He paused in front of her, well over six feet two of raw male power. ‘Presumably you’re lost,’ he drawled, his tone maddeningly indifferent. ‘You should have carried straight on at the top of the road. This is a dead end. It doesn’t lead anywhere.’

She forced herself to meet his gaze, reminding herself that this was about Daisy, not her.

Her voice was clear and steady as she spoke. ‘It leads to you, Dr Westerling.’

The ensuing silence pulsed with tension and his gaze hardened.

‘In that case I probably ought to remind you that this is my home and it’s the one place in the world that I won’t tolerate being pestered by journalists.’

The wobble in her knees intensified and she felt the courage ooze out of her.

She couldn’t do this. She just couldn’t do this.

He had an air of self-possession and unshakable cool that was thoroughly intimidating and if she had been a journalist she would have run a mile. No story would have been worth the cold, disdainful look that Alex Westerling was casting in her direction.

But she wasn’t a journalist and as if to remind her of the reason for her presence, the baby lifted a hand and patted her cheek with a chubby hand.

Daisy.

That was why she was here, facing this man.

That innocent touch gave her the courage she needed and she lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his icy gaze. ‘I’m not a reporter.’

His eyes swept over her dismissively. ‘I’ve been awake for the best part of thirty-six hours and I’m not in the best of tempers,’ he warned softly. ‘Perhaps you could just tell me what it is you want and we can both get on with the rest of the day. Your baby looks tired.’

‘She isn’t my baby, Dr Westerling,’ Jenny croaked, wondering how it was possible to shiver even in the height of summer, ‘she’s your baby. You’re her father.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE silence stretched into infinity.

Alex stared at the petite, dark-haired girl in front of him and wished he’d managed to snatch more sleep at the hospital. His usually sharp mind seemed to have ground to a halt.

The girl cleared her throat again and his eyes followed the direction of the sound, noticing a pulse beating in her throat, registering that she was nervous.

In fact, she looked terrified.

Somehow he found that comforting.

If she was nervous then there had to be a reason and the most obvious reason was that she was lying. She had to be lying. For a start she wasn’t his type. She was dark-haired and he knew for a fact he’d never had a relationship with someone of her colouring. His sisters delighted in teasing him about the fact that he always had a blonde on his arm. And then there was her manner. All the women he dated were confident and flirtatious whereas this girl was obviously using iron determination to stop herself from running.