His Secret Son. Brenda Jackson
Times Square, but he did note a lot of changes since he was here last.
“What would you like tonight?”
He glanced up at the waitress. No one could credit him with being slow and he immediately knew the double meaning behind her question. “A menu would be nice,” he said, hoping that would defuse any ideas she had.
Maybe another time, but not tonight. He just wasn’t feeling it. He chuckled and wondered if he was running a fever. There hadn’t been too many times when he’d turned down sex. And there was no doubt in his mind the woman was offering.
“I’ll make sure you get a menu...as well as anything else you might want,” she said, smiling.
He smiled back. “Thanks. The menu will do for now and a beer.”
She walked off and returned with the menu and his beer. “Thanks.”
“You can thank me later.” Then she sashayed off.
He wondered why he wasn’t taking advantage of those curves and long gorgeous legs. His excuse had to be that this place sort of reminded him of that café in Paris. The one where Bristol worked.
Bristol.
He’d been thinking about her a lot lately. Maybe because it was around this time—during the holiday season three years ago when they’d met. Whatever the reason, Bristol Lockett was on his mind.
After his rescue from Syria, one of the first places he’d gone had been to Paris to see her, a woman he hadn’t meant to ever see again. But something had compelled him to seek her out, only to be told by the manager of the apartment complex where she’d lived that she had returned to the United States a couple of years ago and had not left a forwarding address.
When he noticed the waitress looking over at him, he decided to place his order, eat and then leave. He wasn’t up for any female company tonight and didn’t want the woman to get any ideas.
An hour or so later, he left the restaurant a pretty satisfied man. The food had been delicious but he’d had a hard time deflating the waitress’s flirtation. By the end of his meal, she’d all but placed her apartment key in his hand.
Instead of catching a cab back to his hotel room, he decided to walk off the hamburger and fries he’d eaten. Although he’d complained earlier about the cold weather, it really wasn’t too bad. He’d endured worse. Like that time his team had that mission in the Artic.
He was about to cross the street when a sign ahead stopped him. It was an art gallery and the poster said:
TONIGHT
SPECIAL SHOWING OF ART BY BRISTOL
Bristol...
He shook his head. He was losing it. He hadn’t thought Bristol was a common name. Was it?
What if it wasn’t? Could it be his Bristol?
He dismissed the idea that Bristol was his. She was merely a woman he’d had a three-day fling with while relaxing in Paris before a mission.
Merely a woman he hadn’t been able to forget in three years.
The name was unusual. He’d told her so when they’d met. He knew she was an artist. She’d shown him some of her art.
There was no way she could be here.
But then, why not? She was a New Yorker. He’d gathered that much from a conversation she’d had with Bane. Laramie hadn’t asked her anything. His main focus had been sleeping with her.
What if the Bristol on the sign was the same Bristol from Paris?
His chest pounded at the possibility. He watched all the well-dressed people getting out of their limos and private cars to enter the gallery. He glanced down at himself. Jeans, pullover shirt, leather jacket, Stetson and boots. Definitely not dressed to mingle with the likes of the high-class crowd entering the gallery. But at that moment, he didn’t give a royal damn.
He had to find out if this Bristol was the same woman he hadn’t been able to forget.
* * *
“Would you like some more wine, Bristol?”
Bristol glanced up at Steven Culpepper, forced a smile and said, “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
He nodded. Looking over her shoulder, he said, “Excuse me for a minute. A few of my clients just arrived.”
“Sure.”
She let out a deep sigh when he walked off. Why was he hanging around as if they were together when they weren’t?
She glanced around. There was a huge crowd and she appreciated that. A great number of her paintings had been sold already.
“I see Steven is quite taken with you tonight, Bristol.”
She turned to Margie. “I wish he wouldn’t be. He’s barely left my side.”
Margie lifted a brow. “And you see that as a bad thing?”
Bristol shrugged. “I just don’t want him getting the wrong idea.”
“Oh, I see,”
Bristol doubted it. Margie was determined to play matchmaker.
“A lot of the people here tonight are ones he invited. People with money. Need I say more?” Margie then walked off.
No, in all honesty, Margie didn’t have to say anything. Steven had told her several times tonight just how many people were here because of him. It was as if he’d assumed Bristol would not have gotten anyone here on her own. Although he was probably right about that, he didn’t have to remind her of it every chance he got.
“Hello, Bristol.”
She turned to an older gentleman. His face seemed familiar and after a quick study of his features, she remembered him. “You’re Colin Kusac, a close friend of my father’s.”
He smiled. “Yes, that’s right. I haven’t seen you since the funeral and the reading of the will.”
That was true. Her father had named Colin as executor, and the scene hadn’t been nice that day, especially when all her father had left her was revealed. Krista had accused Bristol of looking for her father only to get his money. Her stepmother had been wrong about that.
Her father had told her that he and Colin had attended high school together and over the years had remained the best of friends. Before Randall died, he’d also told her to contact Mr. Kusac if she ever needed anything. Since there was nothing she’d needed, there had been no reason to call him.
“How have you been?” she asked him.
“Fine. And you? I understand you have a son.”
She wondered how he’d known that. She lived a quiet life and it hadn’t been highly publicized that she was Randall Lockett’s daughter. Although, at her father’s request, she had taken his last name. At sixteen it had taken a lot of getting used to, going from Bristol Washington to Bristol Lockett.
Although she’d taken her father’s name, she’d never flaunted it to influence her own career. And in the art community her father had used the pseudonym Rand, so very few people had made the connection anyway. However, over the years, people had mentioned how much her paintings resembled those of the renowned artist Rand. Although Margie was aware of her father’s identity, Bristol had sworn her manager to secrecy. Bristol wanted to make it on her own and not use her father as leverage.
And now she was Bristol Cooper...
“Yes, I have a beautiful two-year-old son. His first name is Laramie, after his father. His middle name is Randall, after my father. He has the names of two good men.”
“Randall would have liked that. He would have been proud of his first grandchild.” Colin didn’t say anything for a minute and then added, “I miss my good friend. He was there for me more