Diana Whitney - A Dad Of His Own

He would hate her for it.

Footsteps snapped across the concrete floor, catching her attention. Nick Purcell was leaving. A rush of relief was tempered by a peculiar sense of loss. She wasted no time analyzing that. An interminable night stretched before her, an agonizing night during which she must decide the gentlest way to break her son’s heart.

At the base of the stairs Nick stopped abruptly. “I’ll be here Tuesday afternoon around four. Please inform my son that I’ll meet him at the soccer field, as planned.”

Nick had moved halfway up the stairs before Chessa found her voice. “Wait!”

He favored her with a cool look. “Yes?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“I heard you.”

“Bobby is not your son.”

“This says that he is,” Nick replied, patting the breast pocket into which he’d slipped the copy of Bobby’s birth certificate. “You’ve done a fine job raising our child, Chessa. After all these years, I can understand why you wouldn’t be pleased by the prospect of sharing him. But share him you will, or our lawyers will meet in court and the truth will be laid bare.”

The truth. Laid bare. In court, where her son would be devastated by it

Chessa couldn’t let that happen. Not now, not ever.

Nick’s gaze burned straight into her soul. “Do we understand each other?”

Somehow she managed to lift her chin a notch to keep it from quivering. “Yes, we understand each other.”

“Tuesday, then. You’ll tell him?”

“I’ll tell him.”

With a curt nod Nick strode up the stairs. A moment later Chessa heard the front door open and close. Only then did she sag against the drying counter and allow the tears to flow.

All these years she’d believed her secret was safe. She hadn’t realized how desperately her son wanted a father, nor could she possibly have imagined how desperately Nick wanted to be one.

There was no choice now. No choice at all.

Chapter Three

Stars above, lights below, brilliantly twinkling and pulsing in the velvet night. A midnight bluff overlooking a sleeping town blurred by fogged windows and the heady scent of love. The car shuddered. Soft moans, sweet breath, shudders of ecstasy.

His body sighed; his mind swirled. A whisper of silken hair, the embrace of soft arms, fragrant with perfume. A veiled face, nebulous and obscure, clouded by passion and the misty muddle of an intoxicated mind.

From somewhere beyond conscious thought, a melody beckoned. A voice, fresh and lyrical, summoned him, rousting his mind from pleasures of the flesh to something deeper, more poignant. Sweet arms held him, a gentle whisper begged him not to look. He had to look, had to lay eyes upon the vision from which such mellifluous beauty could emerge.

Condensation mysteriously evaporated, revealing a circle of clarity on the cloudy glass. A face floated in the darkness, a face of such stunning beauty that he was paralyzed by its intensity. Sable hair, ruffled by an invisible breeze. Eyes blue enough to blind a man with radiance. Dewy lips, lush and alluring, set in a regal face of such dignity that he was humbled in its presence.

It was her, he realized. It had always been her.

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