The Baby Bet: His Secret Son. Joan Elliott Pickart

a hospital, you know.”

      “You may be on staff at this hospital, Dr. MacAllister,” Andrew said, “but you don’t own it. You don’t have the authority to toss me out. I have every intention of staying put until Robert…” His voice trailed off.

      “Until Robert what?” Kara said, shifting her hands to her hips. “Either dies or it’s determined by his doctors that he’ll live? Will that take care of your unfinished business so you can be on your way?”

      “Look, I—”

      “Oh, do tell me, Mr. Malone, because the suspense is more than I can bear. Which way are you voting? Do you want Uncle Robert to live? Or die? Which of those will meet your ever-so-important needs?”

      “That’s enough,” Andrew said, his jaw tightening. “I never intended for anything like this to happen. How could I have known it would? I just wanted…” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’m not even going to attempt to explain it to you in the frame of mind you’re in. You hate me. That’s coming across loud and clear.”

      “Hating you would take more of my emotional energy than you’re worth,” Kara said. “But I truly despise you. How could you have done such a horrible thing? It was a family celebration and…My God, Andrew Malone, you’re more of a MacAllister than I am, and you came to that party and…” She stopped speaking as her throat closed from the ache of unshed tears.

      “What do you mean I’m more of a MacAllister than you are?” Andrew said.

      Kara waved a hand in the air, dismissing Andrew’s question.

      “I owe the MacAllisters my life,” she said. “But you’d better think about this, Malone. If what you claim is true about what happened between Robert and your mother all those years ago, you owe your life to a MacAllister, too.

      “If it wasn’t for that summer you made reference to at the restaurant, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t even exist. As far as I’m concerned, that would be preferable to the person you are.”

      “I—”

      Tears brimmed Kara’s eyes. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to be anywhere near you after what you did to my uncle Robert tonight. You are the most despicable man I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

      As tears spilled onto Kara’s cheeks, she spun around and hurried away.

      “You’re right,” Andrew said quietly as Kara disappeared from view. “Despicable? Ah, beautiful Kara, I can come up with a lot worse than that to describe me and what I did at that party.”

      Andrew sighed and shook his head. He looked at the nursery window again, attempting to recapture the fleeting sense of peace he’d had, the inner warmth and completeness, but it remained beyond his emotional reach.

      He started slowly down the hallway, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was, how totally drained. Entering a waiting room that beckoned with the glow of a small lamp, he slouched into a chair, rested his head on the back and stared up at the ceiling.

      If only…he thought. No, forget it. There was no purpose to be served by starting an “if only” list. But damn it, if only Clara, his drunk and bitter aunt Clara, hadn’t shown up at his door with that newspaper in her hand.

      He’d been sweaty, dirty and tired to the bone when Clara had arrived that night. He’d spent the day working with his men, instead of doing the suit-and-tie portion of his business, which was more the norm.

      He hadn’t slept well the previous night, had once again been plagued by the sense of restlessness, emptiness, of knowing something was missing from his life but not having a clue about what it was. A day of hard labor, he decided, would give him an opportunity to blank his mind and push his body to the maximum.

      He was standing in his living room with visions of a long hot shower in his head when the intercom by the door had buzzed. He strode across the room and pushed the button with more force than was necessary.

      “Yes, Roger?” he said.

      “Ms. Malone is here to see you, Mr. Malone.”

      Ah, hell, it was Clara, Andrew remembered thinking, as his mind continued to travel back in time to that fateful night.

      If Clara was using the name Ms. Malone again, it meant that her most recent divorce must be final. How many broken marriages did that make? Three? Four? Hell, he didn’t know and really didn’t give a rip.

      “Tell her that I’m sorry, but I’m busy, Roger,” Andrew said.

      “Yes, well…um…she’s rather…um…insistent, sir,” Roger said. “She says it’s imperative that she speak to you and won’t leave until she does, sir.”

      Clara was drunk and giving Roger a hard time, Andrew thought. Damn it.

      “All right,” he said with a weary and disgusted sigh. “Send her up.”

      “Oh, thank you, sir,” Roger said. “Thank you very much.”

      Andrew mentally tracked Clara’s unsteady trek across the large lobby of the building and into the elevator. He ticked off the floors in his mind, and when he determined that Clara was now in the hallway leading to his apartment, he opened the door with every intention of not allowing her to enter his home.

      Clara appeared before him and he frowned as the sickening odor of liquor reached him, along with a heavy dose of perfume.

      Clara’s bleached-blond hair was perfectly coiffured, her peach-colored suit and the jewelry she wore obviously expensive, but the class act stopped right there.

      Her makeup was artfully applied, but even so wasn’t able to cover the damage caused by years of excessive drinking. She had once been a beautiful woman, but now looked haggard and much older than she actually was.

      “What do you want, Clara?” Andrew said, filling the open doorway.

      “Is that any way to speak to your sweet auntie?” Clara said, her speech slurred slightly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, darling?”

      “No, I’m not,” Andrew said, keeping a tight rein on his rising temper. “I’ve been on the job all day and I’m headed for the shower. I’m tired and dirty, and I don’t have time to play games with you, Clara.”

      “I’m not here to play games,” she said, her voice rising as she poked his chest with one manicured fingernail. “I have something to show you, and I definitely have an important announcement to make.”

      “Like what? You’re getting married again? Fine. Have a nice life. Goodbye, Clara.”

      “Damn you, Andrew, listen to me!” Clara shrieked. “The time has come. I’ve kept Sally’s secret all these years, but I don’t intend to be silent one second longer.” She waved a folded newspaper in the air. “This is the final insult, by God, the last slap in the face that he’s going to get away with.”

      “What are you raving about?” Andrew said, frowning deeply.

      “Your father! I was down in Ventura at a spa and…Damn him. Look at this newspaper, Andrew. See what your oh-so-important and filthy-rich father has that you don’t. A family! A huge, warm and loving family surrounding him. But you and I are alone.”

      A sob caught in Clara’s throat.

      “We’re so alone,” she went on. “So alone. It’s not fair. It’s not. He walked out on your mother when she discovered she was pregnant with his child, with you, and it’s time he paid his dues to you. And to me. No, to you, to you.”

      Clara flung the newspaper to the floor of the carpeted hallway, and it opened as it landed. She pushed past Andrew and went into the apartment, weeping as she staggered forward.

      Andrew stood still, hardly breathing, his heart pounding so wildly it was actually painful as it echoed in his ears. He stared