Her Lost And Found Baby. Tara Quinn Taylor
the one with the plans. What can we do, legally? What rights do I have?”
She was serious. Stone-cold, go-to-your-grave serious.
Brain in full gear, he ran the facts through his mind. A little boy, Jason. A missing one, the same age, with a similar name, Jackson. One appearing in San Diego about the time the other disappeared from Mission Viejo. Single dads. A mother and a wife dying from the same disease at the same time.
It was enough to give false hope to a desperate woman—he could see that. But it was circumstantial at best. And not even enough of that to compel law enforcement to do anything.
“I admit that there are similarities.” He started slowly. He couldn’t dash her hopes. Not because of any role he was playing in her life, but because...he just couldn’t. This was Tabitha. And he couldn’t do that to her. Even with cause.
“It’s him, Johnny, I’m sure of it.”
He wanted to believe her in the worst way.
Tried. But couldn’t.
Still, what did he know about mother’s instinct and such? Or any pull from the gut that was nonsexual in nature?
He loved his folks. Had loved Angel, too, although his feelings for her had been more of a warm fondness than any great passion. They’d grown up in the same circle. They’d probably gravitated to each other because they were the only ones in their group of rich kids at their private school who hadn’t had siblings. Or divorced parents. Or both. Their parents had always thrown them together, wanting them to marry. She’d made no secret of the fact that she was deeply in love with him. And he’d truly loved her, although he just didn’t seem to be the type of guy who got passionate about anything.
Hence, his quest to see Angel’s passion through.
In any case, he’d loved her. Still loved her. But his feelings were just...there.
There wasn’t the kind of bone-deep need in them that Tabitha clearly felt for her son. He’d never felt that way about anyone, in any situation. He’d probably understand it better when he had a child of his own, but until then...
“We have to figure out a way to get DNA samples,” Tabitha was saying, sipping wine with more passion than usual.
“Unless Jason’s father gives consent, you’d need a warrant,” he stated the legal facts. And if Jason’s father was Tabitha’s Mark, the chances of him giving consent were nil.
But...what would it hurt to help her try to get the sample? Let the science tell her the boy wasn’t hers?
The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. They’d buy some time. He’d be able to help her one hundred percent. And someone else could be the bearer of bad news—at which point, she’d still have his support and they’d keep looking.
“Do you think we should ask to speak with Jason’s father, then? That we should just ask Mark, or whatever he’s calling himself these days, to prove that Jason isn’t Jackson?”
He didn’t immediately respond to her question. If he went along with this, helped her as though he believed, maybe he could prepare her for the possibility that the test, once they found a way to compel it, could come back negative.
Yes. He liked this idea. It was a good one.
With that thought, he drank some of his wine. He could delve into the legal problem at hand. Be a partner to Tabitha again.
“That’s not a good idea,” he finally replied. “We don’t want to force his hand and have him run off again.”
“I know. But now that we’ve found him, maybe if we just confront him...”
He looked her straight in the eye. “Do you think he’s going to give up his son at this point and let himself be carted off to jail?”
She held his gaze for a moment. Long enough to make him feel good all over. To forget, for just a second, what they were doing there. And then she said, “No, of course not.”
He nodded. “So we need to keep being Chrissy’s parents, keep our undercover identities, and see if there’s any more we can find out. We need something compelling enough that when we go to the police, they can do more than just question Mark...which would only tell him it’s time to run again—which is why I think we need to stay physically away from the daycare. If that boy is Jackson, you don’t want Mark to come walking in and find you there. What we need is to somehow get enough of a lead to help Alistair. A last name would be a great place to start. He could look into this Jason’s father.”
She nodded, then took a sip of her own wine. In his opinion, the wine was excellent. She seemed to think so, too. He stood up to get the bottle to top off both their glasses.
“You don’t think we should go to the police yet? Call Detective Bentley? Or have someone here in San Diego at least do a wellness check on Jason?”
Her pleading glance made him sit closer to her as he shook his head and rejoined her on the couch.
“First of all, Mallory—whom you obviously trust—didn’t give the slightest hint that there’s anything wrong. Unless there’s some reason to suspect something’s wrong, more than we currently have on Jason, they won’t be able to do any more than tell him someone asked for a wellness check. They’d more than likely see that he’s well.”
“Couldn’t we have them ask him for a DNA sample, just to settle this?”
“If they’d even agree to do that, which is highly unlikely with only circumstantial evidence, I can almost guarantee you his answer would be an unequivocal no. And then, if it is Mark, he’ll definitely be tipped off.”
“Wouldn’t that be like an admission of guilt?”
“You’d think so, but no. People guard their privacy, especially these days. But what it could do is make Mark nervous...”
“...and that we don’t want. Not while he still has Jackson. Not only because he could run again, but because we have no idea if...”
The stark fear in her gaze burned a hole so deep in him, he felt places he hadn’t known existed. “You’ve said all along that he’s gentle and kind. Patient. Great with kids,” he quickly reminded her. He didn’t know whether a man who was unhinged enough to kidnap his son because his own mother had died would be capable of hurting the boy. He just knew that Tabitha’s clutching that fear served no good purpose.
“He is.” She nodded once again, her smile filled with the kind of thanks a man wanted to hold on to.
He wanted to hold on to her. To pull her into his arms and keep her there. For a little while, anyway. Then he’d let her go. Before violating their friendship, making things messy, which would lead to an earlier end to their relationship than planned.
He didn’t want that.
Tabitha wasn’t anything like the other women in his world—and had absolutely no interest in becoming one of them—a woman who lived in the society he’d been born to. And he couldn’t see himself as anyone other than Johnny Brubaker, top legal counsel for his father’s holdings until the old man retired, if he ever retired, at which point the holdings would belong to Johnny. It had all been loosely mapped out before his birth.
“I think what we need to do first is fill out that application and see if we can get Chrissy enrolled at The Bouncing Ball.” Legal pitfalls bounced all around him. Over him.
“Don’t we need a two-year-old girl to do that?”
“She’s not the one who’ll be looked at. We will be.” He’d already perused the application. It was general stuff. Their jobs. Addresses. “We can use your home address and then the address of the commissary I rented here for the week...” Food truck laws in California required a street address for the business, one that passed health code regulations for storing and preparing food, and included a place