Brenda Jackson - His Secret Son

It had been pretty easy. Dionne’s fiancé, Mark, had helped. Mark worked for a judge in Paris and had falsified the papers before Bristol left France. It was a way to make sure her son had his father’s last name without people wondering why her last name was different. It wasn’t as if she was trying to cash in on her son’s father’s military benefits or anything.

“If you ask me, I think you should finally move on...with Steven,” Margie said, interrupting Bristol’s thoughts.

Bristol wanted to say that nobody had asked Margie. But deep down, a part of her knew Margie was right. It was time for Bristol to move on. However, she doubted very seriously that it would be with Steven.

A short while later she was entering her home, a beautiful brownstone in Brooklyn that she’d inherited from her aunt Dolly. She loved the place and knew the neighborhood well. She’d come to live here with her aunt ten years ago, when she was fifteen. That had been the year her mother died.

She didn’t want to think sad thoughts, especially after her positive meeting with Maurice Jazlyn, the owner of the gallery. The man was excited about tomorrow night’s showing and expected a huge crowd. He loved all the artworks she would be exhibiting.

“How did things go tonight?”

She turned toward the older woman coming down the stairs to the main floor. Charlotte Kramer lived next door and had been a close friend of her aunt Dolly. With her four kids grown and living in other parts of New York, Ms. Charlotte had thought about moving to a condo not far away, but had decided she’d rather stay put since she’d lived in the area close to forty years and loved her neighbors. Ms. Charlotte said there were a lot of memories of Mr. Kramer stored in that house. He’d passed away eight years ago, a couple of years after Bristol had come to live with her aunt.

Bristol appreciated that Ms. Charlotte loved watching Laramie for her whenever she had meetings to attend. And Ms. Charlotte had offered to watch him again tomorrow night when Bristol attended the exhibition.

“Everything went well. Everyone is excited about tomorrow. Mr. Jazlyn thinks he’ll be able to sell all my paintings.”

A huge smile touched Ms. Charlotte’s lips. “That’s good news. Dolly would be proud. Candace would be, too.”

She doubted the latter. Her mother had never approved of Bristol becoming an artist. It was only after she died that Bristol learned why. Her father had been an artist who’d broken things off with her mother to study in Paris. It was only after he’d left the country that her mother discovered her pregnancy. She’d known how to reach him but refused to let him know about his child. She had resented him for ending things with her to pursue his dream.

Bristol had been sixteen when she’d met her father for the first time. She would not have met him then if it hadn’t been for her aunt’s decision to break the promise she’d made to Bristol’s mother years ago. Aunt Dolly wanted Bristol to know her father and vice versa. When Bristol was given the man’s name, she had been shocked to find that the person whose art she’d admired for years was really her father.

She’d finally gotten the courage to contact him on her sixteenth birthday. Randall Lockett was married with a family when they’d finally met. He had two young sons—ages ten and twelve—with his wife Krista. Bristol was his only daughter and she favored him so much it was uncanny. She was also his only offspring who’d inherited his artistic gift.

When he’d died, he had bequeathed to her full tuition to the school he himself had attended in Paris as well as the vast majority of his paintings. He’d felt she would appreciate them more than anyone, and she had. She’d heard that Krista had remarried and sold off all the artworks that had been left to her and their sons.

Paintings by Randall Lockett were valued in the millions. Art collectors had contacted Bristol on numerous occasions, but she had refused to sell. Instead her father’s paintings were on display at the two largest art museums in the world, New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Orsay Museum in Paris.

A few months before her father had died, they had completed a painting together, which was her most cherished possession. It was so uncanny that when it came to art she and her father had possessed identical preferences. They even held their brushes the same way. On those days when she felt down and out, she would look at the portrait over her fireplace and remember the six weeks they’d spent together on his boat while painting it. That was when they’d noticed all the similarities they shared as artists. She hadn’t known he was dying of cancer until his final days. He hadn’t wanted her to know. He was determined to share every moment he could with her without seeing pity and regret in her eyes.

Forcing those sad thoughts from her mind, she glanced back over at Ms. Charlotte. “Did Laramie behave himself tonight?” she asked, placing her purse on the table.

The older woman chuckled. “Doesn’t he always?”

Bristol smiled. “No, but I know you wouldn’t tell me even if he was a handful.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. Boys will be boys. I know. I raised four of them.”

Yes, she had, and to this day Ms. Charlotte’s sons looked out for her, making sure she had everything she needed and then some.

After Ms. Charlotte left, Bristol climbed the stairs to her son’s room. He was in his bed, sound asleep. Crossing the bedroom floor, she saw he had put away all his toys. That was a good sign that he was learning to follow instructions.

Approaching the bed, she sat on the edge and gently ran her fingers through the curls on his head. He favored his father. Laramie Cooper’s features were etched in her memory. Whenever Laramie smiled, he displayed his father’s dimples in both cheeks. Then there was the shape of his mouth and the slant of his eyes. Like father, like son. There was no doubt in her mind that one day Laramie would grow up and capture some woman’s heart just as quickly and easily as his father had claimed hers.

As she sat there watching her son sleep, she couldn’t stop her mind from going back to that time in Paris when she’d met US Navy SEAL Laramie Cooper...

Two

Paris, France, three years ago

Bristol glanced up from her sketch pad when she heard the male voices entering the café. Military men. All five of them. That was easy to deduce, even though they weren’t wearing military attire. They were wearing jeans, shirts and dark leather jackets. The five walked confidently and were in perfect physical condition. Boy, were they ever! She wondered what branch of service they represented. It really didn’t matter. Whichever one branch it was, they were representing it well.

The group took the table not far away from where she sat and one of the men, as if he felt someone staring at him, glanced over at her. Bam! She’d been caught. She hadn’t averted her gaze back to her sketch pad quickly enough. For some reason, she knew without glancing back up that he was still looking at her. She could feel his gaze, just as if it was a physical caress. It made her heart beat faster. It seemed that every single hormone in her body had begun to sizzle. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before.

Okay, Bristol, concentrate on your sketch, she inwardly admonished herself. Her father hadn’t paid her tuition at one of the most prestigious art schools in France for her to get all hot and bothered by a bunch of military men. Although the five were extremely handsome, it was only one of the men who had caught her eye. The one who’d stared back at her.

“Excuse me, miss.”

She glanced up and the man was now standing at her table. Up close he was even more gorgeous. Definitely eye candy of the most delectable kind. Hot. Sexy. You name it and this man could definitely claim it. That had to be the reason intense heat was plowing up her spine.