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Intimidating, indeed. She was handling this worse than an Assistant District Attorney newly hatched from law school.
“Anne Morden. I used to be with the Public Defender’s Office in Philadelphia.” She could hardly avoid identifying herself, but some instinct made her want to keep him from knowing where to find her—to find Emilie.
He nodded, but his face gave no clue as to his thoughts. Strength showed in the straight planes and square chin. His hair, worn in an aggressively military cut, was as dark as those chocolate eyes. Even the blue police uniform looked military on him, all sharp creases and crisp lines.
“A Philadelphia lawyer. Around here they say if you want to win, you hire a Philadelphia lawyer.” His gaze seemed to sharpen. “So whose battle are you here to win, Ms. Morden? Not Davey Flagler’s.”
“Davey? No.” The boy had been only a preliminary skirmish; they both knew it. For an instant she was tempted to say she represented someone else, but knew that would never work. The plain truth was her only weapon.
“Well, Counselor?”
Her mouth tightened at the implied insult in his use of the title. But one hardly expected police to look kindly on defense attorneys—and most times the feeling was mutual.
“I’m not representing anyone but myself.” She glanced down at Emilie, who banged her rattle on the stroller tray. “And my daughter. I’m here because—” The words stuck in her throat. How could she say this? But she had to.
With a sense that she’d passed the point of no return, she forced the words out. “Because I believe you are Emilie’s biological father.”
Impassive or not, there was no mistaking the expression that crossed his face as her words penetrated—sheer stupefaction.
Donovan stared at her, shifted the stare to the baby, then back to her. If his eyes had softened slightly when they assessed Emilie, that softness turned to granite when his gaze met hers.
“Lady, you’re plain crazy. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
For an instant Anne was speechless. Then she felt her cheeks color. He thought she meant they…
“No! I mean, I know you haven’t.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. If she behaved this way in court, all her clients would be in prison.
His eyes narrowed, fine lines fanning out from them. “Then what do you mean?” The question shot across the desk, and his very stillness spoke of anger raging underneath iron control.
“Emilie…”
As if hearing her name, Emilie chose that moment to burst into wails. She stiffened, thrusting herself backward in the stroller.
Anne bent over her. “Hush, sweetheart.” She lifted the baby, standing to hold her on one hip. “There, it’s all right.” She bounced her gently. “Don’t cry.”
The wail turned to a whimper, and Anne dropped a kiss on Emilie’s fine, silky hair. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought the baby with her, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being away from her in this crisis.
The whimpers eased, and Emilie thrust her fingers into her mouth. Anne looked at the man on the other side of the desk, searching vainly for any resemblance to her daughter.
“I didn’t put that well.” She cradled the baby against her. “I’m not Emilie’s birth mother. I’m her foster mother. I’m trying to adopt her.”
Donovan shot out of the chair, as if he couldn’t be still any longer. He leaned forward, hands planted on the desk.
“Why did you come in here with an accusation like that? What proof do you have?”
“I have the birth mother’s statement.”
That had to rock him, yet his expression didn’t change. “Where is she? Let her make her accusations to my face.”
“She can’t.” Anne’s arms tightened protectively around the baby, knowing this was the weakest link in her case, the point at which she was most vulnerable. And Donovan was definitely a man who’d zero in on any vulnerability. “She’s dead.”
Mitch stared at the woman for a long moment, anger simmering behind the impassive mask he kept in place by sheer force of will. What game was this woman playing? Was this some kind of setup?
“What do you want?”
The abrupt question seemed to throw her. She cradled the baby against her body as if she needed to protect it.
From him. The realization pierced his anger. Protecting was his job, had been since the moment he put on a shield. Assist, protect, defend—the military police code. Nobody needed protecting from him, not unless they’d broken the law.
“You admit it, then? That you’re Emilie’s father?”
He leaned toward her, resisting the urge to charge around the desk. It was better, much better, to keep the barricade between them.
“I’m not admitting a thing. I want to know what brought you here. Or who.”
Something that might have been hope died in her deep-blue eyes. “I told you. The baby’s mother said you were the father.”
“You also told me she’s dead. That makes it pretty convenient to come here with this trumped-up claim.”
“Trumped up?” Anger crackled around her. “I certainly didn’t make this up. Why would I?”
“You tell me.” It was astonishing that his voice was so calm, given the way his mind darted this way and that, trying to make sense of this.
One thing he was sure of—the baby wasn’t his. His jaw tightened until it felt about to break. He’d decided a long time ago he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood, and he didn’t take chances.
“That’s ridiculous.” Even her hair seemed to spark with anger, as if touching it might shock him. “I came here because I know you’re Emilie’s father.”
His life practically flashed before his eyes as she repeated those words. Everything he’d worked for, the respect he’d enjoyed in the two years since his return—all of it would vanish when her accusation exploded. If the story got out, it wouldn’t matter that it wasn’t true. By the time it had spread up one side of Main Street and down the other, all the denials in the world wouldn’t make it go away.
Those Donovans have always been trouble, that’s what people would say. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“You’re wrong,” he said flatly. “I don’t know who that child’s parents are, but you’re not going to get anything out of claiming I’m her father except to cause me a lot of grief.”
The idea startled her—he could see it in her eyes. “I didn’t come here to create a scandal.” She stroked the baby’s back, her mouth suddenly vulnerable as she looked at the child.
“Good.” He almost believed she meant it, and the thought cut through his anger to some rational part of his mind. He had to start thinking, not reacting. He went around the desk and leaned against it, trying for an ease he didn’t feel. “Then why did you come?”
She thought he was capitulating, he could tell. A smile lit her face that almost took his breath away. A man would do a lot for a smile like that.
“All I want is your signature on a parental rights termination so the adoption can go through. Once I have that, Emilie and I will walk out of your life for good.”
“That’s all?”
She nodded. “You’ll never see us again.”
“And if I don’t sign?”
Her arms tightened around the baby. “I’ve taken care of Emilie since the day she was born. Her mother wanted me to adopt her. Why would you want to stand in the way?”
They were right where they’d started, and she wouldn’t like his answer.
“I don’t.” He leaned forward, bridged the gap between them and touched the baby’s cheek. It earned him a smile. “She’s a cute kid. But she’s not mine.”
She turned away abruptly, bending to slide the baby into the stroller. Emilie fussed for an instant, until Anne put a stuffed toy in front of her.
When she straightened, her eyes were chips of blue ice. “I’m not trying to trap you into anything.”
“I’d like to believe that, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m still not her father.”
She gave an impatient shrug. “I’ve told you the mother named you.”
“You haven’t even told me who she is. Or how you fit into this story.” He was finally starting to think like a cop. It was about time. “Look.” He tried to find the words that would gain him some cooperation. “I believe I’m not this child’s father. You believe I am. Seems to me, two reasonable adults can sit down and get everything out in the open. How do you expect me to react when an accusation like this comes out of nowhere?”
He could see her assess his words from every angle.
“All right,” she said finally. “You know what my interest is. I want to adopt Emilie.”
There had to be a lot more to the story than that, but he’d settle for the bare bones at the moment. “And the mother? Who was she? What happened to her?”
He gripped the edge of the desk behind him. He probably shouldn’t fire questions at her, but he couldn’t help it.
She frowned. Maybe she was editing her words. “Her mother’s name was Tina Mallory. Now do you remember her?”
The name landed unpleasantly between them. Tina Mallory. He wanted to be able to say he’d never heard of her, but he couldn’t, because the name echoed with some faint familiarity. He’d heard it before, but where? And how much of his sense of recognition did Anne Morden guess?
“How am I supposed to have known her?”
“She lived here in Bedford Creek at one time.”
In Bedford Creek. If she’d lived here, why didn’t he remember her? “I’m afraid it still doesn’t ring any bells.”
That was only half-right. It rang a bell; he just didn’t know why.
“Doesn’t the police chief know everyone in a town this small?” Her eyebrows arched.
Before he could come up with an answer, the telephone rang, and seconds later Wanda Clay bellowed, “Chief! Call for you.”
Anne’s silky black hair brushed her shoulders as she glanced toward the door.
He reached for the phone. “Excuse me. I have to do the job the town pays me for.”
He picked up the receiver, turned away from her. It was a much-needed respite. He let Mrs. Bennett’s complaint about her neighbors drift through his mind. He didn’t need to listen, often as he’d heard the same story. What he did need to do was think. He had to find some way to put off Anne Morden until he figured out who Tina Mallory was.
“We’ll take care of it, Mrs. Bennett, I promise.” A few more soothing phrases, and he hung up.
Anne looked as if she wanted to tap her foot with impatience. “Now can we discuss this?”
The phone rang again, giving him the perfect excuse. “Not without interruption, as you can see. Where are you staying?”
She stiffened. “I hadn’t intended to be here that long. Why can’t we finish this now?”
“Because I have a job to do.” His mind twisted around obstacles. He’d also better run a check on Anne Morden before he did another thing. He at least had to make sure she was who she claimed to be. “How about getting together this evening?”
“This evening?” She made it sound like an eternity. “It’s a three-hour drive back to Philadelphia, and Emilie’s tired already.”
He was tempted to say Take it or leave it, but now was not the time for ultimatums. It might come to that, but not if he could make her see she was wrong.
“Look, this is too important to rush. Why don’t you plan to stay over?”
“I’d like to get home tonight.”
Her tone had softened a little. At least she was considering his suggestion.
“Isn’t this more important?” He pushed the advantage.
She looked at the baby, then back at him, and nodded slowly. “It’s worth staying, if I can get this cleared up once and for all.”
Mitch took a piece of notepaper from the desk and scribbled an address on it. “The Willows is a bed-and-breakfast. Kate Cavendish will take good care of you.”
He considered it a minor triumph when she accepted the paper.
“All right.” Maybe she’d anticipated all along that this wouldn’t be settled in a hurry. “If that’s what it takes, Emilie and I will stay over. When can I expect to see you?”
He glanced at his watch, reviewing all he’d need to accomplish. “Say between six and seven?”
She nodded hesitantly, as if wary of agreeing to anything he said. “I’ll see you then.”
He didn’t breathe until she and the baby were gone. Then it felt as if he hadn’t breathed the whole time she’d been there. Well, the news she’d brought would rattle anyone.
Just how much stock could he put in what Anne Morden said? He leaned back in his chair, considering.
It didn’t take much effort to picture her sitting across from him. Cool composure—that was the first thing he’d noticed about her. She’d reminded him of every smart, savvy attorney he’d ever locked horns with, except that she was beautiful. Hair as silky and black as a ripple of satin, skin like creamy porcelain, eyes blue as a mountain lake.
Beautiful. Also way out of his class, with her designer clothes and superior air.
Well, beautiful or not, Ms. Anne Morden had to be checked out. He hoped he could find some ammunition with which to defend himself, before she blew his life apart.
He reached for the phone.
Chapter Two
A nne put a light blanket over Emilie, who slept soundly in the crib Mrs. Cavendish had installed in the bedroom of the suite. Nothing, it seemed, was too much trouble for a friend of Chief Donovan’s. No one else was staying at the bed-and-breakfast now, and Mrs. Cavendish—Kate, she’d insisted Anne call her—had given them a bedroom with an adjoining sitting room on the second floor of the rambling Victorian house.
The rooms were country quaint, furnished with mismatched antiques that looked as if they’d always sat just where they did now. The quilt on the brass bed appeared to be handmade, and dried flowers filled the pottery basin on the oak washstand. A ghost of last summer’s fragrance wafted from them.
She would have enjoyed the place in any other circumstances; it might have been a welcome retreat. But not when her baby’s future was at stake.
She had to get herself under control before her next unsettling meeting with Mitch Donovan. This afternoon—well, this afternoon she could have done better, couldn’t she?
