The Paternity Proposition. Merline Lovelace

the way, producing grandchildren. Lots of grandchildren. As she’d tartly reminded them, she wasn’t getting any younger. Nor were they. Her sons had chalked the baby up to another of their mother’s Machiavellian plots until she announced she’d had a DNA test run.

      Alex kept his eyes on the flat checkerboard of Oklahoma countryside outside his windshield but his mind replayed that surreal scene in his mother’s living room. Either he or his brother had, in fact, fathered a child.

      The shock of her announcement was still thundering in Alex’s ears when he’d cradled the baby in his arms. Blue-eyed, pink-cheeked Molly had pretty much won his heart with her first gummy smile. Then she’d gurgled and blown him a bubble. Alex would have claimed her as his right then and there, but Blake had reminded him of the thirty-point swing in the DNA analysis and Delilah had stressed the need to nail down the mother.

      As a result, Alex and his brother had spent the past two weeks contacting the women they’d connected with early last year. Their lists hadn’t been anywhere near equal. As Dalton International’s Vice President of Operations, Alex got around a lot more than its Vice President for Financial Strategies.

      Given the narrow window of opportunity, however, even Alex’s list hadn’t been all that long. It had included the lawyer he dated off and on for almost six months. The divorcee his mother had foisted on him when she’d realized he and the lawyer weren’t serious. The mega-hot state senator’s daughter Delilah had paired him with at the Oklahoma City Country Club’s annual charity ball. And Julie Bartlett.

      The first three had responded to his query with looks ranging from astonishment to amusement. The last …

      It had to be Bartlett. She’d been out of the country for most of last year, moving from job to job and one remote airstrip to another. The PI Alex had hired to dig into her activities and physical condition during those missing months had hit a couple of blind alleys but should produce results soon.

      Not that Alex needed further confirmation. Julie Bartlett wouldn’t have refused to provide a DNA sample unless she had given birth and subsequently abandoned her baby.

      His brother agreed with his assessment. To a point.

      Alex cornered Blake in his office in the glass-and-steel tower housing the headquarters of Dalton International. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a bustling downtown Oklahoma City with its Bricktown Ballpark, busy restaurants, and newly diverted river spur ferrying tourists to the Land Rush sculpture park. Neither of the Dalton brothers had any interest in the colorful barges meandering the tree-lined river, however.

      “The fact that she wouldn’t voluntarily give a DNA sample is pretty telling,” Blake agreed, “but not prima facie evidence that she’s the mother.”

      “So where does that leave us?” Alex worked off his frustration by pacing the office. “Can we take her to court and force her to provide a sample?”

      “Not without more justification. We would need hospital records, statements from witnesses that she was pregnant, some hard facts to support the petition for a court order.”

      Alex had expected the answer. Blake was precise and deliberate by nature, and the framed law degree hanging on the wall behind his desk had only exacerbated his tendency to examine any and all sides of an issue before jumping on it.

      He’d been that way even as a kid. Alex would hurtle himself head first at every challenge, whether it was a new toy or a kite caught in a tree or a schoolyard bully. His twin would hold back and assess the situation, although Blake would always wade in whenever necessary—usually after Alex’s nose had been bloodied or he’d shimmied up a tree and couldn’t get down. The present situation, he thought grimly, had too many parallels for comfort.

      “I should have just invited her to lunch,” he said in disgust. “I could have picked up her fork or glass or napkin and strolled off with it.”

      “You could have,” Blake agreed mildly. “None of which would have helped us in court. For a paternity suit, or in this case, a maternity suit, the sample has to be taken under controlled conditions.”

      “But at least we would know.”

      “Maybe. I’ve done some digging into DNA testing. There was a case in Virginia a few years ago. The principals battled it out in court for two years despite the fact that the DNA test showed an almost hundred percent probability the defendant was, in fact, the father.”

      “Yeah, we know about those probabilities.”

      “The judge finally ruled against the claimant when it came out that the DNA lab employed a total of five people processing more than a hundred thousand paternity tests a year, with one supervisor certifying the results every four minutes. The margin for error was too wide for absolute certainty.”

      Alex stopped his restless pacing and faced his brother. An outsider probably couldn’t have told them apart. They were both six-two, blue-eyed, and built on exactly the same lines. But the differences were there and readily apparent to anyone who knew them well. Blake’s hair was a darker gold and parted on the left. Alex sported a scar on his chin from a close encounter with a fence post as a kid.

      They had that unique twin ability to almost read each other’s thoughts, though, and Alex didn’t particularly care for the vibe he was receiving at the moment.

      “So you’re saying Molly may not be ours?”

      The possibility carved an unexpected hole in his heart. He’d had two weeks to get used to the idea of being a father. Or uncle. Either way, the idea that neither he nor Blake might have a claim on the baby left a hollow feeling inside him.

      “I’m saying it might not hurt to run another test,” Blake was saying. “Especially considering who arranged for the first.”

      “You’re right.” Alex huffed out an exasperated breath. “I wouldn’t put it past our dear, sweet mother to have sent in baby hair from one of us instead of from Molly.”

      “Me, either.” Laughter lightened Blake’s somber expression. “How many prospective brides has she thrown at you in the past six months?”

      “Eight. You?”

      “Five.”

      Now they had a whole new set of issues to work. With his characteristic decisiveness, Alex wanted the matter of Molly’s parentage settled. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. First, we’ll have another test run to confirm Molly is ours. Second, we convince Ms. Bartlett to submit a DNA sample. If it turns out she’s not Molly’s mother, we go back and …”

      The buzz of the intercom cut him off. Irritated, Alex scowled when his brother reached for the phone.

      “I told your secretary not to interrupt us.”

      “She’s not a secretary,” Blake corrected in his precise way. “She’s my executive assistant.”

      As much as Alex loved his twin, there were times he itched to stick a firecracker down his shirt collar and light the fuse. This was one of them.

      “Just tell her … Oh, crap!”

      He couldn’t suppress a groan as the office door flew open and their mother sailed in. With her megawatt personality, waist-length raven hair showing only a trace of silver, and fingers flashing their usual ten or twelve carats worth of diamonds, Delilah Dalton tended to put a stone-cold finish to conversation whenever she made one of her flamboyant entrances.

      The diamonds were absent today. She’d removed them two weeks ago to avoid scratching the tender skin of the infant now cradled to her chest. Instead, her tall, spare figure was encased in black leggings and a print tunic sprouting a profusion of leafy geraniums in eye-popping pink. The sling snuggling the baby against her chest was made of the same wild print.

      “Well?” she demanded as she swept in. “How did it go with the Bartlett woman?”

      Alex parried her imperious demand with one of his own. “Where