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grip on his emotions.

    It had seemed so easy then, so black and white.

    But seeing Dylan—seeing this lively, living legacy of his own flesh and blood…

    He had a sudden urge to suck in air, deep and fast, and realised he’d been holding his breath. “Say again,” he said to the caller at the other end of his phone, and this time he concentrated on the instructions.

    Presently he said, “Don’t worry, the shipment’s on time and the stuff’ll be there. Just like we planned.” He finished the conversation and put his phone away.

    “Are you stalking me?”

    He hadn’t seen her approaching. Slack, he told himself. He’d allowed himself to be distracted.

    He turned as Kelly stopped beside him. She looked younger and less tense than she had the other day; her cheeks were pink from the sun, and she’d swapped the severe black suit she’d worn in court for cream shorts and a cute little turquoise top that did amazing things for her figure.

    Ben focussed on her blue eyes. Safer that way.

    “Maybe.” He’d call it educated guesswork, mixed with instinct; Long Bay was a kid-friendly beach not far from the address he’d discovered for her three years ago. It was also just down the road from the high school they’d both attended, and had been a favourite teenage haunt of theirs.

    He smiled and was rewarded with the slightest upturn of her lips. She’d stuck her hands on her hips and tilted her head to one side. He remembered enough about her to know she was trying not to laugh. Even though she was annoyed—no, more than annoyed—
    angry. It was the same look she’d used at school. He and the rest of her circle of friends used to call it her head‐prefect look. Back then, he’d admired her dedication to her responsibilities at school. Right now, though, he didn’t need her censure. In fact, if anyone was going to be angry, it should be him. But that could wait.

    A Father at Last

    “Or maybe not.” He kept the tone light‐hearted. “Can’t a man enjoy a nice stroll along a beach on a Saturday afternoon?”

    He saw her watching his eyes, speculating, trying to work out if he was lying.

    “Bit coincidental, isn’t it? I haven’t seen you for the best part of seven years, and suddenly I see you three times in a week. Twice on Monday, and now today.”

    Her eyes flicked from him to Dylan and back again, angry, but also anxious, and he knew with clear certainty why she’d kept Dylan’s existence from him. Her dad had been in trouble with the law, wrecking not only his own life but Kelly’s young life as well. She didn’t want Dylan to suffer the same fate.

    Sensible was Kelly Atkinson’s second name.

    Fair enough. He could understand her motives. But then anger welled inside him. If Kelly didn’t acknowledge him as Dylan’s father, who did she claim as his father? He breathed deep again, once, twice, his mind rejecting the idea of some other man kicking a ball with Dylan, going to the school sports day with him, helping him choose his first car. But for now, maybe forever, it’s better this way.

    “You complaining?” He thought of her response to his kiss in the lift the other day and then fervently wished he hadn’t, because the memory of her sweet mouth under his was, right now, pushing all the wrong buttons in his body—or the right ones, he thought wryly.

    Her kiss in the lift had been real. She’d wanted him—needed him—like a flower needs water. He knew she hadn’t been sorry then to see him.

    But she was scared for her son, and protective, as a mother should be. If he claimed paternity for Dylan, here and now, she’d disappear with the boy, quick as could be, and probably make herself unfindable again.

    On the other hand, if he played it cool, didn’t let on that he knew Dylan was his, waited for her to volunteer the information in her own time, he stood a better chance of seeing her again—maybe he could even convince her they could be friends. Or pretend to be