Forgotten Father (19 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“I need information on a Delanie Carlyle. She had a
child ten months ago in the Boston area. I want to know the baby’s
blood type. I, also, want personal information on Ms. Carlyle. Her
lovers in the past two years, as well as current men she’s involved
with.” He struggled to keep the wrath out of his voice, to sound as
detached as possible, which was difficult with the rage that
gripped him at the thought of her with another man.

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“Sir, didn’t we do a check on this Ms. Carlyle for
you several years ago?"

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I want to know about her
life between then and now.”

“Of course, sir. Our previous contacts will
help.”

A thought hit him, the phone still at his ear.
“Also, dig into her family background. Find out when and how her
father died. I want the circumstances.”

“Okay.”

Suddenly, everything Delanie had ever told him was
suspect. She’d lied by omission in not telling him about the child
and she’d stolen The Cedars from him. Despite how her lips felt
beneath his, despite the seemingly brave way she faced the world,
he couldn’t let himself trust her.

Even if the child were his, which he felt in his
gut. Especially then.

“Also,” Mitchell said tersely, “I want to know if
her medical records show any episodes of ‘disassociation’.
Particularly check this about two years ago.”

“Disassociation? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Amnesia,” he said briefly. “And Beecham?”

“Sir?”

“Immediately. Today.” He felt his pulse slowing
marginally. One way or the other, he had to know about the child.
Even if it killed him.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

Mitchell dropped the receiver into its cradle, the
brief relief engendered by his surge of action ebbing away. In this
age of computer snooping, he’d have most of the information by the
end of the day.

He stared into space, conscious of numbness where
his heart had been this morning. All his emotions on hold until he
could confirm that one tiny blue-eyed child was his own.

Beecham might take longer to find out about all her
past, but the rest of the information lie tucked away in computer
files waiting for men like Beecham to tap into it.

He needed to know if she were lying about her
father’s death. About the amnesia after their last sexual
encounter. Maybe the baby’s paternity couldn’t be completely
determined by blood type, but if she’d lied about the amnesia, if
there were no medical records of her so-called “disassociation”,
then Mitchell knew to believe the worst of her.

Why that thought should draw at his breath like a
slam in the gut, he didn’t want to consider. From the beginning,
she’d seduced him with her smile, her laugh, her damned bright mind
and her warm, open nature.

She’d succeeded where no other woman had. She’d
caught his sympathy with her tragic tale of her father’s death, had
drawn him out of his protective shield of doubt and made him begin
to trust her. Made him feel like he could be important to her.

They’d made love last night like separated souls
reunited. Intense and powerful, he’d never known that kind of union
before.

Hell, the woman took a chunk of him every time he
let her close enough to touch. It all came down to the money and
the fact that he couldn’t trust her love.

Was Jenna his child?

CHAPTER NINE

All day, Mitchell dodged Delanie, not sure what to
say to her, not wanting to take a step on uncertain ground. He felt
strangely disconnected from everything and yet wavered indecisively
every time he tried to come up with a plan.

To his disgust, he found himself swinging between
hoping the child wasn’t his and wanting to strangle Delanie at the
thought of her bearing another man’s child. Though, he couldn’t
shake the irrational conviction that the child was his.

He checked in with Beecham’s office at noon and then
again around five, but it wasn’t until almost seven that evening
that the call came from New York.

“Sir?”

“Yes,” Mitchell said, dropping the towel he’d thrown
around him when he stepped out of the shower.

“I don’t have all the answers, but I have most of
it.”

“Go ahead,” Mitchell said, his heart lurching
painfully.

“There’s no father listed on the child’s birth
certificate. Jenna Elizabeth Carlyle. Born December the third of
last year. Blood type 0 positive. Same as her mother.”

“Okay.” Completely inconclusive, Mitchell knew.
Millions of people had the same type. His hope that Delanie’s child
would possess a rare type had been small.

“That’s all on the child, sir. I did find out that
Ms. Carlyle was hospitalized in the spring two years ago, but
unfortunately I haven’t been able to access those files yet.”

Mitchell frowned into the phone. “You haven’t?”

“No, sir. But it’s just a matter of time.”

“What else do you have?”

“Well, sir, there are no men in her life.”

“What? None?”

“Not that I could find on short notice,” Beecham
told him, “and I had operatives talk with two of her employees. If
you remember, we gave you Ms. Carlyle’s early romantic liaisons in
our first report two years ago.”

“I remember.”

Beecham paused, the sound of shuffling papers
filtering through the connection. “According to her employees,
she’s been like a nun since then. Certainly no known man in her
life since she had the child. From what I can tell it’s been all
work and no play for Ms. Carlyle since then.”

“Her employees might be lying,” Mitchell suggested,
although he knew Beecham’s operatives would have interrogated
Delanie’s staff so subtly they’d never remembered being
questioned.

“Yes, sir. I thought of that,” Beecham said. “But
her neighbors in Boston say the same thing. No men. And we’ve
accessed her credit card accounts. No hotel stays, no gifts of golf
merchandise or men’s clothing.”

Mitchell waited, knowing in his heart that there had
been no other man.

“Actually, sir. The child’s the only evidence that
she’s had a man in her life for the last three years. Which seems
odd because from our file photos, this Ms. Carlyle is a goodlooking
woman.”

“Yes,” Mitchell said tersely. “You’re sure you’ve
been thorough?”

“You know we’re the best, sir,” Beecham said, “or
you wouldn’t be using our agency.”

“Yes.” So the child—Jenna—was his.

Mitchell stood rooted to the floor, a cacophony of
reaction rioting inside him. Frustration, dismay and relief.

God. He had a child. A beautiful golden-haired baby
daughter.

A lump formed in his throat.

“Keep searching,” he ordered, keeping his emotions
tightly in control. “I want those hospital records and I want to
know if she even shook hands with a man during the last two or
three years.”

“Of course,” Beecham responded mechanically. “You
mean, other than your grandfather?”

“Yes.” He could taste the bitterness on his tongue.
But it didn’t matter. He would love Jenna whether she was his
grandfather’s or his own. He knew that and still couldn’t dislodge
the conviction that he was the man who fathered the child.

“What about Delanie’s past? Her father’s death?”

“Oh, yes. Her father died of a heart attack when she
was eleven years old.”

“Was she with him at the time?” Mitchell asked,
trying to keep the pathetically hopeful note out of his voice.

“I haven’t discovered that yet, sir. All I have is
preliminary information at this stage.”

“All right,” Mitchell said reluctantly. “Keep me
informed.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hung up the phone, his brain working furiously.
Jenna was a Riese. Almost certainly, his own child.

For a moment, he thought about the fact that he was
no longer alone in the world—no longer a man completely without
blood kin. He had a child.

Mitchell grappled with the conclusions slamming into
his brain. Delanie had a child conceived around the time they’d had
sex the first time and she hadn’t told either he or his grandfather
that they might have fathered her child.

It was the deceit of her silence that ate at him. He
could think of no good reason for her to keep the child’s parentage
from him. Unless she was planning to use the child as a bargaining
chip for monetary gain later.

Like his own mother had done with him.

He found himself wrestling with this conclusion,
wondering as she herself had said, what kind of a woman used her
child in this way. But truthfully, he knew this kind of woman very
well.

So now what did he do about the fact that a child of
his was in the sole custody of a beautiful, apparently amoral
golddigger?

Even more perplexing, what did he do about the fact
that a part of him couldn’t accept this view of Delanie and, beyond
that, he still wanted the woman? His lust and longing for her was a
weakness he had to learn to manage.

There could be no other choice, he realized. The
child was his responsibility, one way or the other. Only one
solution existed that would enable him to both secure The Cedars
for the Riese family and gain access to his child.

He just needed to find a jeweler.

******

“You-you want me to marry you?” Delanie looked at
Mitchell in shock, elation flooding through her. A large
heart-shaped diamond winked from the ring in his hand.

“Yes.” His eyes were dark with an unreadable
emotion, his jaw tight as if his words were wrenched out of
him.

“I hadn’t heard from you—I’ve worried all day.,” she
said brushing at a joyful tear as he slid the ring over her finger.
“You weren’t in Donovan’s office. I couldn’t find you
anywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, the tightness in his face
belied by the glowing fire in his eyes. “I had a business crisis in
New York and I’ve been holed up in my room all day dealing with it,
but I’m here now and I very much want you to marry me.”

“I thought—I don’t know what I thought when I
couldn’t find you,” she said as he brushed a kiss against her
temple. “I can’t believe you’re proposing.”

“Neither can I,” he said unsteadily.

“I know people will say this is too sudden,” Delanie
said, burying her head against his chest.

The small cottage was silent around them, only the
gentle sleeping sounds of Jenna’s breathing barely audible from
down the hall where she slept.

“Who gives a crap what anyone says if it doesn’t
seem sudden to us?” he said finally.

“You really want to marry me?” she asked, dazed by
this sudden, blissful turn of events.”

Mitchell kissed her, long and slow, the stroke of
his mouth sending the blood thundering through her veins.

“Yes,” he said a moment later, his voice rough. “I
want to go to sleep with you every night and wake up with you every
morning.”

“
There are things about me you
have to know,” she said breathlessly distracted by his nearness and
the roving of his talented hands.

“I told you I met Jenna this morning when I stopped
by,” he said abruptly. “She’s beautiful. I’ll be happy to raise her
like she’s my own.”

They were words any single mother prayed to hear,
Delanie thought, her vision misting over.

“We haven’t known each other long,” she said, trying
to cling to the ability to speak despite the heat of his lips on
her neck. “Maybe we should…live together a while. So you can make
sure.”

“I am sure,” he said, the words brief and
uncompromising between his caresses. “I want to marry you. I want
to be your husband. Marry me.”

“But, Mitchell,” she said distracted, her head
thrown back to accommodate the trail of his kisses, “What about
your money? I know how you feel about women and money.”

He stared at her a moment, the disconcerted glimmer
in his expression quickly banished. “Will you sign a prenup?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” The words shot out of her mouth
without consideration. His money meant nothing to her. If she could
do this to reassure him, nothing was easier.

“Then say you’ll marry me.” He stood with that dark
light still in his eyes, his mouth hard and tight as if he were
steeling himself for a blow. She felt a surge of tenderness. A man
like Mitchell didn’t face the possibility of rejection well.

He guarded his emotions almost as tightly as his
money, doling them out in careful, conservative clumps. She wanted
to help him with that, wanted to teach him to trust his heart. No
wonder he faced her now with anxiety. The feelings between them
raged hot and powerful. The firestorm of passion and connection
left her trembling inside. How much more disturbing it must seem to
a man who so distrusted his softer side.

“You really want me to marry you?” she said, wanting
to hear him say it again, his face taut and intense above hers.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Very, very
much.”

“Oh, Mitchell,” she breathed his name in a welter of
joy and love.

He bent to kiss her again, his eyes dark and hot.
“Tell me you assistant isn’t coming back tonight.”

Still dazed and almost uncomprehending in her joy,
she allowed him to draw her closer in his arms.

“Connie’s in Boston for a few days, taking care of
another job,” Delanie said faintly, the brush of his body against
hers wonderfully distracting.

“Thank God,” he said fervently.

She clung to him, surrounded in his embrace, her
face raised to his kiss. This was her man, the one she’d waited for
so long. Maybe there were gaps and shadows, things she had to tell
him, but this was so right.

Slowly, he molded her mouth beneath his, his tongue
stroking hers, lazy and hot. Molten rivulets of desire pushed
through her veins, the thudding of her heart shifting to a sultry
languorous beat.