by Carol Rose
“She’s crawling well. How old is she?” The words seemed to echo hollowly in his head.
The woman stooped to pick the child up, kissing her pink cheek. “Jenna’s ten months old. You’re a big girl, aren’t you?”
Ten months old.
The baby was ten months old. Add that to a nine month pregnancy and conception must have been….
Inwardly cursing his stumbling brain, he tried to calculate the months since he’d slept with Delanie the first time.
Dammit, he’d used a condom and he’d have noticed if it had broken. The child couldn’t be his. Still, any fairly aware adult male knew that condoms sometimes failed. Was it three or five times out of a hundred? Either way, he couldn’t be absolutely sure he hadn’t fathered Delanie’s baby.
Then it hit him. Could this child be his grandfather’s? Was that why he’d left The Cedars to the girl’s mother?
The thought hit Mitchell with a slam of nausea, a cold shiver of revulsion bolting immediately through him. Delanie hadn’t really slept with his grandfather, had she? He’d spent the last month working with her, getting to know her as a person. On some level, he’d come to doubt his original opinion of her.
He was almost certain she wasn’t like that, after all.
Except here was her child. All of ten months old. And Donovan had left his half of The Cedars to Delanie.
Connie put the squirming child back on the floor, kissing the top of her head.
Delanie had slept with his grandfather?
An echo of rage and betrayal spiked through him, just as they had almost two years ago when he’d discovered who his lover was. His beautiful goddess with the pink-tipped breasts and skin the color of cream was the same woman from whose grips he had sought to disentangle his grandfather.
Only lately, he’d begun to believe he’d gotten it wrong before. As vibrant and tantalizing as she could be, he couldn’t visualize Delanie selling her body to an old man for financial gain.
Mitchell couldn’t tolerate the thought of his grandfather’s wizen hands on her. God, she couldn’t have done that. Slept with a man forty years older than she?
His thoughts racing, a new possibility sent a shaft of disgust through Mitchell as he stared down at the beautiful child patting his knee with enthusiasm.
Was the child some other man’s? After all, women—some women—had so many lovers they didn’t know who impregnated them.
He’d been Delanie’s lover for that one night. Welcoming him in like an awaited Sir Galahad, she’d lain with him and shown him heaven before she’d even told him her name.
If she’d made love to him so quickly, why not others?
Could the child actually be his? As jolting as the thought was, it seemed preferable to some other nameless man fathering Delanie’s child. Stupid. It was stupid to wish for that.
Blindly, Mitchell took the child’s hand and guided her over to a nearby chair. When she was steadied, he turned, sitting the bakery bag and flowers on a nearby table.
He had to get away, had to think before he saw Delanie again. With the doubt and dismay thundering through his brain, he didn’t know what he’d do if Delanie came out of her room now. He had no right to take her by the shoulders and shake her, no right to demand her to explain herself and her child.
He needed time to think, to calm himself down.
“Don’t bother waking Delanie,” he told the other woman in strangled voice. “I’ll talk to her later.”
Connie looked up from the baby, faint curiosity in her face. “Are you sure? Delanie came in late last night from taking care of the problems with the villa, but if you need to see her--”
“No,” he said too abruptly. “It can wait. Thank you.”
With one last look at the sweet golden-haired infant, he made himself turn and go.
******
Prey to a bewildering array of emotions an hour later, Mitchell stood by the window in his suite at The Cedars, his hand clenched on a fold of drapery. He’d passed from his first stunned reaction to discovering Delanie’s child and was now struggling—and failing—to consider the situation logically.
He kept remembering their first meeting, how she’d sent him up in flames with just her smoldering smile. What a sap he’d been. No smarter than when Melinda Jo had given up her virginity to him and his bank account.
Hadn’t he learned then? How stupid could one man be? Hadn’t his own mother teach him about women and money?
He felt sick thinking about it, sick at his own foolishness, his own blind hopes. Ripped apart from the inside and left exposed.
But she’d seemed so different. So loving. And yet, here he was again, facing a woman’s deceit.
Mitchell cursed the knot in his gut, struggling to disentangle his emotions from what he knew to be true. What did it matter that he had a sense that Delanie was a good woman? He had to strive for objectivity now instead of swinging blindly between denial and disappointment.
Rage and betrayal wouldn’t help him sort out the mess anymore than hiding his head in the sand. Focusing his thoughts into calmer channels with an iron will, he tried to examine the facts at hand. Delanie had had a relationship of some sort with his grandfather, had slept with Mitchell that one night---and she now had a child.
But if Donovan had impregnated Delanie and been aware of the fact, he’d have married her.
Mitchell knew his grandfather well enough to be certain of that. He’d been too honorable a man to consider leaving a child nameless in the world, despite the world’s growing tolerance of such behavior.
And if Delanie had been impregnated by Donovan Riese, surely she’d have told him. It made no sense for her not to have informed him.
God, the thought of it, of Donovan and Delanie! Mitchell heard the sound of fabric tearing. Opening his fisted hand and loosing the drape, he stared out the window unseeing.
Pushing aside his shudder of revulsion at the thought of his grandfather touching Delanie, Mitchell forced himself to consider whether or not the old man had been capable of siring a child. His health had been declining in the last few years due to a severe case of atherosclerosis.
Had Donovan even been capable of a sexual relationship? That he’d been emotionally attached to Delanie was obvious, but Mitchell couldn’t be sure the old man had retained the capacity to engage in the reproductive act.
If he had been sexually involved with her, however, and had believed Delanie’s child to be his, his grandfather would have married the woman. He would also have left the baby a major share of his estate which was considerably more than the half-interest in The Cedars he’d bequeathed Delanie.
There’d been no mention of the child in his will, either, which Mitchell would have expected. Of course, there was always the possibility that the old man had felt a loyalty to Mitchell and had divided his estate out of his feelings for his grandson, leaving The Cedars to Delanie to enable her to care for their child.
Mitchell shook his head as if to clear the circling thoughts. None of the scenarios added up. It just seemed as if the child had to be his own. Not Donovan’s or any other man’s.
Yet, of all Donovan’s holdings, why would he leave The Cedars to Delanie? The century-old resort had been tied closely to Donovan’s heart. Why would he give his mistress the very place his beloved wife had cherished most in the world?
It didn’t make sense. Not if Delanie had been his mistress.
She couldn’t have. Wouldn’t have slept with Donovan. Mitchell’s gut recoiled at the thought of her with any other man.
But he had to force himself to be realistic, not to let his swirling emotions dupe him further. Still trying to sort logically through the situation, Mitchell set aside his grandfather as Jenna’s father—
A sudden haunting picture interrupted his ruthless assessment. He remembered the baby’s bright smile and the way she’d crawled up to him, wrapping her hand around his finger, smiling up at him. She couldn’t belong to another man.
T
urning abruptly away from the window, Mitchell went to his grandfather’s desk and sat in the chair behind it.
He had to face it. It was most likely that the child had been fathered by one of Delanie’s other men. He, of all men, had ample proof that she hadn’t been faithful to her elderly admirer. Not if he looked at the situation realistically.
But if the child were born of one of her careless intrigues, it was none of his business, Mitchell told himself, aware of another irrational surge of anger.
Delanie’s reproductive irresponsibility with other men was no concern of his, even if she was promiscuous. She didn’t belong to him, no matter how he felt about it. They’d had great sex on two occasions now, but no vows had been exchanged. He wasn’t responsible for her or her progeny.
Since she had no commitment to him, he had no reason to reproach her for becoming pregnant with another man’s child.
And if the child were his? Out of every hundred condoms used, three to five failed. That added up to a fair number of babies.
A memory blossomed in Mitchell’s head. Delanie, her supple naked body mounted on his, her body clenching around him in pleasure. That first night, the first time almost two years ago when he’d stripped off her dress and uncovered the treasure of her ivory body…. She’d climaxed once, twice, and then he’d made love to her again.
Had he impregnated her that night and then, the next morning, cast her out? The thought made him shudder.
Shoving aside the twinge of guilt, he instead reminded himself of the deceit she was practicing on his grandfather. Never mind remembering her betrayal of himself.
If the child were his, he thought, his hand clenched on the telephone cord hanging off the desk, if the baby were his—
Huge blue eyes and wispy blond hair. That wide smile showing four tiny teeth. Could he actually have a child? His heart constricted at the thought.
No child of his would grow up fatherless. He thought of his own lonely childhood and picked up the phone, rapidly dialing the number of his New York office.
He had to know the truth.
“This is Mitchell Riese. Let me speak to Beecham,” he said into the phone.
Staring grimly ahead, he waited to be connected.
“Mr. Riese,” a voice at the other end said respectfully.
“Beecham, I’ve got work for you. I want this information immediately.”
It went without saying that the matter would remain confidential. Beecham’s agency had done work for him before.
“Yes, sir.”
“I need information on a Delanie Carlyle. She had a child ten months ago in the Boston area. I want to know the baby’s blood type. I, also, want personal information on Ms. Carlyle. Her lovers in the past two years, as well as current men she’s involved with.” He struggled to keep the wrath out of his voice, to sound as detached as possible, which was difficult with the rage that gripped him at the thought of her with another man.
“Sir?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, didn’t we do a check on this Ms. Carlyle for you several years ago?"
“Yes,” he admitted. “But I want to know about her life between then and now.”
“Of course, sir. Our previous contacts will help.”
A thought hit him, the phone still at his ear. “Also, dig into her family background. Find out when and how her father died. I want the circumstances.”
“Okay.”
Suddenly, everything Delanie had ever told him was suspect. She’d lied by omission in not telling him about the child and she’d stolen The Cedars from him. Despite how her lips felt beneath his, despite the seemingly brave way she faced the world, he couldn’t let himself trust her.
Even if the child were his, which he felt in his gut. Especially then.
“Also,” Mitchell said tersely, “I want to know if her medical records show any episodes of ‘disassociation’. Particularly check this about two years ago.”
“Disassociation? I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Amnesia,” he said briefly. “And Beecham?”
“Sir?”
“Immediately. Today.” He felt his pulse slowing marginally. One way or the other, he had to know about the child. Even if it killed him.
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
Mitchell dropped the receiver into its cradle, the brief relief engendered by his surge of action ebbing away. In this age of computer snooping, he’d have most of the information by the end of the day.
He stared into space, conscious of numbness where his heart had been this morning. All his emotions on hold until he could confirm that one tiny blue-eyed child was his own.
Beecham might take longer to find out about all her past, but the rest of the information lie tucked away in computer files waiting for men like Beecham to tap into it.
He needed to know if she were lying about her father’s death. About the amnesia after their last sexual encounter. Maybe the baby’s paternity couldn’t be completely determined by blood type, but if she’d lied about the amnesia, if there were no medical records of her so-called “disassociation”, then Mitchell knew to believe the worst of her.
Why that thought should draw at his breath like a slam in the gut, he didn’t want to consider. From the beginning, she’d seduced him with her smile, her laugh, her damned bright mind and her warm, open nature.
She’d succeeded where no other woman had. She’d caught his sympathy with her tragic tale of her father’s death, had drawn him out of his protective shield of doubt and made him begin to trust her. Made him feel like he could be important to her.
They’d made love last night like separated souls reunited. Intense and powerful, he’d never known that kind of union before.
Hell, the woman took a chunk of him every time he let her close enough to touch. It all came down to the money and the fact that he couldn’t trust her love.
Was Jenna his child?
CHAPTER NINE
All day, Mitchell dodged Delanie, not sure what to say to her, not wanting to take a step on uncertain ground. He felt strangely disconnected from everything and yet wavered indecisively every time he tried to come up with a plan.
To his disgust, he found himself swinging between hoping the child wasn’t his and wanting to strangle Delanie at the thought of her bearing another man’s child. Though, he couldn’t shake the irrational conviction that the child was his.
He checked in with Beecham’s office at noon and then again around five, but it wasn’t until almost seven that evening that the call came from New York.
“Sir?”
“Yes,” Mitchell said, dropping the towel he’d thrown around him when he stepped out of the shower.
“I don’t have all the answers, but I have most of it.”
“Go ahead,” Mitchell said, his heart lurching painfully.
“There’s no father listed on the child’s birth certificate. Jenna Elizabeth Carlyle. Born December the third of last year. Blood type 0 positive. Same as her mother.”
“Okay.” Completely inconclusive, Mitchell knew. Millions of people had the same type. His hope that Delanie’s child would possess a rare type had been small.
“That’s all on the child, sir. I did find out that Ms. Carlyle was hospitalized in the spring two years ago, but unfortunately I haven’t been able to access those files yet.”
Mitchell frowned into the phone. “You haven’t?”
“No, sir. But it’s just a matter of time.”
“What else do you have?”
“Well, sir, there are no men in her life.”
“What? None?”
“Not that I could find on short notice,” Beecham told him, “and I had operatives talk with two of her employees. If you remember, we gave you Ms. Carlyle’s early romantic liaisons in our first report two years ago.”
“I remember.”
Beecham paused, the sound of shuffling papers filtering through the connection. “According to her employees, she’s been like
a nun since then. Certainly no known man in her life since she had the child. From what I can tell it’s been all work and no play for Ms. Carlyle since then.”
“Her employees might be lying,” Mitchell suggested, although he knew Beecham’s operatives would have interrogated Delanie’s staff so subtly they’d never remembered being questioned.
“Yes, sir. I thought of that,” Beecham said. “But her neighbors in Boston say the same thing. No men. And we’ve accessed her credit card accounts. No hotel stays, no gifts of golf merchandise or men’s clothing.”
Mitchell waited, knowing in his heart that there had been no other man.
“Actually, sir. The child’s the only evidence that she’s had a man in her life for the last three years. Which seems odd because from our file photos, this Ms. Carlyle is a goodlooking woman.”
“Yes,” Mitchell said tersely. “You’re sure you’ve been thorough?”
“You know we’re the best, sir,” Beecham said, “or you wouldn’t be using our agency.”
“Yes.” So the child—Jenna—was his.
Mitchell stood rooted to the floor, a cacophony of reaction rioting inside him. Frustration, dismay and relief.
God. He had a child. A beautiful golden-haired baby daughter.
A lump formed in his throat.
“Keep searching,” he ordered, keeping his emotions tightly in control. “I want those hospital records and I want to know if she even shook hands with a man during the last two or three years.”
“Of course,” Beecham responded mechanically. “You mean, other than your grandfather?”
“Yes.” He could taste the bitterness on his tongue. But it didn’t matter. He would love Jenna whether she was his grandfather’s or his own. He knew that and still couldn’t dislodge the conviction that he was the man who fathered the child.
“What about Delanie’s past? Her father’s death?”
“Oh, yes. Her father died of a heart attack when she was eleven years old.”
“Was she with him at the time?” Mitchell asked, trying to keep the pathetically hopeful note out of his voice.