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A Baby in His In-Tray
by Michelle Douglas
CHAPTER ONE
‘WHAT I’M SAYING, Liz, is that someone has left a baby on your—my—’ she amended, aware that Liz had already corrected her twice so far this phone call ‘—desk!’
‘A baby?’ Liz parroted for the third time, and Olivia Grace Gilmour closed her eyes and dragged in a breath—a long, deep, calming breath. In through her nose and out through her mouth. No matter how much she might want to, she couldn’t take her twin to task for her incredulity. She could hardly believe it herself.
Except seeing was believing.
She peered once more into the baby car
rier at the sleeping infant.
‘Livvy, I...’
Liv waited but nothing else was forthcoming, and her heart rate kicked up another notch.
‘Where’s Judith?’
Judith was Liz’s assistant. ‘She called in sick.’
‘Good.’
‘Good?’ She tried to keep the shrill note out of her voice. A partner in confusion and concern would be welcome at the moment. But Liz was right. It was just as well Judith wasn’t here to witness her panic. Liv didn’t want to give the game away. She swallowed and tried to modulate her voice. ‘There was a letter addressed to your boss tucked into the side of the baby carrier.’
‘Your boss,’ Liz corrected. If a voice could sound green, hers sounded green.
‘My boss,’ Liv managed through gritted teeth.
Never had agreeing to stand in for her twin at her day job seemed a crazier move than it did right at this very moment. But it was only for a week and Sebastian Tyrell—Liz’s boss—was away. Not that he sallied forth all that often from his estate in Lincolnshire, from where he apparently oversaw operations. But with him being away it meant she shouldn’t even need to speak to him on the phone. This week should’ve been non-eventful, mission possible, a walk in the park. Liz had promised her it’d be a piece of cake.
Except now there was a baby.
Somewhere in the back of her mind maniacal laughter sounded.
She stared into the carrier at the cherubically sleeping baby—the teensy-tiny baby. ‘Heavens, Liz, it’s little. She can’t be more than four or five months old.’
‘Oh, God.’ If possible, Liz’s voice turned greener. Liv grimaced. Her twin had never been good with babies. And now—
‘Have you read the letter?’
Liv swung away from the baby, seized the letter and paced to the window overlooking a busy inner-London street, a sliver of the Thames in the distance, glinting silver in the afternoon light.
‘Of course I’ve read the letter!’ It was why she’d rung. It gave no clue whatsoever to the baby’s identity. And she had no idea what to do. ‘It says “Sebastian”—not Dear, not Seb, but “Sebastian—I can’t do this any more. It’s not fair. You owe me. Do not let baby Jemima down!”’ She glared at the inoffensive-looking piece of paper. ‘“Not” is underlined three times. It ends in an exclamation mark.’ She pulled in another long breath. ‘It’s not signed.’
