and a million other guys,” he snapped.
Anne’s mouth tightened. He’d obviously been hoping against hope he hadn’t been caught. Maybe now he’d give up this pose of innocence and sign the papers. But she had to show him she’d keep pressing.
“About the DNA test—” she pinned Brett with her gaze “—I’d like it sent to McKay Labs. I’ve dealt with them before. And I want a copy of the results sent directly to me.”
Brett blinked. “That’ll need Mitch’s permission.”
“You’ve got it.” Mitch moved, and Emilie woke. Her whimper quickly turned into a full-fledged cry.
Brett looked ready to escape. “Expect the results in three to four weeks, then.”
Anne nodded goodbye, trying to reach for the diaper bag and her crying child at the same time. “Let me have her.”
Mitch handed over the baby.
“There, sweetheart, it’s all right.” She rocked the baby against her, but Emilie was beyond comforting. She reared back in Anne’s arms, wails increasing.
Mitch picked up the diaper bag. “You can’t drive home alone with her in that state.” He took her arm. “Come on. I’ll drive you and then call a cab.”
She wanted to protest, but Emilie’s sobs shattered her will. She nodded, letting him guide her from the room.
The baby’s wails seemed to fry Mitch’s brain as he followed Anne’s directions through the city streets to a high-rise apartment building. He needed to think this whole thing through, but thought proved impossible at the moment. Who would imagine one small baby could make that much noise?
He took a deep breath as the cry reached a decibel level that had to be against the law inside a small car. Okay, he could handle this. It was no worse than artillery fire, was it?
Besides, it would soon be over. He’d deposit them at Anne’s and call a cab. He’d be back in Bedford Creek in a few hours, and the only contact he’d have with Anne Morden and her baby would be when the DNA test came back, proving he hadn’t fathered this child.
A padded, mirrored elevator whooshed them swiftly to the tenth floor. He took the baby, wincing at her cries, while Anne unlocked the door. He wanted only to hand her back and get out of there.
She scooped the baby into her arms as the door swung open, and her eyes met his. “This may not be the best time, but I think we should talk the situation over, if you don’t mind waiting while I get the baby settled.” She managed a half smile. “It won’t take as long as you might think. She’s so exhausted, she’s going to crash as soon as she’s been fed.”
He pushed down the desire to flee, nodded, and followed her into the apartment. Anne disappeared into the back with the baby, and he sank onto the couch, wondering when the ringing in his ears would stop.
Anne had sold the house she’d talked about and moved here with the baby. He’d found that out in the quick background check he’d run. He glanced around. Expensively casual—that was the only way to describe her apartment. Chintz couches, a soft plush carpet, a wall of books on built-in shelves with what was probably a state-of-the-art entertainment center discreetly hidden behind closed doors—all said money. Assistant public defenders didn’t make enough to support this life-style, but there was wealth in her family. This woman was really out of his league.
No question of that, anyway. All she wanted from him was his signature on the parental rights termination—not friendship, certainly nothing more.
Sometime in the last twenty-four hours he’d given up any thought that Anne was somehow attempting to frame him. No, all she wanted was to safeguard her child.
Unfortunately the one thing she wanted, he couldn’t give her. Someone else had dated the unfortunate Tina; someone else had fathered her child. But who? And why on earth had the girl said his name? The answers, if they could be found at all, must lie in Bedford Creek.
The baby’s cries from the back of the apartment ceased abruptly. Anne must have put some food in Emilie’s mouth.
He got up, paced to the window, then paced back. What did Anne want to talk to him about? What was there left to say?
He sat back down on the couch, sinking into its comfortable depths, and reached automatically for the book on the lamp table. A Bible. It nestled into his hand, and he flipped it open to the dedication page. To my new sister in Christ from Helen. The date was only two years ago.
Anne came back into the room, her step light and quick. She glanced questioningly at the Bible in his hand, and he closed it and put it back where he’d found it.
“She settled down, did she?”
“Out like a light.”
Anne sat in the chair across from him. Her dark hair curled around a face that was lightly flushed, probably from bending over the crib.
“You’re probably as beat as she is by this time.” She’d put in a couple of high-stress days, driving all the way with a baby, and on a mission like this.
“I could sleep a day or two. But Emilie won’t let me.”
She leaned forward and her hair brushed her shoulders, moving like a living thing. He had an insane desire to reach out, let it curl around his fingers, use it to draw her close to him.
Whoa, back off. Of all the inappropriate things he could be feeling right now, that was probably the worst.
“You wanted to talk.”
“Yes.” She nailed him with those deep blue eyes. “I hoped that you might be ready to sign the papers now.”
He should have seen it coming. She still wanted what she’d wanted all along, and the inconclusive blood test results had just given her another bit of leverage. But it wasn’t going to work.
“I know you don’t believe this, but I never went out with Tina Mallory. I did not father her child.” He took a breath, hoping he sounded calm.
She raised her chin stubbornly. “Then how do you explain Tina’s words?”
“I can’t. But there has to be an explanation somewhere. Someone in Bedford Creek must remember Tina, must know who she dated that summer. So while we’re waiting for the DNA results, I’ll do a little quiet investigating.”
Her hands twisted involuntarily, as if she were pushing his words away. He couldn’t blame her. She had what must seem to her to be incontrovertible proof of his guilt. All he could do was continue to protest his innocence.
“Bottom line is, I’m not going to sign anything that says I’m that child’s parent. I can’t, because it’s not true. In three or four weeks, you’ll know that as well as I do. Maybe by then I’ll be able to point you in the right direction.”
“I don’t want my private business splashed all over Bedford Creek.”
“Believe me, it’s in my interest to keep it quiet even more than it is yours. I’ll be discreet. But I’m going to start
