The Vicar's Daughter. Betty Neels

the baby’s mother hadn’t even told him that he was a father, this woman had brought him his baby. She had shared a secret that wasn’t even hers.

      “I shouldn’t be mad at you,” he said as he turned back to the crib and studied the sleeping baby. “I should probably be thanking you instead.” If not for Sharon Wells, he might never have known he had a son.

      “So you don’t want to kill me?” she asked, but she narrowed those eyes with suspicion as if she still couldn’t trust him. But given that someone was trying to kill them, she shouldn’t trust him or anyone else.

      He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He was treating her as his family treated each other, making jokes to defuse a tense situation. “I could use the money for carrying out the hit. Maybe set up a college fund for Ethan...”

      She smiled nervously, probably not completely certain he was kidding.

      He wasn’t entirely kidding. He would have to set up a college fund; he would have to provide for his son’s present and his future. But he wouldn’t be able to do any of that if he was dead.

      And why was there a hit out on Sharon, as well? She wasn’t the baby’s mother, so who exactly was she?

      “Maybe you haven’t lied to me,” he said, “but you haven’t been completely honest with me, either. You know a lot more than I do. You know who Ethan’s mother is.”

      Color flushed her face, giving away her guilt.

      “And I think you even know why someone’s trying to kill us,” he continued, “maybe even who...”

      She shook her head and all that thick hair tumbled around her shoulders. He was so glad that he had pulled it free from that knot. Those caramel-colored waves softened the sharp angles of her thin face, making her beautiful. “I don’t know why,” she said, “or who...”

      He stared into her eyes, trying to gauge if she was being honest. If only he were the interrogator that his brother, the former detective, was...

      But he had been the undercover cop—the one more adept at keeping secrets than at flushing them out. He hadn’t needed confessions; he had caught ’em in the act—in the commission of the crime.

      Had Sharon Wells committed any crime?

      “Who are you?” he asked.

      It wasn’t the question he should be asking. He should be asking who Ethan’s mother was. But Sharon was the one with the bounty on her head—not whoever the baby’s mother was. And for some reason Parker was more interested in Sharon than in whoever had kept his son from him.

      “Who are you?” Parker asked again.

      * * *

      SHARON HAD EXPECTED his anger. She hadn’t expected his suspicion. “I told you who I am. I would show you my driver’s license to prove it, but it burned up when my car exploded.”

      But more than material possessions had blown up. Somebody had lost his life because of her, because someone else wanted her dead. And that man might not have been the only one who’d been hurt in the cross fire....

      Parker crossed the enormous master suite to a desk near the window that overlooked Lake Michigan. The sun was setting now, streaking across the surface of the water. He lifted a piece of paper from a fax machine. “Here’s a copy of your license.”

      Her face—looking pale and tense—stared back at her from the paper he held up. Then he replaced that with another photo—one of a burned-out and boarded-up apartment building. “And here’s a picture of the address on your driver’s license....”

      Sharon stepped closer to him. “Did anyone die in the fire?” She reached for the picture, which was actually part of a newspaper article.

      He caught her wrist. “You knew about this?” A muscle twitched in his cheek and his blue eyes were so intense, so filled with concern. “Were you and Ethan there when the building caught fire?”

      His concern was for his son. But she was concerned for the baby, too. She had been entrusted with his safety, with his welfare. It wasn’t a job for which she had asked, but it was one she had taken more seriously than her real job. And she had nearly failed. She glanced at that picture of destruction and shuddered.

      “No,” she replied. “We weren’t there. But I saw it on the news.”

      Panic clutched her heart as she remembered that horrific moment when she had realized that it was her home on the news, her apartment complex burning, flames reflecting off the shattered glass on the blackened lawn.

      “I know there were injuries,” she said, “but I haven’t seen any follow-up reports to see if everyone recovered.”

      That muscle twitched in his cheek again and he replied slowly, with reluctance, “Someone was killed....”

      She sucked in a breath. “That’s two people,” she murmured. “Two people killed because of me....”

      “Today two people were killed because of me.” He slid his hand from her wrist up her arm and squeezed her shoulder, offering comfort and sharing her guilt. “Two friends—two family men—lost their lives because someone wanted me dead.”

      Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. Long ago she had learned that crying was a waste of time. And she had never had anyone offer her a shoulder to cry on or arms to hold her. She had been left alone with swollen eyes and a red face.

      “Why does someone want you dead?” he asked and then repeated his question again. “Who are you?”

      “You have a copy of my license. You know who I am.”

      He shook his head. “I know your name and your old address. But that doesn’t tell me why someone would want you dead. Are you involved with the wrong people?”

      She hadn’t thought so...until now.

      “Do you have a crazy boyfriend?” he asked, firing questions at her like bullets. “A dangerous career? Do you lead a life of crime?”

      She laughed at the wild image he painted of her. It could not have been further from the truth. He had to have been kidding again like he had when he’d acted as if he would consider killing her for the money.

      From the little time she had spent around his family, she had noticed that they teased each other as a way of communicating. But what did she know about family? She had never really had one.

      “You think this is funny?” he asked, his voice gruff with disapproval.

      “Of course I don’t,” she said. With all the guilt and fear she felt, she was barely holding it together. If she let herself think about those people...

      Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. If she gave in to them, she wouldn’t be able to stop. “I think this is surreal. None of this is my life. None of this has anything to do with me. I am only the messenger delivering your son.”

      He laughed bitterly. “You make yourself sound like FedEx, like you’re just delivering a package.”

      That was what she had been told—how the baby had been referred to—as a package. She cringed now as she remembered Ethan’s mother’s careless words.

      “And that’s bull,” he said, “because you have an undeniable bond with...” His throat moved as if emotion choked him. He visibly swallowed and continued. “...my son.”

      He had already claimed his child. Where did that leave Sharon? If she admitted everything to him, it would leave her alone again as she already had been for so much of her life. But she shrugged off the self-pity and focused on what was important: Ethan would have a parent who would love and protect him.

      And if Parker were to protect his son, he had to find out who was trying to kill him and stop that person. So she had to tell him everything she knew—the little that it was.