Sara's Child Read online

  “How are you doing, Arthur?” Catherine asks, making an effort to put her temper aside and concentrate on being professional. It had been difficult to use his Christian name at first, but he had insisted and she’d settled into it quickly, realising that Arthur is a man after her own heart. He doesn’t stand on ceremony and doesn’t let anyone else.

  A genuine down-to-earth rich bloke - you don’t get many of them to the pound!

  “Actually...,” he smiles with boyish mischief in his eyes, “...I’m doing rather well. I’m giving it all up and retiring to a life of riley.”

  What the hell!

  Catherine is mortified on his behalf. “Arthur, you’re too young to retire; surely they can’t make you go?” Scowling deeply, she imagines ‘they’ as a bunch of gargoyles sitting around a huge table and who made up the Board that had no doubt told him that he is too old, or too something that they don’t approve of.

  Bloody gits!

  But it isn’t Arthur that answers. A young man of around thirtyish comes striding over from a corner of the room where she hasn’t noticed him having a drink with another man who remains where he is, half hidden in the shadows. “No one’s forcing him to leave, Colson,” Robert Kingsley smiles broadly, a cup of strong tea in hand. “Logan and I...” he waves a hand over to the man he’s been talking to in the far corner of the room, “...have tried to talk the old man into staying on even in a part time capacity but he says he’s done enough and it’s time for the fun to begin.”

  Robert casts his father an affectionate look and has it returned ten-fold. “Now...Diane’s made up a fine table with tea, coffee, biscuits and muffins; what would you like? – and don’t say nothing or we’ll all be in trouble,” he jokes giving a mock shudder in the direction of Diane’s closed adjoining office door.

  Catherine accepts a cup of black coffee and a couple of chocolate-chip biscuits, and tries not to peer into the shadows that are hiding the mysterious visitor that Robert is again in conversation with.

  Could be shy. Could be ugly. Or you could just be another arrogant shit who thinks he’s too good to mix with such lowly company!

  Logan Sayers has no such reservations. His position in the room gives him the advantage of being able to assess Catherine openly. He’s heard both Arthur and Robert address her as Colson, yet he knows her name to be Catherine from an earlier conversation with Robert. Possibly a nickname he muses, taking another sip of his tea. He realises then that Robert is repeating something he’s already said and Logan makes more of an effort to pay attention. But it doesn’t last; his eyes are drawn inexorably back towards the young woman with the severe haircut and the most unflattering baggy clothes. She is like some sort of stray mongrel, like no woman he’s ever met yet knows instinctively that she is more than she appears on the surface. The puzzle is, how much more and why is he so interested in finding out?

  As Catherine and Arthur conclude their business, Robert moves across the room to say his goodbye, or so Logan thinks.

  “Colson, don’t rush off.” Robert smiles warmly at Catherine, obviously quite taken by her. “As we were saying earlier, my father is insisting on retiring so we’re insisting on giving him a good send off. It’ll be at the end of next month and we’d love you to be there, wouldn’t we?” He turns an encouraging look on his father, obviously wanting his backing.

  “Wouldn’t be the same without you,” Arthur reiterates enthusiastically, and Catherine knows they both mean it.

  Ok Brain-of-Britain, think of something!

  Catherine hesitates; she really does not go out, as in being social and actually making conversation for the sake of it. She’s never seen the point for one thing. “I’m not sure...I don’t really think...” Help!

  However, Robert isn’t taking no for an answer. “That’s settled then,” he states, steamrolling over any further protests. “I can arrange a car to pick you up...” then adds “...and your escort, of course, or a friend of your choosing?” when Catherine still doesn’t look convinced.

  Friend! What friend? I don’t do friends!

  “Fine...” she finds herself agreeing awkwardly, “...I’ll ask Ben if he can make it.” Are you nuts? Socialising? Really?

  “Well that’s great,” Robert smiles slyly. “And now that you’ve agreed to go to my father’s bash you can hardly miss mine. Wouldn’t be fair at all would it...?”

  What? I need to get out of here!

  “Yours...I don’t understand...what bash?” I feel faint. She is starting to flail, feeling totally out of her depth.

  “It’s my thirtieth birthday in a week’s time – though we’re having the party the night after rather than the night of,” he laughs. “Can’t get rat-faced on a Thursday so it’s going to have to be on the Friday, and we can make the same transportation arrangement for you and Ben...or whoever you decide to bring?”

  Bloody buggering hell!

  “I can get myself to both dos,” she tells him, making to leave before he can talk her into anything else.

  “So you are coming then.” No! No! No! Robert laughs at her forlorn frown. “That’s great, and I promise you’ll have a good time.” Whoopee!

  Catherine eyes him doubtfully then turns to smile at Arthur. “Thanks for your time, Arthur. I have copies of everything so don’t feel you have to rush or return the paperwork. But if you’ve got any queries you know how to reach me.” Now let me out of here!

  “I’m sure it will all be fine,” he assures her. “Now go and enjoy the rest of the day. The sun is shining and you could do with a little more colour in your cheeks.”

  I’d have more colour in my cheeks if your bloody son would stop cornering me into things I’d really rather not do!

  Turning she acknowledges the stranger with a grimace more than a smile and a very brief nod of her head. Holy fuck, he’s built like He-man and looks like a Norse God – shame he’s such a stiff-necked son-of-a-bitch!

  Taking her completely off guard, Logan thrusts his hand forward expectantly waiting for her to shake it. “Ms Colson.” Holy cow!

  Not wanting to appear petulant or ignorant, Catherine takes his hand and feels a jolt of electricity shoot up her arm to addle her brains. God Almighty – what the hell was that!

  Her bright blue eyes flash up to his face and she knows that he felt it too.

  “Mr Sayers.” You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you? The only reason she hasn’t snatched her hand back is because Logan is holding it in a firm but gentle grip.

  After what feels like forever, Logan lets go of her hand and Catherine makes a speedy exit. Phew!

  Berating herself all the way back to her bedsit – and yes it is still the same one she moved into at seventeen - Catherine feels the heat in her cheeks when she remembers how her hand had felt in Logan’s and rubs it on her thigh to erase the memory.

  However, she can’t erase the memory of how Mr high and mighty Sayers had looked at her. As if she was something he’d wipe off the sole of his fancy shoes, no doubt.

  Well tough shit, she doesn’t dress up for anyone, and anyone who expects her to can take a long run off a very short pier. And drown!

  The night of Robert Kingsley’s birthday bash is looming large and Catherine has nothing appropriate to wear. Why would she. All she possesses are a few long baggy jumpers that she wears over equally baggy tracky bottoms. All of them purchased from the local Oxfam shop and somehow, she doesn’t see them running to anything that Robert Kingsley’s crowd might be wearing this season to a posh do. Shame.

  For the first time, Catherine enters a fashion boutique. At least, she tries to. One look from the snooty sales clerks has her turning tail before she’s put a second foot in the door of one particularly smart shop. But then her loud cry of “Holy fuck,” as her eyes lighted on a price ticket for a strikingly plain evening dress might have something to do with it. She’ll be more prepared for the next one, she vows.

  Staring in the window of another fancy boutique, Catherine decides she j
ust has to get on, do it, and not take any crap from the snobby cows that are no doubt going to earn a whacking great commission at her expense. And I don’t even want to go to the damn party! Wiping her damp palms down the sides of her jumper, Catherine enters the lion’s den. I can do this...

  The sales clerk is unexpectedly nice and very helpful, offering advice and suggesting suitable accessories. Feeling that she should at least be honest with someone who is being so nice, Catherine fesses up, “I’ve never even bought a dress before, or a skirt, come to that.” Why would I?

  “Don’t you worry, dear,” the sales clerk smiles warmly, “it took me years to get my daughter into a dress – she was very much a tom-boy right up to her late teens.” Shaking her head at the memory, the sales clerk guides Catherine over to the changing rooms.

  Trying on the dress and the dainty shoes in the small cubicle, the sales clerk stifles a chuckle when she hears a plaintive, “Fuck me,” precede the undignified exit of Catherine from one of the cubicles to face the now smiling clerk. I can’t do this... “How the bloody hell am I supposed to walk in these?” she asks, wobbling dangerously on the impossibly high heels.

  Back at the office, she asks Ben if he’s sorted his outfit out for the big bash. He’d been both surprised and delighted that she’d thought to invite him as her escort; yet had been secretly staggered at the thought of Catherine accepting an invitation to go anywhere. Let alone a birthday party for one of Britain’s richest and most eligible bachelors.

  That last thought has given Ben a few twinges, thinking Catherine might actually be attracted to the man, though her response to that suggestion put the lid firmly on any such ideas.

  “We’ll stay as long as we have to,” Catherine scowls at Ben, “and if himself has a mind for anything other than a friendly smile I expect you to deck him!”

  Ben laughs at that; then swallows noisily, nervously, foolishly reassuring himself that she doesn’t really mean him to take her literally.

  Arriving at the party venue, Ben hands the keys to his sports car over to the chap in charge of valet parking. Taking Catherine’s elbow, he steers her up the steps to the hotel entrance doors where she stares open mouthed at all the bling on display. “Bloody hell!” Looking down at her midnight blue satin sheath, that falls from shoestring shoulder straps to the matching shoes beneath; Catherine scowls at her unadorned self, then sets her spine straight, holds her head up and keeps her eyes firmly forward.

  I’m every bit as good as you are, I just can’t walk in these bloody heels!

  The grand ballroom is bedecked in the kind of lavish trimmings, huge ice sculptures and chocolate fountains that Catherine had never even dreamed of. The envious stares of so many of the female guests pass her by completely. As do the admiring glances, many of the rich and powerful men are giving her. Only Ben, who quickly reminds her that she has promised to be on her best behaviour, hears her thankfully breathy, stunned exclamation of, “Fuck.”

  Logan Sayers, however, hasn’t missed her entrance. Nor has he missed the expletive she uttered. From across the room he read her unpainted lips as clearly as if she were standing next to him. He watches her, surprised by her grace of movement, though she refuses all offers to dance. Even from Ben, he observes with no small measure of satisfaction.

  Then Robert Kingsley sought her out. He refuses to take no for an answer when he asks her to dance, and guides her inexperienced feet expertly round the dance floor. She actually laughs with enjoyment when the dance is over; stating that he must be a seriously good dancer if he can make even her look as if she actually knows what she’s doing.

  Between the attentions of Ben and Robert Kingsley, Catherine is getting steadily drunk. So what, it’s the weekend and I’m the boss, so there. Feeling a strong hand take hold of her arm, Catherine turns dizzily to face an angry looking Logan Sayers. “You’re drunk,” he states drawing her out onto a wide terrace, his ever so haughty aristocratic voice making his observation sound like an accusation.

  “Actually, I’m piss-faced,” she corrects, mimicking his accent and drawing a reluctant smile to his lips. She finds herself staring at those lips. Has no idea why she so badly wants to taste them. So full and soft and... Shaking her head, Catherine tries to pull out of his grip but it doesn’t loosen in the slightest. Frowning she looks up, trapped in his gaze, like a startled deer in front of the headlights on a lorry that surely spells its doom. He-man...Norse God... Then, as if the lorry really has done its worst, Catherine’s world goes black as she passes out.

  Back at her bedsit, Logan easily manages to carry Catherine and get the keys to her bedsit out of her evening bag. He pushes the door open and walks into a double sized bedroom that makes up Catherine’s entire living area. Switching on the light, he kicks the door closed and makes his way over to her bed.

  Bending carefully, Logan pulls back the quilt as he makes to lay Catherine down. But as he does so her arms come around his neck, her nose nuzzling close and her sleepy voice says, “You smell nice.” He stiffens, not quite sure how to proceed then smiles down at her. “You smell pretty nice yourself.”

  He knows she isn’t wearing perfume, but the innocent smell of soap and talcum powder is just as alluring. She has a smile playing over her lips and he wonders what she is thinking about. “Catherine, I’m going to have to take this dress off and help you into bed.”

  “You’re...taking me to bed?” Her brow creases, but her eyes don’t even open.

  “No, Catherine, I’m going to help you get into bed but I need to help you out of this dress first. It’ll be ruined if you sleep in it,” he states matter-of-fact.

  Sliding her down his body to stand on the floor, her wobbly legs barely manage to hold her up. Slipping both straps off her shoulders, he watches the slinky fabric puddle on the floor at her feet. “You really are full of surprises,” he whispers softly as he lifts then lays her on the bed. He can’t help but admire how well she fills out the lacy bra and how feminine she looks wearing the matching lacy briefs. Pulling the covers up, and tucking them gently in around her, Logan gazes down at one of the most intriguing women he’s ever met.

  Picking up her evening gown, Logan takes a very short walk around her tiny one room dwelling. He is astounded that she actually manages to live in it; though exist would be a more accurate description, he thinks dryly. But he gives Catherine credit for her housekeeping. There isn’t a thing out of place. Then he takes another look around and decides there actually doesn’t appear to be much of anything to leave lying around. Not even a single framed photo on display.

  Opening the small wardrobe, Logan hangs up the gown, and fingers the meagre amount of clothing that hangs there. Is her business doing so badly, he puzzles, his mind trying to make sense of what little he knows of Catherine Colson? He turns to look at her then. She has rolled herself up tight in her blankets, clutching them to her like a shield. He has seen her almost naked when he removed her evening gown, leaving only her obviously new underwear in place. She is shapelier than he’d imagined, even her evening gown had skimmed over and hidden her secrets well he mused. Yet she looks now like a frightened child. Then as if in response to his thoughts she tosses in her sleep becoming even more entangled in the blankets.

  Logan finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over to stroke what little there is of her silky soft hair. A small murmur, a word he can’t make out, is spoken into the night, and a single tear spills down her cheek as she turns her still sleeping face towards him.

  “Bloody cheek!” Catherine screws up the note that Logan has left, advising her not to drink, as alcohol obviously does not agree with her, then cradles her throbbing head. Never again! What the fuck had she been drinking anyway? She frowns down into the strong black coffee that is all she’s having for breakfast. Just the thought of food is enough to make her stomach roil.

  Then a thought finally strikes her. Unthinkingly she had reached for her dressing gown on waking, pulling it tight around herself as
she padded around the room in a groggy stupor. Now that the strong black coffee is kicking in, her thoughts have begun to clear. How had she gotten to bed after the party? Indeed, how had she gotten home? Had Ben brought her home? Had he undressed her and put her to bed. She groans with embarrassment, and then remembers the note.

  How the hell had Logan Sayers managed to leave her a note on the top of her computer? Had he come back with her and Ben? Had he been in the room when Ben had undressed and put her to bed? Please God, no. Feeling almost faint at the thought, she asks herself the question she has been avoiding. Or had it been Logan Sayers alone who had brought her home, had taken off her clothes before putting her to bed like a drunken teenager? She pulls open her dressing gown; looking down at the scraps of lace the sales clerk had laughingly called underwear.

  Holy shit! With an audible gasp, she draws the dressing gown even more tightly around her. “He’s near as damn it seen me naked,” she moans aloud. “I don’t even know the man and he’s seen me naked!” Catherine’s embarrassment is fast turning to anger. What the bloody hell was Ben doing while Logan Sayers was apparently doing just as he damned well pleased? Naked!

  The long shower and the slow uneventful drive to work have done nothing to improve Catherine’s mood. Striding into the office she begins tearing a strip off the still suffering Ben. “What the bloody hell happened last night?” Catherine shouts then has to turn the volume down as she’s making her own head throb. Either that or the Numbskulls are playing the sodding bongos. The fact that Ben is obviously suffering too does nothing to soften her tone.

  “I asked you to escort me on one of the very rare occasions that I allow myself to get bulldozed into being sociable – and what do you do...you fucking brain dead moron...you let me get hammered! Plastered! Fucking piss-faced!” She groans then and crumples onto a chair. “And who the bloody hell got me home and into bed?” Not Logan. Not Logan. Oh God! Her voice may have softened but her blue eyes, though narrowed, were giving off sparks.