From Here To Paternity. Christine Rimmer
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he didn’t come.
Again she pressed it, this time in short bursts.
Apparently, big-shot bachelor lawyers didn’t get up at the crack of dawn on Saturdays like a lot of regular folks had to. Well, too bad. She shoved at that bell again, longer and harder and with more determination than ever.
That did it. Finally. He appeared in the entry, scowling and scratching his head, squinting at her through the glass of the door.
Charlene stood straighter and laid a protective hand on Mia’s back. The door swung open and he was standing there, droopy-eyed, barely awake, wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants—and nothing else.
His bronze-colored hair stuck out at all angles and there was a sleep mark on his cheek. He looked disgustingly sexy and manly and rumpled.
Not that she cared. She didn’t. Not in the least.
“Charlene,” he muttered in that warm, lazy, slightly rough voice of his. “What the hell?” He braced a lean arm on the door frame and looked her up and down through low-lidded eyes. “Never thought I’d see you come knocking at my door.”
She wasn’t letting him get to her. She spoke without emotion. “It’s important. Let me in.” And she didn’t wait for him to get out of the way, either, but just pushed right on past him into that handsome sky-lit foyer.
“What’s with the baby?” he asked from behind her. “I didn’t even know you were pregnant.”
“Ha-ha.” She cradled Mia all the more tenderly as she turned to look into those fine hazel eyes. “We need to talk.”
He scratched his head again and snorted. “I’m dreaming, right? In real life, you haven’t spoken to me in ten years.”
“This is no dream,” she told him smartly, “and you’d better believe it’s not.”
“Whoa,” he said, with far too much good humor. “So, then. Coffee?”
She longed to inform him that she wanted nothing from him, ever. Under any circumstances. But that would be a lie, since she did want something. She wanted him to admit he’d had sex with her sister.
That he’d fathered the sweet child she held in her arms….
She realized she was staring blindly into space when he waved a hand in front of her face. “Charlene. You in there?”
She blinked and focused on the rat in front of her. “Yes. Of course.”
“Well, then? Coffee?”
“Yes. Coffee. Fine.”
In his huge kitchen, with its top-of-the-line appliances and endless expanses of granite counters, she took a seat at the table, lifting the baby a little higher on her shoulder as she lowered herself to a chair.
He ground coffee and put water in the coffeemaker and slid the pot in place beneath the brewing spout. She said nothing, only waited, until he pushed the brew button and turned to her, leaning back against the counter, folding those big arms of his over his gorgeous bare chest. “Okay. What’s up?”
She supported the baby on one arm as she lifted her hip and slid Sissy’s note from the front pocket of her jeans.
“What’s that?” He looked at her from under his golden brows—not suspicious, exactly, but not eager, either.
“See for yourself.” She dropped the folded square of paper on the table and slapped her palm on it. “There you go.”
He watched her for a moment, as if seeking some clue to what might be going on inside her head. Then he shrugged and pushed himself away from the counter.
She listened to the coffeemaker gurgle and drip as he unfolded the paper and stared at the words scrawled there. He stared at them for a long time.
Charlene waited, saying nothing, shifting Mia to her other shoulder, smoothing her blanket, gently rubbing her little back.
Finally he looked up. He shook his head. And then he yanked out the nearest chair and plunked himself in it. He threw the note on the table. “No way. I never touched your sister. I am not the father of that kid.”
Charlene glared at him. He glared back at her.
Finally she said wearily, “Now, why did I just know you’d say that?”
He shifted, drawing his bare feet under the chair, leaning his muscular torso her way. “Because it’s true? Because, in spite of how much you hate my guts, you know I’m an honest man who doesn’t have sex with screwed-up teenagers—and that means you know that baby isn’t mine?”
Okay, he had a point. Whatever she might think of him, she’d never doubted his honesty. Not until right now.
She said, “There’s no reason for her to accuse you—unless it’s true.”
He leaned back in the chair. “Come on, Charlene. Get real. It’s not as if your crazy little sister needs a reason to do the insane stuff she does.”
She refused to reply to that. If she did, she knew she would screech at him and call him terrible names. How dare he say that about Sissy?
Even if it did happen to be true.
He glanced away, his hand on the table tightening to a fist. She watched him control himself. When he spoke again, it was softly. Carefully. “Okay. I shouldn’t have said that. I realize your sister’s a sensitive subject with you.”
Sensitive didn’t even begin to cover it. She’d always felt so guilty about the way Sissy got sent away after their parents died. She’d fought and fought hard to keep Sissy with her. But she’d been eighteen and single. And the judge had been the kind who thought a nine-year-old would be better off in a two-parent home.
If Brand had only—
But no.
There was no point in going there. That was then and it was over. They needed to talk about what to do now. Still, she couldn’t resist getting on him about the more-recent past. “You should never have hired her to work for you last year.”
He looked at the note again, touched the edge of it, pulled his hand away quickly. “I was only trying to help.”
She stared at him dead-on and refused to say another word to him until he lifted that golden head and met her eyes. Then she instructed, slowly and clearly, “Do me a favor. Don’t help. Ever.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Charlene. I know you want to believe the worst of me, but—”
“That’s not true!” She said it much too fast and much too loud, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him. Mia stirred and whimpered.
Brand only shook his head.
Something about that, about the simple denial in the movement, got her fury building again. It would accomplish nothing to start screaming at him. Still, she burned to give him a giant-size piece of her mind.
Mia whimpered some more.
Poor little thing. She was probably picking up on the tension Charlene was trying so hard to control.
“Shh. It’s okay, honey,” Charlene whispered, not looking at Brand, trying to think peaceful thoughts, rocking the baby gently back and forth, rubbing her tiny, warm back. “It’s okay….”
Mia sighed and snuggled close again, going loose and limp once more.
The coffeemaker gave a final sputter. Brand rose, went to the counter, filled a pair of mugs and returned to the table. He slid one mug toward her as he sipped from the other.
She ignored the coffee and challenged in a voice she somehow managed to keep low and calm, “So. That’s your story, huh? You’re insisting this baby isn’t yours.”
“It’s not a story. It’s the truth. That