Their Secret Son

Not a fist, of course, which was his own father’s way of dealing with a strong-willed child. Joe wasn’t an expert on child rearing, by any means, but he knew what didn’t work.

“Bobby!” a woman’s voice called from across the street.

So, the mother had arrived. Well, Joe had a little talk for mothers of small-fry firebugs, too. Gearing himself for a confrontation, he slowly turned around.

But nothing had prepared him for seeing Kristin Reynolds, a woman he’d dated eight years ago. She was still just as pretty as he remembered, tall and willowy, with hair the color of honey and eyes of emerald green.

The years had been good to her. Damn good.

She wore cream-colored slacks and a black sweater. Cashmere, most likely. And it fit nicely, showing off near perfect breasts, much fuller than he remembered.

They’d both been seventeen and balanced precariously on the cusp of adulthood when they first met.

Joe had been moonstruck that homecoming night in November. And he still found her attractive, stunning. More so, he supposed.

His heart slipped into overdrive, reminding him his blood was pumping in all the important places. There were some things time didn’t change.

The pretty socialite hurried toward them, distress in her expression, an expression that looked a lot like maternal concern.

Surely, Kristin wasn’t this kid’s mother.

“Uh-oh,” the boy muttered. He kicked the toe of his leather shoe at the dirt. “Here comes my mom.”

Kristin had only recognized her son, Joe realized, because her eyes hadn’t caught Joe’s yet, which was just as well. He wasn’t sure what to say to her anymore.

His heart thudded in his chest like a loose ball bearing, although he wasn’t sure why. Anticipation at seeing her again, he supposed. And awkwardness, too. Kristin Reynolds was the first lover he’d ever had.

Joe had broken up with her after pressure from her dad, a wealthy property owner who had never forgiven the kid who set that run-down warehouse on fire and drew a ton of unflattering media attention on the condition of one of the many buildings he owned.

Thomas Reynolds had made no secret about the fact that Joe Davenport wasn’t good enough for his daughter. When he went looking for Joe, demanding he stay away from Kristin, Joe hadn’t backed down. Not until the red-faced man threw Kristin’s happiness and her sky-is-the-limit future in his face.

At one time, Kristin had been an honor student and college-bound, but her grades had slacked and her interest in the fancy school her mother had once attended had waned.

“My daughter never lied to me before,” Thomas had said, “never snuck around behind my back. And now look at her.”

Joe hadn’t known that Kristin had lied to her dad, nor had he known that she had to sneak out of the house in order to see him.

“Do you want to drag her down to your old man’s level?” Thomas had asked.

That was the last thing Joe had wanted to do. The pompous bastard had been right, though. Kristin would be throwing her life away on a guy who would never be able to compete with her father or any of the other men in her social circle.

Joe had faked it pretty good that June day out at the ball field, when he told Kristin he didn’t love her. The lie had nearly torn him in two, but her father was right. Kristin deserved so much more than what the son of a drug-dealing scumbag could offer her. And letting her go had been the right thing to do.

So why, after eight years, was he having such a heart-banging reaction to seeing her again?

Her scent, something classy and exotic—expensive, no doubt—wrapped around him like a quilt of memories on a cold and lonely night.

Joe cursed under his breath. How could she still evoke this kind of reaction in him—both emotionally and physically?

It had been eight years since he’d last held her. And it had taken ages to get over her.

“I’m okay, Mom,” the boy said.

Joe looked at Bobby, and suddenly the similarities he’d seen in the kid slapped him across the face. His mind, although somewhat taken aback, did a quick calculation, starting with eight years and subtracting nine months.

The tall, honey-blond woman addressed her son. “You were supposed to be in your room, young man.” When she turned her gaze to Joe, she sucked in a breath, and her lips parted in recognition.

Kristin stared at an adult version of the high school senior she’d once loved, once given her heart and virginity to. The guy who’d thrown it all back in her face and walked away.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected to see him when she returned to Bayside to spend the summer with her ailing father. She just didn’t expect to see him now. Like this.

“What happened?” she asked, trying to regain her composure.

“Is this boy your son?” Joe asked.

Did he see the resemblance? Did he suspect?

How could he not? She’d been faced with the obvious every time she looked into those sweet eyes—amber-colored, like his father’s.

And she’d been reminded all over again of the heartache caused by the rejection of her first and, up until recently, only lover.

It had taken years to forget Joe, but seeing him brought it all back to the forefront—the pain, the rejection, the humiliation of telling her dad she was going to have a child out of wedlock. The lie she’d told when asked who had fathered her baby.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m his mother.”

Joe’s eyes sliced right through her usual cool and formal demeanor. And she found herself at the awkward, gangly stage again, staring in wonder at the new boy in school.

Joe had matured, filled out and grown taller. His amber eyes, more sharp and piercing than before, studied her and Bobby with a keen assessment, threatening to peel away each layer of the lie until he discovered the truth, the truth she couldn’t allow to surface.

She brushed her moist palms against the hips of her slacks and prayed for a quick and easy escape. She had to get out of here, before the secret she’d kept for the past eight years muscled to the forefront.

Did Joe know?

Did he see what she saw everyday? A boy who was the spitting image of “that Davenport kid?”

Joe handed her the gold lighter she’d given her father two Christmases ago, then slid her a crooked grin. “It seems that this fire is your fault.”

“Mine?” Had her voice shrieked like a fishmonger’s wife? Surely not.

“That’s what Bobby told us,” Joe said. “He needed some glue for a model car that was broken.”

“Bobby,” she said, squatting to meet her son at eye level. “I can’t let you play with Superglue.”

“Lighters aren’t a good idea, either,” Joe said. “He tried to weld the plastic together.”

Having a bright and inquisitive child who was prone to mischief provided her once predictable life with one adventure after another. She could only wonder what other troubles were sure to come. Her instinct told her Bobby was just an active little boy, although her fiancé suggested she’d spoiled him by being too lenient.

“Bobby, we’ll talk about this at home,” Kristin said. Then she looked at Joe, caught the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the bad-boy smile that used to make her heart go topsy-turvy.