Читать книгу The Cop's Missing Child - Karen Whiddon - Страница 11

Not reacting as Emily bared her soul to him was one of the most difficult things Mac had ever done. Only years of training and working on the streets enabled him to keep his face expressionless. When he’d impulsively hugged her, he half expected her to shove him away and order him to leave.

Instead, she finally nodded and thanked him. He felt thankful that she had no idea of the emotions swirling inside him. He couldn’t stop marveling, amazed and humbled by the way he felt now that he’d finally gotten to see his son—after five years, three months and twenty days of missing him and wondering what had happened to him.

One look and he’d known. Even though he hadn’t yet taken the DNA test, he knew Ryan was his. Gazing at the dark-headed boy, he saw his wife, Sarah, in the boy’s chin, the tilt of his head. And Ryan had Mac’s eyes and nose and the full head of dark hair, exactly as Mac had when he’d been a child.

Maybe soon he could reclaim what he’d lost, and they could be a family together.

Then he glanced at Emily, painfully aware of the way she and Ryan interacted. She clearly loved the child she considered her son, and the feeling was mutual. For the first time, Mac wondered what kind of damage he would cause if he tried to take Ryan away from the woman he called Mommy.

Emily cleared her throat, bringing him out of his tangled thoughts. “Well, then. What’s your plan?” One brow raised, she waited, a study in contrasts. Her delicately carved facial structure seemed at odds with her lush, passionate mouth. Her short, spiky haircut didn’t go with her faded jeans and high-collared blouse.

Eyeing her with as much professional dispassion as he could muster, he cleared his throat. “I have a few more questions about your life before you moved here.”

“I see.” Appearing resolute, she indicated the kitchen table. Graceful and willowy, her exquisite beauty made her appear both fragile and wild. “Go ahead.”

“I need to know …” He paused, searching for the right words. The question he wanted to ask her was one he’d wondered ever since he’d learned she’d adopted the infant he believed was his son. “I need to know if you knew there was something unusual about where your son came from.”

Was that guilt that flashed across her mobile face or sorrow?

“No,” she said.

He decided to continue to press her. “You never questioned your husband?”

“I never had a reason to, before all this started.” Her careful, measured movements spoke of the depths of her agitation. “You have to understand that being married to a man like Carlos Cavell came with some benefits. One of these seemed to be the ability to cut through a lot of red tape. When we originally applied to adopt an infant, we were told it could take up to three years.”