Counselor. I was intimidating.” His lips quirked a little. “Who knows if it’ll do any good.”
“Intimidating.” There were a lot of things she could say to that, including the fact that he certainly was. “Please don’t call me ‘Counselor.’”
His brows lifted a fraction. “But I don’t know your name.”
Intimidating, indeed. She was handling this worse than an Assistant District Attorney newly hatched from law school.
“Anne Morden. I used to be with the Public Defender’s Office in Philadelphia.” She could hardly avoid identifying herself, but some instinct made her want to keep him from knowing where to find her—to find Emilie.
He nodded, but his face gave no clue as to his thoughts. Strength showed in the straight planes and square chin. His hair, worn in an aggressively military cut, was as dark as those chocolate eyes. Even the blue police uniform looked military on him, all sharp creases and crisp lines.
“A Philadelphia lawyer. Around here they say if you want to win, you hire a Philadelphia lawyer.” His gaze seemed to sharpen. “So whose battle are you here to win, Ms. Morden? Not Davey Flagler’s.”
“Davey? No.” The boy had been only a preliminary skirmish; they both knew it. For an instant she was tempted to say she represented someone else, but knew that would never work. The plain truth was her only weapon.
“Well, Counselor?”
Her mouth tightened at the implied insult in his use of the title. But one hardly expected police to look kindly on defense attorneys—and most times the feeling was mutual.
“I’m not representing anyone but myself.” She glanced down at Emilie, who banged her rattle on the stroller tray. “And my daughter. I’m here because—” The words stuck in her throat. How could she say this? But she had to.
With a sense that she’d passed the point of no return, she forced the words out. “Because I believe you are Emilie’s biological father.”
Impassive or not, there was no mistaking the expression that crossed his face as her words penetrated—sheer stupefaction.
Donovan stared at her, shifted the stare to the baby, then back to her. If his eyes had softened slightly when they assessed Emilie, that softness turned to granite when his gaze met hers.
“Lady, you’re plain crazy. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
For an instant Anne was speechless. Then she felt her cheeks color. He thought she meant they…
“No! I mean, I know you haven’t.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. If she behaved this way in court, all her clients would be in prison.
His eyes narrowed, fine lines fanning out from them. “Then what do you mean?” The question shot across the desk, and his very stillness spoke of anger raging underneath iron control.
“Emilie…”
As if hearing her name, Emilie chose that moment to burst into wails. She stiffened, thrusting herself backward in the stroller.
Anne bent over her. “Hush, sweetheart.” She lifted the baby, standing to hold her on one hip. “There, it’s all right.” She bounced her gently. “Don’t cry.”
The wail turned to a whimper, and Anne dropped a kiss on Emilie’s fine, silky hair. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought the baby with her, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being away from her in this crisis.
The whimpers eased, and Emilie thrust her fingers into her mouth. Anne looked at the man on the other side of the desk, searching vainly for any resemblance to her daughter.
“I didn’t put that well.” She cradled the baby against her. “I’m not Emilie’s birth mother. I’m her foster mother. I’m trying to adopt her.”
Donovan shot out of the chair, as if he couldn’t be still any longer. He leaned forward, hands planted on the desk.
“Why did you come in here with an accusation like that? What proof do you have?”
“I have the birth mother’s statement.”
That had to rock him, yet his expression didn’t change. “Where is she? Let her make her accusations to my face.”
“She can’t.” Anne’s arms tightened protectively around the baby, knowing this was the weakest link in her case, the point at which she was most vulnerable. And Donovan was definitely a man who’d zero in on any vulnerability. “She’s dead.”
Mitch stared at the woman for a long moment, anger simmering behind the impassive mask he kept in place by sheer force of will. What game was this woman playing? Was this some kind of setup?
“What do you want?”
The abrupt question seemed to throw her. She cradled the baby against her body as if she needed to protect it.
From him. The realization pierced his anger. Protecting was his job, had been since the moment he put on a shield. Assist, protect, defend—the military police code. Nobody needed protecting from him, not unless they’d broken the law.
“You admit it, then? That you’re Emilie’s father?”
He leaned toward her, resisting the urge to charge around the desk. It was better, much better, to keep the barricade between them.
“I’m not admitting a thing. I want to know what brought you here. Or who.”
Something that might have been hope died in her deep-blue eyes. “I told you. The baby’s mother said you were the father.”
“You also told me she’s dead. That makes it pretty convenient to come here with this trumped-up claim.”
“Trumped up?” Anger crackled around her. “I certainly didn’t make this up. Why would I?”
“You tell me.” It was astonishing that his voice was so calm, given the way his mind darted this way and that, trying to make sense of this.
One thing he was sure of—the baby wasn’t his. His jaw tightened until it felt about to break. He’d decided a long time ago he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood, and he didn’t take chances.
“That’s ridiculous.” Even her hair seemed to spark with anger, as if touching it might shock him. “I came here because I know you’re Emilie’s father.”
His life practically flashed before his eyes as she repeated those words. Everything he’d worked for, the respect he’d enjoyed in the two years since his return—all of it would vanish when her accusation exploded. If the story got out, it wouldn’t matter that it wasn’t true. By the time it had spread up one side of Main Street and down the other, all the denials in the world wouldn’t make it go away.
Those Donovans have always been trouble, that’s what people would say. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“You’re wrong,” he said flatly. “I don’t know who that child’s parents are, but you’re
