Читать книгу The Baby Bet: His Secret Son - Joan Elliott Pickart - Страница 9

Kara stopped so suddenly when she saw Andrew Malone standing before her that she teetered slightly, then steadied herself. She narrowed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I’m not following you, if that’s what is going through your mind,” Andrew said, frowning. “I was restless and went for a walk, that’s all.”

“I don’t mean here,” Kara said, flinging one hand in the direction of the nursery window. “I’m referring to your being in this hospital. How dare you come here after what you did?”

“It’s because of what I did that I’m here,” Andrew said, his voice rising. “I need to know that Robert MacAllister is going to be all right.”

“Your needs, Mr. Malone, are very low on my priority list. I want you to leave, and as you’re exiting the premises, keep your voice down if you speak to anyone. This is a hospital, you know.”

“You may be on staff at this hospital, Dr. MacAllister,” Andrew said, “but you don’t own it. You don’t have the authority to toss me out. I have every intention of staying put until Robert…” His voice trailed off.

“Until Robert what?” Kara said, shifting her hands to her hips. “Either dies or it’s determined by his doctors that he’ll live? Will that take care of your unfinished business so you can be on your way?”

“Look, I—”

“Oh, do tell me, Mr. Malone, because the suspense is more than I can bear. Which way are you voting? Do you want Uncle Robert to live? Or die? Which of those will meet your ever-so-important needs?”

“That’s enough,” Andrew said, his jaw tightening. “I never intended for anything like this to happen. How could I have known it would? I just wanted…” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’m not even going to attempt to explain it to you in the frame of mind you’re in. You hate me. That’s coming across loud and clear.”

“Hating you would take more of my emotional energy than you’re worth,” Kara said. “But I truly despise you. How could you have done such a horrible thing? It was a family celebration and…My God, Andrew Malone, you’re more of a MacAllister than I am, and you came to that party and…” She stopped speaking as her throat closed from the ache of unshed tears.

“What do you mean I’m more of a MacAllister than you are?” Andrew said.

Kara waved a hand in the air, dismissing Andrew’s question.

“I owe the MacAllisters my life,” she said. “But you’d better think about this, Malone. If what you claim is true about what happened between Robert and your mother all those years ago, you owe your life to a MacAllister, too.

“If it wasn’t for that summer you made reference to at the restaurant, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t even exist. As far as I’m concerned, that would be preferable to the person you are.”

“I—”

Tears brimmed Kara’s eyes. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to be anywhere near you after what you did to my uncle Robert tonight. You are the most despicable man I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

As tears spilled onto Kara’s cheeks, she spun around and hurried away.

“You’re right,” Andrew said quietly as Kara disappeared from view. “Despicable? Ah, beautiful Kara, I can come up with a lot worse than that to describe me and what I did at that party.”

Andrew sighed and shook his head. He looked at the nursery window again, attempting to recapture the fleeting sense of peace he’d had, the inner warmth and completeness, but it remained beyond his emotional reach.

He started slowly down the hallway, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was, how totally drained. Entering a waiting room that beckoned with the glow of a small lamp, he slouched into a chair, rested his head on the back and stared up at the ceiling.

If only…he thought. No, forget it. There was no purpose to be served by starting an “if only” list. But damn it, if only Clara, his drunk and bitter aunt Clara, hadn’t shown up at his door with that newspaper in her hand.

He’d been sweaty, dirty and tired to the bone when Clara had arrived that night. He’d spent the day working with his men, instead of doing the suit-and-tie portion of his business, which was more the norm.

He hadn’t slept well the previous night, had once again been plagued by the sense of restlessness, emptiness, of knowing something was missing from his life but not having a clue about what it was. A day of hard labor, he decided, would give him an opportunity to blank his mind and push his body to the maximum.

He was standing in his living room with visions of a long hot shower in his head when the intercom by the door had buzzed. He strode across the room and pushed the button with more force than was necessary.

“Yes, Roger?” he said.

“Ms. Malone is here to see you, Mr. Malone.”

Ah, hell, it was Clara, Andrew remembered thinking, as his mind continued to travel back in time to that fateful night.

If Clara was using the name Ms. Malone again, it meant that her most recent divorce must be final. How many broken marriages did that make? Three? Four? Hell, he didn’t know and really didn’t give a rip.

“Tell her that I’m sorry, but I’m busy, Roger,” Andrew said.

“Yes, well…um…she’s rather…um…insistent, sir,” Roger said. “She says it’s imperative that she speak to you and won’t leave until she does, sir.”

Clara was drunk and giving Roger a hard time, Andrew thought. Damn it.

“All right,” he said with a weary and disgusted sigh. “Send her up.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” Roger said. “Thank you very much.”

Andrew mentally tracked Clara’s unsteady trek across the large lobby of the building and into the elevator. He ticked off the floors in his mind, and when he determined that Clara was now in the hallway leading to his apartment, he opened the door with every intention of not allowing her to enter his home.

Clara appeared before him and he frowned as the sickening odor of liquor reached him, along with a heavy dose of perfume.

Clara’s bleached-blond hair was perfectly coiffured, her peach-colored suit and the jewelry she wore obviously expensive, but the class act stopped right there.

Her makeup was artfully applied, but even so wasn’t able to cover the damage caused by years of excessive drinking. She had once been a beautiful woman, but now looked haggard and much older than she actually was.

“What do you want, Clara?” Andrew said, filling the open doorway.

“Is that any way to speak to your sweet auntie?” Clara said, her speech slurred slightly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, darling?”

“No, I’m not,” Andrew said, keeping a tight rein on his rising temper. “I’ve been on the job all day and I’m headed for the shower. I’m tired and dirty, and I don’t have time to play games with you, Clara.”

“I’m not here to play games,” she said, her voice rising as she poked his chest with one manicured fingernail. “I have something to show you, and I definitely have an important announcement to make.”

“Like what? You’re getting married again? Fine. Have a nice life. Goodbye, Clara.”

“Damn you, Andrew, listen to me!” Clara shrieked. “The time has come. I’ve kept Sally’s secret all these years, but I don’t intend to be silent one second longer.” She waved a folded newspaper in the air. “This is the final insult, by God, the last slap in the face that he’s going to get away with.”

“What are you raving about?” Andrew said, frowning deeply.

“Your father! I was down in Ventura at a spa and…Damn him. Look at this newspaper, Andrew. See what your oh-so-important and filthy-rich father has that you don’t. A family! A huge, warm and loving family surrounding him. But you and I are alone.”

A sob caught in Clara’s throat.

“We’re so alone,” she went on. “So alone. It’s not fair. It’s not. He walked out on your mother when she discovered she was pregnant with his child, with you, and it’s time he paid his dues to you. And to me. No, to you, to you.”

Clara flung the newspaper to the floor of the carpeted hallway, and it opened as it landed. She pushed past Andrew and went into the apartment, weeping as she staggered forward.

Andrew stood still, hardly breathing, his heart pounding so wildly it was actually painful as it echoed in his ears. He stared at the newspaper and saw the full-color picture of a large group of people.

As though watching himself from a far distance, he saw his body bend, his shaking hands reach out and grasp the newspaper, then he straightened, his gaze riveted on the photograph.

Don’t do it, Malone, his mind hammered. Don’t read the caption. Don’t find out your father’s name. Think about your mother’s wishes. Sally didn’t want you to know. She had always said that it would serve no purpose. Damn it, Malone, don’t do it.

Andrew drew a shuddering breath, then folded the newspaper, blocking the photograph from view.

“He should rot in hell!” Clara yelled, then sobbed. “He doesn’t deserve to have what he does. He owes you, Andrew. It’s time for Robert MacAllister to pay up.”

Andrew jerked as though he’d been struck.

Robert MacAllister.

His father’s name was Robert MacAllister.

Robert…MacAllister…

Andrew forced himself to move, to step back, to shut the door, then to walk into the living room. He had to tell himself to put one foot in front of the other, to inhale, then exhale for each breath he took.

He opened the newspaper again, then gripped the edges so tightly they crumpled in his hands. Then slowly, so slowly, he lowered his gaze to read the caption beneath the photograph, to put the name with the proper face among the multitude of people in the picture.

And there he was.

Robert MacAllister.

His father.

The man who had broken the heart of a young and innocent girl so many years before. The man who had abandoned her when she needed him so desperately. The man who had shattered the hopes and dreams of Sally Malone.

Clara was slouched in one of the chairs, her head rocking back and forth.

“Not fair,” she said, her eyes beginning to close. “All those children. Big family. Loving him, jumping at his command, thinking he’s so wonderful. The mighty and powerful Robert of MacAllister Architects, Incorporated. So many people loving him. Not fair. I’m all alone…all alone…always alone.

“No, no, no, this isn’t about me. I’m finally telling you who he is for you. You, Andrew. Make him pay for what he did to you and Sally. Make…him…pay…for…” Clara’s head dropped forward and she fell asleep, her legs sprawled in an unlady-like fashion.

A bark of laughter escaped Andrew’s lips, a rough, bitter-edged sound.

MacAllister Architects, Incorporated? he thought incredulously. He’d built more than one project following plans drawn by them for the contracting out-fit. MacAllister Architects was a top-of-the-line company, highly respected and sought after.

Just as Malone Construction was.

Hey, hey, what a team they were. MacAllister Architects drew up the plans, and Malone Construction built the dynamite structure with perfection.

Oh, hell, yes, what a dynamic duo they were. Two pieces of a puzzle coming together, each with their hard-earned expertise.

The father. The son.

The son of Sally Malone, who had been swept off her feet by a young Robert MacAllister, given him her heart and her innocence, then was abandoned as though she never existed when she discovered she was carrying his child.

Andrew crushed the newspaper into a jagged ball and threw it across the room.

Well, he fumed, Sally Malone had existed, had mattered, had been a warm, loving, wonderful human being, the best mother any child could ask for.

He wanted nothing from Robert MacAllister for himself. Not a damn thing.

But for his mother?

Robert was going to stand before that large family, who no doubt worshiped the ground he walked on, and tell them what he’d done so many years before.

Robert was going to acknowledge that Sally had been a living, breathing person, who had deserved far better than what MacAllister had done to her.

Robert was going to be made to own up to what he had done forty years ago and admit that he had been wrong, a heartless uncaring slug, who had walked away from the responsibilities resulting from his reckless actions.

Robert MacAllister was going to reveal his feet of clay to the entire MacAllister family.

“Clara,” Andrew said gruffly, “wake up. Wake up, damn it.”

Clara’s head snapped upward and she opened her eyes. She blinked several times, straightened in the chair, then smoothed the skirt of her suit.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she said. “I was just resting my eyes, giving you a chance to come to grips with what you’ve just learned.”

“Yeah, right,” Andrew said. “I hope you came here in a taxi, that you weren’t driving your car.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Clara said, holding one hand out before her and examining her nails, “I didn’t feel like dealing with traffic, so I called a limo service. I don’t use smelly taxis. I prefer a private company. My driver is waiting across the street.”

“Fine, then go home.”

Clara looked up at her nephew. “Not until you tell me what you plan to do about Robert MacAllister. I broke my promise, my vow of silence, that I made to my poor dear sister. I did it on your behalf, Andrew. I put your needs before my own guilt for revealing the identity of your father.

“The least you can do is inform me what steps you plan to take to obtain what is due you from Robert MacAllister.”

“Your mind is so twisted by booze, Clara,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear what you were saying when you were off on your tangent? You’ve got some sick idea that if MacAllister acknowledges me as his son, then you’ll be welcomed into the MacAllister fold.

“You won’t be alone anymore. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re scared to death of being old and alone, with no one to love you. You brought that newspaper over here tonight for your own selfish reasons, Clara, for what you hoped to gain for yourself.”

Clara got to her feet, swaying unsteadily for a moment.

“How dare you speak to me like that? Who took you in when Sally died and you were fifteen years old? Who put a roof over your head? Fed you when you ate more than three grown men at every meal?

“You would have been in foster care if it hadn’t been for me, Andrew Malone. You owe me. Are you listening? You owe me.

“MacAllister won’t be able to deny that you’re his son. When you become a member of that enormous family, you will take me with you. Do you understand? Do you?”

“I don’t want anything to do with MacAllister’s family!” Andrew yelled. “There’s only one thing I intend to get from that man. One thing.”

“What is it?”

“It’s none of your business, Clara.”

“Money? No, that doesn’t make sense. You have tons of money. 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.