Claiming His Child

“Can’t you stop, Nick?” she begged, knowing nothing would heal the wounds.

“Stop what?”

“Being so hateful.”

That made him smile. A flash of white teeth, no humour at all. “That’s good coming from you. The fact remains, Suzannah, and nothing can change it, you accused me of being a thief.”

“I didn’t.” She had trusted her father who had never lied to her. What she had felt for Nick was an overwhelming pity.

“Your very silence condemned me.”

There was no cure for injustice. “I bitterly regret it, Nick.” Tears came to her eyes. Tears from a deep place inside her. “Can’t you forgive me?”

He turned his handsome head abruptly. “You want the bad news? No. My mother died, did you know that?”

“We heard.” It had come as a tremendous blow. “I wanted to write to you but I thought you would only hate me.”

“I’m afraid you were right,” he answered, very soberly. “She died of a broken heart.”

Suzannah moved away from the fireplace, sought the French doors and opened one to admit the breeze. “I cared about her, Nick. So much.”

“She cared about you.”

“She would never tell me where you went.”

“You should know the answer to that. She thought quite rightly you had done me enough harm. Anyway, it must have been a fleeting idea of yours. The next thing we know you married poor Martin. He must have swept you off your feet.”

She had the sensation the room was swirling around her. “It made my father happy.”

“And you were born to make your father happy. What about you, Suzy? It seems terrible to talk about it at a time like this but it’s no secret your marriage wasn’t a great success.”

She moved slowly to one of the big custom-made sofas and sat down before she fell. “I have my daughter. I adore her.”

His expression tautened. His black eyes studied her. “She could have been our child.” A long pause. “What’s her name?”

Colour flamed into her white face and she dropped her gaze. “Charlotte. We call her Charley.”

For a moment he was at a loss to answer her, then he rasped. “Charlotte? How dare you use my mother’s name.”

Her own anger flowed hot and swift. “This is me, Nick, remember. Me. Suzannah. Your mother told me once I was the daughter she had always wanted. Through your mother I became an accomplished pianist, more valuably, a better person. I had a perfect right to call my child after a women so influential in my life.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I do,” she cried in sharp defence.

“Your father must have loved the sound of that. So must Martin.”

“Neither of them knew,” she said, suddenly quiet. “Your mother was Mrs Konrads. Her Christian name didn’t come into it. Your father called her Lotte. Father and Martin didn’t see the connection.”

“Come on,” he jeered. He came behind her, his hands slipping onto her shoulders, holding her fast.

“They just didn’t,” she protested, as many emotions enveloped her. “Charlotte is a beautiful name.”

He withdrew his hands instantly before he lost himself in sensation. “You must be a lot happier with Charley.”

“It’s just a nickname,” she said in a confused voice. “She’s only six. Adorable.”

“Does she look like you?” he asked harshly, feeling tremendous anger for all he had lost.

Suzannah nodded. “Almost my minor image so they tell me.”

“So you fell pregnant the night you were married?” He looked down at her as she sat folded into the sofa, the vulnerable slope of her shoulders, the delicate curve of her breasts clearly outlined against her thin pale pink sweater.

She enunciated her words very carefully. “I’m not going to discuss my married life with you, Nick.”

“When everyone knows it was unhappy. I couldn’t believe it when I was told Cindy Carlin was with Martin at the time.”

Martin starved for love and laughter. “I feel very badly about that, Nick. You can’t know.”

“I think I do.” He forced himself to look away from her. “What I can’t figure is why? Martin was crazy about you.”

“Not for long.” She shook her head vehemently.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“The best way to say it is we didn’t have a lot in common.”

He shrugged his shoulders, their width apparent under the black polo knit. “I could have told you that a long time ago. Why did you marry him, Suzannah?” A question he had asked himself at least a million times.

What was she supposed to tell him? “God knows,” she said, focusing on her hands. “On the rebound. Never a word from you. Your mother choosing to clam up on me.”

“That happens with mothers. She was thinking of me. Me with my anger and humiliation. Before God I swore to get even. Your father would have had me in jail. Did you realise that? In jail for something I didn’t do. It’s called fabricating evidence. And Frank Harris went along with it.”