about you. He wanted me to give you something.”
“What?”
“This.” Red had been wearing a windbreaker, which he’d folded beside him on the sofa. He reached into the front breast pocket and pulled out a long, thin brown envelope. He opened it and pulled out a small, rectangular piece of paper.
“It’s a check,” he said unnecessarily, holding it out for her to take. “For you and your son.”
She accepted it without comment and took a moment to look it over. The amount surprised her. Twenty-five thousand dollars. That was a lot of money. Five times what he’d offered her to get rid of Eddie in the first place. But Victor’s name was nowhere on it.
“This is your check,” she said, holding it out for Red to reclaim. “Not Victor’s.”
He held up his hand, forestalling her. “It’s Victor’s money, though. He gave it to me with the understanding that I would give it to you.”
She smiled, though she could feel her pulse beating in her throat. “So you laundered it for him. How sweet. The two of you must have been very close.”
He understood how she felt now, she could see that. His eyebrows lowered over his blue eyes. “Yes,” he said. “It would be difficult to overstate Victor’s importance in my life. I’m close to his family, as well. His wife. His son and daughter.”
He waited a minute, as if to let that sink in, as if she might not have realized Victor had another family.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Cherry and Dylan.”
Red’s eyebrows went up. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Victor had told her their names, the day she called about the baby. He’d told her all about them. Cherry was much older, beautiful, ambitious and good at math. Dylan, who was starting to play soccer, was going through a difficult phase. Victor had wanted to make Allison understand. He’d been so sure she would see that his beloved legitimate children were far more important than any bastard child she might be carrying.
“Yes, Cherry and Dylan,” Red repeated. “They’re grieving right now. Obviously Victor didn’t want them to be hurt further by any…disturbing revelations. But he also wanted you and your son to be remembered. So yes, I was happy to help make sure no one got hurt unnecessarily.”
Clearly he wasn’t going to take the check back from her. She laid it gently on the coffee table between them. Then she folded her hands in her lap. She clenched them so tightly her knuckles went white.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” he said coolly, still watching her with that appraising look. “And yet, you don’t seem particularly impressed.”
“I’m not.”
He waited, apparently unfazed. She tried not to reach across the table and slap that smug arrogance from his face. He was so sure, wasn’t he? So sure he had her number. And that number, he assumed, was twenty-five thousand.
“Apparently you haven’t ever looked up the average cost of raising a child from birth to age eighteen, Mr. Malone. I have. Would you like to know what it is?”
He smiled. “About ten times that.”
“Exactly.” She sat back in her chair, though she didn’t allow her spine to touch the fabric. “So you’re correct. I’m unimpressed.”
He raised one brow. “You want more?”
“No, actually. I want less.” With effort, she kept her voice down, so that she wouldn’t wake Eddie. But God, she was mad. She was so hot, blazing angry. “I want less ingratiating B.S. I want less of your insulting, patronizing arrogance. This check isn’t a bequest, or a gift. This is a payment.”
“A payment?”
“Yes. Or rather, a payoff. I’m not an idiot, Mr. Malone. Victor never felt the urge to toss this kind of money my way before. Why now? What does he want? I’d be willing to bet the answer is in that nice envelope you’re holding. So why don’t you show me?”
The look he gave her now was odd—part contempt and part grudging admiration, as if she’d turned out to be a worthier opponent than he’d expected. She could feel his scorn, but in a strange way she was glad the poker faces were gone. The cards were on the table now, and the game was almost done.
With a cool smile, he opened the envelope and unfolded a sheaf of papers. He flattened them so that they could be more easily read, then extended them to her.
“It’s a confidentiality agreement. In a nutshell, he would like you to agree that you will not disclose to anyone that he is the father of your child. If you sign, you’ll also be agreeing to renounce any interest in the estate and relinquish any claim you may have to it.”
She took it. She gave it a cursory look, though the black squiggles didn’t even seem to form words in front of her fury-glazed stare.
Then she leaned over and picked up the check. She folded the check inside the papers, neatly. With an almost tender care.
And then she tore it all into pieces.
“Ms. York, I think you might want—”
As if it had been rehearsed, Jimbo chose that moment to come home.
He opened the door with his own key and blundered in, singing. His gorgeous, toned body was barely covered by his yoga pants, which rode low on his hips. He wore no shirt at all, displaying his colorful tattoos. At chest level, he held a pile of take-out boxes so high that only the spiky blond tips of his hair could be seen above the cartons.
“Hey, sugar lips. Lookee what Daddy brought home from Mamma Loo’s!”
Red Malone stared for a split second, and then, running his fingers through his hair, he began to chuckle darkly. “I see. The new meal ticket, I presume?”
“Hey.” Jimbo cocked his head around the food. He clearly didn’t like the tone. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m nobody. I’m gone.” Still smiling, Red stood. “No. Really.” He put his hand out to prevent Allison from rising. “Don’t bother. I can find my own way out.”
CHAPTER FOUR
ATTORNEY LEWIS PORTERFIELD, who usually ate his lunch in lonely, Gothic splendor, obviously wasn’t happy to have Red as his guest today.
Well, too bad. Red wouldn’t say he was having the time of his life, either. The firm’s impressive, mahogany-walled conference room had obviously been decorated by a mortician. The lighting was as dim as what you’d get from candle sconces in an underground tomb.
Room was cold as a crypt, too, though that sensation might have been coming from Lewis.
The lawyer’s small, pasty form was almost invisible in the high-backed armchair at the head of the table. He could be located primarily by watching the ghostly glisten of his boiled calamari as he rhythmically lifted one forkful after another to his lips.
Red had often wondered why on earth Victor used this guy. Sure, Lewis could write a contract
