, in the rapidly fading light, she spotted the one she was looking for: Great Luscombe Hall.

      ‘Be there!’ she begged in a heartfelt plea.

      Nervously she headed down a long drive, her hands gripping the steering wheel in a mixture of panic and anticipation. Her forest dark eyes widened. There was a moat! Awed, she steered the car over the wooden bridge that spanned it. It had never occurred to her for a minute that her father might be wealthy!

      Adjusting to this fact, Jodie brought the car to a halt in front of the house. Her heart was beating hard in her chest with anticipation. Great Luscombe Hall was a rambling, timbered manor house with a roof made from huge slabs of stone, and its façade had been constructed with enough oak beams to make a fleet of ships.

      ‘I can’t believe this!’ she whispered.

      With trembling fingers she switched off the lights and the engine and leapt out, her body tensed in expectancy.

      And then she heard a furious barking. She shrank back, terrified to see a Collie hurtling towards her.

      ‘Help!’ she croaked, freezing to the spot. Her terror-stricken gaze was pinned to the dog’s white fangs. ‘G-g-good, dog!’ she squeaked unconvincingly.

      ‘He’s friendly,’ snapped a hard male voice. ‘His tail’s wagging, can’t you see?’

      Her father! Forgetting the animal, she looked hopefully towards the house, a warm, happy smile bursting forth and illuminating her eyes. It faded almost immediately. This couldn’t be him. He was too young. This was…who?

      She swallowed nervously. The dishevelled, raven-haired man was glaring at her suspiciously from the shadowy doorway. Darkness surrounded him, a mere chink of light coming from the door he’d pulled to, as if he were defending his castle from intruders.

      Extreme tiredness made her head swim with odd, fanciful images—the black-watered moat, the medieval manor and with its looming, jettied upper storey, and the sinister stranger.

      She noted that his hair was wild and wind-tousled, his black brows thick and fierce and the angular jaw covered in five o’clock shadow. Wide-eyed with apprehension, she took in his hostile stare, crumpled crew-neck sweater and jeans and wondered if she’d come to the wrong house.

      ‘Great…Luscombe Hall?’ she queried shakily.

      ‘Yes!’ he clipped.

      No mistake, then. And he was just a man, she reminded herself. Bad-tempered, unfriendly and unwittingly threatening, but nothing more. It was time her adrenaline climbed down to normal.

      ‘Then, hi!’ she called, rallying her spirits. When she took a step forward she felt the dog’s nose against her thigh and her courage faltered. ‘You’re sure I can move without losing a leg or two?’ she asked, worried.

      Searingly dark eyes brooded on her poppy-coated lips and she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. He’d just stared, that was all. But a flash of something almost sexual had slid briefly through her body.

      ‘He’s eaten already,’ he dismissed. His mouth remained hard, as if hacked from granite by a sculptor who didn’t know how to do curves. ‘You want something?’ he shot.

      It wasn’t the most gracious welcome she’d ever had! Jodie thought he sounded as if he’d got out of the wrong side of bed—and not long ago, judging by his rumpled state. Who could he be—the gardener? No—he’d been indoors. And the house might look grand enough for a butler, but not one who looked so untidy and…dangerous.

      Handyman perhaps. He could have been under the floor-boards fixing something, hence his mussed-up hair.

      Mystified, Jodie risked walking to the house. The dog bounded about her, circling as if she were a wayward sheep to be brought into line, and she smiled at its antics—though her city upbringing stopped her from trusting it enough to offer it a friendly pat.

      ‘Here, Satan!’ ordered the man sharply.

      She hid a grin. Satan! That said volumes about his owner! She watched thoughtfully as the dog whirled around and flew over to its master, sitting to heel and gazing up anxiously. How severely had the dog been chastised till that level of obedience had been achieved? Fresh from living with a bully of her own, she felt her dislike of the man rack up a notch.

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