Читать книгу Sullivan's Child - Gail Link - Страница 12

Cat stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance into her home. “She doesn’t know anything about you, Rory.”

One of his black eyebrows arched slightly. “Why am I not surprised?”

She wet her lips. “It wasn’t important.”

He stepped closer, less than inches from her. “Is that so?” he inquired, his voice low and soft. “Having a father isn’t important to a child?”

“Tara doesn’t have a father.”

“Because I didn’t know I had a daughter,” Rory retorted.

“Bull.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “And, would you mind if I came inside? I’d rather not discuss my—our personal business in the street.”

“It’s hardly the street,” Cat responded.

“It’s still not private.”

“I don’t want Tara upset.”

“I didn’t come here to do that,” he stated. “I only want to see her. That isn’t really too much to ask, now, is it?”

“I suppose not,” she conceded, then stepped aside and let him enter, shutting the door behind him.

Rory was enveloped by the warmth of the interior of her home, a sharp contrast to Cat’s cool demeanor. He could smell the subtle scent of applejack as he followed her into a small room off the hall that was dominated by an overstuffed floral couch, topped by a sweater-like white throw.

She pulled the pocket door closed and when she did, Cat felt as if all the air had been locked outside the room, forcing her to take a deep breath before she spoke. “You’ve got to promise me that you won’t say anything to upset Tara,” she reiterated. “Or,” she stated plainly, “you can turn around and leave.”

“That’s not my intention, I can assure you.” Rory leaned back into the seat of the couch, enjoying the enveloping feel of comfort, like a welcome hug. It was so different from the formal furniture that he was used to growing up in his parents’ house, and what he had lived with in Ireland. He threw her a glance, placed his hand on the couch, indicating that she should take a seat next to him.

Cat ignored the invitation and remained standing. Right now, sitting so close to him, would be a mistake; it would be too cozy, too intimate, something she couldn’t afford. Instead, she kept the focus where it belonged—on what he was doing there. “And what are your intentions?” she demanded.

“Just to meet her, for now.”

“For now?” she repeated, her tone skeptical.

He quickly rose from the couch, coming closer. “Cat, you can’t expect me to know what I’ll feel or how I’ll react.”

“She’s a child, Rory, and you’re a stranger.”

“Through no fault of my own.”

Cat was stung by his words. “Can you honestly tell me that you would have been thrilled if I’d told you that I was pregnant? ‘Children have no place in my life,”’ she said, repeating the very words he’d said to her.

She waited for a moment. “What? No snappy comeback? No denial?”

“I remember what I said,” he admitted. “But I can’t walk away now that I know.”

“Can’t you?”

“No.”

It wasn’t so much the word as the tone he used when uttering that one word that convinced Cat that he was serious. “Okay.”

“Then I can see her?”

She searched his eyes. “Yes. But only for a few minutes.”

“That’s all?”

“For now.” She turned his words back on him. “Wait here.”

After she left, Rory walked a few paces to the fireplace, stared at the collection of photos on the carved mantel. There was a silver-framed photo of Cat and her folks, taken, he guessed, when she was in college; another of her brother and sister, who looked older than he remembered, so that it must have been taken recently; a third that included everyone, with Tara as the focal point. There was a Christmas tree in the background, heavily weighted with ornaments and lights. The little girl in the picture looked happy beyond belief, surrounded by a tight-knit clan that obviously adored her.

“Rory.”

He spun around and the breath caught in his throat. Holding her mother’s hand was his secret child.