Jamie Denton - The Biological Bond

He wasn’t looking forward to this trip. Hell, he wasn’t looking forward to meeting her. And he wouldn’t have bothered, if he hadn’t needed her to save his daughter’s life.

“There’s a Mr. Winslow here to see you, Rebecca.”

Rebecca Martinson set aside the file she’d spent the morning reading and looked at her secretary. “A new case?” she asked Laura, wondering whatever happened to marriages that lasted forever. As a family law attorney, she’d seen the uglier side of marriage and, in some instances, humanity as well. She knew from her myriad of clients that happily-ever-after was nothing more than fodder for fairy tales. The only bright spots in her chosen profession were the adoptions she handled. Nothing could compare to the happiness on the faces of the adoptive couples or the love they gave to the child who’d been chosen. Her adoption cases gave her hope.

“He won’t say, and he doesn’t have an appointment.” Laura wiggled her eyebrows. “But he’s the most drop-dead-gorgeous specimen I’ve seen around here in ages.”

Rebecca smiled. “I’ve got a few minutes before the staff meeting. I’ll see what he wants, then you can get started on whatever paperwork we might need.”

Laura nodded, opened the door, and Mr. Winslow walked into the office. For once her secretary hadn’t exaggerated. This man was truly a sight to behold. He had “cowboy” written all over him, and Rebecca’s insides fluttered. Rough-hewn features and broad shoulders teased her feminine senses. She glanced away. She hadn’t been that affected by the male species since…well, in a very long time.

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Winslow?” Laura asked.

“No, thank you.” His deep voice commanded attention, not to mention the jeans that emphasized long legs and strong thighs. He had the kind of well-tuned body Rebecca appreciated just a little too much.

Forcing her mind on business, she rounded the desk and extended her hand. His rough, callused hand clasped hers firmly. This was a man who worked with his hands for a living, she thought. Powerful hands.

“I’m Rebecca Martinson, Mr. Winslow.” She motioned to a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”

He nodded, then crossed the office and sat in the chair opposite her desk. A deep-brown corduroy jacket, complete with elbow patches, matched the color of his hair—a tad too long for a label like clean-cut.

She returned to her own chair and looked at him expectantly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Winslow?”

The cowboy shifted and glanced around her office, taking time to examine the multitude of diplomas and awards on the wall behind her desk. When his gaze fastened on her, she smiled, hoping to set him at ease.

“Why don’t you start by telling me why you need a lawyer, Mr. Winslow.” She pulled a legal pad from her tray and wrote his name at the top.

He cleared his throat and looked at her with deep, chocolate-colored eyes. His lips were drawn in a thin line. He looked so serious, and a little angry. Not an unusual emotion in her line of work.

She set her pen on the pad, growing a little uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny. “Mr. Winslow, the initial consultation is free, but I have to warn you, I have a full schedule today. Perhaps you’d like to do this another time when you’re more comfortable—”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. Some emotion she couldn’t define sparked his gaze. “You gave a child up for adoption, right?”

For the breath of an instant her heart stopped beating. If someone had sucker-punched her midsection, she couldn’t have been more shocked. No one, not even her closest friends, knew about the decision that had been made fourteen years ago. How could this man, a total stranger…

“Who are you?” she demanded, rising.

“My name is Sam Winslow. I adopted a child fourteen years ago.”

Breathe. Just breathe.

This couldn’t be happening, she thought, sucking vital air into her lungs. She waited in vain for the rapid cadence of her heart to slow, but the pounding continued.

I adopted a child fourteen years ago.

Maybe it was a coincidence.

I adopted a child fourteen years ago.

There was no other explanation. There could be no other explanation. Hadn’t her father seen to it that no one would ever learn the truth?

“My daughter has a condition called aplastic anemia,” Sam Winslow continued in a matter-of-fact tone as if he hadn’t just tipped her world upside down. “If she doesn’t have a bone-marrow transplant, she’ll die. We haven’t been able to find a match, so I petitioned the court to open her adoption records. You’re listed as her birth mother.”

The room spun. Rebecca clutched the edge of the desk to steady herself. She’d prayed, hoped and dreamed that her child would one day want to meet her. At odd times she’d find herself wondering whether if things had been different she could have kept her child. Only things hadn’t been different, they’d been impossible.

Mr. Winslow’s words penetrated the fog surrounding her, and she looked at him. A daughter! She had a daughter. She hadn’t even known whether the child had been a boy or a girl—until now. She’d given birth, and the nurses had whisked the baby away, but not before she’d heard that first cry of life. A sound that had been haunting her dreams for fourteen long years.

Now that child could very well die. Her heart broke all over again.

“I…I have a…a daughter?” she whispered, still reeling from Sam Winslow’s claim.

His expression tightened and he stood. “No, Ms. Martinson. I have a daughter.”

The truth stung and scraped along her raw emotions. He was absolutely right. She didn’t have a daughter. He did. Legally. Emotionally was an altogether different scenario.

And it did nothing to stop the myriad of questions swimming through her mind. From the sharp tone of his voice, she had a feeling Winslow wouldn’t be forthcoming with answers. “What’s her name?”

He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “I don’t believe that’s relevant.”

Sam turned and strode to the window overlooking Wilshire Boulevard, fifteen floors below. He never cared much for big cities, especially ones like Los Angeles with its smog, crime and overcrowded conditions. Previous experience reminded him that a twenty-mile drive could take more than an hour during rush hour. Wide-open spaces and untamed land, land that provided for his family, were more his speed.

He shouldn’t have come here, but he’d run out of options. Mel needed this woman to save her life. He was completely helpless, and he hated the feeling. And the way Rebecca Martinson looked at him, with those damn big green eyes of hers, made him uncomfortable as hell. Eyes just like—

“Mel,” he said.

He didn’t know why he’d enlightened her, but the vulnerability and pain he’d detected in her eyes tugged at him. What harm was there in her knowing his daughter’s name?

“Mel? You named a girl Mel?”

She sounded like Christina, his ex-wife, and he bristled. Christina had despised it when he’d called their adorable dark-haired, green-eyed little girl Mel. Undignified, she’d called it. “It’s short for Melanie.”

Silence stretched between them. He wanted to leave, to hop on a plane and fly home where he belonged. But Mel needed this woman—her birth mother.

“How do you know I’ll be a compatible match?” Her voice sounded faraway, dream-like. But this wasn’t a dream—it was a nightmare—his nightmare.

He spun around to face her. “We don’t,” he stated. “The test is simple, and once it’s determined you’re a match, you can donate the bone marrow. I’m told the removal is a relatively simple procedure—”