The Secret Love-Child

If his oblivion was ravaged by erotic dreams, he certainly didn't recall them, but he was embarrassingly erect when he was wrenched out of his blissful coma by the sound of his front doorbell ringing. It was just as well, Rafe decided as he struggled out of bed, that the robe he was still wearing provided discreet coverage. Because he had no intention of getting dressed. He was going to get rid of whoever was at the door, then go back to bed for the rest of the day.

It was Isabel, looking as if she was on her way to afternoon tea with the Queen.

Cream linen trouser suit. Blue silk top. Pearls. Pink lipstick. And that lovely blonde hair of hers, slicked back up in that prissy roll thing.

Her perfect grooming highlighted his own dishevelled appearance. Why couldn't he have any luck with this woman?

'I presume you've come for your phone,' he grumped.

She looked him up and down with about the same expression she had when she'd first arrived yesterday. 'Sorry to get you out of bed,' she said drily. 'But it is two in the afternoon.'

Rafe decided there was no point in telling her the truth, that he'd worked most of the night because of her.

'Yeah well, we party animals do get tired. And last night was Saturday night. I didn't get to bed till dawn.'

'Alone?'

He crossed his arms. 'Such a personal question for a lady who's just come for her phone.'

'You said I'd just come for my phone. I didn't.'

Rafe stared at her. Was he about to get lucky here?

'Do you think I might come inside?' she went on in that silkily cool voice of hers, the one which rippled down his spine like a mink glove.

'Be my guest,' he said eagerly, stepping back to wave her inside.

'I need to go to the bathroom,' she said straight away. 'I've just driven straight down from Gosford Hospital.'

Rafe frowned as he swung the front door shut behind him. 'What were you doing up there?' And, even more to the point, what was she doing here! The suburb of Paddington was not on the way from the Central Coast to her address at Burwood. So she wouldn't have dropped in just to use his toilet!

His heart was already thudding with carnal hopes.

'Luke was in a car accident on the F3 freeway yesterday,' she said.

'Is he all right?'

'A few bumps and bruises. Nothing too serious. But he knocked his head and was unconscious for a while. The police found my number in his car and contacted me early this morning, so of course I had to go and see how he was.'

'He's having some rotten luck on the road lately, isn't he? First his parents and now him. Does his new girlfriend know about this?1

'Yes, I was there when she arrived. With her mother.'

"The infamous mother. What was she like?'

'The bathroom first, please, Rafe?'

'Oh, yes—yes, of course. This way.' He had the presence of mind to take her upstairs, instead of to the small downstairs toilet. The main bathroom upstairs was quite spacious and luxurious, another recent renovation. He'd been steadily renovating his terraced home since he'd bought it a couple of years back. It had cost him a small fortune, despite being little more than a dump. But, as in all big cities, you paid for position.

After showing her where the bathroom was, he dashed into his bedroom to dress. Hurrying into his walk-in robe, he ran his eye along the hangers, wondering what to wear. The day wasn't hot, but neither was it cold. Lately they'd had typical spring weather in Sydney, fresh in the morning but warming up as the day progressed, provided it wasn't cloudy. And it wasn't today, judging by the sunshine on his doorstep just now.

By the time Isabel emerged from the bathroom Rafe was looking and feeling a bit better in his favourite black jeans and a fresh white T-shirt. But his face still sported a two-day stubble and his feet were bare.

There was only so much a man could achieve in just over three minutes, the time it took for Isabel to emerge. Clearly she wasn't a girl who titivated.

'Nice bathroom,' she said crisply.

He'd known she'd like it. It was all white, with glass and silver fittings. Cool and classy-looking, like she was.

'You might not like this room as much,' he said as he led her into his main living room, which was decorated for comfort rather than style. No traditional lounge suite, just huge squashy armchairs to sit in, functional side tables, far too many bookcases and an old marble fireplace which he never used, although the mantelpiece was good for leaning on and holding glasses during a party. He had a hi-fi set in one corner and a television and video in the other.

'I like the doors,' Isabel said, as she sat in his favourite armchair, a reclining one covered in crushed claret-coloured velvet.

He glanced at the white-painted French doors which led out onto the small terrace. 'They're, purely decorative,' he said. 'I never open them because of the traffic noise.'

'What a pity.'

He shrugged. 'You can't have everything.'