The Baby Bet: His Secret Son. Joan Elliott Pickart

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СКАЧАТЬ sighed and shook his head. He looked at the nursery window again, attempting to recapture the fleeting sense of peace he’d had, the inner warmth and completeness, but it remained beyond his emotional reach.

      He started slowly down the hallway, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was, how totally drained. Entering a waiting room that beckoned with the glow of a small lamp, he slouched into a chair, rested his head on the back and stared up at the ceiling.

      If only…he thought. No, forget it. There was no purpose to be served by starting an “if only” list. But damn it, if only Clara, his drunk and bitter aunt Clara, hadn’t shown up at his door with that newspaper in her hand.

      He’d been sweaty, dirty and tired to the bone when Clara had arrived that night. He’d spent the day working with his men, instead of doing the suit-and-tie portion of his business, which was more the norm.

      He hadn’t slept well the previous night, had once again been plagued by the sense of restlessness, emptiness, of knowing something was missing from his life but not having a clue about what it was. A day of hard labor, he decided, would give him an opportunity to blank his mind and push his body to the maximum.

      He was standing in his living room with visions of a long hot shower in his head when the intercom by the door had buzzed. He strode across the room and pushed the button with more force than was necessary.

      “Yes, Roger?” he said.

      “Ms. Malone is here to see you, Mr. Malone.”

      Ah, hell, it was Clara, Andrew remembered thinking, as his mind continued to travel back in time to that fateful night.

      If Clara was using the name Ms. Malone again, it meant that her most recent divorce must be final. How many broken marriages did that make? Three? Four? Hell, he didn’t know and really didn’t give a rip.

      “Tell her that I’m sorry, but I’m busy, Roger,” Andrew said.

      “Yes, well…um…she’s rather…um…insistent, sir,” Roger said. “She says it’s imperative that she speak to you and won’t leave until she does, sir.”

      Clara was drunk and giving Roger a hard time, Andrew thought. Damn it.

      “All right,” he said with a weary and disgusted sigh. “Send her up.”

      “Oh, thank you, sir,” Roger said. “Thank you very much.”

      Andrew mentally tracked Clara’s unsteady trek across the large lobby of the building and into the elevator. He ticked off the floors in his mind, and when he determined that Clara was now in the hallway leading to his apartment, he opened the door with every intention of not allowing her to enter his home.

      Clara appeared before him and he frowned as the sickening odor of liquor reached him, along with a heavy dose of perfume.

      Clara’s bleached-blond hair was perfectly coiffured, her peach-colored suit and the jewelry she wore obviously expensive, but the class act stopped right there.

      Her makeup was artfully applied, but even so wasn’t able to cover the damage caused by years of excessive drinking. She had once been a beautiful woman, but now looked haggard and much older than she actually was.

      “What do you want, Clara?” Andrew said, filling the open doorway.

      “Is that any way to speak to your sweet auntie?” Clara said, her speech slurred slightly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, darling?”

      “No, I’m not,” Andrew said, keeping a tight rein on his rising temper. “I’ve been on the job all day and I’m headed for the shower. I’m tired and dirty, and I don’t have time to play games with you, Clara.”

      “I’m not here to play games,” she said, her voice rising as she poked his chest with one manicured fingernail. “I have something to show you, and I definitely have an important announcement to make.”

      “Like what? You’re getting married again? Fine. Have a nice life. Goodbye, Clara.”

      “Damn you, Andrew, listen to me!” Clara shrieked. “The time has come. I’ve kept Sally’s secret all these years, but I don’t intend to be silent one second longer.” She waved a folded newspaper in the air. “This is the final insult, by God, the last slap in the face that he’s going to get away with.”

      “What are you raving about?” Andrew said, frowning deeply.

      “Your father! I was down in Ventura at a spa and…Damn him. Look at this newspaper, Andrew. See what your oh-so-important and filthy-rich father has that you don’t. A family! A huge, warm and loving family surrounding him. But you and I are alone.”

      A sob caught in Clara’s throat.

      “We’re so alone,” she went on. “So alone. It’s not fair. It’s not. He walked out on your mother when she discovered she was pregnant with his child, with you, and it’s time he paid his dues to you. And to me. No, to you, to you.”

      Clara flung the newspaper to the floor of the carpeted hallway, and it opened as it landed. She pushed past Andrew and went into the apartment, weeping as she staggered forward.

      Andrew stood still, hardly breathing, his heart pounding so wildly it was actually painful as it echoed in his ears. He stared at the newspaper and saw the full-color picture of a large group of people.

      As though watching himself from a far distance, he saw his body bend, his shaking hands reach out and grasp the newspaper, then he straightened, his gaze riveted on the photograph.

      Don’t do it, Malone, his mind hammered. Don’t read the caption. Don’t find out your father’s name. Think about your mother’s wishes. Sally didn’t want you to know. She had always said that it would serve no purpose. Damn it, Malone, don’t do it.

      Andrew drew a shuddering breath, then folded the newspaper, blocking the photograph from view.

      “He should rot in hell!” Clara yelled, then sobbed. “He doesn’t deserve to have what he does. He owes you, Andrew. It’s time for Robert MacAllister to pay up.”

      Andrew jerked as though he’d been struck.

      Robert MacAllister.

      His father’s name was Robert MacAllister.

      Robert…MacAllister…

      Andrew forced himself to move, to step back, to shut the door, then to walk into the living room. He had to tell himself to put one foot in front of the other, to inhale, then exhale for each breath he took.

      He opened the newspaper again, then gripped the edges so tightly they crumpled in his hands. Then slowly, so slowly, he lowered his gaze to read the caption beneath the photograph, to put the name with the proper face among the multitude of people in the picture.

      And there he was.

      Robert MacAllister.

      His father.

      The man who had broken the heart of a young and innocent girl so many years before. The man who had abandoned her when she needed him so desperately. The man who СКАЧАТЬ