The Baby Bet: His Secret Son. Joan Elliott Pickart
crying. Kara MacAllister giving orders, telling everyone to move back, move back.
Kara was a doctor, that much was obvious. She’d assisted the paramedics when they’d arrived, told them what she wanted done. The guy who had helped her perform CPR on Robert—what was his name? Ryan. Yes, Ryan MacAllister. Someone had said that he was a cop.
Andrew dragged a restless hand through his hair and continued his trek.
Reporters had appeared in the ballroom at almost the same moment as the paramedics. Flashbulbs had gone off and questions had been asked of the people who were standing around with horrified expressions on their faces.
He’d kept backing up, backing up, until he’d reached the door, then hurried from the ballroom to the registration desk to ask directions to Mercy Hospital.
He’d managed to enter the hospital through a delivery door and had stayed out of view, not wishing to encounter any of the MacAllisters or the reporters. In the confusion he’d gone unnoticed, but had heard the grim bulletin that had been given to the press corps.
Robert MacAllister had suffered a severe heart attack and was being transferred to the cardiac intensive care unit.
His condition was critical.
“My God,” Andrew said aloud, his voice ragged with emotion, “what have I done?” He stopped in his tracks and swept his hands down his face.
He’d never intended to harm Robert. He’d only wanted what was rightfully due Sally Malone. He’d gone to the restaurant to confront Robert with his existence, to force the man to acknowledge that Sally had mattered, had been important.
That long-ago summer affair had taken place, and Robert would no longer be allowed to deny it, or the existence of the special and innocent young girl who had had her heart broken and her dreams shattered.
But he hadn’t achieved his goal, Andrew thought, shaking his head. Instead? Robert MacAllister lay near death a floor above this one, while his family was gathered in a waiting area, clinging to one another, seeking solace from one another, waiting to hear whether Robert MacAllister would live or die.
And if he died, it would be Andrew Malone’s fault. Robert’s own son would be guilty of killing him.
Andrew closed his eyes for a moment and drew a shuddering breath.
He felt as though he was being crushed with the weight of his guilt, with the truth of what he had caused to happen. What kind of man was he? How had it come to this?
Confronting Robert MacAllister had seemed so right, a way of getting Sally Malone the recognition she deserved after all these years. But his mother would be appalled if she knew what he had done to Robert. She would be ashamed of the actions of her son.
Andrew opened his eyes again and stared down at the floor.
His life was completely out of control. During the past few months he’d felt strange, edgy, as though something was missing from his life, but not having a clue about what it was.
He kept telling himself he had everything he wanted and needed: a hefty bank account, classy apartment, an endless string of women who asked nothing more of him than he was prepared to give. His business was thriving and he knew he was respected, known as a man of integrity.
Despite everything there was a void, an emptiness within him that was chilling. And no, damn it, he wasn’t falling prey to some midlife crisis because he was approaching his fortieth birthday. He didn’t know what was wrong, what was plaguing him, but it would pass. He hoped.
And now? On top of his inner turmoil he had just created a hefty serving of guilt to heap on the pile.
“Malone,” he said with a disgusted shake of his head, “you’re a real piece of work.”
Andrew started to walk slowly, turned a corner in the corridor, then was stopped in his tracks by a good-size wall that had glass installed from the ceiling halfway down to the floor.
The room beyond the glass was dimly lit, and Andrew stepped closer, his eyes widening as he peered into it.
Babies. A whole slew of tiny babies. As he’d traveled from one floor to the next in the hospital, using the stairs, he’d apparently ended up in the maternity wing.
What irony, he thought dryly. Here before him was life in its purest and most innocent form. And staring at these little miracles was a man who might very well have caused the death of his own father.
Andrew started to turn to leave the area when a sudden movement beyond the glass near the rear of the nursery caught his attention.
There in the shadows he could see…yes, she was definitely there. It was a woman in a rocking chair, holding a baby in her arms and feeding it a bottle. He couldn’t see her face because from the shoulders up she was cast in shadow.
She wasn’t a nurse. He could see the hospital gown she wore, but beneath it was a long dress that came to the tops of her high-heeled shoes.
Oh, man, Andrew thought, look at that. She was a mother, who had been out celebrating on New Year’s Eve, then had come to the hospital to feed her baby before going home. She was bringing in the new year with her child, who apparently hadn’t been able to be released from the hospital with its mother.
She was rocking slowly back and forth in the chair, holding that tiny infant tightly in her arms, safe from harm, as she fed it.
Andrew was unable to tear his gaze from the scene before him.
Mother and child. So beautiful together. So real, and honest, and perfect.
A foreign warmth suffused him as he stood watching the woman and child. With the strange warmth came a sense of fulfillment, of completeness, a startling realization that he had finally discovered what was missing in his life.
A wife. A soul mate. A partner. And a baby created with that woman, who would have vowed to stay by his side until death parted them.
That was what he wanted, needed, and he hadn’t even known it.
He was tired of being a solitary man who came home to an empty apartment each night, having no one to talk to, to share with, to sleep close to in his big bed.
He wanted for his own what he was seeing beyond this nursery window.
But as the realization of his wants, his needs, really hit home, the warmth within Andrew was shoved roughly aside by a bone-deep chill.
He splayed one hand on the nursery window, feeling the hard surface, the wall that stood between him and what was within.
And the same was true of his heart. While still a teenager, he’d vowed that he would never love, never render himself vulnerable, be at the mercy of another who had the power to shatter his hopes and dreams. He would not be a victim of love as his mother had been.
If a woman he was dating began to make overtures about a permanent relationship or declared her love for him, as had happened on several occasions in the past, he ended things quickly, in a state of near panic as he registered a sense of being smothered, caught in a web he might not be able to escape.
The wall around his heart was as solid as the glass separating him from the babies, from the mother and child he could see in the shadows.
And he had no intention of lowering that wall. Not ever.
Andrew stiffened as the woman inside the nursery rose from the chair and disappeared into a deeper shadow beyond his view.
He should leave, he supposed. He had no business standing here in the middle of the night—he might frighten that mother when she came out of the nursery. But he just wanted to see her for a second, mentally thank her for revealing to him the truth about himself that he hadn’t known, the inner yearning he would now be aware of and be on even greater guard against. He would do that in his mind while he bid her a happy New Year.
He heard a door open, then close, then the click of high-heeled shoes on the tile floor.