Ann Peterson - Claiming His Family

“Smythe? Are you sure?” Dex had been living and breathing Andrew Clarke Smythe in the months since the DNA match had been made. But to now learn he had a son, and that Andrew Clarke Smythe had kidnapped him, was too surreal to absorb.

“Smythe called me. Somehow he knew you were Patrick’s father. He took our baby to get back at you for convicting him two years ago.”

Rage, pure and hot, surged through Dex’s blood. Smythe had kidnapped his son. His son. If the son of a bitch wanted to make things personal, he’d succeeded. And he’d soon wish he hadn’t. If Dex had anything to say about it, the scum would be strung up before daybreak. Crossing to the door in three strides, he left Alyson huddled on the porch. His footsteps thundered down the hall, echoing on the hardwood floor like the beat of war drums. Reaching the library, he circled his desk and reached for the cordless phone perched on the credenza.

“Wait.”

Finger poised over the number pad, he looked up into Alyson’s emerald eyes.

“Smythe told me if we got the police involved, I would never see Patrick again.” Her voice broke. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t let them wind down her cheeks. “If you call the police, he’ll find out. He said he has sources. He could have someone watching us right now.”

She was probably right about Smythe’s sources. Heir to Smythe Pharmaceuticals, the poor little rich boy had endless money at his disposal. And money could corrupt even the purest police department. Or district attorney’s office. Dex had seen it happen.

Expelling a long breath, he set the cordless phone on the desk and studied her face in the library’s bright light. Fine lines framed her mouth and eyes. Shadows lurked in the hollows under her cheekbones, making her normally smooth face appear almost gaunt. He’d seen these signs of stress many times in his work. Hell, he’d grown up surrounded by desperation. “So what else did Smythe say?”

“I have a tape. I recorded part of what he said.” She pulled a tiny cassette from her pocket and held it out to Dex with shaking fingers.

Dex took the tape from her hand. After rummaging through his desk, he produced a microcassette recorder and slipped the tape inside. He pushed the play button.

Andrew Smythe’s voice wound through the library, smooth as a snake’s hiss. Dex had heard it many times in press conferences after court, in pleas from prison, and it always sounded the same. No fear. No pity. Nothing but an unfeeling smugness that set Dex’s teeth on edge.

Much more striking was the sound of Alyson’s voice. So naked. So desperate.

Dex tried to steel himself against the vulnerability in her voice. He tried to focus on Smythe’s words. On what he was saying. Only when the tape ended did he allow himself to look at her.

Her eyes searched his, desperate for answers. Answers he couldn’t give.

He ejected the cassette. “That’s Smythe, all right. But there are no threats on the tape. Nothing I can use to convince a judge to grant an arrest warrant.”

Her gaze fell to the desktop. “I must not have pressed the button soon enough.”

“What did Smythe say? Exactly. Think.”

“He said I should tell you that Patrick is your son.”

He gritted his teeth. If Smythe hadn’t demanded she tell him about Patrick, he never would have known. That was clear enough. And that knowledge stabbed into him with the force of a sharp blade in malevolent hands.

He clamped down on the bleeding. What Alyson would or wouldn’t have done wasn’t important anymore. “What else did he say?”

“That he’d be in touch with us. And he’d let us know what to do next.”

Dex grimaced. That’s what he was afraid of. Leveling her with hard eyes, he shook his head. “I’m not playing a part in any twisted puppet show Smythe has planned.”

Her eyes widened. Leaning toward him, she gripped the edge of the desk. “If we do what he says, he’ll give Patrick back.”

“Smythe has no intention of returning Patrick.”

“But he said—”

“I don’t care what he said. He’s not going to give Patrick back to us, even if we play by every one of his damn rules. Smythe wants to humiliate me, to dominate me, to win. That’s what he’s about. Not fairness. Not keeping his word.”

“He’ll—” She swayed, clutching the desk for balance.

Dex circled the desk. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and propped her up.

After guiding her a few steps, he lowered her into a chair. The soft scents of chamomile and roses surrounded him, a bittersweet memory. Love. Trust. Things he’d once hoped they had together. Things they’d never really had at all. Finally he straightened, spun away from her and paced across the floor.

She gripped the chair’s leather arms and held on. “We can’t take the chance, Dex. We have to do what he says. I can’t lose my baby.”

“We aren’t going to lose him.” Though his voice barely rose above a whisper, it rang with the determination he felt deep in his gut. “I know Smythe. And what I don’t know, I’m damn well going to find out. I’ll get our son back. If you want to help, you’ll have to trust me for once in your life.”

Alyson raised her chin. Tears glittered in her eyes, making them sparkle like emeralds. Her lips tightened. “Why? What do you want me to do?”

Just as he’d thought. She didn’t trust him any more now than she had the day he’d told her that her father was selling plea bargains. An ache crept up his spine and settled in his shoulders. More than a year had passed since he’d last seen Alyson. His feelings of bitterness and betrayal should be dead and buried by now. But they’d returned the moment he’d opened the door tonight and seen her distraught face. Smelling her scent and hearing the vulnerability in her voice had only deepened the ache.

And now to learn he had a son. They had a son. Together…

Pressure constricted his chest, tighter than a steel band. He shoved the thoughts and feelings aside. He couldn’t let himself think about what having a son might mean. He had to focus. He had to formulate some kind of plan. And the first part of that plan was to ensure Smythe didn’t have the opportunity to strike again. “I want you to go home. Try to get some sleep. I’ll arrange for plain clothes officers to watch your house. Smythe and his sources will never know they’re cops.”

Her eyes grew wide with alarm. “You can’t shut me out. I need to help find Patrick.”

“I’m not shutting you out. I’ll call as soon as I learn anything.”

She raised her chin in that determined way of hers and shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You need to be home in case Smythe calls.”

“I forwarded the calls to my cell phone. If he calls, I can answer wherever I am.” She dipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out a phone as an offer of proof. “I know you don’t want to have anything to do with me, Dex. For God’s sake, you didn’t before you knew I didn’t tell you about Patrick. But I can’t just sit at home knowing that monster has him. Surely you can understand that.”

He could understand far too much about how Alyson must be feeling, even after all this time. That was the problem. And it would be even more of a problem if Smythe had figured that out. And from all indications, he had. “If you stay home, I can arrange for protection. The police can turn your house into a regular fortress. If you don’t, you’ll make things much tougher.”

“Protection? For me?”

“Yes, for you. You said Smythe used chloroform on you when he broke into your house tonight.”

“Yes.”

“I’m betting he was also carrying rope.”

He could tell by her expression the answer was yes. She shook her head hard, her auburn hair lashing her cheeks. Obviously she’d guessed where he was going. And she didn’t want to hear it.