Revealed: His Secret Child

by Sandra Hyatt

  Gillian held her breath. What would Max say to that? Because for him it really had come out of nowhere, approximately twelve hours ago. How much would he tell his brother?

  “If Ethan didn’t look so much like you and Dylan at the same age…” Carter said.

  Dylan? Gillian frowned. She mentally reviewed the names of the siblings Max had given her. There’d been no mention of a Dylan in the family. Perhaps a cousin?

  “But he does look like me, exactly like me, so let’s drop this.” His tone had changed again, the warning edge back and sharper than before.

  She didn’t want to be the cause of disharmony between the brothers. Gillian backed up a step or two and let her heels click on the stairs as she walked down and past the office door on her way to the living room. Max and Carter entered a few seconds after her.

  Stephen offered her a drink but Gillian declined. “I know it’s early but it’s been a long day. I think I’ll go to bed, too.” She’d go to bed and hopefully be sound asleep before Max came up.

  “Of course,” said Jake, smiling, who then looked at Max. “It’s your wedding night. I guess you’ll both be wanting an early night.”

  Max rested his hand on Gillian’s shoulder and she almost jumped at the touch. Her nerves were strung so tight she’d be lucky if she slept at all tonight. His hand firmed, his thumb rubbed at the tense muscle beneath it and a knowing gleam lit his eyes as he looked at her. “Yeah. We’ll both say good-night.” If she didn’t know better she could almost believe… She mentally shook her head. She did know better.

  They left the room together. Walked up the stairs side by side. Without the distraction of Ethan’s presence to divert attention from where they were going, or disguise the tension between them, the silence felt fraught. They entered the room they were to spend the night in.

  Alone together.

  In bed.

  Gillian racked her brain for something to say. Something to break that silence. Could she ask about Dylan? It would be a distraction but not, she guessed, a welcome one. Plus it would reveal that she had overheard his conversation with his brother. And she didn’t want him thinking she’d been eavesdropping. Even though, she admitted, she had been.

  “You take the first shower,” Max said. “I’ve got some things I need to do.” Okay, she didn’t need to worry about providing a distraction. He crossed to the bag he’d brought from the jet, pulled out a laptop and, dropping on to the bed, stretched out his legs, opened the computer and started tapping at keys. “We’ll head back to Vista del Mar straight after breakfast tomorrow,” he said without so much as looking up.

  Relief that he was suddenly all business welled. Relief and a flicker of…was it disappointment?

  Gillian showered and changed into her pajamas—the only proper nightwear she had—taking as much time as she could, but eventually she had no option left but to take a deep breath and walk back out into the bedroom. And see what happened next. How would he be? Remote was good, she decided. Remote was safe.

  Ready to meet Max’s cool gaze with distant one of her own, she stopped short when she saw him. He sat on the broad bed, propped up against the pillows, his laptop open on his lap but his head tipped back and his eyes closed. She permitted herself this unguarded moment to study him. Asleep he looked even more like Ethan, his dark lashes kissing his high cheekbones, his face softened. Asleep was even safer than remote.

  Except that watching him like this made something tender within her soften in response. The unfastened top buttons of his shirt revealed a deep vee of skin.

  Gillian tiptoed to the far side of the bed and lifted the covers up just enough that she could slip beneath them, pulling the crisp sheets up to her chin. She lay straight, arms by her sides, and only then chanced a glance at Max.

  His eyes were only half-closed now and a small smile played about his lips. “What?” she demanded.

  “Frightened of waking me?”

  “No,” she lied.

  His smile vanished and a glimmer lit his eyes. The trouble was he knew her too well. He’d always been able to read her.

  Before, that hadn’t been a problem.

  He closed his laptop and stood. For long seconds he considered her. And in complete contrast to his ability to read her, Gillian had no idea whatsoever what he was thinking. Finally, he crossed to the bathroom and stopped. Turning off the bedroom light, he stood silhouetted by the light from the bathroom. Broad shoulders, lean hips. “Nice pj’s, by the way,” he said, before pulling the door shut behind him.

  Nice pj’s? Way to show her maturity. Lemon-yellow with dancing bears. Ethan had helped her choose them. Still, it was surely better than the skimpy, silky nightwear Max had so enjoyed her wearing previously.

  She lay in bed trying to sleep, but instead fixated on the sounds of Max, the running of the tap as he brushed his teeth, the rush of water as he showered. She remembered his routines. Tried to stop herself visualizing.

  The scent of him, clean and male, as he slipped into bed beside her in the darkened room, was tantalizingly familiar and brought back memories all of its own.

  He never used to wear anything to bed. Please let that have changed. Please let him be wearing a lovely thick pair of blue striped flannel pajamas. And woolly socks. She didn’t want an accidentally outstretched hand in the night to encounter the warmth of his bare skin. She folded her arms across her chest, crossed her legs at the ankles, and held herself still, aware of every breath in the darkness.

  “Good night, Gillian.” His voice was low and seductive.

  “Good night.” Hers was little better than a squeak. It was going to be a long night.

  A long night for her at least. But apparently not for him. Within minutes Max’s breathing slowed and deepened. Asleep already? Was he completely unaffected by her presence, her nearness? She should be grateful but it was almost…insulting.

  She rolled onto her side, presenting her back to him as she readjusted her pillow. Sleep would come eventually but it wouldn’t be anytime soon. Not for her.

  Somewhere in the small hours of the night, a whimpering voice calling “Mommy” woke her. She climbed from the bed and hurried through to Ethan’s room, sitting on the side of his bed to stroke his head and reassure him. He wasn’t even fully awake, he’d been calling out from the depths of a dream, and her voice and touch were enough to settle him back to a calmer sleep. If only it was that easy for her. Reluctantly, she rose to return to the other bedroom and froze.

  Max stood blocking the doorway.

  Boxers.

  The dim, orange illumination of Ethan’s night-light was enough to show her that. Dark boxers. And an unfortunate expanse of contoured chest and torso. Muscle and skin. Shadows and light.

  “He’s okay?” he asked.

  “Fine.” She walked slowly toward him, stopping in front of him. Near enough to feel his warmth.

  “Does he do that often?”

  She glanced back at Ethan. “Occasionally.”

  Max hesitated. “Was it hard?” he asked softly. “Doing it all on your own?” He lifted his hand and brushed a lock of her hair back behind her ear. Fingertips skimming her jaw. The gesture tender and almost intimate. She could want that touch. If she let herself.

  Gillian swallowed. “It wasn’t easy.”

  “Did you ever think of calling me?” His hand came to rest on her shoulder. As though he, too, wanted this simple connection to last.

  “Yes.” Every day. Sometimes every hour. “But you didn’t want this.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  “It was lonely sometimes.” She’d never admitted that to anyone; she’d wanted to cope perfectly, thought that would validate her decision. But it hadn’t stopped her thinking of him, missing him.

  “There’s been no one else?”

  Did she imagine a slight tension in that hand on her shoulder? “No.” There had been neither the time nor the inclination. She’d devoted all her energies to her son and her job. And after the bewil
derment and pain she’d endured at the end of her relationship with Max, his unceremonious dumping of her, she’d not even had any desire to go back to the potential hurt, not to mention the complications of a relationship. The loneliness was a small price to pay to protect her son and her heart. But beneath it all she’d missed Max. Missed having him to share the moments like this with.

  “You’ve done a good job. He’s a great kid.”

  The compliment, the shared pride, warmed her. “Thank you, though I don’t know how much credit I can take. He came out good. Settled and happy from the beginning. I was lucky.”

  “I’d say that part came from you.” His hand shifted on her shoulder, warm and firm.

  “Maybe. But his determination to do things his own way, I think that came from you.”

  She caught the gleam of white teeth as his lips eased into a smile. Exactly the kind of shared moment she’d never had.

  “Will you get back to sleep okay? You weren’t always good at that.” The question was harmless but his voice low and warm wrapped itself around her in the same way his hand curved around her neck.

  Too clearly, she remembered the best way Max had discovered for helping her achieve the boneless completion that led to sleep. “I’ve gotten better with practice.” What she clearly hadn’t gotten better at was controlling her reaction to this man. Even now, when she should know better she wanted to reach out, just to touch her fingers to his chest, to see if he felt like he used to, a pleasure to her senses. Solid and warm…male.

  The air seemed to shimmer and hum between them. Drawn to him, she leaned closer. She shouldn’t want his touch, shouldn’t want his arms around her. But he was the father of her child, and she had shared more of herself with this man than any other person.

  In the dim light, his gaze dipped to her lips. She held her breath, her heartbeat heavy in her chest. Time stretched.

  He took a sudden step back and turned from her.

  Six

  Max woke, knowing something was different. He turned his head and saw that difference sleeping beside him. Gillian.

  He had a wife.

  In his bed.

  Breathing softly. Her lips full and rosy. Lips he’d kissed yesterday. Lips he’d kissed three years ago. Lips he’d kissed in his dreams.

  During the night, she’d moved closer to the center. And so, somehow, had he. She lay on her side, facing him, within easy touching distance. Her chestnut hair spilled over her pillow, one lock sweeping across her pale cheek. A storm surge of erotic memories and unwanted desire rushed through him.

  His weakness for her dismayed him. By rights he should still be furious, but he couldn’t quite hold on to the anger. Maybe because he also didn’t seem able to rein in his attraction for her. Worse, he knew she still felt it, too. Though she did her best to hide it. The awareness, the remembered desire, had passed between them in the quiet stillness last night.

  He didn’t want to want her. And he wasn’t going to be the first to admit or give in to that wanting. That was why he’d turned from her last night when instinct had screamed otherwise.

  But that was then. This was now. She was close and warm and soft. He curled his hands into fists before they reached to stroke that lock of hair from her cheek. “Morning.” He made the word gruff. Waking her so that he wouldn’t be the one lying here thinking about her touch, about the feel of her beneath him.

  Slowly, her eyes opened, then widened farther as the first shock of seeing him registered. Her lush lips parted. Again, unable to stop the recollections, he remembered what those lips could do, the pleasure they could bring.

  Time hung suspended.

  She sucked in a breath, snapped her jaw shut and scooted to the far side of the bed, rolling on to her back and sitting up a little against the pillows. Avoiding his gaze, she looked around the room. “So what happens now?” she asked, all brisk and businesslike.

  Despite his intentions the wrong answer slid into his mind. Along with the awareness that just because he wasn’t going to let her anywhere near his heart didn’t mean their bodies had to miss out.

  Neither of them might be ready to admit or explore the possibilities between them just yet. But they were married now and would be spending a lot of time, a lot of nights, together.

  Her proximity sent a renewed surge of desire sweeping through him. He wouldn’t allow it. Not now. “What time does Ethan wake?”

  Gillian glanced at the bedside clock. “Anytime now.”

  “In that case, we get up and dressed so we can get on the road back to Vista del Mar as soon as possible.”

  She nodded, still not looking at him. “Dibs on the bathroom?”

  “It’s all yours.”

  Eager to put distance between them, she slid from beneath the covers and stood in her dancing bear pajamas, her hair disheveled and falling softly over her shoulders. A soft tap sounded on the door. “Room service,” Jake called through the door. “You two decent?”

  “Give us a moment,” Max called. “Get back into bed,” he whispered to Gillian, who stood at the side of the bed as though frozen to the spot.

  She slipped once more between the sheets, sitting back against the pillows on the very edge of the bed. Max shook his head. “Closer to me. And completely beneath the covers.”

  “He’ll think I haven’t got anything on.”

  “That’s the general idea. Sure as heck beats him seeing the dancing bears and knowing we didn’t make love on our wedding night.”

  She edged closer till she was almost touching him. Max closed the little remaining distance till her side pressed along his. The soft yellow fabric of her pajamas didn’t provide anywhere near the barrier it ought. “It’s still not right,” he whispered. “You look like a nun. Undo the first couple of buttons and slip your shoulders from your top.”

  “But—”

  “Just do it.”

  She bit her lip and wriggled around beneath the sheet, finally settling the covers back into place with just a glimpse of the tops of her bare, pale shoulders showing. Warmth. Heat. Desire. And it was only a glimpse of shoulder.

  The part of him that was no better than a teenager governed by hormones wanted Jake in Timbuktu and that top and those bottoms off her completely.

  But, he reminded himself, he wasn’t a teenager. He was a grown man, in control of his choices and his actions. Even if he wasn’t totally in control of all of his body parts. Thank goodness for the thick comforter on the bed. “Come in,” he called.

  Jake pushed open the door and stepped in carrying a laden tray. “Not looking at anything,” he said, his gaze averted. “Mom wanted me to bring this up. Don’t blame me. I told her it was a bad idea but she insisted.”

  “Tell her thanks, but she shouldn’t have,” Max said with feeling. “And for goodness’ sakes, look where you’re going before you walk through Gillian’s underwear strewn about the floor.”

  “It’s not!”

  He slipped an arm around her rigid shoulder, his hand resting half on flannel and half on bare skin. And if it hadn’t been for the distraction and presence of his brother he could almost have been undone. It had been too long since he’d had a woman. Too long since he’d had this woman.

  Jake finally glanced their way and set the tray down on the nearest bedside table. “Just acting on my orders. Your orders, on the other hand, are to enjoy your breakfast and take your time coming down. Ethan’s already up and having breakfast. We’ll look after him and bring him to you if he wants you.”

  Max wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Gillian tensed even further beneath his touch. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Her son was her buffer between them, her excuse to divert her attention. If he was happily ensconced with his uncles and grandparents she had no excuses left.

  “I’m only the messenger.” Jake held his hands up, palms facing them. He backed from the room. “Enjoy. And, barring emergencies, I promise no more interruptions.” He winked at them before pulling the do
or shut behind him.

  Gillian wriggled her arms and shoulders fully back into her pajama top at the same time as she scooted away from him. Any farther and she’d fall off the edge.

  He wanted her back.

  “So now what?” she asked.

  Max glanced at the tray. “Now, coffee or OJ, and eggs benedict by the look of it.”

  “Really?”

  “Mom asked me last night what your favorite breakfast was.”

  “You remembered?”

  “It’s not a big deal.” Was it a sign of weakness that he remembered so very much more about her than her favorite breakfast? That though he told himself he’d wiped her from his life and his mind, he clearly hadn’t?

  “Thank you.”

  He poured two cups of coffee from the silver coffeepot, and once she’d levered herself to sitting, handed her one.

  They ate in silence. She’d always been comfortable with his silences, not feeling the need to fill a void. She was easy to be with in that way.

  From the corner of his eye he watched her cut delicate portions of her breakfast and chew slowly. A crumb from her English muffin fell down the vee of her top. She pulled the top out from her chest and fished for it. Too late, Max returned his attention to his own breakfast. He’d seen the luscious swell of breast, glimpsed a darkened peak. And his body had responded. Fiercely.

  He’d dated a few women since Gillian. Had let none of the relationships become serious. Had let none of them get to the point of sharing breakfast in bed. But breakfast in bed was something of a Preston family tradition, as evidenced by this morning’s room service. And he’d occasionally done the same for Gillian in their time together. Bringing her breakfast, which they’d eaten sitting in bed, occasionally reading the paper, but more often following up the meal with long lazy lovemaking.

  Definitely the paper today. They had to kill at least forty minutes up here, if not longer, in order not to raise his family’s suspicions. He finished his eggs, reached for the newspaper, pulled off the sports section for himself and put the remaining paper on the bed between them. True to form, she reached for the section containing the comics and puzzles. She folded it to reveal the crossword and pulled a pen from her bag on the floor.