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EMMA DARCY nearly became an actress until her fiancé declared he preferred to attend the theater with her. She became a wife and mother. Later she took up oil painting—unsuccessfully, she remarks. Then she tried architecture, designing the family home in New South Wales, Australia. Next came romance writing—“the hardest and most challenging of all the activities,” she confesses.
Jack’s Baby
Emma Darcy
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER ONE
BABIES, Jack Gulliver darkly reflected, undermined every normal, congenial intercourse between intelligent adults. They infiltrated people’s lives even before they entered the world, then took over like tyrannical dictators. Nothing was safe from them.
Jack brooded over these truths as he drove through the tunnel under Sydney Harbour, taking the shortest route to Paddington and the Royal Hospital for Women. He wished Maurice had been satisfied with hearty congratulations on the birth of his son. It was totally unreasonable of him to insist Jack actually come and view the new pride and joy. Paternal enthusiasm run rampant. Jack wondered how long it would last.
One by one his friends had succumbed to the lure of fatherhood, only to find themselves knocked off their happy perches of being the main focus of attention in their households. They’d groaned out their misery and their complaints to him, envying his freedom from the chaos they had brought upon themselves.
“Good sex is impossible.”
“You’re lucky if you get any sex.”
“Who wants sex? I’d like one—just one—full night’s sleep.”
“Forget spontaneity. The baby comes first, first, first and first.”
“I haven’t got a wife. She’s turned into a slave to the baby.”
“There’s no time for us any more.”
“It’s like moving an army to go anywhere. I’d rather stay at home. Save the aggravation.”
There was no doubt in Jack’s mind that babies were destructive little monsters. They probably should be born with a 007 warning engraved on their foreheads—licenced to kill. He knew of several couples who had broken up under the stress of parenthood, and the rest were struggling to adjust to changes they resented.
Jack now had a fair appreciation of why his own parents had limited their progeny to one only, why he had been brought up by nannies and shunted off to boarding school at age seven. Quite clearly he had interfered too much with their lives. From his current view as an adult, he understood they had taken practical steps to minimise the damage to their rights as individuals, but as a child, Jack hadn’t liked being on the receiving end of their solutions.
The lonely, shut-out feeling of his youth was still an unhappy memory. No way would he inflict the same process on a child of his. On the other hand, he was quite sure he wouldn’t like such a disruptive influence in his life, either. The solution, as he saw it, was simple. Don’t have children.
Any curiosity he might have had about the experience of fatherhood had been more than fulfilled by what he’d observed with his friends. Apart from which, he felt no urge to perpetuate his bloodline. He enjoyed his life, loved his work, had the financial freedom to do what he liked when he liked. What more could he want?
Nina…
Jack grimaced as he tried to expunge that thought and the gut-wrenching sense of loss accompanying it. Nina had shut him out even more thoroughly than his parents had, not even giving him the chance to open the door again. All over a stupid argument about babies.
Or maybe there’d been other reasons. He shook his head, still frustrated by the way she’d cut him out of her life, leaving him wondering what he’d done wrong. He’d chosen that very night to ask Nina to move in with him, sure in his own mind he’d found a woman he’d enjoy living with, and just because he’d made a few entirely appropriate comments about the baby who’d wrecked the dinner party they’d attended, Nina had gone off her brain and dumped him, then and there. No comeback. Total wipe-out.
It made no sense to him. He was probably well rid of a woman who could act so irrationally. Yet there’d never been a glimmer of such behaviour in all the time they’d spent together—months of sheer joy. He could have sworn they were completely compatible, even to their pleasure in the creative work they did. She was the first and only person he’d ever felt really at home with.
There were times he missed her so badly it was a physical ache. He could still visualise her as clearly as if she were with him now, sitting beside him—dark velvet eyes with stars in them, a smile that made his heart dance, shiny black hair swinging around her shoulders, her soft, feminine curves a sensual promise he knew to be absolutely true. He could hear her infectious laughter and the sexy murmurs that excited him when they made love.
Futile memories. He wished he could forget Nina Brady and how he’d felt with her. There was no shortage of women wanting to interest him. Sooner or later he’d meet one who’d strike that special spark. It was only a matter of waiting. Eight months hardly rated as a long time. In a year or two, Nina’s rejection wouldn’t mean a thing.
The traffic lights favoured him right up to Taylor Square. As he turned into Oxford Street, he switched his mind to Maurice and tried to work himself into a lighter mood. Maurice Larosa was a good friend and a valuable business associate. He not only gave Jack all the French polishing work on the antiques he sold, but frequently sent clients who wanted to have pieces made to match furniture they’d bought. Favours like that deserved favours in return, and if it meant smiling benevolently at a baby, Jack was resolved on obliging. At least this once.
He spotted a car pulling out of a convenient space and shot into it, grateful not to waste time hunting for a parking slot. The hospital was only a short distance away. The dash clock showed seven-fifteen, plenty of time to get there, perform as expected and take his leave with the excuse of giving Maurice and his wife privacy to say their good nights.
He picked up the gift-boxed bottle of champagne from the passenger seat, smiling over this particular forethought as he alighted from the big Range Rover and locked it. Other visitors would undoubtedly shower presents on the baby. Some French bubbly might give the new and soon-to-be-frazzled parents a pleasant hour or two together. He knew from his other friends that babies killed any sense of romance stone dead.
Although it was April, there wasn’t so much as a nip of autumn in the air. The lingering Indian summer made it a pleasant hour for walking. A waste of a nice evening, Jack thought, as he entered the hospital and headed for the inquiries desk. Having received directions, he caught the elevator to the correct floor, mentally bracing