Peekaboo Baby (6 page)

Oh, God.

Delaney's pulse was suddenly thick and throbbing and vibrating throughout her entire body. She actually dropped back a step to put some distance between herself and the test kit.

“It's not invasive, definitely not painful,” Ryan went on. He paused and cleared his throat. “According to the doctor, all you have to do is swab the inside of your son's mouth.”

And then what?

The question exploded inside her head, but the words never made it past the tight clamp in her throat.

“We can have Patrick's DNA tested,” Ryan continued a moment later. Not easily. He was obviously having his own personal problems with speech. His voice was strained and clipped. “Then, we'll know.”

Yes.

Then, they'd know.

And that's what terrified Delaney.

Because she wasn't sure she could live with the answer.

Ryan hadn't even been aware that he was holding his breath until he became light-headed. Actually, he began to get downright dizzy. Since collapsing would put a serious dent in the stalwart, rock-hard image he wanted to portray, he drew in a long breath.

And he waited.

Simply put, it was entirely possible that Delaney held his future—and his heart—in her hands.

He could probably force her to have the test done.
Probably.
Getting a court order would be time-consuming and tricky, but he could use his team of highly paid lawyers to cut through the layers of red tape. But the lawyers and a court order would no doubt end the semiamicable bonds that Delaney and he had forged while fighting their way out of the irrigation ditch.

At least, Ryan hoped there were bonds, because he needed something, anything, to gain her cooperation. And her trust.

He didn't want to wait weeks for a court order and weeks beyond that for her to comply. Even if all of this was a long shot. And it
was
a long shot, Ryan reminded himself—again. Too bad his heart had latched on to that remote possibility and wouldn't let go.

He had to know if Patrick Nash was his son.

“I need to sit down,” Delaney said, a second before she dropped down into a bulky armchair in the living room.

The chair had a cheery floral pattern with various shades of blue and green. For that matter, everything he could see about the house was cheery, even though the single-story residence was modest by anyone's standards.

“I thought about calling you first,” Ryan said. He followed her and sat on the sofa directly across from her. The only thing that separated them was a coffee table covered not with knickknacks and magazines but with a pale blue blanket, a floppy-looking teddy bear and a pair of baby's socks made to look like running shoes. “Maybe then the DNA request wouldn't be such a shock.”

“It would have still been a shock,” Delaney quickly let him know.

She was right. This was not a blow he could have softened with a phone call or with chitchat about her lost ring and his antique pocket watch. Besides, if he'd alerted her to what he wanted, she might have grabbed Patrick and gone on the run.

He couldn't risk that.

“We have to know,” Ryan added, praying she'd agree. Unfortunately, her curiosity was probably overshadowed by her fear of where all of this might lead.

“Do we?” But Delaney immediately waved away her own question because she knew the answer. What she couldn't wave off was the pain all of this was causing her.

Ryan understood that.

Even now, nearly forty-eight hours after her visit to the estate, he was still debating if he should ask her to submit her son to the DNA test he'd brought with him. But, heaven help him, he didn't see another way around the problem of not knowing.

Delaney closed her eyes, lowered her head and tucked her feet beneath her. Practically a fetal position. She didn't even attempt polite conversation, which was just as well. They were past that stage.

Ryan sat there, waiting and watching her as she went through her own personal version of hell. In fact, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

Like the night of her visit, she didn't have on a business suit. She was barefoot. Her toes were painted flamingo pink. She wore denim shorts that revealed a nice pair of shapely legs and a snug little stretchy top the color of a ripe mango. It outlined her breasts.

Of course, he shouldn't have even noticed that.

Ryan leaned in closer and fought the urge to reach for her—not because of the sexual energy sizzling between them but because he desperately wanted to comfort her.

An impossible task.

Especially coming from him.

That didn't stop his hand from moving closer, reaching out, until he slid his fingers over hers.

Her eyelids flew up. She was obviously startled. Her accusing gaze slashed to his. Ryan didn't move back. He kept his hand in place. Probably the wrong place since he was touching her. But he kept it there anyway.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Are you?” But before he could respond, Delaney dismissed it by shaking her head. She also moved her hand. And his. Inching back away from him.

Recoiling.

Before the recoil was complete, Ryan caught a whiff of baby powder. And her. Something distinctly female. Somehow, it was the unique scent that cut through everything and made its way to his nose.

Ryan reminded his nose not to get any bad ideas to pass on to the rest of his body.

He forced his attention away from her and looked around the simply furnished room. Better to concentrate on the decor than gawk at her. It was clean, uncluttered and efficient. A lot like the woman who owned it. What was missing was the baby. But there were two rooms just off to his left. One of them was probably the nursery.

The
nursery.

For such a simple word, it caused a flurry of emotions.

“What would you do with the DNA results?” Delaney challenged.

Talk about a loaded question, and he was positive she wouldn't care for his response. “I think we should get the results first, and then we can discuss it.”

Nope. Judging from her scalpel-sharp glare, she didn't like what he had to say. “We'll discuss it now.”

“Fair enough.” And it was what he'd expected. Ryan had assumed it would take an argument, or even several of them, to convince her. “I figure there's only a slim chance that you received a cloned embryo. And if you did, there's an even slimmer chance that the embryo was created from genetic material taken from my son, Adam. So look at it this way—the test results could give you peace of mind.”

She made a sound. A short burst of air. Almost a laugh, but it was laced with irony. “I've pretty much given up on that whole peace-of-mind thing.” Her glare softened then faded. And she bunched up her forehead. “I'm trying really hard not to be terrified of you, but I'm failing.”

Her honesty broke down his defenses in a way that nothing else could have. Not good. He couldn't allow that. Ryan was positive he would need those defenses before this was over. “My reputation—”

“I didn't mean your reputation. I'm talking about Patrick.” She moistened her lips and took in a quick breath. “I'm sick over the possibility of losing him to you.”

That did it. Many people had called him a cold, heartless bastard, but he would have truly had to be one not to reach out to her. Ryan came off the sofa and maneuvered himself between the coffee table and her chair. Not touching her, exactly, but close enough that if she needed a shoulder to cry on, he'd offer his.

Despite what it would end up costing them both if she accepted.

“I've tried to put myself in your place,” she said, her voice quivery now. “And I know I'd be requesting a DNA test—”

“And if I were you, I'd be fighting it.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his and gave an uncertain nod, as if she hadn't expected him to understand. “But fighting it won't make this go away, will it? The question of Patrick's paternity is there now, and I don't think you'll stop until you know the truth.”

Ryan hoped his silence conveyed that she was right about that. “You need the truth, too, Delaney. Even if it's so you'll have a medical history of your son's biological parents.” Because it seemed like a festering wound between them, he slipped the DNA kit back into his jacket pocket. “Did the clinic tell you anything about the couple who supposedly donated the embryo you used?”

“Just the basics. Hair color, eye color, nothing in their backgrounds to indicate there'd be future medical problems.” She paused and pursed her lips. “Hair color,” she repeated.

He didn't care much for the return of the panicky look in her eyes. “What about it?”

“The donors were both brunettes. Patrick isn't.”

Ryan would have definitely pushed for more info, and for her conclusion as to what that meant, if he hadn't been interrupted. The two sounds happened within seconds of each other. His phone rang, and the baby started to cry.

Delaney actually looked relieved and leaped from the chair. “I'll be back,” she mumbled, as she disappeared into one of the other rooms.

Ryan stood, trying to get a glimpse of Patrick, but she pulled the door partly shut behind her. He answered his phone while he walked closer.

“What is it, Quentin?” he asked, knowing that his security manager was the only person who'd be calling him during this visit. Ryan peered into the nursery and saw Delaney leaning over the crib to change Patrick's diaper. The baby stopped crying and began to make cooing noises.

The room was decorated in a superhero motif. Plenty of color with various cartoon crusaders in motion. Some on the ceiling directly over the crib. Others, on the walls.

There weren't a lot of toys, but the ones that were in the room were placed strategically around the bed so that Patrick would easily be able to see them. Delaney had obviously put her day-care experience to good use in decorating the baby's room.

“I did deeper background checks on those doctors from New Hope clinic,” Quentin informed Ryan. “Including the late embryologist, William Spears.”

“Go on.” Ryan kept his voice low so he wouldn't alert Delaney.

“Spears died of a stroke. A little odd since he was only forty-eight, but he did have a family history of cardiovascular problems. I did some digging, read the medical examiner's report. No sign of foul play.”

Well, that was one theory down—that Spears had been murdered to silence him and his alleged illegal research project. “What about Spears's records, the ones that supposedly mentioned the cloning?”

“A lab technician claims to have seen them.”

“You mean there's an actual witness?” Ryan tried to remain skeptical and objective. But his heart didn't want that. It wanted proof that Patrick was his son.

“I tracked down the guy, Noel Kendall, but he wouldn't talk to me face-to-face. Had to settle for a phone conversation. He's scared, boss, and it doesn't seem like he's faking it.”

“How is he connected to Spears?” Ryan asked.

“Noel Kendall is the one who found Spears dead at the clinic, and according to him, Spears had the hard copy of records in his hands. Noel claims he skimmed through them while waiting for the ambulance to arrive, and then when the records went missing, he got concerned and tipped off the watchdog group. I'm work
ing on getting access to the computer that Spears used. If he left something on it, I'll find it.”

It sounded like a long shot, but thankfully Spears wasn't their only source of information. “What about Bryson Keyes and Emmett Montgomery?”

“Neither have criminal records, but seven years ago Keyes was involved in some stem-cell research that was shut down. Not quite illegal at the time, but it fell into the unethical category. He's been squeaky clean ever since.”

“I detect a
but
in there,” Ryan commented.

“There is. The New Hope clinic has only been at its present location for nineteen months. Prior to that, it was part of Alamo Heights hospital.”

Ryan's grip tightened on his phone. Alamo Heights hospital. The place where his wife and son had died. Hell. “Keyes, Spears and Montgomery were working that day?”

“I don't know yet. I'm waiting on phone records. That should tell us something.”

Ryan watched as Delaney reached down and scooped the baby into her arms. She murmured something to him, words with a soft, rhythmic cadence that seemed to soothe Patrick. Ryan tried to latch on to some of those soothing effects, because heaven help him, he needed something to settle him down.

“Keep me informed,” Ryan told Quentin. He clicked off the phone in the middle of Quentin's goodbye and slipped it back into his pocket.

Delaney's maternal murmurings didn't soothe the baby for long. He started to fuss and crammed his fist into his mouth. She looked over her shoulder at him, as if she'd known all along he was watching her.

“He's hungry. And impatient. Sorry, but he gets priority over our conversation. Baby formula upsets his stomach, and I didn't use the breast pump today, so I can't give him a bottle.”

That meant she had to nurse him. Ryan turned back toward the living room, but not before he saw her sit in the rocking chair next to the crib. She lifted her top.

Damn.

He felt like the worst kind of pervert, but it took every ounce of his willpower to force himself to look away. After all, Delaney was breastfeeding a baby who might theoretically be his son.

Ryan listened, hearing the soft, gentle sounds of the baby nursing. Delaney's equally soft, gentle murmurings blended in to form a chorus he simply couldn't ignore.

“If I agree to the DNA test,” she said, then paused a long time. “I'll have it done myself. I'd want the results to come to me.”

Ryan waited for her to add more. But that was apparently it. No actual promise to do the test or even to share the information with him.

Not exactly the compromise he'd been hoping for.

Nor was it an acceptable one.

He glanced in the nursery again, to try to make eye contact with her so she'd know that he wasn't pleased. Delaney had a small blanket discreetly covering her breasts and most of Patrick's head. Ryan could see the child grabbing his toes.

There was only the possibility that this child was a product of a cloned embryo. A
small
possibility. Besides, he couldn't even consider it until he'd gotten past the first step. And the first step was to convince Delaney to do the DNA test.

“You might as well come in,” she offered. “Seems a little late for modesty, doesn't it?”

It was a little late for a lot of things.

The doors of his heart seemed to be opening, and Ryan had no idea why they were doing that.

Or if he could even close them again.