Peekaboo Baby. Delores Fossen
be so far off the mark.
He glanced at the purse she was practically hugging to her chest. Did she have a gun in there? More importantly, had she come prepared to use it? Maybe something had set her off and brought their old feud back to the surface.
“She had a baby four months ago,” Lena continued. “A son named Patrick Thomas Nash.”
Interesting. Not just because he’d never thought of her as the motherly type but because the child had the same surname as hers. “So she’s not married?”
“No.”
“Save any further details for later,” Ryan said to Lena when the servant knocked at his office door.
It was showtime.
“Should I monitor this visit?” Lena asked.
Monitor. As in keep a close watch through the security cameras in case Ms. Nash went ballistic. “No. I expect this won’t take long.” And in a louder voice, he instructed Ms. Nash to enter.
The door opened. Slowly. And even though there was no eerie creaking sound from the hinges, the room suddenly seemed to take on the ambiance of a horror movie in which the rain and wind battered the glass and a woman, who no doubt hated him enough to kill him, was slowly revealed.
While she stood in the doorway, with the richly stained mahogany framing her, her gaze slid around the room until it landed on him. Only then did she take a step inside. Not a cautious and calculating step, either. She entered with the same determination that she’d had on her trek up the stairs.
He’d been right about the rain doing a real number on her. Her jacket and slim above-the-knee skirt were blotched. There wasn’t a dry spot on her hair, and not much left of her makeup. Nothing except a trace of peach-colored lipstick.
And she looked as if she’d been crying.
That sent a weird curl of emotion through him. It was such a foreign feeling, one he hadn’t had in a long time, that it took Ryan a moment to identify it. But those tear-reddened, jade-green eyes brought out more than a few protective instincts in his body.
Whoa.
That was a truly stupid reaction.
Because Delaney Nash certainly wasn’t feeling protective toward him.
“Did your father send you?” Ryan asked in an effort to change his train of thought.
She blinked, as if shocked by his question. And her shock surprised Ryan, because he’d been almost certain this visit was about Richard Nash.
“This has nothing to do with my father.”
She walked closer, her thin, delicate heels clicking like heartbeats on the hardwood floor, and stopped in front of his desk. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. So slowly that it caused her bottom lip to tremble. “I have a favor to ask.”
Yet another surprise, and one that had probably cost her an ample amount of Nash pride. She would no doubt rather eat razor blades than come to him for a favor. Or for anything.
“What do you want?” Ryan tried to sound nonchalant but figured he failed. He was anything but nonchalant. This rain-soaked woman, his enemy, had piqued his curiosity.
Among other things.
That trembling bottom lip and her teary eyes were touching places in his heart that he never wanted touched again. Realizing what was happening, Ryan did a detach. He took a mental step back, put on his best corporate sneer and gave her a callous go-ahead prompt with his hand.
She nodded, nodded again and swallowed hard. “I need to see a picture of your son.”
Well, that shot the hell out of his corporate sneer and mental step back. He couldn’t stay detached after that. Ryan leaned forward. “Excuse me?”
“I went to the library and looked through all the old newspapers.” A raindrop slipped from the ends of her hair and spattered on his desk. She immediately reached down to wipe it away. “But there wasn’t a picture of him.”
Because Ryan had refused to give one to the papers. He hadn’t wanted anyone, especially strangers, to see his infant son. It was a grief, a hurt so deep, that Ryan hadn’t wanted to share it.
He still didn’t.
“Why?” he asked, aware that the one word encompassed a lot. Not the least of which, he figured it would generate an explanation. Not necessarily a good explanation. Because after all, this was the daughter of a mentally unstable man who’d repeatedly threatened to kill him.
“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Try,” Ryan insisted.
Her fingers were white-knuckled in their grip on her purse. “Could I please just see his picture? I might be able to save us both a lot of time.”
Well, the woman certainly knew how to captivate him. And no, it didn’t have anything to do with her vulnerability.
All right, maybe it did.
A little.
But it was a problem that he’d soon remedy. Feelings and emotions carried high price tags, and he didn’t intend to go there again. Ever. And even if he decided to ease up on that rule a bit, he wouldn’t have been looking in Delaney Nash’s direction.
“Please,” she said, her voice and bottom lip trembling again.
Ryan stared at her while he debated it. And what a debate it was. Why did she want to see a picture of Adam? Why the vague save-us-some-time excuse?
And why the heck was he even considering her bizarre request?
He didn’t owe her a damn thing. She and her father had done everything humanly possible to drag his name through the mud. And all because he’d bested Richard Nash in a business deal.
So what.
He’d bested a lot of people, and they hadn’t made death threats or tried to sue him. The old analogy of “if you can’t stand the heat” came to mind. Richard Nash obviously couldn’t, but instead of getting his wimpy butt out of the kitchen, he’d spent the past year and a half trying to get revenge.
Ryan mentally rehashed the past, and while he was at it, he took a few moments to reflect on the woman standing in front of him. And somewhere amid all of that soul-searching, he felt his hand move in the direction of his top right desk drawer.
He didn’t look at the object he extracted. He couldn’t. It might be acceptable for her to show her vulnerable side, but Ryan didn’t intend to reciprocate.
His heart would break all over again if he looked at that picture of his son. And this time, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to survive it.
Keeping his attention fastened to her eyes, Ryan handed her the photo encased in the gold-gilded frame. She didn’t look at the image, either. She kept her attention on him, shifted her purse beneath her arm and took the picture, her fingers closing around it as if it were made of delicate crystal that might shatter in her hand.
She mumbled something. A prayer, maybe, then looked down at the photo.
Her eyes widened, her breath stopped, and she brought the picture closer. Studying it. Really studying it. Mere inches from her face.
“Oh, God. Oh. God. He’s so small,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper. Her bottom lip didn’t quiver. It began to shake.
She began to shake.
And she adjusted her purse again so that it was in front of her chest.
“Yes.” Ryan had to swallow hard before he could continue. Not just because of her extreme reaction, but because he didn’t need the image in front of him to visualize his son’s face. It was there. Always there. Burned into his memory and his heart. “Adam was born ten weeks premature.”
We almost lost