Revealed: His Secret Child (8 page)

“It frightens me, too, these things I feel for you. I don't want them.” The admission, coming from the invulnerable Max, surprised her.

“I'm not frightened.” Another lie. She was terrified. Of all sorts of things, of all the ways Max being here could be bad. Or good. She remembered their breakfast this morning. She remembered other breakfasts. And she was so confused that she wasn't sure which would be worse for her peace of mind, bad or good.

“Why don't you get settled in,” she said, her hand on the door frame, trying to sound like an impartial host. “Ethan and I will have lunch soon. You're welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, I will.” He stood. So close. So close that she'd only have to lift a hand to touch him.

“About lunch today, how about a picnic on the beach?”

She forced her gaze to the window. Outside the sun shone in a clear blue sky; it would be cool out but they could dress for it. Gillian hesitated. “Ethan would like that.”

“And you?”

Did he really care whether she would like it? “Yes, I'd like
it, too.” It would certainly be easier than being in the confined spaces of her home with him, his presence ambushing her, surrounding her. Him within touching distance.

“Gillian, there was a lot that was very right with what we had.”

“It was superficial.”

“That was all I wanted at the time. I thought it was all you wanted, too.”

“And what do you want now, Max?”

He stiffened, then stepped past her and out the door. “To be a good father to my son. That's the only important thing. I want what's best for him and I don't want to miss out on his life, on the good or the bad.”

“Then we both want the same thing and we can't afford to make it complicated and to mess it up.”

 

Max carried Ethan, asleep on his shoulder, back into the house. He'd fallen fast asleep in the few minutes' drive back from the beach, and Max, oblivious to the sand from Ethan's feet through his car and now on his shirt, had unfastened the buckles of the car seat and extricated Ethan as competently as though he'd been doing it for years.

Together they walked up the stairs to Ethan's room, where Max lay his son gently down on the bed. Gillian placed his blanket close to her little boy's loosely curled hand. They stepped back and looked at him.

“Does he always sleep this soundly?”

“Usually. And the beach always tires him out.” They'd spent over an hour exploring tide pools and collecting shells. It had felt so strange and yet so very right—the three of them together. And Ethan was, without a doubt, enjoying the male attention.

In complete contrast to Gillian. The male attention had her on edge. The brush of Max's hand across hers, the way
his gaze locked and held on hers or lingered appreciatively on her legs.

He was being considerate, and thoughtful. He was being charming and it was disconcertingly seductive. After three years of coping on her own, to have the help, the attention of a man, to feel not just noticed but desirable in a man's eyes, was a potent sensation. Every touch, every glance, brought back to life an attraction that wouldn't be denied.

“I'm going to take a shower.” She turned from his contemplative gaze. She had sand all through her hair from the beach. And she also needed an excuse to be away from him, somewhere where she wouldn't feel his presence.

But she'd been wrong about not being aware of his presence in her bathroom. A bottle of his cologne sat on the vanity. The old-fashioned razor and soap brush he liked to shave with stood beside it. His shampoo and conditioner sat alongside hers in the shower. And as she showered, the water sluicing over her body, she thought of him, thought of the predicament she now found herself in. Parenting with him. Sharing a house with him. Sleeping on the other side of a wall from him, night after night.

And she knew she was in trouble.

R
afe Cameron looked up from his computer screen as Max entered his office first thing Monday morning. “You sorted out the problem with the journalist from the
Seaside Gazette?
” Like him, his boss wasted no time on preliminaries. It was one of the reasons they worked so well together.

Max lowered himself into one of the leather chairs opposite Rafe's broad desk. “Gillian Mitchell. In a manner of speaking,” he said.

“Go on.”

“I married her. I thought you should know.”

Rafe's brows rose as he contemplated Max. “Not you, too. Is there something in the water in this place?” For a moment Max didn't know what he meant. Then he remembered that Chase Larson, Rafe's stepbrother and money manager, had recently broken the news to Rafe that Emma Worth, daughter of the founder of the company Rafe was taking over, was carrying his baby. Shortly afterward the two had married in a quiet ceremony on the Worth estate.

Rafe leaned back in his chair. “I know I ask a lot of you, and you've always given the job your all. But that's a little drastic. Even for you.”

“I didn't do it for the job. There's more to it than that.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Rafe's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. “It's my dad. He's just back from China so I ought to take it.”

Max stood. “I'll go.”

Rafe shook his head. “No need. This won't take long. I'm seeing them tonight. And I want to know what happened with the reporter.”

Max crossed to Rafe's window. Between tall palms, and beyond the red-tiled roofs of Vista del Mar, a distant view of the Pacific Ocean sparkled. He could even glimpse the Tennis Club, so recently his home, up on its bluff. He tried not to listen in on the conversation between Rafe and his father, Bob, a man Max had met on a couple of occasions, a man he liked and respected. Bob and Penny, his second wife, had been on an extended sightseeing trip to China.

And even though Max wasn't listening, it was impossible not to hear the changes in Rafe's voice. Over the course of a few minutes his tone went from interested inquiry, to puzzlement, to the careful neutrality that Rafe used to conceal his feelings.

The call ended and Rafe put his phone on the desk in front of him and frowned at it for several seconds. “That was odd.”

“Something happen in China?”

“No. China exceeded all their expectations. It's this Worth Industries takeover. Dad got funny about it.”

“I didn't think he took an active interest in what you did with the business.”

“That's just it. He doesn't. Usually. But he's worried I'm out for revenge.”

Max cleared his throat and Rafe grinned. “So, okay, maybe that particular worry is not without cause. But there's something else going on. He started talking about revenge doing more harm than good. All deep and philosophical. It just wasn't like him. Usually, if he has something to say he says it. Yet he was skirting around something then. I'm sure of it.” Rafe shook his head and his brow cleared. “Back to you. You married our problem at the
Seaside Gazette.
”

“Gillian.”

“So you said. Where'd that come from? You've always maintained that the life of a bachelor suits you fine.”

“It does. Did,” he corrected. Being a bachelor had allowed him to live his life on the surface. A choice he'd been happy with. But now, with Gillian and Ethan, undertows of emotion tugged at him. Currents threatened to take control, to drag him deep. He thought of them constantly. He thought of
her
constantly.

Rafe watched him while he decided how much his boss needed to know. “I knew her once before.”

Rafe nodded for him to continue.

“Turns out she had my son.” He still wasn't used to saying the words
my son.
They were still a novelty, and a surprising source of pleasure and pride.

Rafe tilted his head. “You're sure of that?”

“Yes. So we got married.”

“She wouldn't be the first woman to retrospectively pick the best possible candidate for a father.”

A swift and unexpected surge of irritation heated his blood. “She's not like that.” It was okay for him to be angry at Gillian, to question her actions, but for some reason he didn't want anyone else doing it, especially someone who didn't even know her. “Besides,” he added, “he looks just like me.”

Rafe shrugged. “I guess that at least means she'll do what you say now.”

Max thought of Gillian, strong-willed and determined. “I don't think it's going to be quite that simple.” Rafe definitely didn't have any idea what she was like if he thought that was how it was going to work. “She's not exactly the sort to do what anyone else tells her.” Not his Gillian. She was too independent for that. And she wasn't, he corrected himself,
his
Gillian. Yes, they were married but it was for Ethan's sake, and for Max's benefit in being a father to his son. But there was no
us
or
we
or
his.
Not emotionally. Not when it came to Gillian.

Physically there would be. Soon. He was giving her a little time to get used to the idea, to accept that the chemistry still simmered, that there was no point in denying it.

“I'm sure you'll manage it,” Rafe said.

Max stood to leave. Out in the hallway he passed Chase heading for Rafe's office. The man had an almost dreamy expression on his face.

As Max settled into his office chair his thoughts swerved to Gillian. They'd had dinner together as a family last night. The three of them at Gillian's small wooden table. Thank goodness his son had kept up a stream of chatter, even if much of it was unintelligible.

If anyone had asked him, even just a couple of days ago, how he'd feel about such a meal, he'd have said there was nothing he'd like less. The reality had been a blessed contrast to the solitary meals which, through his own choice, he ate so many nights over work.

He'd shared moments with both his wife and his son, glances, touches, laughter. It was a whole new world. But one he couldn't afford to be beguiled by. He was here to be part of their lives and for his son, and by default Gillian, to be a part of his life.

But not his heart. He couldn't afford for them to lay claim to his heart.

He knew she'd seen the photo with Dylan in it. And he could only be thankful she'd asked no questions, even though he'd seen them in her eyes. She was a journalist, it was in her nature to be inquisitive, but that was one area she'd get no access. That was private. The death of his twin had scarred him so deeply that it overshadowed his life from that point on. Nothing ever touching him so deeply again, not grief, and not joy.

He didn't have it in him to bond so closely with anyone again. He never even wanted to have it in him.

Which meant he had to set boundaries for himself. He would go home tonight, help with Ethan's mealtime and bath time and bedtime, allow himself the simple pleasure of reading a story to his son, of feeling his little arms snake around his neck as he hugged him good-night, and then he would go out for dinner. On his own. He could come back to the office and work. He would set the pattern for how this arrangement with Gillian was going to work.

As he pulled into her driveway that evening he told himself it wasn't anticipation he felt quickening within him. And if it was, it could only be for the novelty of seeing his son who'd accepted him so quickly, so unconditionally.

The anticipation was nothing to do with seeing Gillian—who'd accepted him into her life only because she had no choice and whose acceptance came fortified with conditions and parameters.

She was defensive and reserved—except when she forgot to be.

He loosened his tie as he walked toward the house, his laptop case in one hand. He'd last seen her this morning dressed in a sleek, sexy skirt and white blouse as she'd leaned into her car to buckle Ethan into his seat. It was an image that had presented itself in his mind far too many times today—the curve of waist and hip, shapely calves, slender
ankles, all perfectly designed to stir lust. A purely evolutionary reaction.

She'd glanced over her shoulder and caught him watching, and for an instant she'd seen the physical awareness in his eyes and responded; heat had arced between them. But by the time she straightened, all trace of heat was gone—replaced by careful neutrality. He'd feigned interest in an email on his phone and she'd folded her arms across her chest as she briskly explained their routine to him—that she'd take Ethan to the local preschool where he would spend the morning while Gillian worked, before picking him up soon after his lunchtime and coming home to work the second part of her day. She fit her hours around his afternoon nap and worked most evenings as well.

It didn't sound like much of a life for her.

But when he thought about it, and tried to look at it objectively, neither did the life he'd carved for himself. Working all hours of the day, most evenings, most weekends, breaking to play tennis or work out at the gym, socializing with the “right” people, colleagues and associates, friends with political clout and connections within the media. And he'd dated—beautiful, available, shallow women. He vacationed twice a year—a winter holiday on the ski fields of Switzerland, summer in the Caribbean, always staying at exclusive resorts, dining in fine restaurants.

Never before had he spent two hours on the beach exploring rock pools and collecting shells. The concept had stirred a quiet voice to whisper that perhaps his outwardly successful life could be perceived as a little sterile, a little empty. He'd quashed the thought.

He turned his key in the front door. And despite the key, felt like an intruder, or at the least an imposter, as though he was stepping into someone else's life.

The babble of his son's chatter coming from the kitchen
drew him inside. He stopped in the doorway and watched. His son. His wife. The concept was surreal.

Ethan sat on a booster seat at the table eating a banana. At least Max thought he was supposed to be eating it, hard to be certain when much of the banana appeared to be squeezed between his fingers. Peas littered the floor around Ethan's chair.

Gillian, a rust-colored T-shirt clinging to her curves, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, looked up from her seat beside Ethan and saw him watching. And something in his expression made her smile, her lips tilting upward with suppressed laughter.

“Is that a laughing with me or at me smile?”

“At, definitely. You should see your face.” Her eyes danced with merriment. Gillian was the only woman who'd ever laughed at him. Most took him as seriously as he took himself. It was provoking. It was refreshing. It made him want to retaliate, to turn the tables.

If he strode over and covered those smiling lips with his own, as he suddenly wanted to, she wouldn't be laughing.

“Daddy.” Ethan lifted his banana-covered hands toward Max. He wanted Max to pick him up?

And this time Gillian laughed out loud. She had a throaty, sexy laugh. Once again she was laughing at him.

So he followed impulse, crossed the kitchen and as her smile dimmed and a wary light replaced the amusement in her eyes, he kissed her. His lips to hers, somewhere between gentle and demanding. He felt her shock, felt her momentary softening and savoring, felt the shared impulsive moment of need and desire. Her mouth was warm and pliable beneath his. She joined perfectly with him, making him want to stay here and absorb the pleasure of being with her just like this.

He straightened, and then, not meeting her gaze, turned and
planted a kiss on his son's head. “I'll just change and come back down, tiger.” He spoke to Ethan then left the room.

It wasn't supposed to have been like that. The kiss had been to disconcert her, not him. He wasn't supposed to have reveled in the sensations.

Control. He was all about control. Of himself, of the situations he let himself get into. And it was time to reestablish it here. It was supposed to be her asking him to touch her, not the other way around.

He'd come back down, spend time with Ethan and then leave. Proving to himself and her that he was indifferent to the heat, remembered and present, between them.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Gillian listened for Max's tread on the stairs, her nerves on high alert. She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the train set as Ethan hooked two carriages together.

Kissing hadn't been part of their deal. She'd wanted to kick herself. She knew she'd revealed too much in that brief kiss. He'd caught her unprepared and want had surfaced before she'd even thought to repress it. He'd always kissed like a dream, coaxing, giving, asking. A few seconds. That was as long as the kiss had lasted.

Too long for a kiss that should never have happened. And too short, clamored the part of her that ignored reason. The part of her that had been alone for too long. The part of her that had missed him and the potential of what they could have had from the very day he walked out of her life.

“If you've got things you want to do, I can play with him.” Max stood in the doorway wearing faded, snug-fitting jeans, a black T-shirt stretching across his chest, and with eyes that saw too much.

“Thanks.” Gillian scrambled to her feet. As they swapped positions their gazes locked, awareness passing between them.
The memory of his mouth on hers, the taste of him, the feel of him. The relentless tug of attraction. Did he feel it in the same way she did? Would he kiss her again, now?

Her body heating, she hurried from the room and set her laptop up on the kitchen table and tried to work. True to his word Max already had wireless set up for them. Just as, with her permission, he'd also engaged a housekeeping service, not wanting his presence to create extra work for her. She stared at the screen of her computer, supposedly working on the opening sentence for her next article. Half an hour later, she was still staring at the same blank screen. Still fighting the recollections and her reactions. Pathetic. Undisciplined. What was happening to her?