The Secret Sinclair by Cathy Williams Read Free Book Online

problem that needed a solution—with a clear head. First establish firm proof that the child was his, because his gut instinct might well be wrong, and then have an adult conversation with her regarding the way forward.
    Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to play the waiting game. He hadn’t been able to concentrate at work. He had tried to vent his frustration at the gym, but even two hours of gruelling exercise had done nothing to diminish his urgent need to
do something
.
    Sarah read everything into his silence and ushered him into the house.
    ‘I didn’t know if I should be expecting a call from … somebody … about those tests you wanted …’
    ‘On hold for the moment.’
    ‘Really?’ Her eyes shone and she smiled. ‘So you
do
believe me.’
    ‘For the moment I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt.’
    ‘You won’t regret it, Raoul. Oliver’s the image of you. I’m sorry he’s asleep. I
would
wake him …’
    Raoul had no experience of children. They weren’t part of his everyday existence, and in the absence of any family he had never been obliged to cut his teeth on nephews or nieces. He was utterly bewildered at the notion of beingin the presence of a son he had never laid eyes on. What did a four-year-old boy
do
, exactly? Were they capable of making conversation at that age?
    Suddenly nervous as hell, he cleared his throat and waved aside her offer. ‘Maybe it’s best if we talk about this first …’
    ‘Then would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? I think I might have some wine in the fridge. I don’t keep a great deal of alcohol in the house. I can’t afford it, anyway.’
    Raoul was looking around him, taking in the surroundings which were a stark reminder of how far he had travelled. Now he lived in a massive two-storeyed penthouse apartment in the best postcode in London, furnished to the very highest standard. Frankly, it was the best that money could buy—although he barely glanced at his surroundings and was seldom in to take advantage of the top-of-the-range designer kitchen and all the other jaw dropping features the high-tech apartment sported.
    This tiny terraced house couldn’t have been more different. The carpet, the indeterminate colour of sludge, had obviously never been replaced, and the walls, although painted in a cheerful green colour, showed signs of cracks. Standing in the hall with her, he was aware there was practically no room to move, and as he followed her into the kitchen there was no change. A pine table was shoved against the wall to accommodate random pieces of freestanding furniture—a half-sized dresser, a chest of drawers, some shelves on which bottles with various cooking ingredients stood.
    He had managed to climb up and away from these sorts of surroundings, but it still sent a chill through his body that but for a combination of brains, luck and sheer hardwork beyond the call of duty he might very well have still been living in a place very much like this.
    This was precisely why, he told himself, he had refused to be tied down. Only by being one hundred percent free to focus on his career had he been able to fulfil his ambitions. Women were certainly an enjoyable distraction, but he had never been tempted to jettison any of his plans for one of them.
    The more wealth he accumulated, the more jaded he became. He could have the most beautiful women in the world, and in fact he had had a number of head-turning girlfriends on his arm over the years, but they had always been secondary to his career.
    Dim memories of living in a dingy room with his mother while she drank herself into a stupor had been his driving force. This house was only a few steps up from dingy. He imagined the landlord to be someone of dubious integrity, happy to take money from desperate tenants, but less happy to make any improvements to the property.
    The notion of
his son
had somehow managed to take root in his head, and Raoul was incensed at the deplorable