A Father At Last (6 page)

What
was
she thinking? Half a glass, max. That’s all she’d allow herself. She needed a clear head. She needed to tell him he was Dylan’s dad, calmly, without emotion.
Keep it
businesslike.

It would be a simple explanation. Yes, it was his right to know, but that didn’t mean she had to let him into their lives. Ben was smart—he’d understand that someone dwelling on the wrong side of the law couldn’t be a part of a little boy’s life. And if he didn’t understand, then tough! She would explain that she wanted nothing from him, and that introducing him to Dylan now would be terribly disruptive for the little boy. Twelve or maybe fifteen or possibly even twenty would be a better age for introductions. Simple.

She’d tell him the truth tonight. Then it would be ‘Goodnight, Ben,’ she’d jump in her car and go home.

Meantime…she would enjoy the company—the perfectly innocent company—of a handsome man.

And he
was
handsome. No ifs or buts. Willing herself to feel calm, she smiled. Being with him here, in this place where they’d spent time as kids, was scrambling her brain. Then, she’d been a girl; now she was a woman, and his presence, his voice, his smile—

everything—was doing the weirdest things to her. Being with him was like walking on a sparkly cloud, floating in a happy dream.

She smiled wider at the silliness of her analogy, watching as he eased the cork with a satisfying hiss from the champagne, poured a glass and handed it to her.

She breathed in the yeasty scent of the golden bubbles and enjoyed the view as he poured his own drink. In the soft light of dusk, he looked even better than she remembered, his dark hair and brows accentuating the unusual light green‐gold of his eyes, his strong jaw shadowed with dark whiskers.

The baggy jeans, outsize T‐shirt and hoodie of the day at court were gone, as were the long shorts, loose shirt and baseball cap he’d worn at the beach yesterday. Tonight, he wore well‐fitted jeans and a plain black T‐shirt that showed off a taut, toned physique and revealed muscled arms.

She was surprised to see him pour a very small portion of champagne into his glass, then top it up with orange juice from a bottle in the chilly bin.

“Isn’t that a waste of good French champagne?” she queried, one eyebrow raised.

“A contradiction in terms, you think—orange juice and champers?” He moved back to stand close to her. “I’d call it a sensible idea, because I want to keep my wits about me and I haven’t eaten much all day.”

A Father at Last

He gave his glass a gentle ‘clink’ against hers. “To you, my Kelly,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers, and she felt again that insidious, inexorable pull towards him, as if she was at the other end of an elastic bungee cord.

She sipped from her glass, savouring the delicious tangy frisson of bubbles in her mouth before she swallowed.

“Are you scared of me?” She was watching him, studying the face she’d once known so well, cataloguing the differences—fine lines around his eyes and across his forehead, his day‐old beard darker and covering more of his face than she remembered, his cheek bones more prominent than in his youth.

“What?”

“You said you had to keep your wits about you. Are you scared I’m going to take advantage of you or something?” She smiled and put her glass to her lips again, still watching him over the rim.

“Do you want to take advantage of me?” He spread his arms wide. “I’m all yours, darlin’.”

She laughed to cover her feelings. He was joking and so was she, but the images his words evoked were like slow, sweet torture. She had to keep the conversation in safe territory—for her sake, not his.

She knew darn well why he had to keep his wits about him. He associated with criminals, therefore he most likely was a criminal, and she knew enough about the gang she’d seen him with in court to understand they could turn on their own in a flash.

Her experience at court had given her a first hand view of the masters of the senior gang Ben’s lot were affiliated to. They were known in legal circles as the bad dudes of the gang world—nasty, greedy and not averse to spilling someone else’s blood.

She’d seen police photos of their handiwork—brutally beaten victims; sometimes dead, sometimes alive, often with multiple stab wounds and horrible trademark injuries.

A sudden mental image of Ben’s face, bloody and broken, filled her mind and she took another hasty sip of her champagne.

At that moment, between the bubbles hitting her palate and then sliding easily down her throat, she made herself a promise: she would help Ben—do everything in her power to help him get his life back on track. Not for her sake or for Dylan’s, because she could never risk letting him into their lives. She knew only too well how easily habitual criminals slipped back into their old ways, no matter how good their intentions.

No, she would do it for him, for Ben. She’d do this for him, for old times sake—and keep it all strictly professional. She’d get some pictures from work, show him what could happen. She’d find him someone to talk to, someone to mentor him before it was too late.

But right now, she needed to think of something less distressing than gang brutality.

So she held up her glass to the soft pink of the evening sky and admired the golden Julie Mac

liquid. “This is lovely, thanks so much.”

“What? The setting? Me? The champers?”

“All of the above, but your choice of refreshment in particular, silly.” She sent a smile in his direction and brought the glass to her lips.

“I remembered that you liked bubbly.” He looked pleased with himself. “But this is a bit better than that cheap seven‐dollars‐a‐bottle stuff we used to drink, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yeah.” She nodded enthusiastically, secretly thrilled that he’d remembered that little detail about her. She drank from her glass, and then almost choked as an awful realisation struck her.

She was familiar with this brand of French champagne because the partners in her law firm had bought it for the staff Christmas party. Even on special it cost close to a hundred dollars a bottle. Quickly she swallowed the mouthful of liquid before the urge to spit it out onto the sand overwhelmed her.

“It’s not stolen is it? Please tell me it’s not.”

He stared at her, open‐mouthed, seemingly lost for words.

“Ben?”

He was silent for a moment longer, but his face spoke volumes. His warm smile was gone and his brows were drawn together in a heavy, black frown. “For God’s sake, Kelly.

What do you take me for? A common thief?”

He was glaring at her, his glass clenched tight in one hand, the other held out towards her, palm up, inviting an answer.

She shook her head and wished she’d kept her thoughts to herself. “No, I don’t think you’re a thief. But you can’t blame me for putting two and two together.”

“And making five,” he muttered.

She thought about emptying her glass on the sand and walking away. But deep down, she wanted to believe better of him and if she walked away now, she’d have to live the rest of her life remembering this, her last encounter with Ben Carter, father of her son, and the only love she’d ever had, as bitter and angry.

“Please, let’s forget I said that—any of it,” she said, reaching out her hand to his.

But he pulled his hand away, and dug into his jeans pocket.

“Here—” He produced a slip of white paper and held it out to her. “Receipt from the wine shop up the road. One bottle of champagne—fully paid for.”

“I believe you, Ben, there’s no need for this. Really.”

“Really. There is.” He was still frowning thunderously, his eyes holding hers in aggrieved challenge.

A Father at Last

When she made no move to take the receipt, he thrust it towards her.

“Read it!”

She let her eyes slide to the little slip of paper from the liquor shop’s till—that was way more comfortable than having to look him in the eye.

The wine had cost even more than she’d anticipated: one hundred and fifteen dollars, and the receipt also listed a pair of expensive champagne flutes.

“I’m really sorry.” She lifted her eyes to his. His frown had gone, but he wasn’t smiling.

“Apology accepted. I’m sorry if I sounded...” He closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, opened his eyes again and looked away from her, out to sea.

“Angry? Is that the word you wanted? You sounded angry and you had every right to be. I was…wrong.”

He was still looking out to sea so she stepped closer and reached out to touch his arm. She heard him exhale a long breath as he crumpled the receipt and shoved it in his pocket. Then he looked down at her, his eyes much calmer now, but his expression unreadable.

“I’ve ruined the evening, haven’t I?” She dropped her hand and moved as if to turn away. “Maybe it’s best if I go now.”

“No,” he said simply and quietly, stepping closer and reaching out with his free hand to cup her chin. He dipped his head to hers and kissed her full on the lips, hard and fast.

Her eyes were open, but she could see his were shut. So she closed hers, giving herself up to his kiss. She heard his breathing quicken, then, too soon, he drew back, the start of a knowing smile on his lips.

“Don’t go, Kelly, sweetheart. Please stay.”

She looked up at him, tilting her neck to do so. In her flat shoes, he seemed to be every inch of his six‐foot‐two to her five‐foot‐six, and right at that moment, she wished she was taller, so she could simply place her lips on his and continue the kiss.

As it was, she had to stretch up on tiptoes and tug on his T‐shirt to reach her objective, and then she let her lips do the talking. His mouth was redolent of orange juice and zesty, tangy grapes—and hers moved over his, tasting, testing, savouring, before she pulled back to look up at him again.

His breathing was still fast—but then, so was hers.

“Missed me, did you, babe?” He was gazing down at her, his pupils huge, black.

“Mm,” she murmured dreamily, then realised what he’d said. “No!” And then, because she could see this conversation heading in all the wrong directions, she drank some bubbly, and held her glass out to him.

Julie Mac

“It really is delicious, thank you, Ben. Can I have a little top‐up, please?”

Normally she would have waited till more wine was offered, but her conversational efforts so far had been fairly disastrous and at least this was safe ground.

“Sure.” But he didn’t bend to pick up the bottle, and his eyes, which had been fixed on hers, had shifted fractionally, focussing on something beyond her. She turned, following his gaze.

A small child, eighteen months or two years old perhaps, was waist deep in the edge of the tide, holding her bright pink skirt up around her chest. A fat black dog was romping out into the waves and the little girl was following.

Ben turned his head, looked up the beach, back again, then thrust his glass into Kelly’s hand and ran down to the water. At the same time she registered a baby was crying loudly—no, not just crying, screaming. She followed the noise and saw what Ben had seen, twenty metres along the beach: a baby in a stroller where the sand met the grass, and a young mum bent over the screaming mite, her back to the little girl down in the tide.

Kelly shoved the bases of the two champagne flutes into the sand to hold them upright, kicked off her shoes and ran after Ben.

Little Long Bay was a gentle beach, but a cyclone in the Pacific a few days ago had produced bigger than usual waves on the east coast. She watched in horror as the child was tumbled in a white‐crested wave; she disappeared for a heart‐stopping moment, then came up spluttering.

But Ben grabbed her. He scooped her up in his arms and by the time Kelly reached the water’s edge, he was wading out of the water, talking to the child, making a game out of her foray into the sea. Miraculously, the little girl was laughing and chatting excitedly to Ben.

For a moment, Kelly stood, transfixed, the water lapping around her feet.

Ben Carter, convicted computer hacker, probable drug dealer, criminal gang associate and goodness knows what else, was good with kids.

“See if you can call the dog in,” he said quietly to Kelly when he reached her. “His name’s Jed.”

He started walking on, but paused when she reached out to touch his arm. “Hello, sweetie,” she said to the girl, who gave her a big smile. Then to Ben, “Maybe it’s better if I take her back to her mother, and you get the dog. Her mum might be scared if she sees a strange man with her daughter. She could be calling the cops before you even get to her.”

“You worry too much,” he said, simply, and walked on up the beach.

Fine, thought Kelly.
You
live with the consequences. She concentrated on the dog.

He rushed up when she called, shook water all over her, then obligingly followed her up the beach.

As she neared the little family, she was astounded to see Ben cuddling the baby—

A Father at Last

whose screams, she thought were a little less intense. The young mum was wrapping a baby rug around her small daughter, and as Kelly came closer, she saw that Ben was talking baby-talk to the infant, and gently patting its back.

“We think this little man’s suffering from colic,” he told her quietly, adding, “I’ve seen my sister’s baby like this with colic.” As if on cue, the baby screamed louder again, and stiffened his legs.

Ben relinquished the small bundle to his mother, saying, “If he hasn’t been like this before, I think you should get him checked at the after‐hours emergency clinic. He’s in pain, and if it’s not colic, it’s something else.”

“He’s been uncomfortable and grizzly all afternoon,” said the young mum quietly.

“That’s why I brought them for a walk—he usually loves going for a walk in the stroller. And we should have been home by now…” she waved a hand at the rapidly darkening sky, “…but little Isabelle and I got side‐tracked looking at pretty shells on the beach, and then this little fella started to scream and for a moment I wasn’t watching her...and oh, thank you so much. I’m so grateful to you both.”

“It’s okay,” said Ben, reaching in his pocket for his phone. “Can I ring someone for you? Your husband? What’s his number?”