Michael's Father

“I’m sorry, honey. We left your baby book at home.” Michael used his baby book to comfort himself. Having memorized much of it, Michael could tell Cori when he’d cut his first tooth and how tall he was.

“No, Mommy. You forgot but I packed it,” Michael said, hopping off the bed and running to his backpack.

She hadn’t wanted to bring the book here. Michael’s baby book was the one place she’d been honest about Michael’s parentage. She’d written Blake’s name on the inside cover where it said “Father.” She’d planned to tell Michael about his father someday, sometime after he started to read and before he graduated from college. Or maybe when Blake was no longer working for her grandfather.

Cori’s pulse quickened as she realized how dangerous the book could be. If Michael left his baby book anywhere he shouldn’t, if someone picked it up and flipped to the first page, they’d know the truth.

Oblivious to her turmoil, Michael retrieved the book from his backpack, then climbed back up on the bed. He wriggled into her lap, turning to the first page.

“This is all about me,” he said proudly, the night’s drama temporarily forgotten.

BLAKE SAT ON THE BANK of the Russian River in the darkness, letting the fog envelop him in its chilly embrace. Behind him, hidden by the thick mist, acres of grapevines separated the Messina mansion from the river. Before him, the river flowed silently by, accented by the night symphony of crickets and an occasional plaintive cry from a frog or owl. Obscured by the fog, Blake’s old truck was parked a few feet away, next to a tangle of blackberry bushes.

He’d said good-night to Jen and checked on Sophia long ago, but he’d avoided going to bed. Blake knew he’d be plagued with thoughts of Cori Sinclair that would keep him from sleep. Instead, like a sentimental fool, he’d ended up here, where he and Cori used to meet, reliving thoughts he had no right to think in the first place.

It wasn’t as if he was staying and waiting for her to show up. He knew that wasn’t going to happen. For so many years, this had been his spot.

I loved her. The thought rippled through Blake, eliciting more anguish than he’d felt in years. But Blake’s love hadn’t been good enough for Salvatore Messina’s granddaughter.

Something stumbled in the night. In one smooth motion, Blake shot up and swung the beam of his flashlight in the direction of the noise. It wasn’t uncommon for a puma or a vagabond to wander through the area, and Blake wanted to recapture the element of surprise.

An arm came up against the light. A female voice cursed.

She looked like a vision stepped out of the past. Worn blue denim clung to her legs. A faded red Stanford sweatshirt covered her other curves. Drops of water from the fog were sprinkled on the hair around her forehead, glowing like a halo in the beam of his flashlight.

“Damn it, Cori. What are you doing here?” He’d said something similar years ago, the first time he’d found her down by the river after dark. Blake’s heart beat just as rapidly now as it had then.

“Could you shine the light on my feet instead of in my eyes?”

He readjusted the beam toward her sneakers, incredibly white despite the soft, muddy ground she’d hiked through to get this far.

“Thanks.”

She was always so polite. Too damn polite. Even that one precious night they were together and they’d argued, she’d said thank you as she’d left him alone in bed. “You don’t always have to thank me.”

“I needed some air,” she said, as if explaining why she was here in this place. Their place.

“Where’s the kid?”

“Michael,” she reiterated gently. “Asleep. He’s a good sleeper. Always has been. Even when he was a baby.”

She was babbling, but Blake didn’t care. Part of him was fascinated by the idea that she’d tackled motherhood on her own. Another part of him—the stupid part—was jealous that she’d let some other man touch her as intimately as he had.

“And the boy’s father?” he found himself asking, even as he kicked himself for letting his curiosity fall between them. “Forget it. I don’t need to know.” Wishing she’d go, Blake turned back toward the river, flicking off the flashlight and plunging the area into a darkness that was only dimly lit by the distant lights from the mansion.

Her footsteps carried her closer. Blake’s pulse picked up a notch when he imagined he could smell her flowery perfume.

“We were a burden he didn’t need.” Her voice carried a note of sadness.

Fool. Blake wished he could wrap his hands around the bastard’s neck and make him regret causing Cori pain. Had they argued? Or had Cori just accepted the jerk’s excuses when he left her?

Blake swore under his breath and wiped a hand over his face.

“Looks like you’ve done well with Jen.”

“She’s a handful for only being twelve,” Blake admitted. No sense telling Cori Sinclair about his problems.

“No boy trouble yet?”

“No, thank God.” Her question sent his mind back to the first time he’d kissed Cori.

“She’s going to be a knockout. You’ll be fighting them off.”

Her words brought back the memory of what had crumbled Blake’s guard against his feelings for Cori. By the end of that first summer, Blake had fallen into the habit of tucking Jennifer into bed, then waiting up for Cori, reluctant to slip into his empty bed until she made it safely back within the Messina compound. His instincts told him Cori would find herself in trouble eventually. She was beautiful, and the Messinas didn’t seem to mind that she dressed like a woman of the world.

He knew that they couldn’t be anything more than friends. But he enjoyed their late-night private conversations, her brilliant smiles and the knowledge that she was home safe.

Blake had been waiting for Cori to come home from some function the Messinas had required her to attend. She’d gone to the event in a sleek little sports car with a young, blond, next-in-line-to-be-a-millionaire college boy.

The new British convertible had pulled up, and with a heavy heart, Blake realized the driver was going to kiss Cori. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Then, just as the boy’s lips neared Cori’s, Blake heard her say “No.”

Blake snapped. He sprang into action. Ran to the car. Yanked the guy out and threw him to the driveway.

“Don’t touch her!” He went cold just remembering that primitive territorial note of warning in his voice.

Cori was at Blake’s side in an instant. Holding her trembling body against his, Blake never wanted to let go. Moments later, when her soft lips touched his, he knew he was lost.

He loved her.

She was everything he wasn’t—well educated, wealthy, someone important. None of that mattered when they were together. Or so he’d thought.

Blake fought the memory of the feel of Cori’s body against his. Luckily, the physical memory was overshadowed by the burning need to know what had been happening to Cori all these years.

“What kind of man were you involved with, that wouldn’t want to marry the mother of his child?”

Cori sat down on the far end of the steep riverbank, several feet away from Blake, choosing her words as carefully as she had chosen her seat.

“We wanted different things.”

“Obviously you wanted the same thing at least once. You created a child together.” She created a child with someone else. The thought burned in his belly, worse than the jealousy he’d carried all these years imagining her in a happy relationship with someone else—someone who was good for her, as Sophia put it.

Cori didn’t answer. Blake peered through the fog but couldn’t make out her features without turning on the flashlight. “Were you the one who decided you wanted different things?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Déjà vu. That’s what you said to me the last time I saw you.” He’d confessed his love and plans for the future. Hell, he’d done everything but propose marriage. She’d practically tripped over herself in her haste to flee.

“I needed to make it on my own first, remember?” The words spilled out bitterly from the shadows.