Claiming His Love-Child. Sandra Marton

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      THE Hutchinses lived in a big Victorian on a tree-lined street in North Oakland.

      Music, and the sound of voices and laughter, spilled from the yard behind the house. The air was pungent with the mingled aromas of smoking charcoal, lager beer and grilling beef.

      Cullen climbed the porch steps, took a deep breath and rang the bell. After a minute, Hutchins’s wife, Sylvia, opened the door.

      “Hello,” she said, her lips curving into a cautious smile that suddenly turned genuine. “Cullen O’Connell! What a nice surprise.”

      “Hello, Sylvia. Sorry to barge in without notice, but—”

      “Don’t be silly!” Laughing, she took his arm and drew him inside the foyer. “I was afraid you were the fire marshal. Ian’s grilling steaks.”

      Cullen chuckled. “The Hutchins method of incineration. Nothing’s changed, huh?”

      “Not a thing,” Sylvia said cheerfully. “Come inside, Cullen. I had no idea you were in town. Ian never said a word.”

      “He doesn’t know. And I apologize again for not phoning first. You have guests.”

      “We have half the Bay area, you mean. You know these barbecues of Ian’s—students, faculty, friends, every person he’s ever met on the street. Besides, why would you call first? You’re always welcome. Let me get you a drink and introduce you around.”

      “Actually, I just need a couple of minutes of Ian’s time.”

      “Oh, come on. There are a couple of unattached women here—Ian’s third-and fourth-year students—I’m sure would love to meet you.”

      “Is Marissa Perez one of them?” Holy hell. How had that slipped out? Cullen felt his face burn. “I met her that last time I was out here. She drove me around all weekend.”

      Sylvia arched an eyebrow. “Marissa? No, she’s not here. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in a while.” She winked. “I’m sure we can find a replacement.”

      “Sylvia,” Cullen said quietly, “if you’d just tell Ian I’m here…I need to ask him something and then I’ll be on my way.”

      “Ah. You’re really not in a party mood, are you?” Smiling, she patted his hand. “I’ll get Ian. Why don’t you wait in his study?”

      Cullen bent and kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”

      The professor’s study was a small room off the foyer. Cullen had always liked it. An old sofa covered in flowered chintz faced a small fireplace; an antique cherry desk stood in a corner. The walls were hung with family photos, and an ancient Oriental rug lent a mellow touch to the hard-wood floor.

      The place felt familiar and comforting. And when Ian Hutchins crossed the threshold with a beer in either hand, Cullen smiled.

      “As always,” he said, taking a glass from Hutchins, “the perfect host.”

      “It’s not the fatted calf—I’ve got that laid out on the barbecue—but I figured you might be thirsty.” The men shook hands, then sat down. “If I’d known you were going to be in town—”

      “It was a last minute decision.”

      “And Sylvia tells me you can’t stay for our party.”

      “No. I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m just passing through and I wondered…” Get to it, O’Connell. “Remember when I was here to give that speech?”

      “Of course. We had a lot of excellent feedback. Matter of fact, I was going to give you a call, see if you’d be interested in—”

      “The woman who was my liaison. Marissa Perez.”

      Hutchins cocked his head. “Yes?”

      “I’m trying to get in touch with her.” Cullen cleared his throat. “Turns out she’s moved. I thought you might have her new address.”

      “May I ask why you’re trying to contact Ms. Perez, Cullen?”

      Cullen stared at the older man, then rose to his feet. He put his untouched glass of beer on a table and tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

      “It’s a personal matter.”

      “Personal.”

      “Ms. Perez and I had a misunderstanding, and I’d like to clear the air.”

      “How personal? What sort of misunderstanding?”

      Cullen’s mouth narrowed. “Excuse me?”

      “I said—”

      “I heard what you said, Ian. And, frankly, СКАЧАТЬ