Revealed: His Secret Child. Sandra Hyatt

to all outward appearances calm and back in control, “I’d like that.”

      Max stood and father and son left the table, Ethan trotting ahead, Max tossing aside his leather jacket and modifying his stride to follow. Gillian couldn’t bear to follow but knew she had to. She had to be there in case Max said anything to upset or confuse Ethan.

      As calmly and as quietly as he’d sat at the table, she could tell he was livid. But that anger was for her. She didn’t think he’d let Ethan see it—after all, he was better than any man she’d ever met at controlling his emotions.

      With dragging footsteps, she followed. She stood in the doorway and watched as, for twenty minutes, Max lay on his side, propped up on one elbow on her family room floor, his long legs stretched out and his shirtsleeves rolled up, playing trains with his son. The sight was as surreal as if James Bond had waltzed in and done the same thing. With an obedience that had to be alien to him, he pushed engines and carriages around a blue plastic track, taking garbled advice from the expert on the trains’ names and what they carried and the appropriate noises to make. The two of them spun stories and orchestrated derailments.

      It broke her heart.

      She thought she’d done the right thing.

      She was so sure she’d done the right thing. For everyone. For Max because he didn’t want a family, for Ethan because he deserved better than a father who didn’t want him and for her because she hadn’t wanted to trap, or be trapped with, a man who didn’t love her, who didn’t open up emotionally, who would always put his career ahead of anything else in his life. Who would ultimately, in the ways that counted, reject her and their son.

      She’d thought she could provide all that Ethan needed.

      But now? A chasm had opened and uncertainty flooded in.

      For the first time since they’d come into the room, Max looked at her. The light, the softness, the pleasure that had been in his eyes, dimmed and hardened. In one swift movement he stood. “Are you all right here, son, if I go and talk to Mommy?“

      “Son” Gillian went cold. It was just an expression. He wasn’t the first man to call Ethan “son.” It didn’t mean anything. Despite the fact that he was the first man for whom it was truly more than just an expression.

      Ethan didn’t look up from the train he was pushing toward a tunnel as he said, “Uh-huh.” She hadn’t had any daddy questions from him yet. She’d known they’d come one day but she’d hoped that day was a long way off.

      A tendril of fear snaked through her. What if there was more to Max’s reaction than anger over the secret she’d kept? What if he wanted to claim Ethan? Max, because of his nature and his profession, chose words carefully. And if he’d called Ethan “son”…

      He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

      Two long strides had Max at her side, his fingers gripping her elbow as he spun her and led her back to the kitchen. Three years and he still used the same cologne. Eternity. The one that made her think of him whenever she’d smelled it. The scent reassured her. He was a creature of habit. He didn’t change his ways for anyone. He wouldn’t want a son. There would be no room in his life.

      Her legs unsteady, and needing some kind of barrier in front of her, she sat at the table. She traced a scar in the old wood with her fingernail as he paced her too-small kitchen, tension and anger radiating off him in waves.

      He’d always been passionate—about his career, his life and at one point about her. She could still vividly remember their lovemaking. But now that passion was channeled into anger. The fact that he hadn’t yet given vent to it gave her a clue as to how powerful it was.

      If he decided he wanted visitation rights she’d give him that, but only if he could guarantee that it would be permanent, that. Gillian threaded her fingers into her hair. Where was she going with this?

      He was still pacing and turning. Gillian kept her gaze on the table but she heard his step, felt his presence surrounding, suffocating her. If only he’d say something. Anything. Finally, the footsteps stopped.

      “He’s my son.”

      Anything except that.

      The controlled, quietly spoken words, that simple statement of fact, contained a wealth of emotion. But they hadn’t been a question so Gillian said nothing.

      “How dare you?”

      That, however, was most definitely a question. She looked up. He stood with his back to her looking out the window above the counter and she was grateful she didn’t have to meet his gaze. “I did what I thought was best.”

      He spun back to her. “Best?” He ground the word out, ice in his gaze.

      She had to force herself to meet that anger, feel that wintry animosity. “You didn’t want children. You broke up with me because I mentioned the word just once.”

      He shook his head in disbelief. “You were pregnant then?”

      “Yes.”

      “How?”

      “Do you remember that week we both caught a stomach virus?”

      “The one I picked up on a trip to Boston and passed to you?”

      “I didn’t think I’d been that sick.” She lifted her shoulder. “But it interfered with the pill and I got pregnant.”

      “And you didn’t—” He turned back to the window. “I’m that boy’s—”

      “Ethan’s.”

      He crossed to the table, leaned on his fists, his face close to hers. Her heart thundered but she wouldn’t back away from his intimidation.

      “I’m Ethan’s father.” His voice was lethally calm, but a bluish vein pulsed in his temple. “And you never once thought I had a right to know that.”

      She’d thought it a million times but common sense had always prevailed.

      “Are you my daddy?”

      Gillian’s heart plummeted at her son’s happy, singsong question. Inquisitive and bright with the hearing of a bat, he never missed a thing.

      For an instant, Max’s gaze fixed on hers and for the first time there was something other than anger in it. Was he looking for her permission? She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Not now.”

      His gaze hardened. “If not now, then when?” Max pulled out the chair next to Gillian, spun it so it faced Ethan, and sat leaning his forearms on his knees, putting himself closer to Ethan’s level. “Yes. I’m your daddy,” he said gently.

      So much for needing her permission.

      She watched her son for his reaction. Ethan frowned, stared at Max for a few seconds, and then smiled. “Come play.”

      Max glanced questioningly at Gillian. If he’d expected Ethan to be as stunned by the discovery as he’d been, he was very much mistaken.

      She stood. “How about I put your favorite movie on, honey?” Normally, Gillian discouraged the watching of TV. Today was not normal. “The one about trains.”

      “Okay.” Ethan headed blithely for the family room.

      When she got back, Max was exactly where she’d left him, sitting in the chair, staring at the doorway, forearms resting on splayed knees. “Did you have to tell him that?”

      He jerked upright. “I was hardly going to leave it to you,” he said quietly. “He deserves to know before he turns eighteen.”

      “He’s never asked.”

      “Well, he did and now he knows. And at least now he doesn’t have to call me Pweston.” And for just a second a wry smile lifted a corner of his lips and amusement passed between them. Then vanished. “I had a right to know, too, before he came looking