Claiming His Family. Ann Peterson Voss

put anything past you smart scientist types.” A chuckle rippled over the phone line, vulgar, obscene. “How about that justice system? Isn’t it great?”

      “Why are you doing this?”

      “Revenge. Pure and sweet.” His voice lost the chuckle and grew dark. “You see, I know who fathered your bastard, too, Alyson. And no man condemns me to two years in that hellhole of a prison and gets away with it. No man. I want you to tell him that.”

      How in the world had Smythe learned Dex was Patrick’s father? Alyson hadn’t told a soul. She’d taken a leave of absence from work to hide her pregnancy. She hadn’t even listed Dex on Patrick’s birth certificate. But it didn’t matter how Smythe had learned the truth, he was planning to use the baby against Dex. She couldn’t let that happen. “Your plan isn’t going to work, Smythe. Dex doesn’t even know about Patrick.”

      “He will after you tell him.”

      Tell Dex? She couldn’t tell Dex. Not now. Not after all this time. “But I—”

      “You what?”

      Her knees wobbled. She sank onto the bed, grasping the edge with one hand to keep her balance. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll tell him tonight.”

      “I thought you’d see things my way. You want me happy, Alyson. For your baby’s sake, you want me happy. Understand?”

      “Yes, I understand.” She forced herself to breathe. She had to do something. Anything. Spotting the Memo button on the answering machine, she pushed it. At least she could get Smythe’s voice on tape. She’d have proof of his threats. “After I tell Dex, then what?”

      “I’ll call.”

      “Can’t you tell me more now? Can’t I do something? Please.” She couldn’t just sit and wait. Not while Patrick was in the hands of this monster. Not while her baby was hungry and cold and wanted his mother. Not while Smythe might—

      She bit the inside of her cheek until the coppery taste of blood tinged her mouth. She couldn’t think about what Smythe might do to Patrick. She couldn’t function if she thought about that.

      “You just let Harrington know he has a son. I’ll be in touch.”

      “Please. You can’t do this. Give him back to—”

      The line went dead.

      ANDY SMYTHE pulled his sweet, red Corvette to the curb in front of the little ranch house and killed the engine. Alyson Fitzroy’s questions and challenges still rang in his ears. Damn. A woman’s mouth was only good for one thing, and it sure as hell wasn’t talking. He couldn’t stand women who talked too much. Especially the smart, superior types like Alyson Fitzroy. He would have loved to do what he’d gone to her house to do. He would have loved to grab her by her long red hair and put her in her place. He had been looking forward to it.

      But then he’d seen the baby.

      He glanced at the sleeping bundle next to him on the passenger seat. His little pajama-clad body. His nearly white hair that barely covered his scalp.

      Andy had learned a lot about Dex Harrington while he’d been stewing in that hellhole. A lot about him. He knew Harrington and the redhead had been tight. They’d almost been married, the private investigator he’d hired had said. That’s why Andy had chosen her as his first after getting out of prison. That coupled with the fact that she’d performed the DNA test that had gotten him out of prison seemed too ironic a combination to pass up. But seeing the kid had thrown him. He’d figured the kid had to be Harrington’s.

      Just as his chat with the redhead had confirmed.

      Andy gathered the sleeping kid in his arms. Throwing the strap of the bag filled with baby things he’d swiped from the bedroom over his other shoulder, Andy climbed out of his Vette. He carried the child to the door of the house and rang the bell.

      A light blinked on in the bedroom. Great. Nanny had been asleep. She wouldn’t be happy with him for waking her, but it couldn’t be helped. As soon as she saw the baby, she’d forgive him. Nanny never could hold a grudge.

      The frilly white curtain over the front door’s small window lifted and a withered eye peered out. It widened in surprise. The curtain fell and the door rattled then opened.

      “Do you know what time it is, Andy?” Nanny stood in the doorway watching him with stern yet gentle eyes, the way she used to every day when he was growing up.

      For a moment he felt like a puny little kid again, crawling to Nanny for comfort after his mother had treated him to another of her cruel and belittling tirades.

      He shoved the feeling aside and stepped past the old woman and into the house. He would never be puny and weak. Never again. And neither Dex Harrington’s scathing words nor Alyson Fitzroy’s superior tone would make it so. Tonight he hadn’t come for Nanny’s comfort. He’d come for her help. He walked into a tiny living room jammed with so much furniture it would have looked like a warehouse if not for the crocheted doilies covering every surface.

      Nanny followed him on tottering legs. “What do you have there? A child?”

      He turned his best pitiful expression on her. “My child, Nanny. His mother doesn’t want him. She abandoned him as soon as I was freed from prison.”

      “Your child? That child is too young. You were in prison when it was conceived.”

      “Haven’t you heard of conjugal visits? They arrange them for prisoners, you know.”

      She nodded as if this was a totally plausible explanation.

      Andy laughed to himself. If she bought that story, this was going to be easier than he’d thought. “I was in love with his mother. I wanted to marry her.” He dropped his head as if he were ashamed. “Unfortunately she didn’t feel the same way.”

      Pity and concern washed over Nanny’s wrinkled face.

      “I need your help, Nanny. I need you to take little Bart.”

      She frowned.

      “You know me,” he continued, “I can’t take care of myself, let alone a baby.”

      “Well that’s true enough.”

      “Besides, I want my son to have the best care a boy can have. I want him to have the only thing that was good about my childhood. I want him to have you.”

      Nanny’s old face softened into a smile. Amazing. Sometimes he didn’t even have to come up with a lie to manipulate people. Sometimes he had only to tell the truth.

      She held out her arms for the baby. “Give him here. I hate to see you worrying about your poor child, Andy. Not after all you’ve been through. You’re right. He’s better off with me.”

      Andy placed the baby in her arms and set the bag on the floor. Then he slipped his wallet from his pocket and pulled out a wad of hundreds and set them on a crocheted doily.

      The old lady eyed him, hardness stealing back into her face. “I’m not taking your money, boy.”

      “The baby needs things. I want my son to have the best. This money is for him.”

      She paused then nodded, her thin, wrinkled lips stretching into a smile once again. “You’re a good daddy, Andy, taking care of your baby this way. I’m proud of you.”

      Andy couldn’t keep the grin off his face. A good daddy. That was him. A regular chip off the old Smythe block. He stifled his laugh until he bade the old woman goodbye and closed the door behind him.

      The baby would be safe and well cared for with Nanny. Contrary to what he’d told the redhead, he had no intention of hurting the kid. He wasn’t a sicko, unlike some of the scumbags he’d done time with. And he was no baby killer, either. The baby was safe.

      But the father? Not a chance. The baby