Seen and Not Heard by Anne Stuart

dropped the paper and spoke to her in a cold, emotionless voice, and Claire flinched in silent sympathy. The relationship between father and daughter had gone from bad to worse. Marc no longer attempted to charm Nicole out of her bad moods. He was cold, clipped, distant with her, reserving his warmth and affection for Claire and Claire alone.
    Whatever he’d said to Nicole had been effective. The girl’s sallow face had turned pale and her opaque eyes grew even more blank. He might just as well have slapped her across the face, Claire thought dismally.
    Once more she felt that clinging sense of desperation. She knew how much Marc loved his unpromising little daughter, and yet he seemed unable to show it. He seemed removed and judgmental, yet Claire knew it was all the act of a loving man who simply didn’t know how to treat children.
    During the last few months she’d tried to help, but had quickly learned not to interfere. The best the two Bonnards could do was muddle along, misunderstanding each other, wrapped in coldness, until something broke through. And that something wasn’t going to be Claire MacIntyre, no matter how much she wanted to help them bridge the gap. They simply wouldn’t let her.
    Nicole muttered a graceless apology, and Marc once more disappeared behind the newspaper. Claire tried to give Nicole an encouraging smile, but Nicole swiftly turned her head away. In another, less stalwart child Claire would have thought she was blinking back tears. But as far as she knew Nicole never cried when she was awake. It was only during sleep that her formidable defenses gave way.
    Claire glanced toward Marc, then looked swiftly away. The headlines of the paper were dark, bold, screaming of something ghastly. The photograph needed no translation. Another old woman had died.
    It was a cold, blustery day. Not a day for a casual stroll in the park, but Marc, blessedly high-spirited, wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d bundled Nicole off to her grandmother’s shortly after breakfast, then took Claire back to bed for another hour. It almost wiped out the memory of the night before. With the bright, chilly sunlight streaming in the windows Claire could almost forget the refined torture of the rain-swept night before.
    The streets were empty. The day was more like January than early April, with a sharp wind whistling down the streets and around the buildings, sending a chill straight into Claire’s heart. Her silk dress provided little protection against the cold, and the high, high heels on her leather shoes were making her ankles ache as Marc drew her along at a pace just a shade too brisk for a Sunday afternoon stroll.
    “Where are we going, Marc?” she demanded, pulling back. “I’m not dressed for this weather.”
    He stopped, his hand still possessive on her arm, and looked at her with affectionate criticism. “Darling, my grandmother dressed in clothes that were no warmer than what you’re wearing every day of her life, and she never complained about the cold. It’s all that ridiculous central heating in America. Your blood’s gotten too thin.”
    “My legs are freezing,” she protested. “At least you should have let me wear jeans.”
    “You know I can’t abide trousers on women,” Marc said, his bright smile taking the sting out of the words. “Don’t complain, sweetheart. It’s just another block or two, we’lltake a quick turn around the park, and then I’ll take you home and warm you up properly. I don’t know what’s gotten into me—I’m quite insatiable.”
    Claire ignored the little pinch of dismay, smiling into those dreamy eyes that were on a level with hers. “It’s probably because you’re going away,” she said. “You know you’re not going to be having any for a while.”
    “What makes you think I’m celibate when I’m away from you, Claire?” he countered gently. “Perhaps I have a new woman every night.”
    She wasn’t even ruffled. “Then maybe I’d