The Baby Bet: His Secret Son. Joan Elliott Pickart

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СКАЧАТЬ Robert said, hardly above a whisper. “I’d forgotten all about her.”

      “No joke,” Andrew said, with a bitter sharp bark of laughter. “You forgot about her the minute she was out of your sight. But she never forgot you, Robert. That would have been really tough to do, considering her circumstances. Oh, no, she never forgot you.”

      “Robert, what is going on?” Margaret said. “Who is Sally Malone?”

      “My mother,” Andrew said, taking a step closer to the table. “My mother, who died when I was fifteen years old. My mother, who had your baby after you abandoned her that summer, MacAllister. Let me introduce myself again. I’m Andrew Malone. Your son.”

      “What?” Kara said.

      “Robert?” Margaret said, a frantic edge to her voice. “What is he saying? What does this mean?”

      “My God,” Robert said, his gaze riveted on Andrew. “You’re…oh…oh…pain…I…”

      Robert pressed both fists to his chest and in the next instant collapsed to the floor, knocking over his chair in the process.

      It was bedlam. Margaret screamed Robert’s name and jumped to her feet as people at other tables rose and turned in the direction of the commotion. Everyone seemed to be talking at once as Margaret dropped to her knees beside her husband.

      “Get out of my way,” Kara said, pushing past Andrew. “Move.”

      Andrew took a step backward as people began to hurry to where Robert lay on the floor, his eyes closed. Kara knelt beside her uncle, loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. She looked up and quickly scanned the crowd of people.

      “Give him air,” she yelled. “Ryan, I need help here with CPR. Forrest, call 911. Hurry up. We need an ambulance, paramedics. Tell them to contact Mercy Hospital where I’m on staff and tell those on duty in the emergency room to stand by for our arrival. I think Uncle Robert has had a heart attack!”

      Hours later Andrew wandered aimlessly along a dimly lit hall in the hospital. He’d removed his tie, shoved it into his jacket pocket and opened three buttons on his shirt. A deep frown was on his face as he walked slowly, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

      A nightmare, he thought. He was in the middle of a nightmare he had created. He’d never be able to erase from his mind the image of Robert MacAllister crumpling to the floor.

      What had followed was a blur, one scene slamming into the next in his mental vision.

      The band had stopped playing. How strange that he should remember that. There had been no more pretty music floating through the air. Just shocked and panicked voices. People shouting. Margaret MacAllister crying. Kara MacAllister giving orders, telling everyone to move back, move back.

      Kara was a doctor, that much was obvious. She’d assisted the paramedics when they’d arrived, told them what she wanted done. The guy who had helped her perform CPR on Robert—what was his name? Ryan. Yes, Ryan MacAllister. Someone had said that he was a cop.

      Andrew dragged a restless hand through his hair and continued his trek.

      Reporters had appeared in the ballroom at almost the same moment as the paramedics. Flashbulbs had gone off and questions had been asked of the people who were standing around with horrified expressions on their faces.

      He’d kept backing up, backing up, until he’d reached the door, then hurried from the ballroom to the registration desk to ask directions to Mercy Hospital.

      He’d managed to enter the hospital through a delivery door and had stayed out of view, not wishing to encounter any of the MacAllisters or the reporters. In the confusion he’d gone unnoticed, but had heard the grim bulletin that had been given to the press corps.

      Robert MacAllister had suffered a severe heart attack and was being transferred to the cardiac intensive care unit.

      His condition was critical.

      “My God,” Andrew said aloud, his voice ragged with emotion, “what have I done?” He stopped in his tracks and swept his hands down his face.

      He’d never intended to harm Robert. He’d only wanted what was rightfully due Sally Malone. He’d gone to the restaurant to confront Robert with his existence, to force the man to acknowledge that Sally had mattered, had been important.

      That long-ago summer affair had taken place, and Robert would no longer be allowed to deny it, or the existence of the special and innocent young girl who had had her heart broken and her dreams shattered.

      But he hadn’t achieved his goal, Andrew thought, shaking his head. Instead? Robert MacAllister lay near death a floor above this one, while his family was gathered in a waiting area, clinging to one another, seeking solace from one another, waiting to hear whether Robert MacAllister would live or die.

      And if he died, it would be Andrew Malone’s fault. Robert’s own son would be guilty of killing him.

      Andrew closed his eyes for a moment and drew a shuddering breath.

      He felt as though he was being crushed with the weight of his guilt, with the truth of what he had caused to happen. What kind of man was he? How had it come to this?

      Confronting Robert MacAllister had seemed so right, a way of getting Sally Malone the recognition she deserved after all these years. But his mother would be appalled if she knew what he had done to Robert. She would be ashamed of the actions of her son.

      Andrew opened his eyes again and stared down at the floor.

      His life was completely out of control. During the past few months he’d felt strange, edgy, as though something was missing from his life, but not having a clue about what it was.

      He kept telling himself he had everything he wanted and needed: a hefty bank account, classy apartment, an endless string of women who asked nothing more of him than he was prepared to give. His business was thriving and he knew he was respected, known as a man of integrity.

      Despite everything there was a void, an emptiness within him that was chilling. And no, damn it, he wasn’t falling prey to some midlife crisis because he was approaching his fortieth birthday. He didn’t know what was wrong, what was plaguing him, but it would pass. He hoped.

      And now? On top of his inner turmoil he had just created a hefty serving of guilt to heap on the pile.

      “Malone,” he said with a disgusted shake of his head, “you’re a real piece of work.”

      Andrew started to walk slowly, turned a corner in the corridor, then was stopped in his tracks by a good-size wall that had glass installed from the ceiling halfway down to the floor.

      The room beyond the glass was dimly lit, and Andrew stepped closer, his eyes widening as he peered into it.

      Babies. A whole slew of tiny babies. As he’d traveled from one floor to the next in the hospital, using the stairs, he’d apparently ended up in the maternity wing.

      What irony, he thought dryly. Here before him was life in its purest and most innocent form. And staring at these little miracles was a man who might very well have caused the death of his own father.

      Andrew СКАЧАТЬ