A Father Beyond Compare Read online

  Emma changed from her uniform into her jeans and sweater as soon as she arrived home. Maybe she'd see that gleam in Tom's eyes again tonight—like the way he'd looked at her the first time she had worn her new clothes.

  Not that she should be encouraging any attraction he felt for her. How unfair was that when she'd confessed to coming to this country in order to chase up an ex-lover? It was selfish to revel in the confidence that knowing she was still desirable fostered.

  But it was equally compelling.

  As compelling as it was to spend time with Tom. To talk to him and share every detail of her new life.

  'Work was so good today. Really busy but I didn't get too tired. I'm not even limping much.'

  'Anything interesting?'

  'Mostly routine. I had someone in a diabetic coma and a teenage drug overdose that was a bit messy. You must have had a quiet day.'

  'Why's that?'

  'You didn't come into Emergency.' Emma kept her tone light. It wouldn't help anything for Tom to know that part of the enjoyment of her new job was seeing him arrive in the department with a new patient. A big part.

  'We had a major extrication from an MVA in the mountains. The driver had spinal injuries so we took him directly to Coronation Hospital.'

  'Oh.' Emma looked away from Tom in the hope of finding a new topic of conversation that would seem natural. Did he know that Simon worked at Coronation Hospital? The sight of Mickey playing with Max was perfect inspiration.

  'Phoebe says that it's Max who's responsible for Mickey's balance getting so good. She reckons they could employ him in the physiotherapy department.'

  'I think he prefers an exclusive clientele.' Tom was grinning as he got up to answer the phone and had to avoid his dog taking measured steps across the living room floor with Mickey half riding on his shaggy back.

  He had the telephone in his hand when he returned. 'It's your mum,' he told Emma. 'Want me to start Mickey's bath?'

  'That would be fantastic.' Emma took the phone. 'Mickey, do you want to say hello to Grandma before you go and have your bath?'

  'Grandma!' Mickey shouted into the phone seconds later. 'I can walk!'

  Emma had to temper her mother's excitement after Mickey had been carried away to the bathroom.

  'He's only standing, really. The crutches are a bit much to manage but Phoebe says we can look into having some new callipers made if we're going to be here long enough.'

  'So you're not thinking of coming home yet?'

  'Not yet, Mum.'

  I am home, Emma thought suddenly as a childish giggle, followed by loud splashing sounds, wafted into the room from the direction of the bathroom. If only things weren't quite so complicated. If...

  'Sorry, Mum, I didn't hear that.'

  'I was asking about this job of yours. Are you sure you're not trying to do too much? It's only been a few weeks since that dreadful accident. Your dad wants to talk to you about your leg.'

  It took a while to reassure both her parents that she was fine, and by the time Emma finished the call, the house was very quiet.

  She found Mickey tucked up in bed, with Tom reading him a story, and the sight of her son's sleepy, contented face made that feeling of being home so intense it was almost painful.

  Bending down to kiss her son, Emma had to avoid looking at Tom. The urge to kiss him was potentially overwhelming.

  'Grandma says I can have a dog when we go home,' Mickey said.

  'Did she?' Emma had even more reason not to catch Tom's gaze now. It wouldn't be fair to let him see how disturbing she found the idea of having to leave.

  Mickey was unaware of any undercurrent. 'When are we going home, Mummy?'

  'Don't you like it here, sweetheart?'

  'Yes.' Mickey's eyes were half-shut and he snuggled more deeply into his pillow. 'But we came to find my daddy and we've found him so don't we have to go home now?'

  Emma sank onto the side of Mickey's bed, only dimly aware of how wobbly her legs had become. She had no hope of avoiding looking at Tom now and he was clearly as shocked as she was.

  'What makes you think we came here to find your daddy, Mickey?'

  'I heard Grandma talking to you before we came on the aeroplane.'

  Emma closed her eyes for a moment. She'd had no idea any such conversation had been overheard. She had to lick very dry lips before she could speak again.

  'And.. .and what makes you think we've found him?'

  'Cos Tom reads me stories. That's what daddies do.'

  Tom had his eyes closed now. Emma focused on Mickey. It was ridiculously hard to find the words but she had a duty she had no choice not to perform. She had to be honest.

  'Tom isn't your daddy, darling.'

  Big brown eyes, so like her own, were suddenly visible again.

  'Why not?'

  Emma could feel her lips twist into a sad kind of smile. What a good question. If Mickey had a list of qualities he might want to find in a father, she had no doubt that Tom would make the grade despite Mickey's initial antipathy. Would she have to go through that suspicion and reluctance to share her attention with Simon? And would the resulting relationship have any chance of being such a success?

  'Because I hadn't met Tom when you came along,' she told Mickey carefully. Would Tom pick up the unspoken message that if she had met him first, things would be very different? Emma didn't dare risk another glance to find out. She had something else to say and now seemed as good a time as any.

  'Your daddy's name is Simon,' she told Mickey.

  'Where is he?'

  'He's been away for a while but he's coming back soon.'

  'When?'

  It was difficult to swallow. Emma stared at the corner of Mickey's duvet, which had somehow become entangled in her fingers. When she spoke, her voice sounded unnaturally high. Forced. As though the word was an unwelcome guest but had to be admitted.

  'Soon.'

  Too soon, in fact.

  Simon was due back in Christchurch the next day.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was all too easy to postpone what had to be done.

  Turning up, unannounced, in Simon's office was probably not the best plan, Emma decided. Maybe she should drop a note into the internal mail system in the hospital to give him some warning.

  Or maybe she should wait a few days to make sure he wasn't jet-lagged and totally unreceptive.

  Maybe she didn't actually want to see him at all, which might pre-empt the ending of this chapter of her life she was sharing with Tom and Max and Phoebe.

  Especially Tom.

  He had been strangely quiet since the night Mickey had shocked them both by revealing his understanding of Emma's hidden agenda for the adventure of coming all the way to New Zealand. Not that Tom had said anything. On a couple of occasions it had been on the tip of Emma's tongue to ask how he'd felt at Mickey's assumption he was his father. Had he been horrified? Was there a faint possibility that he might like the idea?

  The question remained unasked, however, because Tom had noticeably stepped back. Direct eye contact was much less frequent and accidental touch carefully avoided. Tom seemed to be spending longer hours at work and he'd gone to his mother's for dinner last night. Mickey appeared to have forgotten the conversation about Simon and made no further queries about his 'real' father, but it was obvious to Emma that Tom was waiting to hear how the meeting had gone.

  Emma had nothing to tell him. The tension was getting destructive but she was feeling an increasing sense of panic about doing anything to resolve it. Two days had gone past. Then three. And four. It was so easy to find excuses. She wasn't at the hospital every day. She'd had a very busy shift with too many sick people to look after and she was tired. Mickey had a sniffly nose and she didn't want to leave him at the daycare centre any longer than she had to. Grocery shopping needed to be done because it was her turn to cook dinner. Goodness knew how long she might have left things if the situation had not been taken abruptly from her control. />
  If she hadn't, quite literally, bumped into Simon Flinders in the hospital staff car park.

  It was Emma's fault. Her mind was elsewhere as she negotiated the parking area on her way to the bus stop. One of her patients that afternoon had been a seven-year-old girl with a life-threatening asthma attack. The terrified child had required aggressive treatment and had ended up being intubated and admitted to the intensive care unit. Emma was focused on the comfort she had given the girl's mother, hoping that the reassurance she had given so freely had not been misplaced. It was what she would want herself if it was Mickey that was in such a precarious state of health, wasn't it? Some hope to cling to? Reality would intrude fast enough if things became worse. Or should she have been brutally honest and told the mother there was a definite possibility that her child would not survive?

  It was the bleep of a car's remote locking system being activated that made Emma look up and become aware of the imminent collision but it was way too late to avoid it. The man crossing her path was watching his vehicle—a sleek black BMW a short distance ahead— as he pressed the remote. He was a lot taller and heavier than Emma and her balance still wasn't perfect anyway. She was lucky the exposed spare wheel on the back of an SUV was there to meet her outstretched hand and break what could have been a nasty fall.

  'You're bloody lucky it wasn't a car that just hit you,' Emma was informed in no uncertain terms. The tone was exasperated, as though the owner of the voice was in a hurry to get somewhere else and didn't appreciate a delay. 'Are you all right?'

  'Yes.' Emma had recognised Simon already. A split-second impression as she had been knocked sideways that had been confirmed the instant he'd spoken.

  She straightened slowly, trying to buy enough time to collect herself. Her heart was hammering. Was this sensation of shock due to the surprisingly hard impact of colliding with another pedestrian or was she now feeling so shaky and flustered because she was seeing Simon again?

  The man she had once loved and then hated with equally powerful intensity.

  Emma turned to face him.

  'I wasn't looking where I was going,' she said. 'Sorry.'

  Her last word hung in the air as Simon stared at her. Emma had the crazy thought that it could seem like an apology for something quite different.

  Like walking out on their relationship.

  Or not telling him he had a son.

  She couldn't look away. It was too important, for some reason, to try and gauge Simon's reaction when the stunning moment of recognition had worn off. Would she see the truth? That he had loved her as much as he'd claimed or that she'd been just a holiday fling and that a reappearance in his life would be the last thing he wanted?

  If her presence was unwelcome she wouldn't have to tell him about Mickey, she thought wildly. That way, she could protect her child from any evidence of rejection.

  But Mickey knew that his father was here somewhere. Emma would still have to explain why there wasn't going to be any kind of meeting. Why on earth had she felt the need to be so honest with her son? To tell him his father's name?

  Her confusion escalated as she stared back at Simon. He hadn't changed much. A few more grey hairs couldn't prevent her being transported back in time to when she'd been a naive young nurse only too willing to be swept off her feet by a tall, charismatic and impossibly good-looking older man.

  'Oh, my God!' Simon said softly. 'Emma!'

  Analysing what she could see in Simon's expression was tricky. There was astonishment, of course. That was only to be expected. But there was a lot more as well. Amazement, perhaps. A hint that Simon had taken the same backward steps in time that Emma just had.

  Yes. There was much more than simply recognition there and it made Emma feel awkward.

  'Hi, Simon,' she said into the new silence. 'How are you?'

  Simon just shook his head, as though trying to clear it. He turned and walked a couple of steps and then turned back.

  'I don't believe this,' he exclaimed. 'Emma!'

  Emma was grateful for the continued support of the spare wheel beside her. She leaned on it, oblivious to whatever grime the tyre cover could be leaving on her pale blue uniform. She wasn't quite so oblivious to how much time was passing and that she was highly likely to miss her bus but Mickey couldn't tell the time yet and the day-care centre would be open for hours.

  This was certainly not a situation she could walk away from. Fate had decided to end her procrastination and there was a sensation of relief at knowing the waiting was over.

  Simon had stopped walking. He was standing even closer now—beside where he'd dropped his briefcase at the moment of impact—but he made no move to stoop and pick it up. He was staring again.

  'But what are you doing here?' A gaze that could probably be described as hungry swept down Emma's body and then back to her face. 'You're in uniform!'

  'I'm working in ED.'

  'Why?'

  'I'm a nurse, Simon, remember? I...needed a job.'

  'But why here? And how long have you been here?'

  'Not long. I've only been working for a couple of weeks. And it's only part time.' The questioning was disconcerting. Emma couldn't decide whether Simon was appalled or pleasantly surprised to find her on his home territory.

  'What made you choose Christchurch?'

  'I.. .um.. .it's a long story.'

  'You knew I lived here, didn't you?'

  Words deserted Emma. This was moving too fast all of a sudden and she felt totally out of control of both the speed and the direction of this conversation. She needed time to get her head together. To try and sort out the conflicting emotions aroused by seeing this man again.

  Simon read her silence rather too accurately. 'Did you want to see me again, Emma?' The start of a satisfied smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. 'Is that why you came here?'

  He was more than confident the answer would be affirmative. The faint smile only echoed the spark of interest Emma could see in his eyes. She hadn't been able to help watching the movement of his lips. How many memories did she have of what those lips were capable of? The way she'd felt the first time Simon had kissed her? The way his smile and his confidence had obliterated any reservations she had held regarding the tumultuous start of their affair?

  'You look fabulous,' Simon told her. 'You haven't changed at all.'

  But she had changed. Simon's smile wasn't having anything like the effect on her it had once had. There was no reciprocal stirring of physical attraction as Simon's gaze fastened on her own lips. None at all.

  Emma had grown up in the last five years. She was older and wiser. She was a mother.

  Simon seemed to sense a lack of appreciation for the compliment he had bestowed. The beginnings of his smile vanished and deep lines appeared at the corners of his eyes as his expression hardened. The stare Emma was subjected to was now painfully intense.

  'Why did you do it, Emma?'

  He wasn't talking about her arrival in Christchurch any longer. It was typical of Simon's style to cut right to the chase. To get what he wanted out of any interaction with other people.

  'Why did you walk out on me?'

  'You know why.'

  'No, I don't.'

  Somebody walked past them and gave the couple a curious glance. Simon nodded curtly and then looked over his shoulder. Was he hoping they weren't being observed by too many other people?

  And that only served to remind Emma of the misery of discovering she had been nothing more than a mistress. Something to be hidden discreetly away from public view. To be picked up and played with only when it had suited Simon. In her naivety she had believed that discretion had been necessary because she had been merely a junior nurse and Simon Flinders a visiting and well-respected consultant surgeon. The misery of discovering the truth had morphed into an anger that was very easy to tap into again.

  'I met your wife, Simon.' Emma was pleased at how strong she suddenly sounded. Her knees had finally stopped shaking and th
ere was no echo of any wobble in her voice. 'The one you hadn't bothered to tell me about. Of course I walked out.'

  Simon looked away but Emma had the distinct impression that he was irritated rather than discomfited. Then he shrugged. There was no hint of apology to be seen in his face when he turned back to Emma.

  'I tried to look you up when I was in London again last year.'

  He hadn't tried to find her when she'd walked out on him, though, had he?

  'I hadn't forgotten you,' Simon added. And now he was really smiling. Showing those perfect white teeth and exuding the kind of charm that had been his most attractive feature. 'Damn, it's good to see you again, Emma.'

  She wasn't going to be sucked in by that smile. Or the palpable charm. Simon had just dismissed the trauma their past relationship had caused her with a shrug.

  A shrug! Any suffering Emma had endured was of no importance. The well-remembered charm had been switched on like a light. It was calculated and shallow. Just like that smile.

  Nothing like a smile from Tom, which could be nothing less than genuine.

  Would Emma be judging Simon like this if she didn't have Tom to compare him to? Probably not. Maybe she could have convinced herself that the change of demeanour and the sudden pleasure of her company gave credence to any one of a dozen reunion fantasies she had conjured up in the last year or so.

  But Tom was there. Almost like a physical presence standing close to her. She could imagine his expression—one that agreed wholeheartedly that Simon wasn't the man she had fantasised about. That any warmth was purely superficial. But that he still had the right to know he had a son.

  'I hadn't forgotten you either, Simon.'

  It was now or never, Emma decided. She may as well get the worst of this interview over with. A car backing out of a nearby parking slot reminded her of how public the place was, but what did that matter? Emma had no desire to go anywhere more private with Simon. Not when his gaze currently suggested he was more than happy to shrug off any bygones and rekindle their acquaintanceship.

  Emma took a deep breath. 'It was a little hard to forget you when I was busy raising your son.'