His Secret Son

He shook his head. He was losing it. He hadn’t thought Bristol was a common name. Was it?

What if it wasn’t? Could it be his Bristol?

He dismissed the idea that Bristol was his. She was merely a woman he’d had a three-day fling with while relaxing in Paris before a mission.

Merely a woman he hadn’t been able to forget in three years.

The name was unusual. He’d told her so when they’d met. He knew she was an artist. She’d shown him some of her art.

There was no way she could be here.

But then, why not? She was a New Yorker. He’d gathered that much from a conversation she’d had with Bane. Laramie hadn’t asked her anything. His main focus had been sleeping with her.

What if the Bristol on the sign was the same Bristol from Paris?

His chest pounded at the possibility. He watched all the well-dressed people getting out of their limos and private cars to enter the gallery. He glanced down at himself. Jeans, pullover shirt, leather jacket, Stetson and boots. Definitely not dressed to mingle with the likes of the high-class crowd entering the gallery. But at that moment, he didn’t give a royal damn.

He had to find out if this Bristol was the same woman he hadn’t been able to forget.

* * *

“Would you like some more wine, Bristol?”

Bristol glanced up at Steven Culpepper, forced a smile and said, “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

He nodded. Looking over her shoulder, he said, “Excuse me for a minute. A few of my clients just arrived.”

“Sure.”

She let out a deep sigh when he walked off. Why was he hanging around as if they were together when they weren’t?

She glanced around. There was a huge crowd and she appreciated that. A great number of her paintings had been sold already.

“I see Steven is quite taken with you tonight, Bristol.”

She turned to Margie. “I wish he wouldn’t be. He’s barely left my side.”

Margie lifted a brow. “And you see that as a bad thing?”

Bristol shrugged. “I just don’t want him getting the wrong idea.”

“Oh, I see,”

Bristol doubted it. Margie was determined to play matchmaker.

“A lot of the people here tonight are ones he invited. People with money. Need I say more?” Margie then walked off.

No, in all honesty, Margie didn’t have to say anything. Steven had told her several times tonight just how many people were here because of him. It was as if he’d assumed Bristol would not have gotten anyone here on her own. Although he was probably right about that, he didn’t have to remind her of it every chance he got.

“Hello, Bristol.”

She turned to an older gentleman. His face seemed familiar and after a quick study of his features, she remembered him. “You’re Colin Kusac, a close friend of my father’s.”

He smiled. “Yes, that’s right. I haven’t seen you since the funeral and the reading of the will.”

That was true. Her father had named Colin as executor, and the scene hadn’t been nice that day, especially when all her father had left her was revealed. Krista had accused Bristol of looking for her father only to get his money. Her stepmother had been wrong about that.

Her father had told her that he and Colin had attended high school together and over the years had remained the best of friends. Before Randall died, he’d also told her to contact Mr. Kusac if she ever needed anything. Since there was nothing she’d needed, there had been no reason to call him.

“How have you been?” she asked him.

“Fine. And you? I understand you have a son.”

She wondered how he’d known that. She lived a quiet life and it hadn’t been highly publicized that she was Randall Lockett’s daughter. Although, at her father’s request, she had taken his last name. At sixteen it had taken a lot of getting used to, going from Bristol Washington to Bristol Lockett.

Although she’d taken her father’s name, she’d never flaunted it to influence her own career. And in the art community her father had used the pseudonym Rand, so very few people had made the connection anyway. However, over the years, people had mentioned how much her paintings resembled those of the renowned artist Rand. Although Margie was aware of her father’s identity, Bristol had sworn her manager to secrecy. Bristol wanted to make it on her own and not use her father as leverage.

And now she was Bristol Cooper...

“Yes, I have a beautiful two-year-old son. His first name is Laramie, after his father. His middle name is Randall, after my father. He has the names of two good men.”

“Randall would have liked that. He would have been proud of his first grandchild.” Colin didn’t say anything for a minute and then added, “I miss my good friend. He was there for me more times than not. When I first saw your work, I was taken back by just how much you and he painted alike.”

She smiled, thinking how wonderful it was that on this very important night, although her father wasn’t here, a man she knew to be his closest friend was. “Yes, we discovered that before he died.”

“Randall was a gifted artist and so are you.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s a beautiful landscape over there that I’m thinking about buying. I wonder if you can tell me what inspired you.”

She knew exactly which one he was talking about. It was the first painting she’d done after her father died and a lot of her pent-up emotions had been poured into it. “Certainly.”

And then she and Colin moved toward the huge painting on the wall.

* * *

“May I help you, sir?”

Laramie wasn’t surprised someone had approached him the minute he walked into the gallery. All he had to do was look around the room to see he seemed obviously out of place. He really wouldn’t have to stay a minute longer if the man could answer one question. “The artist on the sign. Bristol. What’s her last name?”

When the older man, who he suspected to be someone in charge, gave him a strange look, Laramie added, “I once knew someone by that name.”

The man nodded his understanding. “Oh, I see. Her last name is—”

“I will handle this gentleman, Jazlyn,” an authoritative voice said behind him.

Laramie didn’t turn around. He figured whoever had spoken would make himself known soon enough. Besides, he hadn’t liked the emphasis the man had placed on the word gentleman. As if he thought Laramie was anything but a gentleman. And what had he meant by “handle him”?