Tara Quinn - The Secret Son

Kevin was trying not to stare at the brown bag Jack had sitting on his lap.

“Don’t you want to know who the surprise is for?” Jack asked, his attention on Kevin.

He’d make a wonderful father. The unexpected thought caught Erica completely off guard. In another time, another life, Jack would’ve been able to give so much. On the few occasions she’d seen him with Kevin, she’d noticed the natural affinity he seemed to have with children.

Or was it just his son?

Was she robbing them both of something vital by keeping her secret? In trying to protect them was she hurting them instead? Inflicting more pain where she tried so hard to bring happiness?

Or would telling her secret cause the greater pain?

And what about Jefferson, the man Kevin called Daddy? He might be her ex-husband but he considered Kevin his son.

“So who’s the surprise for?” Kevin’s voice rose on the last word as he stared at the bag.

“I think it’s for you,” Jack said.

Dear Reader,

The book you’re holding is very special to me. This is a story about love—in its purest form—in the hands and hearts of human beings who are not perfect. It probably isn’t the type of love story you find very often in a romance novel, yet it epitomizes everything that reading Harlequin books while I was growing up taught me about love and life. About the possibilities awaiting me. About the things I could hope for. Things I’d find only if I lived my life heroically. If I strove always to be a good person and make the right choices.

I grew up believing in the love I now write about. And then, clinging diligently to those beliefs, I flung myself out into the world where good and bad weren’t so clearly delineated, where the right choices weren’t always obvious. Where the heart could be confused.

I discovered something miraculous. The love we read about and come back to time and time again, the hope, the assurance that, in the end, right wins—it’s all true. It’s not as easy as it looked in the books I grew up reading, though. Finding that happy ending takes the ability to endure, to forgive oneself for not being perfect, to strive—especially in the face of mistakes—to do what’s right. To never stop believing you can be a good person.

So this story is for all the people like me who have the courage to live in this world full of bumps and bruises and still believe.

Please approach Erica, Jack, Jefferson, Pamela and Kevin with an open heart. I’m confident they’ll do the rest….

Sincerely,

Tara Taylor Quinn

P.S. I love hearing from readers. Write me at P.O. Box 15065, Scottsdale, AZ 85267 or visit me at www.tarataylorquinn.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Kevin. This is the great thing about being a writer. What you can’t have, you can create. Since the first day we met—and I fell in love—I’ve had a great yearning in my heart to have known you as a little boy….

And

For Jake Bodell. I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t read this book in a million years, or like it if you did (except for the setting and the political parts). But it was you and your ability to act upon promptings that provided me with the strength to get it written. You are an amazing young man.

All the dog jokes contained herein are the property of scatty.com (www.scatty.com), whom the author wishes to thank for their generosity in allowing her to use them.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

September 1996

IT HAD BEEN the best—and the worst—week of her life.

Walking up Fifth Avenue, Erica was barely aware of the Thursday-afternoon crowd pressing around her. Years ago crowds had bothered her. Not anymore.

Going home to face Jefferson, now that was going to be horrible. To look into those loving gray eyes and know she’d betrayed him…

Oh, not physically. She could give herself that much credit. Sort of. In the past week she’d kissed Jack. Touched him. Let him touch her.

Okay, begged for his touch.

But they hadn’t made love.

Thinking of Jefferson, that was a huge comfort; thinking of Jack, of never seeing him again, of never knowing what it would feel like to be held, to be loved, by the man who’d awakened her heart fully for the first time in her life, there was no comfort at all. That knowledge brought such incredible grief she could hardly breathe.

But it had to be that way. She was a married woman.

And Jack, a former FBI agent, was a freelance hostage negotiator, always on call, ready to run at a moment’s notice, married to his job. A job, he’d told her, that he wouldn’t be able to do if he had someone waiting at home for him. A job filled with risks he wouldn’t be able to take if he had someone relying on him.

They’d spent this one stolen, enchanting week in New York City while he waited for the call to move and she was getting the runaround from a Wall Street Journal reporter she’d come to straighten out about Jefferson’s public support of stem-cell research. If it hadn’t been for the threat of some very real damage to Senator Jefferson Cooley’s reputation because of the bad—and worse, inaccurate—press coverage he’d received from the Journal, his communications director would not have had to risk her emotional health by staying in the city all those days. As soon as she’d met Jack Shaw she’d have hightailed it back to Washington.

To her husband.

And boss.

A man who was twenty-seven years her senior.

When she’d finally spoken with the reporter an hour ago, he’d promised a retraction. And another article, telling the real story. The story Erica had written herself and handed him as she left the meeting.

She could escape New York. And the temptation of Jack.

Her flight left JFK at seven the next morning, putting her in Washington in time to make the morning staff meeting at the senator’s office.

She’d have liked to go tonight. To make it home in time to crawl into bed beside him and tell herself she’d done him no wrong.

Maggie’s Place. It was the pub where she and Jack had first met. They’d both enjoyed the place, with its long mahogany bar and Irish charm, and they’d gone there every night for the past six nights. And stayed until closing.

It had been on one of the tables set for two along the side wall of the pub that Jack’s fingers had found hers. And clung. They’d been talking about their favorite television sitcoms at the time.

Shaking her stylishly cropped head of short dark hair, Erica still couldn’t understand why she hadn’t carefully pulled her hand free. Or why she’d gone back the next night.

When she’d married Jefferson three years before, she’d promised him loyalty.

He’d known she wasn’t in love with him.

A longtime friend of her family’s, he’d been one of the guests at her wedding to Shane. She’d been a naive, idealistic twenty-two.

Four years later he’d been there to help Erica pick up the pieces when that marriage ended. She was already working in his office by then, Congress had been in session, and he’d given her very little time off, insisting that work was what would see her through.