From Here To Paternity

On the far side, she took the road to the left. It was a short ride to the sign that read Bravo. 301 Riverside Road. She turned into the driveway.

The new, chalet-style house appeared before her, nestled attractively among the evergreens. Charlene had never seen it from the driveway side before. It looked kind of cozy and unassuming. From across the river, its soaring walls of windows gleamed and twinkled in the sun, and the wraparound redwood deck was spacious and inviting.

Brand loved his new house. Everyone in town said so.

Charlene had to admit that even from the plainer, driveway side, it was a fine-looking house. Not that it mattered, not that she cared.

She pulled in next to the garage and got the baby out of the back. Mia did a little blinking and squinting at being disturbed, but quickly settled back to sleep, snuffling at Charlene’s shoulder, sighing in the sweetest way.

Charlene pushed the door shut. It closed with a tight, final sort of sound. Somewhere in the trees nearby, a woodpecker rat-tat-tatted and a little farther off a mourning dove cried. The air smelled of cedar and of woodsmoke from some nearby cabin’s chimney. Above the canopy of pine branches, the morning sky was clear and blue as Mia’s eyes.

A beautiful setting, so picturesque and peaceful.

Yet Charlene’s pulse raced. Her stomach ached, it was tied in such a tight knot of fury and hurt and unswerving determination.

She followed the stone walk around to the main entrance, on the west side of the house. She marched right up to the big front door and rang the bell.

The sound echoed within.

She waited, gently rocking the sleeping baby in her arms, trying to take slow breaths and think peaceful thoughts. She wanted her mind clear as a mountain spring when he answered, she needed to be logical and calm when she spoke to him.

Through the leaded glass that decorated the top half of the door, she could see a slate-floored entry area, daylight slanting in from a skylight above. No sign of him, though.

She shifted the baby a little more firmly on her supporting arm and used her free hand to punch the bell again. That time she rang it longer, pressing her lips tight together in her impatience, pushing on that bell, good and steady for a full count of ten.

Still he didn’t come.

Again she pressed it, this time in short bursts.

Apparently, big-shot bachelor lawyers didn’t get up at the crack of dawn on Saturdays like a lot of regular folks had to. Well, too bad. She shoved at that bell again, longer and harder and with more determination than ever.

That did it. Finally. He appeared in the entry, scowling and scratching his head, squinting at her through the glass of the door.

Charlene stood straighter and laid a protective hand on Mia’s back. The door swung open and he was standing there, droopy-eyed, barely awake, wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants—and nothing else.

His bronze-colored hair stuck out at all angles and there was a sleep mark on his cheek. He looked disgustingly sexy and manly and rumpled.

Not that she cared. She didn’t. Not in the least.

“Charlene,” he muttered in that warm, lazy, slightly rough voice of his. “What the hell?” He braced a lean arm on the door frame and looked her up and down through low-lidded eyes. “Never thought I’d see you come knocking at my door.”

She wasn’t letting him get to her. She spoke without emotion. “It’s important. Let me in.” And she didn’t wait for him to get out of the way, either, but just pushed right on past him into that handsome sky-lit foyer.

“What’s with the baby?” he asked from behind her. “I didn’t even know you were pregnant.”

“Ha-ha.” She cradled Mia all the more tenderly as she turned to look into those fine hazel eyes. “We need to talk.”

He scratched his head again and snorted. “I’m dreaming, right? In real life, you haven’t spoken to me in ten years.”

“This is no dream,” she told him smartly, “and you’d better believe it’s not.”

“Whoa,” he said, with far too much good humor. “So, then. Coffee?”

She longed to inform him that she wanted nothing from him, ever. Under any circumstances. But that would be a lie, since she did want something. She wanted him to admit he’d had sex with her sister.

That he’d fathered the sweet child she held in her arms….

She realized she was staring blindly into space when he waved a hand in front of her face. “Charlene. You in there?”

She blinked and focused on the rat in front of her. “Yes. Of course.”

“Well, then? Coffee?”

“Yes. Coffee. Fine.”

In his huge kitchen, with its top-of-the-line appliances and endless expanses of granite counters, she took a seat at the table, lifting the baby a little higher on her shoulder as she lowered herself to a chair.

He ground coffee and put water in the coffeemaker and slid the pot in place beneath the brewing spout. She said nothing, only waited, until he pushed the brew button and turned to her, leaning back against the counter, folding those big arms of his over his gorgeous bare chest. “Okay. What’s up?”

She supported the baby on one arm as she lifted her hip and slid Sissy’s note from the front pocket of her jeans.

“What’s that?” He looked at her from under his golden brows—not suspicious, exactly, but not eager, either.

“See for yourself.” She dropped the folded square of paper on the table and slapped her palm on it. “There you go.”

He watched her for a moment, as if seeking some clue to what might be going on inside her head. Then he shrugged and pushed himself away from the counter.

She listened to the coffeemaker gurgle and drip as he unfolded the paper and stared at the words scrawled there. He stared at them for a long time.

Charlene waited, saying nothing, shifting Mia to her other shoulder, smoothing her blanket, gently rubbing her little back.

Finally he looked up. He shook his head. And then he yanked out the nearest chair and plunked himself in it. He threw the note on the table. “No way. I never touched your sister. I am not the father of that kid.”

Charlene glared at him. He glared back at her.

Finally she said wearily, “Now, why did I just know you’d say that?”

He shifted, drawing his bare feet under the chair, leaning his muscular torso her way. “Because it’s true? Because, in spite of how much you hate my guts, you know I’m an honest man who doesn’t have sex with screwed-up teenagers—and that means you know that baby isn’t mine?”

Okay, he had a point. Whatever she might think of him, she’d never doubted his honesty. Not until right now.

She said, “There’s no reason for her to accuse you—unless it’s true.”

He leaned back in the chair. “Come on, Charlene. Get real. It’s not as if your crazy little sister needs a reason to do the insane stuff she does.”

She refused to reply to that. If she did, she knew she would screech at him and call him terrible names. How dare he say that about Sissy?

Even if it did happen to be true.