The Baby Bet: His Secret Son. Joan Elliott Pickart

His name? Yes, of course. You want to be recognized as a MacAllister, reap the rewards of his power, his status in society.”

      “Oh, Clara, give it a rest,” Andrew said wearily. “You just don’t get it. I’m Sally Malone’s son and I’m very proud to be able to say that. I’m a Malone, will always be a Malone. What I want from MacAllister is for my mother and…Ah, hell, forget it.”

      “Your mother is dead!” Clara hollered. “What can MacAllister possibly do for her now? You’ve got to think of yourself, and think of me. Look at that photograph again, Andrew. We deserve to be included in that group. We’re part of that family, don’t you see?”

      “Clara, please, just go,” Andrew said quietly. “I need to be alone. I have to think about all of this. Go home. Get some rest, something to eat. Don’t drink any more tonight, either.”

      “Yes, of course, you need to think,” Clara said, nodding. “Yes, yes, you do that. You’ll sort it all through and realize that I’m right. The time has come for us…for you to take your well-deserved place among the MacAllisters. I know you’ll do the proper thing, Andrew.”

      “Oh, yes,” he said, a steely edge to his voice, “I fully intend to do the proper thing, exactly what needs to be done.”

      “Good, that’s good,” Clara said, starting toward the door. “Plan it all out with that detail-oriented mind of yours. I’ll speak with you soon and you can tell me what you are going to do. We’re in this together, Andrew. Don’t forget that. Don’t forget me. We’re a team, have been ever since my dear little sister died. Don’t forget me, Andrew.”

      Clara left the apartment and a heavy silence fell over the large expanse. Andrew drew a breath that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, then he crossed the room and picked up the wadded newspaper from the floor.

      Sinking onto the sofa, he spread the paper out on the coffee table, smoothing it with his hands.

      He stared at the tall, smiling gray-haired man in the center of the color photograph, saw his arm around the shoulders of the attractive older woman who was tucked close to his side.

      Andrew shifted his gaze and read the entire article that told of the many accomplishments of the MacAllisters, the honors they’d received over the years.

      “‘This marvelous family,’” he read aloud, “‘includes the senior MacAllister brothers, Ralph and Robert, who are now retired, and two generations, beginning with the eldest son, Michael, who is thirty-eight and a member of MacAllister Architects, Incorporated.’”

      Andrew had leaned back and rested his head on the top of the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

      “Oh, guess again, Daddy dearest,” he’d said, his voice raspy with emotion. “Your eldest son isn’t Michael. Your firstborn son is going to be forty in the spring and is the child you conceived with Sally Malone.

      “I’ll hear you say her name, MacAllister. You will acknowledge that she lived, that she loved you, that she mattered.

      “And then? Then I never want to see you again. Never.”

      A noise in the corridor of the hospital jerked Andrew back to the present and he lunged to his feet. He began to pace the waiting room, while he attempted to push the memories of that fateful evening in his apartment from his mind.

      If only…his mind echoed. If only Clara hadn’t brought him that newspaper. If only he hadn’t allowed himself to examine the caption beneath the photograph. If only he hadn’t driven to Ventura with his plan etched in stone, ready to be carried out.

      But all those events had happened, and now Robert MacAllister hovered near death because of them.

      Andrew stopped and hooked one hand on the back of his neck.

      What had Kara MacAllister said? If it wasn’t for a MacAllister, then Andrew wouldn’t exist. What a strange, rather disconcerting thought. And, he had to admit, it was true.

      And what had Kara meant by that other weird statement she’d made? He was more of a MacAllister than she was? That didn’t make sense. Robert MacAllister was her uncle. She was Dr. Kara MacAllister. Why would he be more of a MacAllister than she was?

      Andrew spun around and strode out of the waiting room. He had every intention of getting the answer from Kara MacAllister.

      Chapter 3

      Margaret MacAllister sat in a chair next to Robert’s bed, her hand covering one of his. Various machines surrounded the head of the bed, humming, blinking, showing a jagged line on a green screen, all of them having wires that were attached to Robert’s inert body.

      Oh, Robert, Margaret thought, her eyes once again filling with tears. He was so still, hadn’t regained consciousness since he’d collapsed at the party hours before.

      Margaret glanced down at her full-length evening dress and shook her head.

      It seemed like an eternity since they’d been celebrating New Year’s Eve and the final event of the MacAllister reunion. It had been such a festive party and everyone there had been having a wonderful time.

      And then?

      That young man, that Andrew Malone, had appeared out of nowhere and shattered her world, destroyed her serene existence. Her beloved Robert was now hanging on to life by a thread, by the power of his will to survive the devastating heart attack he’d suffered when he’d heard what Andrew Malone had to say.

      Dear heaven, Margaret thought, was Andrew Malone truly Robert’s son? Who was Sally Malone in regard to Robert? And even more important, how old was Andrew?

      Margaret closed her eyes, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

      Oh, please, let Andrew be older than Michael. Let whatever had transpired between Robert and Sally have taken place before she and Robert were married. She couldn’t bear the thought of Robert being unfaithful to her, having an affair after they had repeated their vows to each other, before their friends and families…and God.

      Margaret opened her eyes and shook her head in disgust.

      How selfish she was being. She was thinking only of herself, of how brokenhearted she would be if it came to light that Robert had actually been unfaithful to her.

      She didn’t know if Robert was going to live or die, and she was centered on her fears of learning the truth about him and Sally, instead of focusing on Robert, willing him to hang on, to live, to fight this catastrophe and win.

      “I’m so sorry, my darling,” she whispered. “I’m behaving badly. Oh, Robert, please, don’t die. I need you, love you so much. We have so many wonderful years left to spend together, so many memories to make.”

      Margaret dashed her tears away, then shifted so she could layer both of her hands on top of Robert’s hand, which lay so still on the pale-green bedspread.

      “Can you hear me, Robert?” she said. “Perhaps you can. I’m here for you and always will be.” She paused. “I’m not going to dwell on what happened at the party. I’ll just wait until you wake up and explain it all to me. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

      “So! Let’s relive lovely memories, shall we? How about Christmas? Yes, that’s perfect. It seems so long ago, but it has only been a week since we were all opening gifts at Jillian and Forrest’s house. Oh, my, it was noisy, wasn’t it? The children were so excited and…well, so were the adults.”

      A soft smile formed on Margaret’s lips as she continued to speak.

      “Remember how the triplets were dressed alike, confusing everyone because they’re almost impossible to tell apart? Jillian and Forrest have never dressed them the same, but the girls wanted matching dresses for Christmas. I guess you’d have to be a five-and-a-half-year-old girl to understand why.

      “Jessica came running over to us, remember,