The Baby Bet: His Secret Son. Joan Elliott Pickart
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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 had shattered the hopes and dreams of Sally Malone.
Clara was slouched in one of the chairs, her head rocking back and forth.
“Not fair,” she said, her eyes beginning to close. “All those children. Big family. Loving him, jumping at his command, thinking he’s so wonderful. The mighty and powerful Robert of MacAllister Architects, Incorporated. So many people loving him. Not fair. I’m all alone…all alone…always alone.
“No, no, no, this isn’t about me. I’m finally telling you who he is for you. You, Andrew. Make him pay for what he did to you and Sally. Make…him…pay…for…” Clara’s head dropped forward and she fell asleep, her legs sprawled in an unlady-like fashion.
A bark of laughter escaped Andrew’s lips, a rough, bitter-edged sound.
MacAllister Architects, Incorporated? he thought incredulously. He’d built more than one project following plans drawn by them for the contracting out-fit. MacAllister Architects was a top-of-the-line company, highly respected and sought after.
Just as Malone Construction was.
Hey, hey, what a team they were. MacAllister Architects drew up the plans, and Malone Construction built the dynamite structure with perfection.
Oh, hell, yes, what a dynamic duo they were. Two pieces of a puzzle coming together, each with their hard-earned expertise.
The father. The son.
The son of Sally Malone, who had been swept off her feet by a young Robert MacAllister, given him her heart and her innocence, then was abandoned as though she never existed when she discovered she was carrying his child.
Andrew crushed the newspaper into a jagged ball and threw it across the room.
Well, he fumed, Sally Malone had existed, had mattered, had been a warm, loving, wonderful human being, the best mother any child could ask for.
He wanted nothing from Robert MacAllister for himself. Not a damn thing.
But for his mother?
Robert was going to stand before that large family, who no doubt worshiped the ground he walked on, and tell them what he’d done so many years before.
Robert was going to acknowledge that Sally had been a living, breathing person, who had deserved far better than what MacAllister had done to her.
Robert was going to be made to own up to what he had done forty years ago and admit that he had been wrong, a heartless uncaring slug, who had walked away from the responsibilities resulting from his reckless actions.
Robert MacAllister was going to reveal his feet of clay to the entire MacAllister family.
“Clara,” Andrew said gruffly, “wake up. Wake up, damn it.”
Clara’s head snapped upward and she opened her eyes. She blinked several times, straightened in the chair, then smoothed the skirt of her suit.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” she said. “I was just resting my eyes, giving you a chance to come to grips with what you’ve just learned.”
“Yeah, right,” Andrew said. “I hope you came here in a taxi, that you weren’t driving your car.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Clara said, holding one hand out before her and examining her nails, “I didn’t feel like dealing with traffic, so I called a limo service. I don’t use smelly taxis. I prefer a private company. My driver is waiting across the street.”
“Fine, then go home.”
Clara looked up at her nephew. “Not until you tell me what you plan to do about Robert MacAllister. I broke my promise, my vow of silence, that I made to my poor dear sister. I did it on your behalf, Andrew. I put your needs before my own guilt for revealing the identity of your father.
“The least you can do is inform me what steps you plan to take to obtain what is due you from Robert MacAllister.”
“Your mind is so twisted by booze, Clara,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear what you were saying when you were off on your tangent? You’ve got some sick idea that if MacAllister acknowledges me as his son, then you’ll be welcomed into the MacAllister fold.
“You won’t be alone anymore. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re scared to death of being old and alone, with no one to love you. You brought that newspaper over here tonight for your own selfish reasons, Clara, for what you hoped to gain for yourself.”
Clara got to her feet, swaying unsteadily for a moment.
“How dare you speak to me like that? Who took you in when Sally died and you were fifteen years old? Who put a roof over your head? Fed you when you ate more than three grown men at every meal?
“You would have been in foster care if it hadn’t been for me, Andrew Malone. You owe me. Are you listening? You owe me.
“MacAllister won’t be able to deny that you’re his son. When you become a member of that enormous family, you will take me with you. Do you understand? Do you?”
“I don’t want anything to do with MacAllister’s family!” Andrew yelled. “There’s only one thing I intend to get from that man. One thing.”
“What is it?”
“It’s none of your business, Clara.”
“Money? No, that doesn’t make sense. You have tons of money. His name? Yes, of course. You want to be recognized as a MacAllister, reap the rewards of his power, his status in society.”
“Oh, Clara, give it a rest,” Andrew said wearily. “You just don’t get it. I’m Sally Malone’s son and I’m very proud to be able to say that. I’m a Malone, will always be a Malone. What I want from MacAllister is for my mother and…Ah, hell, forget it.”
“Your mother is dead!” Clara hollered. “What can MacAllister possibly do for her now? You’ve got to think of yourself, and think of me. Look at that photograph again, Andrew. We deserve to be included in that group. We’re part of that family, don’t you see?”
“Clara, please, just go,” Andrew said quietly. “I need to be alone. I have to think about all of this. Go home. Get some rest, something to eat. Don’t drink any more tonight, either.”
“Yes,