Claiming His Family. Ann Peterson Voss

be sweet.

      ALYSON GRIPPED the wheel with white-knuckled fingers and struggled to quell the trembling that claimed every nerve. Stomping on the accelerator as hard as she dared, she steered her Volvo around sharp corners and down quiet streets. She trained her eyes on the road ahead, keeping her gaze from wandering to the rearview mirror, to the reflection of the empty child’s safety seat belted in back.

      She couldn’t give in to the panic, the rush of loss that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to stay rational. She had to reach Dex. She had to get Patrick back.

      And whatever that took, she’d do it.

      The roofline of Dex’s sprawling old bungalow loomed on the edge of the lake, a dark shadow against the moonlight-kissed waves beyond. Alyson swerved onto the dead end street, pulled to the curb and scrambled from the car.

      Built into the bank of Lake Mendota, Dex’s house was his pride and joy. Alyson could still picture the satisfaction on his face the day he’d bought the scarred old former fraternity house and started putting his renovation plans into motion. It was as if he’d finally arrived, finally proven he had transcended his desolate upbringing.

      Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the lapping of the waves against the shore. The humid June air clogged her throat. She climbed the stone steps and stepped onto the porch. A light shone from the back of the house. Pressing a trembling finger to the doorbell, she held her breath.

      A chime sounded through the old structure. Footsteps thudded on the hardwood floor inside. The door opened.

      “Alyson.” Dex stood silhouetted against light glowing behind him. But even in the shadow she could see his brow furrow, the muscles along his cleft chin hardening in unswerving judgment.

      Some things never changed. But his judgment of her didn’t matter. Not anymore. The only thing that mattered now was Patrick. Alyson forced her voice to function. “I need to talk to you.”

      Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his midnight-blue eyes seemed to grow darker, harder. He took in a deep breath and expelled it. “I suppose you heard about the governor’s pardon.”

      “Yes.”

      “Is that what you need to talk about?”

      “In part, yes.”

      “Is it something about the testing you did? Something I should know?”

      After Smythe’s pardon today it was logical Dex would assume she was coming to see him about the DNA test she’d done—the test that had sprung the rapist from prison. “No. It’s not that. The testing was accurate. The two samples were a match.”

      His gaze raked over her, as if trying to determine her true motive for showing up on his doorstep.

      “I need your help.” Her words trembled with barely controlled panic. “It’s urgent.”

      As if hearing the edge in her voice, he gave a succinct nod and backed from the doorway, allowing her inside.

      As she stepped into the house, a shiver stole up her spine. Sights, smells and feelings from the past washed over her. The tickle of dust in her nose as she and Dex hauled box after box of ancient junk from the attic after he bought the house. The scent of paint, varnish and wallpaper paste as they reclaimed the scarred walls and floors. The sound of hers and Dex’s laughter mingling and filling the empty halls. Memories of happy times, before her father’s crimes, before she learned exactly how precarious her position was in Dex’s heart.

      She shut the memories out of her mind. They were merely sentimental longing. And she didn’t have time for sentiment. “Can we sit down?”

      His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “You can’t tell me here?”

      Her knees quivered. “Please. I need to sit down. And so should you.”

      He raised his brows at her last comment. But instead of grilling her further, he mercifully turned and led her through the house.

      She followed, forcing her eyes to move over her surroundings. Forcing her mind to focus on something safer than the panic thrashing inside her, threatening to shred what little control she had.

      Dex had changed things since she’d helped him decorate following the renovation. He’d replaced the simple curtains she’d chosen with wood-slat blinds. He’d furnished the rooms with heavy leather instead of the light-fabric couches and chairs she’d helped him select. It was as if he’d obliterated her from his life. As if she’d ceased to exist in his world.

      And of course, she had.

      But he’d never disappeared from her world. His presence went far deeper than blinds and furniture. She felt his presence every time she looked into Patrick’s blue eyes or kissed that tiny cleft chin.

      Patrick.

      Panic rose in her throat like bile. Choking it back, she followed Dex into the glassed-in porch they used to sit in together watching thunderstorms come in off the lake. He gestured to a wicker chair. She took her place among the cushions.

      He lowered himself into a chair facing her. “We’re sitting. What is it?”

      She tangled her fingers together in her lap and took a deep breath. There were so many things that had been said between them. And even more things that had not been said. Before she told him about Patrick, she had to give him some idea why she hadn’t told him about his son. She had to make him understand. “I tried calling you. Several times. After my father was killed. You refused my calls. And you didn’t call back when I left messages on your machine.”

      Dex’s brows snapped low over his eyes. “I didn’t want to talk to you, Alyson. I don’t want to rehash the past. I hope that’s not why you came here tonight.”

      “You turned your back on me, Dex. And my only crime was that I loved my father.”

      He stood and paced the length of the sunporch. He stopped, his back to her, his shoulders obviously tight under his crisp white dress shirt. Slowly he turned to look at her with hard eyes. “Your father was a criminal. The worst kind of criminal. He used his title of district attorney to sell justice. He perverted the entire system. And you defended him.”

      “He was my father. I didn’t believe he could do something like that.”

      “You didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t want to believe me.”

      She swallowed into a dry throat. “That’s why I called. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I was wrong about my father. That I was sorry I didn’t believe you when you first told me what you suspected. But that’s not the only thing I wanted to tell you.”

      “What are you saying? Why are you here, Alyson?”

      “I wanted to tell you I was pregnant.” She rubbed clammy hands over her jeans and willed herself to look at Dex, to meet his gaze. “I gave birth to our son seven months ago.”

      Dex didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to breathe. “I have a son.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.

      “Yes.”

      He folded himself into a chair. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed a hand over his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

      “You wouldn’t take my calls, remember?”

      “You could have come to see me. You could have made me listen.”

      She could have. She’d known it then, and she knew it now. If she’d really wanted to tell Dex, she wouldn’t have let anything stop her. “I was afraid.”

      “Afraid of what?”

      “Afraid you would take him away from me.”

      A muscle tensed along his jawline. “Why the hell would you think that?”

      She shot him an incredulous look. What she’d done had been wrong, cowardly. But she’d had reason. “Because