An Heir for the Millionaire by Julia James Read Free Book Online Page A

sought her out had evaporated—instantly, like water in a volcano—the moment he had realised just what Clare Williams had done to him…
    Emotion whipped through him again, that white-hot disbelieving fury that had ripped through him the moment his eyes had gone to the child in the buggy she had been pushing.
    That was all that concerned him. That was all that consumed him.
    But he must control it. Giving vent to the storm inside him would achieve nothing. With Herculean effort, he hammered down his emotions.
    â€˜I want to see him.’
    His voice was flat. Very controlled.
    She turned her head back towards him. Her eyes were quite blank.
    She uttered a single word. A word that went into him like a knife.
    â€˜Why?’ she said.
    Carefully, very carefully, he layered icy control over his features.
    â€˜Because he is my son,’ he enunciated. Then, before she could answer, he walked back indoors.
    The elderly woman was in the small, drab sitting room. It looked ancient, and so did she. She was sitting in an armchair and the television was on, with a cartoon. His son was sitting on her lap, lolled back on her, all his attention on the screen.
    As Xander walked in, the woman looked at him. She was old, but her eyes were sharp. They rested on him for a second, then went past him. Behind him, Xander could sense Clare. The child did not look round.
    The knife went into Xander again. He did not know the name of his own son.
    â€˜Tell me his name.’
    He spoke quietly, but there was an insistence in it that would not be brooked. It was the old woman who answered.
    â€˜It’s Joey,’ she said. ‘Joey, pet—say hello.’
    Reluctantly, the toddler twisted his head briefly. ‘’Lo,’ he said, then went straight back to the cartoon.
    He must be gone three, Xander thought. I have a three-year-old son, and I never knew. I never knew…
    The storm of emotion swirled up in him again, but he forced it back. The elderly woman was looking at him. She had a steady gaze. Did she realise who he was? He assumed so. He had recognised his son instantly. It would not be hard to see him in Joey, and know that he must be the boy’s father.
    His throat convulsed, and again he had to take a deep, steadying breath. He opened his mouth to speak, but the old woman was before him.
    â€˜Clare, love, Joey needs his tea. The programme will be over soon, and he’ll realise he’s hungry. I’d do something quick for him, if I were you. Eggy soldiers is always nice, isn’t it?’
    She spoke cheerfully, calmly, as if she were not witnessing a man discovering his three-year-old son.
    She was right to do so, Xander realised. Whatever else, his son— Joey —must not be upset. What must be settled now would not be helped by his giving voice to fury, his emotions. Abruptly, he sat himself down on the rather battered sofa, opposite his son. He said nothing, just watched him watching the television with a rapt expression on his face, interrupted by bursts of childish laughter.
    My son!
    The storm of emotion in Xander’s breast swirled, then gradually, very gradually subsided. But deep inside his heart seemed to swell and swell.
    Â 
    Clare put the eggs to boil. She got out the bread, and popped it in the toaster. She fetched some milk, and poured it into Joey’s drinking cup. She set out a tray with his plastic plate with pictures of puppies on it, and started to pare an apple for his pudding. She worked swiftly, mindlessly.
    She mustn’t think about this. Mustn’t do anything. Just give Joey his tea.
    When it was ready she carried it through. The programme’s credits were rolling, and Joey had returned to the real world. He looked about him.
    â€˜Time for tea,’ he announced. Then he focussed on the man looking at him. ‘Hello,’ he said. He looked interestedly at the man who had started his life four long years ago.
    Xander looked at the child