The Surgeon's Secret Baby. Ann Christopher

the other hand, they’d always had a prickly relationship punctuated by periodic disownings, most notably when Thomas turned down his commission to the Naval Academy in favor of college and medical school, which were inferior enterprises as far as the Admiral was concerned.

      Still. The man was the only blood he had since Mom died two years ago.

      “Put him through,” he said grudgingly, and the next thing he knew, the Admiral was booming over the speaker at him. The Admiral always boomed.

      “I saw the full exposé in the paper this morning. All the details are finally coming out. Two-inch headline, Hopewell General Downplayed Drug Scandal—Fired Intern. Nice. What the hell kind of Mickey Mouse operation are you people running up there? And who’s in charge of your PR? Donald Duck?”

      “Thanks for calling.” Thomas balanced the phone on his shoulder, found the stack of letters and started signing. “Nice of you to be concerned.”

      A snort from the Admiral. “Someone’s got to be concerned. First the drug thing, then your buddy Lucien De Winter had to step down as chief resident because he was hooking up with one of his interns—”

      Unbelievable. “They weren’t hooking up,” Thomas interjected. “They’re engaged. As you well know.”

      As usual, the Admiral trampled right over Thomas’s half of the conversation. “You folks are about to run a perfectly good hospital right into the ground with these scandals—”

      “The hospital will recover.”

      “—and if you’d followed in my footsteps like you were supposed to do, you wouldn’t have these kinds of issues.”

      There it was. The inevitable reminder of the greatest of Thomas’s alleged failings. His accomplishments, including his scholarships to Dartmouth and then Columbia for medical school and subsequent spectacular career as a surgeon, never made their way into these conversations.

      “Good point,” he said. “The military never has scandals.”

      “Don’t you get snippy with me, boy,” the Admiral began, but a commotion out in the reception area diverted Thomas’s attention.

      “I don’t know who you think you are, missy.” Mrs. Brennan’s voice, outside his office and closing in now, sounded harassed and shrill, which was a disturbing first in all the years he’d known her. “But you cannot just march into Dr. Bradshaw’s office and—”

      “Watch me,” said another woman’s voice.

      Wait a minute, Thomas thought, his heart rate kicking into overdrive as determined footsteps stopped outside his door. I know that voice.

      And then, there she was, standing in his doorway.

      Brown’s defender, a woman who was, he now realized, as beautiful as any he’d ever seen.

      Their gazes locked for a moment, during which she seemed to gather her thoughts and he seemed to forget how to breathe. Man, she was fine. Her cheeks were flushed with pretty color, and her eyes were a startling flash of brown fire. There was something about her body language—squared shoulders, fighting stance and firm chin—that told him she’d come armed for battle, and he discovered, much to his surprise, that he couldn’t wait to engage her and see how well their wits matched up for round two.

      “I need to talk to you,” she told him. “It’s important.”

      Something inside him answered even before he got his thoughts organized.

      Yes. Everything between them felt like it could be important. Did she also feel it?

      Slowly, he got to his feet.

      “—and I don’t know how you can practice medicine in that circus,” the Admiral was now saying in his ear.

      This was not the time for his father. “I’ll call you back,” Thomas said, and hung up on the Admiral’s splutter of surprise.

      Mrs. Brennan burst into the office, edging the woman aside and dividing her gaze, giving him an apologetic glance and the woman a killing glare. “I’m so sorry, Doctor. I don’t know who on God’s green earth this woman thinks she is.”

      This was not the time for Mrs. Brennan, either. “Give us a minute,” Thomas told her.

      Mrs. Brennan’s jaw dropped. “But I can have security here in a jiff—”

      “I’ll call you if I need you.”

      Even Mrs. Brennan at her feistiest couldn’t mistake the finality in his tone. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she muttered darkly, slipping out the door.

      The woman clicked the door shut behind her and crossed the room to stand in front of his desk. “Thank you. For your time.”

      Sudden urgency made his voice hard, but he needed to know.

      “What’s your name?” he demanded.

      She hesitated. “Lia Taylor.”

      An unusual feeling of shame made him launch into his explanation even though he rarely, if ever, felt the need to make himself understood to others. Normally, he did his thing, which was performing his job to the best of his excellent ability, and if someone had an issue with his occasional abrasiveness, then that was just too damn bad. If people preferred a surgeon with a sweeter temper but unsteady hands, then that was their choice, right?

      Normally, that was.

      With Lia Taylor, on the other hand, he was happy to spill his guts.

      Anything to convince her that he wasn’t a complete SOB.

      “Just so you know,” he said, “Dr. Brown’s earlier mistake means that our patient is unstable and needs antibiotics for several days. Which means that we have to postpone her surgery for several days. Which isn’t good.”

      “Oh.” Lia blinked. Something in her expression softened, and he felt a corresponding easing of his own tension. Did he have a chance with her, then, if she realized he wasn’t a bastard? “It was none of my business.”

      “No, it wasn’t.”

      “I’m not sure what got into me. I’m a crusader, I guess. I usually root for the underdog.”

      “Good to know. I’ll bear that in mind.”

      “But that’s not why I’m here.”

      “No?” His belly tightened with delicious anticipation. “Why are you here?”

      It took several long beats for her to answer.

      “I’m here about my son.” She drew a deep breath, then another, clearly gathering courage to tell him something big. “I’m here about … our son.”

       Chapter 3

       Our son.

      The two words hung in the air, hovering over his head like one of those giant anvils that Road Runner was always using to nail Wile E. Coyote in those old Looney Tunes cartoons.

      And then they hit him, along with the stinging realization that this woman had no personal interest in him whatsoever.

      “Our son?” he echoed, reeling.

      “Yes.”

      “Bullshit.”

      She seemed to have expected this reaction, because she flinched but quickly recovered, plowing ahead with grim determination. “I know you don’t believe me, but he’s sick. And I need your help.”

      Oh, okay. He got it. With a bitter laugh, he strode to the door and opened it, the better to speed this little liar on her way. “Nice try. I hate to tell you this, but your theatrics won’t get you to the front of my waiting list for new patients, okay? You need to wait your turn like everyone else. Now, if you’ll