Sullivan's Child. Gail Link

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      “Then what is?”

      “The reaction I saw on his face when he looked at Tara’s picture. A look I’d never seen before.”

      “Ego,” Brendan retorted. “I’ve seen far too many cases of that in my work. A shot of sperm doesn’t make someone a father. It doesn’t automatically endow them with the qualities of a good parent. It takes caring, concern, responsibility and the ability to love. Things we learned growing up. Things Mr. Sullivan lacks.”

      “Maybe,” Cat mused aloud, ignoring her brother’s caustic comments, “it was just shock. Being confronted with a child you didn’t know existed, a child you never wanted, must have been disconcerting.”

      “That’s not your problem,” Brendan stated. “If he’d stayed around, thought about you more, about what you wanted and needed instead of just himself…”

      “I can’t afford to look at the situation like that,” Cat insisted.

      Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think that he’ll try and stake a claim to Tara, do you?”

      Cat’s answer was soft, barely above a whisper. “I hope not.”

      “Because he’d be in for the fight of his life if he tried. What’s one Sullivan against the Kildares?”

      Her brother’s words played over and over again in Cat’s head on the drive home. True, she had a family that loved and supported her. Siblings who would stand by her; a mother and father who weren’t afraid to fight for their children’s happiness; cousins, aunts and uncles on both sides who believed strongly in the concept of family loyalty.

      But Rory had money, she knew. Lots and lots of money. Old money. A sizable trust fund that allowed him to do what he wanted, whenever he wanted.

      However, she was getting ahead of herself. He said that he wanted to talk. Understandable. Unnerving, but definitely understandable. Maybe he wanted to be sure that she didn’t want something from him. That could be it.

      And then again it might not be.

      She had to stop torturing herself with worry. She mustn’t allow Tara to see her upset. Her daughter came first, last, always.

      So how was she going to tell Tara? What magic words could she use? What could she say to explain?

      Cat pulled her car into the parking lot of the school, a smile breaking through her dark mood when she saw her daughter.

      Tara ran to her mother’s car, her pretty face beaming with happiness. “Look at what we got from the computer, Mommy.” She handed her mother the printout as soon as she got into the car and received her welcoming hug and kiss, which she reciprocated. “Mrs. Robb talked to us about tracing our roots. Isn’t that funny, like we were plants?”

      Cat’s lips curved in a bittersweet smile, the irony almost overwhelming her. Her daughter, being helped to discover more about her family past. “Was it fun?”

      Tara nodded her head. “Yeah. I got to read all about Ireland and where the Kildares came from. I’m gonna call Nanny and Pop and tell them to come over so that they can see it too.”

      “Not tonight, sweetheart.”

      “Why?”

      “Your nanny is working late at the clinic tonight and your grandfather is out of town with my cousin Dylan at a conference for police detectives, don’t you remember?”

      Tara nodded. “I forgot.”

      “That’s okay, sweetie. I’m sure that when they can, they’d both love to see what you found.” This was the opening she needed, however unexpected, to introduce the subject of her child’s father. But should she? What if Rory really wasn’t interested at all in his daughter. Would that be giving Tara more information than she needed? More than she was ready for, especially if her father expressed no interest whatsoever in seeing her, meeting her? Would telling Tara that she had a flesh-and-blood father do more harm than good?

      Cat wished that she knew. Wished that she had some real clue.

      Until she had, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Tara that her biological father was in town.

      Rory stood outside the modest house, taking note in the fading light of the touches that seemed welcoming. Bright clusters of fall flowers surrounded the brick walkway and continued around the base of the house. Adding a touch of class were numerous rosebushes, some reaching up to cling, the others nestled comfortably. Even from where he stood, the air was redolent with the smell. A hanging bird feeder on a nearby maple tree was still attracting customers to sample its tasty goods.

      The house itself had an old feel to it, though he guessed it to be fairly new. It didn’t stand there and scream “Notice me” as did many new homes, ostentatious and overdone. Its stone and wood blended into the landscape seamlessly.

      Somehow, it seemed right for Cat. Perfect.

      Rory climbed the wide stone steps and rang the bell.

      Less than a minute later, a porch light flicked on and the oak door, with its stained-glass insert, was opened.

      His words were direct, aimed at the woman who stood sentinel. “I’m here to see her.”

      Chapter Four

      Cat stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance into her home. “She doesn’t know anything about you, Rory.”

      One of his black eyebrows arched slightly. “Why am I not surprised?”

      She wet her lips. “It wasn’t important.”

      He stepped closer, less than inches from her. “Is that so?” he inquired, his voice low and soft. “Having a father isn’t important to a child?”

      “Tara doesn’t have a father.”

      “Because I didn’t know I had a daughter,” Rory retorted.

      “Bull.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “And, would you mind if I came inside? I’d rather not discuss my—our personal business in the street.”

      “It’s hardly the street,” Cat responded.

      “It’s still not private.”

      “I don’t want Tara upset.”

      “I didn’t come here to do that,” he stated. “I only want to see her. That isn’t really too much to ask, now, is it?”

      “I suppose not,” she conceded, then stepped aside and let him enter, shutting the door behind him.

      Rory was enveloped by the warmth of the interior of her home, a sharp contrast to Cat’s cool demeanor. He could smell the subtle scent of applejack as he followed her into a small room off the hall that was dominated by an overstuffed floral couch, topped by a sweater-like white throw.

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