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She would never risk being at the mercy of a man’s whims. Like her mother had been. It wasn’t only the woman who suffered, but her children too. She had first-hand experience of what happened when children paid the price of impulsive passion.
But she wasn’t about to lose custody of the only son she’d ever have. So Victoria said carefully, “Yes. And I’m going to take a leaf out of your book and delegate more—hire a junior to assist me. That’s just one more thing I need to discuss with Bridget.”
Six
A fter Connor had gone, Victoria called Bridget Edge.
The assurance that Victoria would be at work the following day was met with a sigh of undisguised relief. And after a small pause Bridget had agreed to Victoria’s suggestion that hiring a junior accountant would be a good idea—provided, of course, that Victoria’s client base kept growing.
Victoria set the phone down and closed her eyes. For the first time since learning of Michael and Suzy’s deaths her sense of optimism blossomed again.
Everything was going to work out.
She quashed the growing apprehension that Connor would not be happy with the outcome.
The next day, Victoria dropped Dylan at the day care center that Suzy had enrolled Dylan in. Leaving him was a terrible wrench, but she assuaged her guilt by slipping out during lunch time to check on him. One of the young day care employees murmured that the baby hadn’t settled and appeared to be fretting.
Of course Dylan was fretting.
Poor baby! Victoria picked him up, inhaling the scent of powder and baby. Dylan was missing Suzy and Michael. And she’d left him in this unfamiliar place. Guilt overwhelmed her. She’d added to his sense of dislocation—but what other choice did she have?
Connor, a little voice said, she could have called Connor for help. He’d offered to take the baby. But if she called him he would crow in victory—and claim Dylan.
She would lose her baby.
And Connor wouldn’t look after the baby personally, either. He’d simply hire a nanny, which was no different from what she was doing. Dylan wriggled in her arms. Victoria kissed his head apologetically and loosened her grip.
But what if she confided in Connor that she was Dylan’s biological mother? Would he understand…would he be prepared to compromise? She nuzzled Dylan’s soft baby hair and thought of the Connor North she knew.…
Hard. Decisive. Ruthless. There wasn’t a compromising bone in that strong, too-male body.
No. She couldn’t tell him.
She would have to get through this by herself.
The rest of the day passed in a rush. And Victoria, who’d intended to leave not long after lunch for the first time in her life, left work far later than she’d intended.
Dylan still hadn’t settled by the Victoria went to collect him. But the staff were sure Monday would be better.
The weekend went by in a blur of sleepless exhaustion. Victoria missed a call from Connor while she and Dylan napped, and after listening to the recording of his deep, provocative voice saying, “Just wanted to see if you’re coping,” decided against phoning him back.
So he thought she wasn’t coping?
Well, she certainly wasn’t going to cry for help.
By the following Tuesday Dylan was visibly querulous, and one of the day care workers called to say he was running a slight temperature.
Panic flooded Victoria and she wasted no time getting to the day care center.
“He didn’t drink his last bottle.” The day care attendant looked concerned. “If his temperature rises further you may want to take him to the doctor.”
By the time Victoria got Dylan home, after an hour in peak-hour traffic, he was hot and flushed. Pausing only to take his temperature, which had rocketed alarmingly, she faced the fact that this was more than grief and dislocation. Dylan was ill.
A call to her doctor garnered his pager. Victoria swore. But within minutes a doctor on call had phoned and told her to take the baby to the nearest medical center. Berating herself for leaving it so long, she hoisted Dylan into the baby seat, secured him and hurried to the front door.
Connor had been waiting all week for Victoria to phone and beg him to take Dylan, to admit defeat. But she hadn’t. To his annoyance she hadn’t even responded to the message he’d left on her answering service. And Connor was left wishing he’d never allowed the hollowness in her eyes to persuade him to leave Dylan in her care. What had he been thinking? Dylan was the most important person in his life.
Five days had passed since the funeral, and he couldn’t wait any longer. The driving urge to see Dylan—a primal, deeply-rooted need to reassure himself that his baby was happy—dominated him. Yet as the Maserati ate up the now-familiar route Connor admitted it wasn’t only Dylan he’d been missing—he wanted to see Victoria, too.
