The Secret Son

And then, in the doorway of her hotel room, just before dawn, he told her goodbye.

A COUPLE OF MONTHS later, in the bedroom she shared with Jefferson, Erica knew for certain that she’d never be able to forget Jack.

Or forgive herself for that stolen week in New York.

She and Jefferson had just returned from a pre-holiday party at the White House. He was still in his tux, although he’d loosened the tie at his neck. He was sitting on the love seat in the corner of the big bedroom suite in their Washington condo. He looked tired.

“When are you going to tell me what’s the matter?” he asked as she came in from the bathroom.

Now. She had to tell him now. But…

“Why do you say that?” She wanted to take off the long, slim-fitting black gown and pull on her silk pajamas. But she didn’t.

“I’ve known something was wrong ever since you came home from New York,” he said, running his hands through his thick, stylishly cut gray hair.

“Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“I’d hoped that eventually you’d come to me with whatever it was.”

Were his shoulders as broad as Jack’s?

Surprisingly enough, Erica thought, they probably were.

But were they broad enough to handle what she was about to tell him? She’d been cold all evening, the November chill seeping through her bones. But now she was sweating.

Wanting nothing more than to crawl into the big four-poster bed, cuddle up to her husband and go to sleep, Erica joined Jefferson on the other side of the room, where she dropped into an armchair adjacent to the love seat. She didn’t know where to begin. Or how.

Jefferson waited. And Erica knew how much it was costing him to do this. Her husband always anticipated crises, always acted decisively, attempting to resolve problems if he couldn’t prevent them. Asking him to just sit and do nothing wasn’t fair.

“I never realized it was possible to hate myself so much,” she said in a low voice.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Knowing you as I do, I’m sure there’s no need to put yourself through that kind of grief, Erica, so why don’t we talk about whatever this is and get it behind us?”

If he had any idea…

Erica opened her mouth to speak but, looking up at him, couldn’t make the words come. How could she do this to him? She, who knew so well how devastating it was to be betrayed?

After suffering the effects of Shane’s betrayal, she’d never have believed herself capable of doing anything so deplorable. So selfish. So hideously unfair.

Her stomach roiled, and Erica was afraid she might be sick again.

“I met a man in New York.”

Jefferson’s head dropped.

“His name’s Jack Shaw. He’s a hostage negotiator, used to be with the FBI.”

Her husband’s shoulders straightened as he sat back and held his head up to meet her gaze.

“You want a divorce. To go to him.”

“I’m never going to see him again.”

She had no way of seeing him, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. Her life and Jack’s—they were farther apart than ever.

Jefferson’s eyes narrowed. “He left you?” If Erica hadn’t been feeling so completely miserable, she’d have smiled at the delivery of that question. His tone said How dare he leave you? as though Jefferson himself was ready to go hunt the man down.

She shook her head, instead.

“We both knew when we left New York that we’d never see each other again.”

“Why not?”

She did smile then, though tremulously. “I’m a married woman, Jefferson.”

“That’s more in name than in deed,” he said sadly. “And I was aware from the outset this might happen. Hell, Erica, I’m old enough to be your father. You think I haven’t been prepared for this from the beginning?”

“No,” she said, a little shocked.

“Well, I was.” His posture was relaxed; only the fact that he couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands revealed his inner turmoil. “I’m not going to stand in your way. And I sure as hell don’t want you feeling beholden to me.”

Erica felt as though her world was spinning increasingly out of control.

She wanted to tell him she’d married him for better or worse. That she’d never—once—had any intention of forsaking those vows or asking to be released from them.

But she had forsaken them.

In the worst possible way.

It all came pouring out then. How Jack had saved her from that jerk at Maggie’s. How they’d never planned to see each other again, but how they’d each shown up at Maggie’s the next night, just in case the other might happen to stop by. How they did the same thing every night that week. How they talked. And never touched. Never even went anywhere else.

How she’d have come home in a second if she could have gotten the Journal reporter to talk to her.

Jefferson nodded at that point.

She told him about Jack’s wife and daughter. His job. How he, no less than Erica, wasn’t free to embark on a relationship.

“We accepted from the beginning that one week was all we were ever going to have.”

Reaching across the space between them, Jefferson pulled her from the chair and into his arms, his touch comforting, completely nonsexual. “We’ve nursed you through a broken heart before, my dear,” he said, sounding certain, if a little tired. “We can do so again.”

She wished a broken heart was the only consequence of her time with Jack. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered, fighting tears.

“Don’t talk like that,” he said, his voice soothing. “You can’t be blamed for being attracted to a man your own age. It’s natural.”

“You have to be disappointed in me.”

“I am disappointed,” he admitted with a heavy sigh, and the knife inside Erica twisted further. “But not in you.”