The Secret Baby Bond

by Cindy Gerard

  “I like you a lot.” He kissed her, ran his hands down her slender back, cupped her firm, high buttocks in his palms and pulled her snug against him.

  “Um, you know, we do have a sofa now.” She smiled against his mouth as he lowered her to the floor.

  “Hmmm,” he managed as he whipped her snug T-shirt over her head and went to work on her bra. “And a very nice one, too.” He stripped her jeans and panties down her slim legs. “How did you get it up the stairs?”

  “Seth and Brett. It, um, makes into a bed.”

  He lifted his head, eyed her like she was the most brilliant woman on earth. In his eyes she was.

  “Luckiest guy in the world,” he repeated, “and as soon as I show you how happy you make me, we’ll christen that sofa bed good and proper.”

  “You don’t have a proper bone in your body.” She sighed as he touched her where she loved for him to touch her.

  “And it was the very improper Michael Paige that I fell in love with. Don’t— Oh, Michael,” she sucked in her breath when he entered her in a long, slow stroke. “Don’t change on me now.”

  The elevator settled with a subtle ping. The doors glided silently open, dragging Michael back to the present. The vivid and erotic memory of them making love, however, lingered.

  “Well, here we are,” he said, hoping she didn’t notice that his hand was a little unsteady as he walked them down the hall and inserted the key in the condo lock.

  “It’s a step or two up from that little apartment down on Front Street.”

  His gaze sought hers and held. In that brief moment, he knew that she had been thinking about that first apartment, too. It had been ugly and small and they had constantly fought roaches and miserable plumbing, but they’d had some of the happiest days of their marriage there.

  “Welcome to my humble abode.” With a sweep of his hand, he invited her to walk in ahead of him.

  He set the picnic basket on the counter and Brandon on the floor with a soft pat on his bottom.

  “Nice, huh?”

  “Nice and empty.” She stood hesitantly inside the door, as if she were wary of coming any farther into his condo—or into his life.

  “I was thinking maybe you could help with that.” With casual ease, he opened the basket and started setting food on the counter.

  She turned to him, a protest forming on her lips.

  “I’m hoping to have Brandon over here often,” he explained, preempting her flat-out rejection of the idea. “I want him to be comfortable. I don’t know what he likes, and let’s face it, I don’t have a clue what makes things safe for him. You could make sure I don’t mess up on that count. Not to mention I obviously need a decorator.”

  Biting her lower lip, she turned to watch Brandon as he toddled around the empty living area like it was his own huge, private playpen.

  “I’d pay you, of course,” he added just to see what kind of reaction he’d get.

  “Pay me?”

  “I want the best, Tara. You turned a one-room roach hotel into a palace—and on a shoestring. Imagine what you could do with this place on a no-limit budget.”

  “No limit?”

  He smiled. For all of her wealth, Tara was one of the least materialistic women he’d ever known. He’d also known she would be intrigued by that statement, could see on her face that she was dying to ask when and how money had become a seemingly endless commodity.

  She didn’t ask and he still didn’t want to tell her. In the end, he was hoping she would eventually feel comfortable enough, open enough, to question him about it.

  “We’ve got wine.” He held up a bottle, showed her the label, then smiled. “And milk, for my main man here,” he added as Brandon came tooling around the corner of the counter and wrapped his arms around Michael’s legs with a squealing laugh.

  It hit him then as Brandon reached for his sippy cup. The enormity of his return. The precious existence of his son. His son, whom he had not seen born, who had grown into this loving, trusting, laughing child who clung to his leg with one hand and to his plastic Lion King cup with the other. He bent down on one knee, ran a hand over his hair, then folded him into his arms and simply savored him.

  “He’s so…perfect, Tara,” he managed. “So absolutely perfect.”

  Brandon began to fidget, his hyperactive little body and inquisitive mind already intent on exploring more of the wide open space of the condo.

  With a pat on his bottom, Michael let him go. He rose slowly and, without meeting Tara’s eyes, fished around in the basket until he found a corkscrew. In silence, he went to work on the foil wrapper around the neck of the wine bottle.

  “I don’t even know how to explain what it feels like to see him, hold him.” He swallowed, shook his head. “Sorry. I didn’t intend to get maudlin on you. It just…it just hits me sometimes. What I’ve missed.”

  He tugged the cork free, stared at the wall for a moment, then turned to her, his expression grave.

  “I told myself I wouldn’t ask this.” He shook his head, gave it up. “Did you know? Did you know about him when I left?”

  He watched as she slowly shrugged out of her coat, then stood with it folded over her arms in front of her like a shield.

  “No. I didn’t know. I…I think I must have conceived that last night,” she said quietly.

  He stilled, watched her face until she met his eyes. He saw her memories there. Her pale skin beneath black lace. His rough, needy hands, dragging it off of her.

  Her cheeks flushed pink and she looked away, walked to the windows and stared out at the harbor. They’d made love in a fury of goodbyes tempered with anger. He’d known she was angry with him.

  He hadn’t known she was going to ask him for a divorce.

  In retrospect, he realized that there had been desperation in her lovemaking that night. Apparently she’d thought it was going to be their last time.

  To this point, it had been—and not just his last time with her. He’d been celibate for two years now.

  “You and Parker—are you lovers?” he asked abruptly, surprising them both with his bold question. He hadn’t known how close to the surface that question had hovered, or how badly he wanted her answer to be no.

  “And please, don’t tell me it’s none of my business,” he added gruffly. “Just level with me. Are you lovers?”

  “No,” she said after a long moment. “We’re not lovers.”

  He let out a breath, closed his eyes and waited for the world to settle. His hands weren’t as steady as he’d have liked as he filled two glasses. He walked across the empty room, handed one to her.

  “To the future.” He watched with stone-faced relief as she lifted her glass and sipped.

  To us, he added to himself, more determined than ever that there would be an “us.” That there would be a “them.” Again, and better than ever.

  To the future.

  Tara drank deeply of the wine Michael had poured her and told herself she couldn’t think about the future. Not now. Not until she had it sorted out in her mind. For the time being, the past and the present seemed a much safer topic.

  “You’ve been out of touch for a long time, Michael,” she said carefully. “There’s much that’s happened in the family that you should know about.”

  She’d been debating with herself about this. How much did she tell him about what had transpired in the family in the past nine months? Though she was determined to go ahead with the divorce, by law, they were currently married. Michael was entitled to the courtesy of information, no matter how difficult it was going to be to relay some of it.

  And then there was the question of how much she really did know about these horrible and disturbing circumstances that had plagued the Connelly family lately. She knew her father and suspected that he was withholding information—from her and from some other siblings—because he thought it was for their protection.

  She realized she’d been woolgathering when Michael crossed the room and st
opped directly in front of her. He placed a finger lightly between her brows like he used to when he wanted to erase her frown lines and relieve her worries. Once, a kiss would have followed. A kiss that she’d have been glad to melt into.

  Because she wanted to melt into him now, she walked away, busying herself with draping her coat over the island in the kitchen.

  “I’m sure that a lot’s happened, and I’m guessing from the look on your face that not all of it’s good.” His voice was gentle; his brows were knit with concern. “Tell me.”

  She decided to start with the basics, with what she knew. He’d find it out eventually from someone anyway and he had a right to hear it from her. Fortified with another sip of wine, she began.

  “Last December my grandfather and my uncle Marc—”

  “Were killed,” he cut her off abruptly. His eyes searched hers even as she sensed he was searching his memory.

  “My God. I remember reading about it. And I remember thinking then that those names pulled at me and I didn’t have a clue why.” His voice matched the edgy shock that spread across his face as he probed his memory further.

  “The newspapers in Ecuador—and I imagine all over the world—were filled with the news that King Thomas Rosemere and his son, Prince Marc of Altaria, had died in a…what? A boating accident, right?

  “Oh, Tara.” He joined her at the counter, took her hands in his, then folded her against him. “I’m so sorry. Your mother must have been devastated.”

  Because she wanted so badly to accept what he offered, and because she’d resisted him for what seemed like forever, she gave it up. She let herself lean on him, let her arms wrap, with familiar ease, around his waist. He was warm and solid and strong. And she’d missed him.

  Because she would always miss him, she pulled away, wrapped her arms around her own waist and walked back to the window.

  “It was hard. It’s still hard,” she admitted as she stared at the busy harbor twelve stories below. His presence behind her was a reminder that he was there for her if she would just reach for him.

  “Harder still when it came to light that their deaths weren’t an accident.”

  “Not an accident? What are you saying?” he asked after a protracted silence.

  She drew a fortifying breath, turned back to him. “I’m saying that they were murdered.

  “Wait.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth to interrupt her. “They were murdered,” she restated gravely. “All the evidence points to it. And that’s not all. When Daniel, who, according to Altarian law as my mother’s eldest son, became heir to the throne, someone attempted to assassinate him, too.”

  “Daniel? Good Lord. Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine,” she assured him quickly, then bent to lift Brandon into her arms. Poor little guy. He must have sensed the tension in the room. He’d suddenly stopped his seemingly endless romp around the apartment and come running to her side with his arms raised.

  She cuddled him against her, pressed a kiss to the top of his head and pointed out the boats in the harbor to distract him.

  “Your brother, Daniel. A king.” Michael was clearly in a state of shock over the news.

  “Remarkably, he’s proving to be a fine one, too. As well as a fine husband. Yeah,” she added with a small smile. “Once he met Erin it was all over but the shouting. Justin took Daniel’s place as VP of Marketing at Connelly Corporation.”

  “Justin? I suppose you’re going to tell me that he’s married, too.”

  “Not yet, but he and Kimberly are engaged. Alex and Phillip—Phillip is the Prince of Silverdorn—also committed to each other. You can imagine what an elaborate event that will be.”

  So unlike our wedding, she thought, remembering that cool spring evening they’d driven to Missouri and awakened a justice of the peace who’d groused but finally agreed to marry them.

  “You already know about Brett and Elena,” she added, steering her thoughts away from a time when everything had seemed simple and honest and real, secure in the blanket of young love.

  Don’t. Don’t go there, Tara. Just don’t.

  “And then there’s Drew,” she hurried on. “Just last month he and Kristina tied the knot.”

  He blinked, then blinked again. “I don’t even know what to say anymore.”

  “Well, you’d better sit down because there’s more.”

  After a long stare, he simply folded his legs under him and hit the floor.

  “How do I say this?” She bit her lower lip, then took a deep breath. “I guess I’ll just lay it out. We’ve brought two more Connellys into the fold recently. Like Brett and Drew, they’re another set of twins. None of us, including Mom or Dad, knew that Chance and Douglas existed until late last winter.

  “An investigative reporter was covering the deaths of my grandfather and uncle and turned them up,” she continued when she realized Michael was too stunned to even formulate another question.

  “Before Dad met Mom, he’d been involved with a woman. Hannah Barnett. Apparently, they’d broken off their relationship before Hannah realized she was pregnant. For whatever reason, she never told Dad about the twins, just like she’d never told them about him.”

  She watched his face as this new information settled. “I haven’t gotten to know them as well as I want to yet, although I very much like what I know of them so far. Doug’s a doctor. He and his wife, Maura, are due to have a baby soon. Chance is a Navy SEAL. He and Jennifer have a little girl, Sarah. She’s just a little older than Brandon.”

  She watched as Michael pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger and let out a huff of a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.

  “Incredible.” On a deep breath, he met her eyes. “That leaves Seth, Rafe and Maggie, right? Or are they all married, too?”

  She smiled, thinking with affection of her other siblings. “Actually, no. I can’t imagine anyone getting Seth or Rafe to settle down. Seth, well, I worry about Seth. He’s in a bad place right now,” she added, hurting for him, then hurrying on and offering no explanation.

  “And Rafe—well, he’s very satisfied with his bachelor life and last I knew saw no appeal whatsoever in marriage or the compromises that go with it. As for Maggie—she’s wrapped up in her art and following her free spirit wherever it leads her. I can’t see her building a nest any time soon, either.

  “But my cousin Catherine, Uncle Marc’s daughter—I think you met her at Christmas one year—is married now to Sheikh Kaj al bin Russard. Their story is like something straight out of the Arabian Nights.”

  Michael was silent for a long moment, his handsome face becoming increasingly grave. He finally rose, took Brandon from her when he saw that she was having difficulty managing his solid and wiggling weight.

  “What you said earlier about your grandfather and your uncle being murdered and about an assassination attempt on Daniel. What’s that all about? I can’t believe it was the result of something as extreme as an attempt to overthrow the Altarian government.”

  “No. Nothing like that. In its history there’s never been civil unrest in Altaria.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s all under investigation.” At a loss to deal with the unsteady flutter of her heart when he looked at her that way, she walked back to the counter, topped off her glass and at his nod, refilled his. “Dad and the boys are pretty tight-lipped about it.”

  “Who’s investigating?”

  “Initially Dad hired someone based in France. Albert Dessage, I believe is his name. Daniel’s also got Altaria’s royal police on it. The Chicago P.D. got called in, of course. In fact, that’s how Brett met Elena. She’s with C.P.D. and was assigned to the case.

  “This June, however, when Elena withdrew because of her pregnancy, Dad decided to hire Rey-Star Investigations, a private agency here in Chicago, to assist. Tom Reynolds and Lucas Starwind, who founded the company together, have an excellent reputation so we’re hoping they’ll turn up someth
ing soon. It’s all been very disheartening.”

  She watched his face as his quick, insightful mind worked through the information she’d given him.

  “Okay, let me get this sorted out. First, if this all happened in Altaria, why is the Chicago P.D. involved? And second, if I remember right, your grandfather died in December. That was nine months ago. I don’t get it. Why isn’t this thing resolved?

  “And third, if his death wasn’t an attempt to overthrow the government, that means there’s something else at stake. And that could mean that all of the Connellys could be in danger.

  “Including,” he added with a dark and concerned scowl, “you and Brandon.”

  Six

  Tara shook her head and quickly reassured Michael that he needn’t be worried.

  “At first, yes, Dad was concerned about that. In fact, he added several security measures around Connelly Corporation headquarters and around Lake Shore Manor. But it’s been several months now and nothing more has happened.”

  “But?” he inquired, hearing the qualifier in her tone.

  “But it’s become apparent that the situation wasn’t just limited to the Altarian monarchy.”

  She drew a deep breath and exhaled.

  “Just recently evidence has been turned up that points to a link—possibly with organized crime here in Chicago. And to answer your first question, that’s why CPD was called in.”

  Michael’s scowl turned fierce. “Organized crime? My God, Tara.”

  “I know. Believe me. We all know.”

  “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  She had rarely been able to hide anything from him. Today was no exception. She hated this part. Hated it.

  “None of us want to believe it but there’s evidence suggesting that Uncle Marc may have been involved.”

  “How exactly?” Disbelief, pure and raw, made his face go slack.

  She hesitated, debated again how much of this to get into with him. In the end, she simply decided he was entitled to hear everything she knew.

  “It seems that Uncle Marc had hidden a gambling problem for years. He died heavily in debt.