Revealed: His Secret Child. Sandra Hyatt

for Max to back out. Gillian held her breath.

      Far from backing out, Max reached across and ruffled Ethan’s curls. “Come on, tiger.” Ethan seemed to swell with pride at the power of the nickname. “Mommy’s waiting.” He watched Gillian for her reaction. She was too numb to show any.

      Out on the driveway he looked from his two-door Maserati coupe to her hatchback.

      “There’s not a lot of room in the back of yours for Ethan.” She stated the obvious. “And his car seat and CDs are already in my car. And wipes for sticky hands.” She wasn’t going to feel sorry for him. This situation was of his own making. The sacrifice of driving to the airport in L.A. in her car was nothing compared to what he was asking her to do.

      He shook his head. Resignation? She wasn’t sure.

      Lulled by the noise and the motion, Ethan was sleeping by the time the jet landed in Las Vegas. As it taxied to a halt, Max and Gillian both stood looking at him. His face and the cream leather armchair his car seat was strapped into were smudged with peanut butter, his head was tipped to one side, long lashes curling on his cheeks. Max reached for the buckles. “You take the bags,” she said. “I’ll take Ethan. If he wakes in someone else’s arms he might get upset.” Max shrugged, acquiescent now that he’d gotten his way where it counted. Or wary of getting covered in peanut butter?

      Gillian crouched in front of the armchair, gently releasing the buckles. Ethan slowly opened his eyes. He smiled when he saw her and her heart swelled as it always did. “Where’s Daddy?”

      Gillian closed her eyes at the stab of hurt. “He’s right here, sweetheart.” She moved so that Ethan could see Max. She looked up at him expecting to see gloating, but what she saw was worse, and she looked away from the pity in his gaze.

      In the chapel’s waiting room, thoughtfully equipped with a toy box, Ethan played. Max, now wearing the dark suit he’d changed into on the jet, relaxed in one of the armchairs calmly sending emails and making and taking calls on his phone while Gillian paced the red carpet.

      The door to the waiting room opened and the celebrant’s assistant beckoned them. Gillian and Ethan packed up the toys. She kept hold of a book for Ethan to look at during the service, and walked to the door. She held her son’s hand, hoping that he didn’t sense she was, for the first time in their almost three years together, the one needing reassurance from the contact.

      The assistant smiled at Gillian and patted her shoulder as she stopped in front of her. “Don’t worry. Most brides are a little nervous.” Gillian wasn’t nervous so much as in shock. Just this morning she’d been deciding between cleaning the fridge and finishing her book. The fridge had been looking like the loser. Now the loser was her—marrying a man because of an ultimatum.

      She squared her shoulders. She just needed to get through this. Max would have what he wanted—his name on a marriage certificate beside hers—and they could go home and get on with their lives.

      “And you do look beautiful,” said the assistant.

      She glanced down at the dress that at the last minute she’d decided to bring. A silver shift dress she’d bought a couple of months ago to attend a work cocktail party with her friend Maggie. If she was going to get married, then she was going to look at least halfway decent doing it. If nothing else came of this, Ethan would have a picture of his parents marrying. She wanted to create the most realistic illusion she could. Max came to stand beside her.

      “Doesn’t she, sir?” The assistant looked to Max for his agreement.

      “She’s always looked lovely,” he said, as though the fact bothered him.

      “The two of you make a very handsome couple,” the assistant continued, oblivious to the tension between them. The other woman had to be delusional if she thought they made a good couple, but maybe it helped her get pleasure from her job.

      The three of them, Max, Gillian and Ethan, walked into the chapel itself. Music, a tune she didn’t recognize, wafted from unseen speakers. Her heels tapped out her reluctant progress on the pale terra-cotta tiles as they made their way up the aisle between rows of white wrought-iron chairs.

      “Mommy, you’re holding too tight.”

      She eased her hold on her son’s hand. “Sorry, sweetie,” she whispered. If she had a bouquet she could squeeze the flowers instead. Max reached for her free hand, held it firmly. She flicked a glance in his direction, saw his frown, saw a muscle working in his jaw. But oddly, there was a strange comfort in his clasp.

      She’d never been the sort to dream about her perfect wedding, but if she had, this certainly wouldn’t have been it.

      The marriage celebrant, a dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties, stood at the front of the room between wisteria-twined columns. “At least she’s not an Elvis impersonator,” Gillian murmured. The corner of Max’s lips lifted.

      At the front of the chapel she sat Ethan on one of the chairs, crouched in front of him and whispered for him to be good and very quiet for just a few minutes. “Why?” he asked loudly.

      “I’ll explain soon, okay?” She patted his knee and straightened. Her heart thudding, she walked back to Max, standing facing him. At a signal from the celebrant, the music quieted. And into the silence a little voice piped up. “Mommy, I’m hungwy.”

      Gillian looked at Max. The glacial blue gaze thawed to reveal suppressed amusement. “We’ll get you something to eat real soon, tiger,” he said. And that was enough. If it had been Gillian, the assurance would have been questioned. What? When? But I’m hungry now. Ethan’s attention shifted to the small board book in his lap.

      “We are gathered here today …” As the celebrant began to speak, Gillian tuned out the words. They meant nothing to her. She trained her gaze on the column beyond Max’s shoulder.

      “… on her left hand and repeat after me.” Those words cut through snapping her attention back to Max.

      He reached for her hand and slipped a wedding band on to her finger. He’d had the ring sent out to the jet. Born to privilege, he was the sort of man who made things happen the way he wanted.

      For example, her presence here.

      He passed another ring, similar but larger, to her. This ring was one of her few victories today. If she could call it that. When Max had paused during a phone call that she’d been paying no attention to, to ask her if she had any preferences in rings, she’d insisted that if she was going to wear a ring then he ought to, too. With a nod, he’d ordered two rings. A small concession on his part, but a concession nonetheless.

      She repeated the words the celebrant spoke and slid the ring in question onto his finger. A part of her recognized her relief at the fact that he would be wearing a ring, too. He’d be marked as married. To her. It wasn’t all one-sided.

      “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

      For the first time since he’d realized Ethan was his, the hard edge of tension that had seemed to grip him softened.

      “You may kiss your bride.”

      Max’s gaze met hers. Met and held. Her husband. The thought threatened to overwhelm her.

      “Thank you,” he said softly. Holding her hands, he leaned forward.

      Too numb to do anything else, she accepted the gentle brush of his lips across hers. The memory of his capacity for tenderness surfaced.

      And for just a second she closed her eyes and her own tension eased.

      It was done.

      His wife and son.

      Max walked with Gillian and Ethan from the chapel and out into the Las Vegas sunshine.

      A wife he’d married only to give their son a lawful family and to guarantee an instant part in their life.

      A wife he’d expected to feel nothing for. A