child? That child is too young. You were in prison when it was conceived.”
“Haven’t you heard of conjugal visits? They arrange them for prisoners, you know.”
She nodded as if this was a totally plausible explanation.
Andy laughed to himself. If she bought that story, this was going to be easier than he’d thought. “I was in love with his mother. I wanted to marry her.” He dropped his head as if he were ashamed. “Unfortunately she didn’t feel the same way.”
Pity and concern washed over Nanny’s wrinkled face.
“I need your help, Nanny. I need you to take little Bart.”
She frowned.
“You know me,” he continued, “I can’t take care of myself, let alone a baby.”
“Well that’s true enough.”
“Besides, I want my son to have the best care a boy can have. I want him to have the only thing that was good about my childhood. I want him to have you.”
Nanny’s old face softened into a smile. Amazing. Sometimes he didn’t even have to come up with a lie to manipulate people. Sometimes he had only to tell the truth.
She held out her arms for the baby. “Give him here. I hate to see you worrying about your poor child, Andy. Not after all you’ve been through. You’re right. He’s better off with me.”
Andy placed the baby in her arms and set the bag on the floor. Then he slipped his wallet from his pocket and pulled out a wad of hundreds and set them on a crocheted doily.
The old lady eyed him, hardness stealing back into her face. “I’m not taking your money, boy.”
“The baby needs things. I want my son to have the best. This money is for him.”
She paused then nodded, her thin, wrinkled lips stretching into a smile once again. “You’re a good daddy, Andy, taking care of your baby this way. I’m proud of you.”
Andy couldn’t keep the grin off his face. A good daddy. That was him. A regular chip off the old Smythe block. He stifled his laugh until he bade the old woman goodbye and closed the door behind him.
The baby would be safe and well cared for with Nanny. Contrary to what he’d told the redhead, he had no intention of hurting the kid. He wasn’t a sicko, unlike some of the scumbags he’d done time with. And he was no baby killer, either. The baby was safe.
But the father? Not a chance. The baby would give Andy just the leverage he needed to turn Dex Harrington’s life into a living nightmare. And in the process, he’d see he got a piece of the oh-so-superior redhead, too.
Revenge would be sweet.
ALYSON GRIPPED the wheel with white-knuckled fingers and struggled to quell the trembling that claimed every nerve. Stomping on the accelerator as hard as she dared, she steered her Volvo around sharp corners and down quiet streets. She trained her eyes on the road ahead, keeping her gaze from wandering to the rearview mirror, to the reflection of the empty child’s safety seat belted in back.
She couldn’t give in to the panic, the rush of loss that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to stay rational. She had to reach Dex. She had to get Patrick back.
And whatever that took, she’d do it.
The roofline of Dex’s sprawling old bungalow loomed on the edge of the lake, a dark shadow against the moonlight-kissed waves beyond. Alyson swerved onto the dead end street, pulled to the curb and scrambled from the car.
Built into the bank of Lake Mendota, Dex’s house was his pride and joy. Alyson could still picture the satisfaction on his face the day he’d bought the scarred old former fraternity house and started putting his renovation plans into motion. It was as if he’d finally arrived, finally proven he had transcended his desolate upbringing.
Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the lapping of the waves against the shore. The humid June air clogged her throat. She climbed the stone steps and stepped onto the porch. A light shone from the back of the house. Pressing a trembling finger to the doorbell, she held her breath.
A chime sounded through the old structure. Footsteps thudded on the hardwood floor inside. The door opened.
“Alyson.” Dex stood silhouetted against light glowing behind him. But even in the shadow she could see his brow furrow, the muscles along his cleft chin hardening in unswerving judgment.
Some things never changed. But his judgment of her didn’t matter. Not anymore. The only thing that mattered now was Patrick. Alyson forced her voice to function. “I need to talk to you.”
Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his midnight-blue eyes seemed to grow darker, harder. He took in a deep breath and expelled it. “I suppose you heard about the governor’s pardon.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you need to talk about?”
“In part, yes.”
“Is it something about the testing you did? Something I should know?”
After Smythe’s pardon today it was logical Dex would assume she was coming to see him about the DNA test she’d done—the test that had sprung the rapist from prison. “No. It’s not that. The testing was accurate. The two samples were a match.”
His gaze raked over her, as if trying to determine her true motive for showing up on his doorstep.
“I need your help.” Her words trembled with barely controlled panic. “It’s urgent.”
As if hearing the edge in her voice, he gave a succinct nod and backed from the doorway, allowing her inside.
As she stepped into the house, a shiver stole up her spine. Sights, smells and feelings from the past washed over her. The tickle of dust in her nose as she and Dex hauled box after box of ancient junk from the attic after he bought the house. The scent of paint, varnish and wallpaper paste as they reclaimed the scarred walls and floors. The sound of hers and Dex’s laughter mingling and filling the empty halls. Memories of happy times, before her father’s crimes, before she learned exactly how precarious her position was in Dex’s heart.
She shut the memories out of her mind. They were merely sentimental longing. And she didn’t have time for sentiment. “Can we sit down?”
His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “You can’t tell me here?”
Her knees quivered. “Please. I need to sit down. And so should you.”
He raised his brows at her last comment. But instead of grilling her further, he mercifully turned and led her through the house.
She followed, forcing her eyes to move over her surroundings. Forcing her mind to focus on something safer than the panic thrashing inside her, threatening to shred what little control she had.
Dex had changed things since she’d helped him decorate following the renovation. He’d replaced the simple curtains she’d chosen with wood-slat
