Return of the Secret Heir. Rachel Bailey
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wrenched her mouth away. “JT, I’m not doing this again,” she said breathlessly.
“Sure you are,” he said on a smile and lowered his mouth again.
She placed her hands on his chest, her features resolute. “No, JT, I’m not.”
Body screaming its protest, he drew in a lungful of air and released her. Then he took a step back and shoved his hands into his pockets to stop them reaching for her, seducing her into kissing him again. She’d said no.
When he had control, he thought back over her words. “Not doing what again?”
“This.” She waved a hand back and forth between them. “Getting involved.”
Involved? That’s where she thought he was going with this? He sobered. “Oh, princess, it’d be a cold day in hell before we got involved again.”
Her body stiffened. “Then don’t kiss me.”
“I like kissing you.” In truth, he’d like to do a whole lot more. For fourteen years, his memories of making love to Pia had been enveloped in a golden glow, no matter how hard he tried to stamp them out. He knew it was because she’d been his first love, but knowing wasn’t enough to fix the problem.
Now they’d stumbled across each other, maybe they should make love one more time—put their past into context and take the romantic luster from his memories. He could prove to himself she was just like any other woman. He could move on.
Although that didn’t seem like a plan she’d agree to from the annoyance on her face.
“I need a glass of water,” she said and walked away.
The curtains twitched and he looked up to find a large white cat with black patches gazing at him with feline disdain. Seemed he was striking out with all the residents of the apartment tonight.
He followed her into an adjacent kitchen of steel and chrome with white benches, and waited to see if she’d offer him a glass as well. He wouldn’t be surprised either way because adult Pia was a mass of mixed signals—reluctant to meet him and not letting him sit down in her living room, but kissing him like the world was about to end.
The ingrained hostess training that all the Baxter girls had been given won out—she poured him a glass from a jug in the fridge.
“Or would you like something stronger?” she asked.
“Water’s good.” He accepted the glass, took a drink, then put it on the counter. He gazed at Pia as she sipped hers and shook his head. “Look at us, standing in your kitchen, drinking water. JT and Pia fourteen years later.”
It wasn’t how he’d imagined their future back then. Factor in a brood of kids, a house with a yard, Pia a famous fashion designer and it’d be closer to the truth. Of course it probably would never have gotten that far—at the first sign of trouble she’d abandoned him, ripping his heart from his chest in the process, so better it had happened when it did than once they had a mortgage and three or four children. He’d never forget that when the going had gotten tough, she’d cut and run without a backward glance at him.
He’d dodged a bullet that day and he’d made damn sure never to get himself in the firing line again. He would never open himself to a woman—especially not this one.
Pia put her glass in the sink, then without meeting his eyes, she asked, “When did you start believing Warner was your father?”
JT leaned back on the counter behind him and sank his hands into his pockets. Probably much better to talk about this than where his mind had been going. “When his death appeared in the papers.”
“Your mother told you?” Genuine interest and concern filled her eyes. Pia and his mother had been close—she said she’d been able to talk to his mother in a way she never could with her own. And his mother, who’d always wanted a daughter, had been thrilled when she’d thought she was getting Pia for a daughter-in-law. From the little his mother told him, they still met occasionally for lunch, but details had been kept from him; he knew it was to protect him and had left it at that.
He dipped his chin in a short nod. “She’d been scared of him.”
Pia flinched. “She was hiding?”
He clenched his fists in his pockets. As a child, he’d thought his mother liked moving around, but in his teens he’d begun to suspect she was running from someone or something. Seemed he’d been right. “She was in the Bramson Holdings secretarial pool. They had an affair. He thought it was merely convenient. She was in love.”
“Oh, poor Theresa.” Pia’s eyes glistened with the sympathy his mother deserved. This was the first time he’d repeated what his mother had told him—besides the few dry details to his attorney—and it felt good to have someone react the same way.
“She fell pregnant, and when she told him, he said he was already engaged and nothing would get in the way of that wedding.” His jaw hardened, making it difficult to get the words out. “He told her to get an abortion.”
Her face paled. “She didn’t want one?”
“Apparently not, but Warner told her there would be consequences if she didn’t.” His throat was suddenly dry, and Pia pressed his glass of water into his hands. He frowned—he hadn’t noticed her pick it up—but took the glass and drank deeply.
When he handed the empty glass back, Pia asked gently, “Did she talk to Warner?”
He shook his head. “She went home, packed and ran.”
“That’s why you were always changing schools.” Pia moved closer, laid a hand on his arm, bringing all her softness and warmth to him. And without thinking, he took what she offered, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close.
“You know, she never let on that she was scared—she made it feel like we were exploring new places all the time.” He still couldn’t believe his mother had been able to keep up that cover story to her own son for so long. He absently ran his thumb in circles on Pia’s hip.
“So why were you so close to Manhattan when we met?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper. “You’d lived all over the country—why come close to Warner again?”
He shrugged. “She said she thought I was old enough to be safe. But I think she might have been homesick, and a small town in New Jersey was as close as she dared come.” He looked down at her beside him, looked into her eyes.
She interlaced their fingers. “I truly hope for the sake of your challenge that he didn’t know you were his son, JT.”
He stilled. That was the information he’d wanted. Bramson’s heirs had no evidence that Warner knew he had another son—if they’d been able to prove Warner knew about him and deliberately left him out of the will, JT’s case would never even make it to court. His only chance was to claim that Warner was unaware of his existence and so leaving him out had been an accident of fate.
He should leave—he had Pia’s vow that she wouldn’t work against him, and he had the information he’d wanted. There was no other reason to stay. Yet his feet stayed firmly planted on her kitchen floor.
They stood in silence for long moments, JT’s thoughts drifting from his father to the warm body pressed against him. He’d know the feel of her blindfolded.
“Assuming Warner was your father,” she said carefully, and he almost smiled at her attempt to stay in her impartial role, “it’s impossible to justify that all the time your mother was struggling, your father was a billionaire.”
He’d spent several weeks being consumed by anger over that exact point. His mother had worked a succession of menial jobs to pay the rent, to ensure he had clothes to wear to school, never having new things herself, never feeling safe. All while Warner Bramson’s wife and his long-term mistress lived the high life, not needing to work, yet having jewels, the latest