The Biological Bond. Jamie Denton
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such a thing could have happened, but she didn’t want to pass judgment on anyone at this point.
The shock she’d been feeling since Sam made the purpose of his visit known had finally worn off. She’d been fighting against the tears ever since, refusing to unleash the pain and silence of the past. Once again tears burned the backs of her eyes. She wanted to give in, but she couldn’t. Too many years of conditioning prevented her from releasing the pent-up emotions.
The waiting was killing her. She had a schedule to rearrange and cases to farm out if her plan worked. Since her conversation with Victor, she’d spent more than a few moments wondering if he was right. Perhaps she should just do whatever was required medically and leave well enough alone.
If only Winslow would call, she could set the wheels in motion. For a brief instant she wondered what her father would say if he knew what she had planned. She shook her head. Silence would serve as her protection against Justice Martinson’s wrath. She’d made the mistake of trusting him once. This was one secret she wouldn’t reveal to anyone—especially her father.
The telephone on the edge of her desk rang, and she jumped. This was it. Since returning from her court appearance earlier that afternoon, she’d instructed Laura no calls unless it was Sam Winslow.
She stared at the phone as it rang a second time. What if he didn’t agree? She didn’t think he would turn her down—he’d told her she was needed.
The phone rang a third time and she reached for it. “Rebecca Martinson.”
“This is Sam Winslow.” His deep voice filtered through the phone lines. She didn’t have to see him to know his lips were probably drawn in that everpresent tight line.
“We have the results. How soon can you check into the hospital?”
Despite the hint of relief in his voice, his words were still clipped and somewhat brusque. Rebecca wondered what his reaction would be when she told him what she wanted. She didn’t care what Sam Winslow thought of her. Nothing was important now except that she have the chance to save her daughter’s life, and convince her daughter’s father that she be allowed to spend a few days with the girl.
She took a deep breath and gathered her courage. “Mr. Winslow, I’d like to discuss this with you further. Where are you staying?”
Silence.
She bit her lip, waiting. Hoping.
After a moment he rattled off the address to his hotel, which she jotted down. She checked her watch. “I’ll be there within the hour,” she said, and hung up the phone.
Bracing her hands on the edge of her desk, she hung her head for a moment and said a quick prayer of thanks. She really wasn’t much of a religious person, but since she’d made her decision, she’d recited every prayer she remembered.
SAM FACED THE WINDOW overlooking the rear parking lot of the hotel, waiting. He glanced at his watch again for the fifth time. She would be arriving any moment now. He scowled.
A sleek, black, foreign sports car pulled into the parking lot, and he watched its slow progress across the asphalt. Instinct told him it was her.
The car slid into the parking slot two floors below. He held his breath, a part of him hoping she wouldn’t come. Seconds later she slipped from the car.
She looked cool, despite the hot August evening, her white linen suit unrumpled even in the sweltering heat. Her rich dark hair was pulled back and fancily secured so it hung halfway down her back. There was no denying where Mel’s beauty came from—her birth mother.
He stepped away from the window when she turned and headed toward the luxury hotel. Rebecca Martinson may be intelligent, a hot-shot lawyer, according to the report the investigator provided him with, and beyond beautiful, but he knew her type all too well. According to the investigator, Mel’s birth mother had a pedigree to rival royalty.
Rebecca Martinson’s father was a State Supreme Court Justice, her grandfather had been a United States Senator, brutally assassinated. As for Mel’s maternal grandmother, she was simply one more cardiologist in a long line of top medical practitioners in the country.
As painful as the subject was, he couldn’t help wondering about Mel’s biological father. The investigator had been evasive in his answers on that score, and had provided nothing by way of solid information. Was Mel’s natural father the son of a servant the mighty Martinson family had been ashamed of? Or was he someone high on the “A” list anxious to avoid scandal? Or was it something as simple as the fact that Rebecca hadn’t been more than a child herself?
A knock on the door interrupted his train of thought. She wanted to talk. His gut said she wanted something. He could feel it just as sure as he could feel the cool breezes from the plains where he grew up, and it filled him with a deep sense of dread.
She knocked again, and he opened the door. Standing in the hallway, she was no longer the self-assured attorney he’d first glimpsed. Now she was nervous, almost as nervous as he was about this meeting.
“Hi,” she said quietly when she stepped into the room.
“I’d offer you a drink, Ms. Martinson, but this isn’t a social call. What do you want?”
He knew he was being hard, but dammit, he didn’t like feeling threatened. And Rebecca Martinson was a threat of the worst possible kind. She didn’t have a legal right to demand squat. Emotionally, well, that was an entirely different situation.
She set her purse on the cream sofa, and he couldn’t help noticing how her hands trembled. She started to remove her lightweight linen blazer, then changed her mind and pulled it back around her, shoving her hands in the side pockets.
She cleared her throat, her gaze darting around the suite. He remained by the closed door and crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her, whatever the hell it was she wanted from him.
“Mr. Winslow, I would like the chance to get to know my dau—to get to know Melanie.”
Anger, pure and hot, flared through him. He should have expected something like this. His visit had more than likely stirred some dormant maternal instinct. Well, she could forget it. He wasn’t going to risk losing his daughter to appease the woman who’d given her up in the first place.
“I don’t think so, Ms. Martinson.” He swung around and opened the door. “You can leave now.”
“Hear me out. Please.”
The pleading in her voice startled him. God, she even sounded like Mel.
He slammed the door, and she flinched. Good, let her be frightened. Because if she so much as tried to take his daughter away from him, he’d hunt her down and…
“I just want a chance to meet her and get to know her.” Her voice was whisper soft, not at all the forceful personality he’d encountered in his two previous conversations with her.
“No.” Cold and blunt, but the point was the same. No way in hell, lady.
Dark, finely arched brows drew together in a sleek line over bright-green eyes. “What harm can there possibly be in me at least meeting her?”
“What harm?” he roared. “Lady, are you nuts?”
“Obviously,” she muttered, and turned away.
He strode across the room until he was standing directly in front of her, giving her no choice but to look up at him. A small power play, but he wasn’t above using his own physical advantages at a time like this. He simply had too much to lose.
“Do you know what kind of shock it’d give her? What do I say? ‘Mel, this is your birth mother. She wants to get to know you,”’ he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “No!”
Much to his amazement she didn’t back down or cower. Frustration flashed in her eyes and, if he wasn’t fighting for his daughter’s life, he might have found her gumption just