Found: One Secret Baby (2 page)

Nothing unusual about the place or about anything he’d been able to dig up on the Walker woman, except that she owned the house free and clear. Given the location in a solidly middle-class L.A. neighborhood, it was hard to know how she’d managed to buy it without a mortgage. Maybe she’d inherited it. Or maybe she wasn’t the one who’d paid for it.

Could the lady lawyer have a “sugar daddy,” as his father would have said? For some reason the idea rankled. Still, it fit the contrast between the low-profile law practice and the high-priced house. She was an attractive woman, if you ignored the pit-bull personality, and she probably kept that leashed around the man who’d paid for the cozy little bungalow. If she did have a sugar daddy, though, it didn’t look as if he lived in the house. Too many flowers in the garden. Two black-and-white cats lounged on the back of a flowered sofa in the front window. If Morgan didn’t know better, he would have thought the house belonged to some little old lady. But he’d spent an uncomfortable part of the afternoon trying not to stare at Ms. Walker’s breasts, so he knew for a fact that she was no old lady.

He reminded himself he didn’t like short, curvy women. Or lady lawyers. He especially didn’t like lady lawyers he didn’t trust.

Rosalie wasn’t able to escape her office for another three hours. As she crossed the lobby on the way to the parking lot, she ran into her friend Vanessa, who was headed back in with a latte and muffin from the local coffee house.

Five-foot-ten and reed-thin, Vanessa could have been a supermodel, but she had a CPA along with her law degree and made her living in the arcane realm of tax law. Friends since college, for the last two years they’d shared an office suite, along with a receptionist and two paralegals, with three other solo-practice attorneys.

“Leaving early?” asked Vanessa. “Lucky you!”

Rosalie smiled. “I’m going home to my guy.”

“Must be true love.” Vanessa winked, took a sip of her coffee, and headed to her office.

Rosalie let herself into her elderly Saab and dumped her briefcase onto the passenger seat. Time to set aside the lawyer part of her life and focus on the part that made it all worthwhile.

Morgan Danby’s face flashed across her mind, but she pushed the memory aside. His face may have stirred up a welter of half-forgotten longings, but she never wanted to see it again.

Ten minutes later she held the man in her life tight in her arms. Her eyes stung with tears of happiness as she kissed his cheek and felt his lips brush hers.

“Were you a good boy today?” she asked.

Joey blinked cornflower blue eyes at her and blew a soft raspberry.

Rosalie brushed a lock of strawberry blonde hair out of his chubby face and hugged his small body so tightly he tried to wiggle out of her arms.

Joey must have had a busy day at day care because he didn’t indulge in his usual protest at being strapped into his car seat and fell asleep as soon as she started the engine. Which left her with nothing to do on the way home except think about Morgan Danby’s visit.

She couldn’t believe he hadn’t questioned her more closely about how many months’ pregnant Márya had been when they’d first met. Rosalie had never been a good liar because she rarely lied. She understood the power of truth.

Her mother had always told the truth about the long illness that had eventually taken her life. Her honesty had made it possible for Rosalie to trust that she always knew the worst. And that, in turn, had given her the strength to move beyond the slow tragedy playing itself out at home and thrive in the world.

She’d only lied today because she’d panicked, but it had worked. Nothing else mattered. Even her mother would have understood that.

Still, Rosalie wished she’d started adoption proceedings when she’d first gotten custody of Joey. She hadn’t because it would have alerted Charlie’s relatives to Joey’s existence. She’d thought they wouldn’t care enough to look for the boy, but she’d been wrong.

She glanced in the rearview mirror at the sleeping child who filled her life with such joy. She’d do whatever was necessary to protect him.

“I don’t care what you have to do,” Márya had told her right before she died, after she signed the papers giving Rosalie custody of her son, “Keep Joey away from Charlie’s family.”

Morgan raised his gaze from the laptop and looked down Wilshire Boulevard, the lights of Los Angeles nothing more than so many colored stars from the twentieth floor condo his company owned here. He took a sip of wine and rolled his shoulders.

When his smartphone beeped he made the mistake of checking to see who it was.

Lillian. He’d have to talk to her some time. Might as well do it now.

He saved the spreadsheet he was working on and answered on the second beep.

“Hello, Lillian. You’re up late.”

“Why didn’t you call me with the report about your meeting with that woman who testified against Charleston?”

He swallowed the familiar irritation. “I told you I’d call when I learned something.”

“You didn’t learn anything at all about my grandchild?”

If she hadn’t sounded more like a major general barking orders than a grieving grandmother, he might have had more sympathy for her.

“We’re not sure there was … is a grandchild, remember? I have a couple of new leads to follow up, but nothing definite.”

“This is taking too long. Are you sure we shouldn’t have kept the private investigator?”

“We can always hire another P.I. if we need to.” Preferably one smart enough not to try to bribe the bleeding-heart workers at some homeless shelter who’d not only refused to give him any information, but had also gotten his license suspended. Morgan disapproved of unethical behavior, but he could not tolerate stupidity.

“If you’re sure.” Lillian’s voice sounded weary, older. “Call me if you learn anything.”

“I will, but it may be a day or two. I have to drive up to Merced to check out those leads.”

“Merced? Is that even in the United States?”

“Yes, it is. Good night, Lillian.”

He needed to get this over with, and soon. Almost daily interaction with his father’s second wife was not good for his mood.

She meant well—most of the time. But the woman pushed buttons and pulled strings she probably had no clue were there. Every time he talked to her he felt drained afterwards, and vaguely angry. He sometimes wondered if his own mother would have had the same effect on him, if she’d bothered to stick around.

Morgan wished he could simply hire another P.I., but he couldn’t shake the image of Charlie’s child in some overcrowded foster home, subject to who knew what kind of abuse from the older kids. Kids could be cruel, especially if their victim couldn’t fight back. And it was often easier for a paid caretaker to turn a blind eye than deal with bullying. He should know.

Besides, Morgan couldn’t ignore the possibility that Charlie’s father might locate the child first and claim custody. A judge could consider the elder Thompson’s young new wife better mother material than Lillian, but two generations of abuse in the Thompson family was enough. More than enough.

Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose to forestall a headache that threatened to knock him off-task. Danby Holding Company needed his full attention if they were going to maximize their opportunities in this kind of market. He rolled his shoulders again and refocused on work.

Two days later Morgan understood the P.I.’s impulse to resort to bribery.

Death certificates were public records, but without a full name or date, the clerks couldn’t tell him if such a record existed.

Medical records might be available to a family member, but since Charlie had never bothered to marry the Mendelev woman and there was no proof he was the father of any child she might have had, Morgan couldn’t get anywhere near those records.

He was reduced to reading back copies of the Merced newspaper from the time when Charlie and the woman had lived in the area, but he found no mention of her or of any child. Only a paragraph about Charlie’s arrest when he’d tried to break into the hospital to get at her.

When he called Lillian to say he’d hit a dead end, she was unconvinced.

“What about the woman lawyer?” his stepmother asked. “If she and that woman were such good friends, she should want to help you find my grandchild. We can offer the little darling a life someone like his mother could never have imagined. Far better than being in foster care with who-knows-what kind of people.”

His thoughts exactly, but what more could he do?

“Lillian, I have a business to run. The same business that supplies most of your income. I don’t have time for this wild goose chase. I need to get back to the office.”

“I don’t ask for much, after the years I spent raising you.”

Paying other people to raise me, he corrected silently.

“But to have Charleston’s child to love in my old age …” She gave an artful sniff.

He sighed. He hated it when she tried to play him like that, but she was the closest thing he had to a family, give or take a mother in Key West he hadn’t seen or spoken to in almost thirty years.

“Okay. I’ll talk to her.” For some reason the idea of seeing Rosalie Walker again made him smile. “But don’t get your hopes up. I doubt I’ll learn anything new.”

“I knew I could rely on you, Morgan. You were always such a good child.”

I had to be or you might have walked out, the way my mother did
. He ignored the little boy’s voice inside him and resigned himself to a few days more in California.

Rosalie escaped the overheated courtroom and flipped open her phone. Her heart lurched when she clicked the calendar. Her appointments for the afternoon now included Morgan Danby.

The noisy courthouse lobby swirled around her with the same black panic that had almost overwhelmed her when Mr. Danby first mentioned Márya’s child. After three days, she’d thought the man was gone for good.

She sat down hard on a well-worn wooden bench and forced air into her lungs. Then she punched her office number and tried to act as if her world hadn’t just been turned upside down—again.

“The judge is running late,” she told her receptionist when he answered. “Please tell my afternoon appointments I’ll be there as soon as I can, and reschedule anyone who can’t wait.”

And please, please make it so that Morgan Danby can’t wait and can’t reschedule, she added in silent prayer.

Not that she had much hope of that. For all his casual air, Mr. Danby didn’t strike her as a man who would give up easily or be a gracious loser. But she had to win this one for Joey’s sake.

When she reached her office building four hours later, the expensive black sports car in the parking lot warned her that her prayer had not been granted.

Mr. Danby stood in the reception area outside her office, staring at one of the paintings that decorated the wall, an impressionistic hibiscus in brilliant red with broad strokes of yellow, green, and black.

“Are you an art critic, Mr. Danby?” she asked, in lieu of the polite greeting she couldn’t force out.

He scanned her wind-blown hairdo and crumpled linen suit. She ignored the urge to straighten herself the same way she’d ignored the flutter in her chest when she first saw him.

“Rough day in court?” he asked with one sexily raised eyebrow.

“Rough day on the freeway. I won in court.”

“Congratulations.” He turned back to the painting. “I didn’t have a chance to look closely at this when I was here before. It’s quite good. They both are.” He gestured to the painting on the other wall, a golden poppy with the same bold strokes of contrast.

“Thank you.”

“You painted them?”

She allowed herself a smile at his surprise. “My mother.”

“She’s very talented.”

Her smile faded. “Was very talented. She’s deceased.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” His tone was more calculating than sympathetic.

“It’s been a few years,” she told him as she crossed to her office and gestured him in.

He gave the hibiscus another look before he followed her.

She went to her desk and set down the bag that held her tablet computer. Mr. Danby had his back to her, intent on the painting of a flower garden on the wall across from her desk.

“Your mother again?”

She nodded, fighting to ignore the tingle his gaze sent through her.

“And that one?” This time he pointed to the painting of a child in a sandbox that hung behind her. “Is that you?”

She refused to let him see the sudden flash of grief. “Yes.”

“Your mother had a remarkable talent for that kind of middle-brow art.”

Middle-brow art? Rosalie stiffened and gestured toward the chair across from her.

“Did she sell many of them?” He lowered his long, lean body into the chair.

Why should he care, if it was middle-brow art? She sat down and jiggled the mouse to turn on her computer monitor. “No. It was a hobby. She gave a few to friends.”

He crossed his legs and leaned back to watch her face. “I came up blank in Merced.”

Irritation morphed into dread. She sat up straighter and gave him an empty smile.

The ice princess was back in place as soon as Morgan reminded Ms. Walker why he was here. He missed the very different, very attractive, person she had become when she smiled, but he couldn’t undo what needed to be done.

“I’m not surprised,” she said blandly.

“Because you lied to me?”

“Because privacy laws protect people like Márya, Ms. Mendelev, from people like you.”

“People like me?”

“People who want access to someone’s medical records so they can use the information for personal gain.”

He leaned forward. “I have absolutely nothing to gain from this. I’m here on behalf of my stepmother, who only wants what’s best for her grandchild, if she has one.”

“What’s best for the child—or what’s best for her? Does she really care about this supposed grandchild, or does she see it as a chance for a do-over on motherhood, since she didn’t exactly do a great job the first time around? You’ll forgive me if I remain unconvinced it’s Márya, or any child she might have had, that interests either you or your stepmother.”

It rankled to hear his own worries about his stepmother’s motives echoed by this sanctimonious lady lawyer, but Morgan bypassed an angry reply.

Instead he tried to do as Lillian suggested and play to the woman’s friendship with Márya Mendelev. “Do you think your friend would want her child to be shuffled through the foster-care system when it has a grandmother, a wealthy grandmother, who’s eager to love it and raise it as her own? Would she want to deny her child the chance to have the best of everything?”

Ms. Walker scowled. Apparently Lillian’s wealth didn’t impress her.

“You must be aware, even if your stepmother isn’t, that the odds a healthy baby will remain in foster care for long are slight these days, given the high demand for adoptable infants.”

“Before the child could be adopted, there would have to be a good-faith search for any living relatives. Given Charlie’s criminal record, we wouldn’t be hard to find.”

A flash of some strong emotion crossed Ms. Walker’s face before the professional mask dropped back in place.

“Which is one more reason to believe there was no child. Or, if there was, that it might have been claimed by relatives on Ms. Mendelev’s side of the family.”

Was that who she was protecting? He made a non-committal sound, clicked open his smartphone and scanned the file of emails from the P.I. No, he remembered correctly.

“According to Ms. Mendelev’s application for a student visa, she had no living relatives. Her family was wiped out in the civil war in her home country. Unless she lied to the immigration people.”

The woman across from him licked her lips, drawing his attention to their soft fullness, reminding him of that fleeting smile. He gave a silent sigh and refocused on the business at hand.

“How did you gain access to that information?”

“The private investigator …” had better luck bribing the staff at the college the Mendelev woman had attended than he’d had bribing the staff at the homeless shelters, but Morgan wasn’t about to tell the lady lawyer that. “… accessed her records online.”

“Be that as it may, I’m afraid you’ll have to accept the fact that this supposed child was a figment of your P.I.’s imagination.”

He leaned in, temper tightly reined. “You said yourself Ms. Mendelev was pregnant when you first met her.”

She leaned forward as well, green eyes fixed on his. “Do you want to know how many times your brother had kicked her in the belly before she managed to get away from him?”

He couldn’t help but flinch as he settled back in his chair. “You’re saying categorically that she was no longer pregnant by the time she arrived in Los Angeles County?”

No hesitation, no shifting of her eyes. “Yes.”

So it was over.

He dreaded telling Lillian, but at least he could get back to Boston tomorrow. And Charlie’s mother didn’t need to know all the unpleasant details.

His eyes slid to the colorful painting over Ms. Walker’s head.

Tomorrow was Saturday. Maybe he could stay here over the weekend and do the icy lady lawyer a favor. After all, she had helped the Mendelev woman get away from Charlie and taken her to a hospital, so in a way she’d tried to save Lillian’s grandchild.

Now they’d gotten all that behind them, maybe he and Ms. Walker could start over again, without any ulterior motives to interfere with the magnetic hum of attraction he felt for her, an attraction he’d bet his last million she felt as strongly as he did.

Rosalie made a show of gathering up the few scattered papers on her desk, but Mr. Danby didn’t take the hint. Instead, he crossed his long legs and gave her a calculating look.

“Have you and your father considered selling your mother’s work? You could get several thousand dollars apiece for them.”

Obviously a man who put a cash value on everything.

“My father has been out of the picture since before Mother … before she started to paint seriously,” she told him with as thin a veneer of politeness as she could manage. “And even if I wanted to sell any of her work, I wouldn’t know how.”

“I might be able to help you. I’m not an art critic, as you put it, but I do have a private collection that has allowed me to develop relationships with several very successful art dealers. I know of one in Beverly Hills who specializes in the kind of paintings your mother did.”

“I’m surprised you’d buy anything from someone who deals in, quote, middle-brow art.”

“Not my usual taste, but I bought something for a friend who enjoys that sort of thing.”

“Why would I want to sell my mother’s paintings?” Especially on the recommendation of someone with so little respect for her work. “I don’t need the money.”

“Of course not. How many of them do you have?”

She thought of the cluttered, sunlit studio at home.

“Dozens, I’d guess.”

“Wouldn’t your mother want people to enjoy her work, instead of having the paintings stashed away in some spare room?”

With Rosalie’s home office crammed into one corner of her bedroom after she’d moved Joey into the smaller bedroom, her mother’s studio wasn’t exactly a spare room anymore. Rosalie remembered how happy it had always made her mother to give a painting to a friend. She’d spend hours to find the right one for that particular person, and was so happy when she saw any of her work in someone’s home. But to sell her paintings …

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Danby.”

“Morgan.” His smile upgraded from charming to dazzling.

She ignored the slow burn that lit in her belly, the forgotten dreams it rekindled.

“I’m sorry. I’m not prepared to sell them.”

“I didn’t take you for a selfish woman, Ms. Walker.”

He emphasized the last two words in unspoken invitation, but she couldn’t invite him to call her Rosalie. Not when his words sent a wave of doubt and shame washing over her.

Was it selfish to keep Joey’s existence a secret from his grandmother? Would Márya really want her to go that far? She needed to think about that. She’d already spent the last few nights thinking about nothing else, but now Mr. Danby, Morgan, had given up his search, she needed to be certain, once and for all, that she’d done the right thing.

But this wasn’t a good time to rethink things, not while Morgan’s thousand-watt smile dazzled her, his navy blue eyes fascinated her, and the musky scent of his expensive cologne filled the air around her. Right now she needed to get the man out of her office.

She shuffled more papers around her desk. “Selfish?”

“If I were you, I’d want to celebrate my mother’s talent. Would she have turned down an opportunity like this?”

Rosalie blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way.

He pressed his advantage.

“I’d be glad to take a few of her paintings to my friend’s gallery. I’m sure he’d be happy to show them.”

“Why would he want to show the work of an amateur painter?”

“Your mother may not have sold any of her work, but she was no amateur. She must have studied art somewhere.”

She pushed the flow of pink-tinted memories away. “In college. Then after … when she first began to paint again, she took more classes.”

“Not at the local community center.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. UCLA. She was in a couple of student shows up there, but her paintings didn’t sell.”

“Too conventional for that crowd. But not for the patrons of my friend’s gallery. These paintings are exactly what they want to decorate their winter homes in Palm Springs.”

The memories swirled into a rainbow-colored dance in Rosalie’s head. Her mother would have been so thrilled by an offer like this. And the money could go into Joey’s college fund.

“I’m not sure …”

“What if I came by your house this evening to look at the other paintings you have? I could pick two or three and show them to my friend tomorrow to see what he has to say.”

“No!”

Panic pushed the word out before Rosalie could think, could even breathe. Had he guessed her secret? Was all this talk about the paintings a ploy to get inside her house? What would he do if he found out she’d lied to him?

Then she realized her sharp response and flushed face might make Morgan suspicious.

She forced her voice back to normal. “Tonight isn’t convenient.”

“What about tomorrow?”

There had to be a way to protect Joey without passing up this chance to honor her mother’s memory. Maybe …

“I could bring a few paintings to your hotel.”

Morgan shook his head. “I’d need to see more than a few. If you aren’t familiar with the art market, you might not know which ones would sell well, and this art dealer won’t want to waste his time with anything but your mother’s most saleable work.”

Her mind went into overdrive. She hated to let this incredible opportunity slip by.

She could set up a playdate for Joey. It wouldn’t be hard to hide all the toys and other signs he lived there if she kept Morgan out of the back part of the house. She’d just have to display the paintings somewhere other than the studio, which was right next to Joey’s bedroom.

She took so long weighing the pros and cons that Morgan shifted impatiently in his chair.

“Would tomorrow around lunchtime work?” she suggested.

“Eleven-thirty?”

“That would be fine.”

They stood and said goodbye with another hand shake. If this one sizzled through Rosalie’s system a little too long, stirred needs and feelings best left unfelt, she ignored it.

As soon as Morgan Danby was out the door, she let out a long breath, sat down and spun her desk chair around in a slow circle of celebration.

He’d given up trying to find Joey. She grinned at the tiny picture stuck on the computer monitor. Her little boy was safe!

When Morgan parked in front of Ms. Walker’s Spanish-style bungalow at precisely eleven-thirty the next day, his mouth lifted in an inexplicable smile, although he couldn’t have said why. The paintings weren’t worth that much money. The finder’s fee Morgan had turned down wouldn’t have paid for one day’s rental on the Porsche.

The unfamiliar need to smile certainly couldn’t have anything to do with seeing Ms. Walker again. Any woman who lived in a cozy house like this could only lead him into the kind of emotional morass he’d spent his entire adult life running away from.

The stone path to the house ran between artfully random beds of brightly colored blooms. A patch of tall, pink flowers on bare stems stood by the front door like dainty sentinels, but gave off a sweet perfume that screamed “female territory”.

He’d take that as a warning. He knocked on the door, then noticed the doorbell. Before he could decide whether to ring, the door opened.

It took him a full minute to recognize the woman on the other side as Rosalie Walker, lady lawyer. Gone were the dark-colored suits, high-necked knit tops, and sensible black heels.

In their place was a floaty dress covered with flowers that mimicked the display outside, a pair of sandals that displayed bare, oddly appealing toes, and a length of shapely leg.

The only recognizable thing was her wary expression. She’d let her dark-brown hair curl around her face, but pushed it back when she saw him as if uncertain what to do with the hand that wasn’t holding the door.

“Hello. Please come in.”

In sharp contrast to her sleekly efficient office, Ms. Walker’s living room was like something out of a country living magazine. A closer look revealed that the floral curtains and sofa covers had probably been home-made, and not recently. Worn patches marred the soft-brown carpet and the armchair she steered him away from had at least one bad spring.

“Genteel poverty” was the best description of the decor, although owning a house like this free and clear in L.A. ruled literal poverty out of the question. He would have to rethink the sugar-daddy hypothesis, though. For some reason, his mood brightened.

“I’m afraid I don’t have all the paintings ready,” she told him once he was settled on the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

He could imagine what kind of ultra-feminine beverage she might consider appropriate to the occasion. “No, thank you.”

She disappeared down the hall that led toward the back of the house, but he wasn’t left alone. The two cats he’d seen in the window before, one white with black splotches, the other black on top and white underneath, crept from behind the broken armchair.

The mostly black one jumped on the sofa and sat down next to him, eyes alert, tail twitching. The inner guard, he decided, now he was past the pink sentinels outside.

The mostly white cat jumped up beside him in a more leisurely fashion. It sat very close and put one front paw, then the other, on Morgan’s thigh. Daintily it lowered its coal-black nose and sniffed his crotch.

Strangely uncomfortable at the cat’s inspection, Morgan managed not to push it away, intrigued with what it might do next. He’d never been allowed to have pets as a kid.

The initial part of the procedure complete, the animal walked its front paws up his polo shirt, claws out enough to gain some purchase, but not enough to scratch. Reaching Morgan’s face, it sniffed again, then butted its head against his cheek.