Adopted: One Baby. Natasha OakleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
About the Author
NATASHA OAKLEY told everyone at her primary school she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her plan was to stay at home and have her mum bring her coffee at regular intervals – a drink she didn’t like then. The coffee addiction became reality and the love of storytelling stayed with her. A professional actress, Natasha began writing when her fifth child started to sleep through the night. Born in London, she now lives in Bedfordshire with her husband and young family. When not writing, or needed for ‘crowd control’, she loves to escape to antiques fairs and auctions.
Find out more about Natasha and her books on her website www.natashaoakley.com
Adopted: One Baby
Natasha Oakley
MILLS & BOON
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To my Mum
CHAPTER ONE
SITTIFORD was pretty enough, but it wasn’t somewhere you’d want to stay for long. At least it wasn’t if you harboured any kind of ambition beyond the cultivation of the most perfect petunia.
Lorna Drummond reached for her handbag as her taxi pulled into a lay-by within the hospital car park. So why had her sister chosen to come back to Sittiford to have her baby when practically the only thing they’d ever agreed on was the need to leave?
It didn’t make any sense. Not unless Vikki had experienced some kind of epiphany. She looked up and caught the driver watching her in his rearview mirror.
He swivelled round in his seat. ‘You’re the sister of that girl in the accident, aren’t you? The one who died?’
‘That’s right.’ Lorna reached for her purse, hiding her face with her blonde hair. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘£7.40, love.’ He reached out a tattooed hand to take the ten-pound note she offered, then, ‘I was sorry to hear about your sister and that.’
‘Thank you.’ Lorna convulsively reached for the door handle, desperate for escape.
‘The baby is doing all right, is she?’
‘I haven’t seen her yet, but I think so. Thank you. Please keep the change.’ She uncurled herself from the car and shut the door firmly, standing back to let the taxi drive away.
Lorna took a deep breath and looked up at the high walls of Sittiford Hospital. Gone was the dour Victorian building she remembered, and in its place was curved brickwork and commissioned sculptures.
And up there, apparently, was her sister’s baby. Vikki’s baby. It was unbelievable. She felt guilty thinking it now… but Vikki with a baby didn’t make any sense either. Her life was all about parties, new places, exciting people…
Had been about all those things, Lorna corrected silently. Vikki was dead. However many times she said that over to herself, she couldn’t quite accept it.
Ever since that late-night phone call she’d felt like a non-swimmer in one of those wave pools. Wave after wave crashing against her. Consequence after consequence. And each one coming so fast that it was difficult to know what she should be reacting to first.
Lorna walked across the sweeping drive towards the entrance to the Rainbow Wing. The doors opened automatically as she approached, and, obedient to the sign, she paused long enough to cleanse her hands with the jellylike hand-wash.
The heels of her shoes clipped loudly on the hard surface of the floor, and the sterile smell caught at the back of her throat. Vikki must have come back for a reason other than that she was pregnant. She’d hated this town. Hadn’t been able to get away quick enough…
Was the reason a man?
Somewhere out there was the father of her sister’s baby. Was he here? In Sittiford? And, if so, why hadn’t he come forward? Vikki had been irresponsible, and generally feckless in the choices she’d made, but she must have known who the father was.
Surely she’d told someone? Even if the police hadn’t been able to find them yet. Lorna came to an abrupt stop at the reception desk and waited while an involved conversation was translated by an elderly woman’s son.
It was the strangest feeling to know the baby’s father could be anywhere. The man sitting in the corner reading a newspaper. The one she’d just passed in the car park, perhaps? Anywhere. He could be absolutely anywhere.
Was he married? With other children? Was that why he’d not come forward yet? And, if he was married, did that mean he’d never come forward?
‘Can I help you?’
Her head spun round. ‘I’m here to see Baby Drummond. M-My sister—’
‘Ah, yes. They’re expecting you in Neonatal.’ The receptionist’s hand was reaching for her receiver before Lorna had time to consider what she was going to say. ‘I have Ms Drummond in reception now. I’m sending her up.’
The receptionist’s eyes were suspiciously glossy as she looked at her, and it made Lorna’s control falter. Too much sympathy was difficult to cope with. ‘You need the third floor. There’s a lift to—’
‘I’ll walk. Thank you.’ Anything to escape that caressing kindness. Lorna started towards a likely pair of double doors. ‘Through here?’
‘Yes. Third floor.’
Lorna pulled the door open and started up the staircase. At the large black number three she stopped to read the sign that stated Neonatal was to the left. She pushed through the fire door and walked onto a utilitarian landing.
One large window looked out on an ugly arrangement of cylindrical storage containers connected by pipes—who knew what for? Lorna stood for a moment, bracing herself for what was to come next, and emotion flooded through her.
It was all so sudden and unexpected. One moment she was living the life she’d chosen, happily immersed in academia, the next she was on a plane back to Heathrow and dealing with the death of a sister she hadn’t seen in almost nine years—and seemingly expected to deal with the baby she’d left behind.
It was all so ridiculous.
What did she know about babies? Or even family for that matter? She’d spent a decade avoiding both. Lorna placed a hand on her flat stomach as though it would stop the churning inside. She was scared. She didn’t do babies. Didn’t know one end from the other.
‘Not the best view,’ a male voice said behind her. Sexy, deep…
Startled, Lorna whipped round in time to see the lift doors close and a man walk towards her. Tall. Scruffy… In a kind of actor-promoting-a-film