The Husband Assignment. Helen Bianchin

declared quietly to the attendant nursing sister. ‘I may keep her home tomorrow.’

      ‘Give me a call in the morning.’

      An hour later she’d bathed and changed Emma, encouraged her to eat a little dinner, only to have her throw up soon after. Something that occurred with regularity throughout the night.

      By morning they were both tired and wan, and at eight Stephanie made a series of calls that gained a doctor’s appointment, the office to relay she’d be working from home and to divert any phone calls to her message bank and finally, the day care center.

      ‘Sick,’ Emma said in a forlorn voice, and Stephanie leaned down to brush her lips across her daughter’s forehead.

      ‘I know, sweetheart. We’ll go see the doctor soon, and get some medicine to make you better.’

      Washing. Loads of it. She took the second completed load out and pushed it into the drier, then systematically filled the washing machine and set it going again.

      A gastro virus, the doctor pronounced, and prescribed treatment and care. Stephanie called into the pharmacy, collected a few essentials from the nearby supermarket, then she drove home and settled Emma comfortably on the sofa with one of her favorite videos slotted into the VCR.

      A sophisticated laptop linked her to the office, and she noted the calls logged in on her message bank, then settled down to work.

      Emma slept for an hour, had some chicken broth, a dry piece of toast, then snuggled down in the makeshift bed Stephanie set up on the couch.

      By evening Emma was much improved, and she slept through the night without mishap. Even so, Stephanie decided to keep her home another day as a precaution.

      Work was a little more difficult with a reasonably energetic child underfoot, and when she’d settled Emma into bed for her afternoon nap she crossed to the phone and made a series of necessary calls.

      One revealed the information she sought, in that Michel Lanier was investing personal, not Lanier corporate funds. Therefore it was solely Michel to whom she owed professional allegiance.

      Stephanie opened her laptop, and began sourcing the necessary data she needed to complete a report. Although film was her area of expertise, she worked on other marketing projects and liaised with several of her associates.

      It was almost three when the doorbell rang, and she quickly crossed to open the door before whoever was on the other side could ring the bell again.

      Security was an important feature for a single woman living alone with a young child, and aluminum grills covered every window and both doors.

      Possibly it was a neighbor, or a hawker canvassing door-to-door.

      Stephanie unlocked the paneled wooden door and was temporarily unable to contain her surprise at the sight of Raoul Lanier’s tall frame beyond the aperture.

      He looked vital, dynamic, his broad-boned features portraying a handsome ruggedness that was primitive, compelling. Almost barbaric.

      Words formed to demand how he’d discovered where she lived. Then they died before they found voice. All Raoul Lanier had to do was lift the telephone and make a few inquiries to elicit the pertinent information.