Revealed: His Secret Child

Gillian and her opinion pieces could end up scaring some of his best prospects off for no good reason. “You at least gave Emma a name. I had no doubt she was real. Today’s source …” He shrugged to express his doubts.

“Emma insisted I use her name because she knew it would give weight and credence to her comments. The source I used for today’s piece didn’t feel the same way. And I agreed with him. But that doesn’t mean he’s not real or that he didn’t have specific, verified examples to back his opinion up.”

Max leaned back in his chair and studied her, trying to gauge just how sure of her position she was. “You’re skating on wafer-thin ice, Gillian. Our lawyers will be taking a good hard look at each and every word you’ve written.”

“They can look as hard as they want.” Defiance lifted her chin. And he found he was the one doing all the “looking.” Her hair, her skin, her figure, the fire in her green eyes that picked out flecks of amber. He cataloged her features, remembered how he’d liked so much—everything, in fact—about her, but it had been her eyes, the intelligence and passion they hinted at, that captured his attention most.

He wouldn’t be distracted by the battle light in them now, although he could admit it stirred reactions in him that he’d had no intention of allowing. But there was no denying she was beautiful, all the more so when the passion for one of her causes was stirred.

Once, he’d had no trouble making passion, of an altogether different kind, stir.

He’d never met anyone quite like her, either before or after their time together. And he so didn’t need to be going down that track now. He tapped his fist on the newspaper. That was why he was here. “You’re unnecessarily inciting uncertainty, fear and anger. Cameron Enterprises is putting a lot of resources into Hannah’s Hope and the upcoming gala, with the aim of giving something back to the community. The charity can do a lot of good for the town, but not if you scare people off it.” He deliberately didn’t try to tell her his boss’s takeover of Worth Industries would ultimately be good for the community. Or that Rafe was behind the charity for any reason other than to improve the public image and perception of his business till his plans for the future of the business were finalized.

Rafe could still jump either way with those plans.

“I’d say it is necessary to give voice to the opinions in that piece,” she said. “The citizens of Vista del Mar ought to be uncertain. They ought to be angry and afraid. They ought not to trust in the goodness of Rafe Cameron’s heart.”

“Seems to me you’re letting personal animosity impact professional integrity.” Even if she was right.

For a second, her jaw dropped. “There’s nothing personal about this.”

“You’re not using this as an opportunity to get back at me?”

Her laughter was short but the amusement real. “You flatter yourself, Max.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. I call it as I see it. If I suggest some questions that the people of Vista del Mar might like to ask your Mr. Cameron then that’s just doing my job, regardless of who he employs as his spin doctor.”

“And if our lawyers have some questions they want to ask you and the paper’s owners, they’ll just be doing their job.”

“I have the complete backing of the paper’s owners.”

“Nobody likes to be sued,” he said quietly. “It’ll be easy enough to call them off. All you have to do is to stop writing such aggressively provocative pieces. Stick to the truth and the facts.”

She tilted her head, frowning. “Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m just letting you know what you’re getting into. Giving you the facts.”

She shook her head slowly. “Have you forgotten that much about me, Max? Do you really think threatening me, because that was a threat, not a helpful passing on of information, is going to make me shirk my duties as a voice in this community?”

“I am trying to help you. You need to know how things stand. Rafe Cameron doesn’t let people get in the way of what he wants and he doesn’t mess around.” He hoped, for her sake, that she believed him.

“Can I quote you on that?”

“No. This is a visit between old … friends.” Any other word was too loaded. “I can, however, get you quotes on and from Rafe himself. An interview if you’d like.”

A smile spread across her face. It seemed, in fact, to brighten the whole room. “Do you mean like the type of information you’ll be putting across at your upcoming press conference, or the whitewashed press releases out of your office? Like that one that came across my desk last week full of glowing praise for Hannah’s Hope and the gala?”

That was precisely what he’d been thinking of. Only he could hardly admit that now.

“As if it wasn’t obvious from the—” A sound—something soft hitting the floor upstairs—stopped her midsentence and wiped all trace of amusement from her face. She glanced at her watch. “Your time’s up, Max. I’ve heard you out. I’ll think about what you said. Really, I will.” She was suddenly reasonable, her tone conciliatory. “I promise.” She stood and walked to the door, opening it. “Just go.”

Max rose slowly. Something had thrown her off her stride, put that fear back into the eyes that were now fixed on him as she waited for him to move. Willed him to move? Watching her, he walked toward her. She turned and headed out of the room. By the time he caught up to her she was standing at the front door, holding it wide to reveal the morning sunshine.

He paused.

She opened the door wider still.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Gillian.”

“Yes it does.” Her words were clipped. “I do my job as I see fit.”

“I wasn’t talking about your job. I was speaking … personally. We were rivals once and still managed—”

“I learned my lesson and now I keep my personal and my professional lives separate. So, please, just go. Now.” She reached for him, her fingers closing around his arm, as though to urge him through the doorway.

Max stayed where he was, her desperation making him curious. Something wasn’t right here. Did she have a man back there, someone she didn’t want him to see?

Another soft thump and he looked deeper into the house to where it had come from.

“Max,” she hissed his name and tugged his arm. “Not now.” Panic tightened her voice.

Max gave it up and took a step. He wasn’t going to care. Either about what she was trying to hide or about unsettling her by lingering or about how that simple touch, her hand on his arm, had resonated through him.

“Mommy,” a happy singsong voice called. She let go of his arm and her hand fell to her side.

“Mommy?” he asked, unable to keep the shock from his voice. She closed her eyes and her shoulders sagged. The pieces dropped into place—the hatchback, her softer curves, her haste to get rid of him—it suddenly made sense. She might not be married but she certainly hadn’t wasted any time in replacing him in her bed, in finding someone to give her the child she’d talked about. “When did that happen?” Max was no expert on children, he had no idea how old the child might be. Anywhere less than three but old enough to talk. So, not a baby.

“Go. Please,” she repeated, but this time the authority had gone from her command. A bleak resignation filled her eyes. “I need to talk to you. But not now. Not here.”

“Sure.” Definitely time to go if there was a child here. He barely knew how to be in the room with his own nieces. And he was still processing the fact that Gillian had had a child.

“Mommy.”

One glance. That was all he’d allow himself to satisfy his curiosity. Max turned back to see a little, curly-headed boy, clutching a faded blue blanket, standing at the foot of the stairs.

“I’m hungwy.”

A little boy, who was the spitting image of Max and his brother in the picture his parents still had on their hallway wall, taken when he was two.

Shock swamped him. He, not Gillian, was the one who’d been skating on thin ice. And he’d just fallen through into a paralyzing new world.

Max looked from the boy to Gillian. Her skin, always pale, had faded to ashen, her knuckles as she gripped the door handle were white.

“Mommy?” He echoed the child’s word, not taking his eyes from her. “Mommy?” And for a second he wished that he, too, had the door handle to hold on to, to steady himself. The boy was Gillian’s. The boy who looked like Max. He didn’t need to do the math to know the child was his.

“Okay, honey,” Gillian said, her voice soft, “go on into the kitchen. I’ll come get you some cereal.” The boy looked steadily at her and Max for the longest time then trotted through a doorway.