From Here To Paternity

From Here to Paternity

Christine Rimmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Coming Next Month

For M.S.R. Love you.

Always.

Chapter One

For Charlene Cooper, that world-shaking Saturday in April began like just about every other Saturday.

The alarm jarred her from sleep at five-fifteen. She rolled out of bed, yawning, and padded straight to the bathroom, where she shrugged out of her sleep shirt, hung it on the back of the bathroom door and climbed in the shower.

Twenty minutes later, she was dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt with the Dixie’s Diner logo across the front, her blond hair pinned loosely up in the back. She took a minute or two to brush on a hint of blush, a little lipstick and mascara.

Since her bedroom and the only bath were both off the front entry, she was ready for work without once having entered her living room or the kitchen beyond. She never ate breakfast before she left in the morning. There would be coffee at the diner, after all. And Teddy, the early-shift cook, would scramble her a couple of eggs on request.

She ducked back into the bedroom to grab her purse from the dresser and returned to the entry, where she reached for the doorknob.

At that exact moment, just before she turned the knob, her life changed forever.

With one tiny sound.

It was a soft, happy, cooing sort of sound. Like a puppy. Or a kitten. Or maybe a pigeon. It was coming from her living room.

A pigeon. In her living room?

There it was again…and no. Not a pigeon. Not an animal at all.

More like a…

Charlene let out a tiny cry of pure bewilderment and whirled for the living room, where she found something truly, completely impossible.

A baby.

A baby all wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket, lying there on her antique mahogany and horsehair sofa, beneath the picture window that looked out on the deck….

A baby.

Charlene’s purse hit the rug with a soft plop. She put her hands over her mouth, backed up to the ancient rocker that had once belonged to her great-grandmother and slowly lowered herself to the seat. The rocker creaked softly as it took her weight.

And the baby on the sofa waved its fat little hands and cooed at the ceiling as if it didn’t have a worry in the world. Not far away, on the floor at the end of the sofa, there was a battered-looking flowered diaper bag and a dingy blue car seat.

Somebody had broken into her house and left a baby, complete with car seat and diaper bag. Who would do such a crazy thing?

Slowly, as the baby made a goofy little noise that sounded almost like a giggle, Charlene lowered her hands and gripped the carved arms of the old rocker. “Hello?” she said aloud, her voice all strangled and strange sounding. Maybe the mother—or whoever had brought the baby—was still in the house. She cleared her throat and called more forcefully in the direction of the kitchen and the spare bedroom at the back of it. “Anybody here?”

No answer.

The baby waved its fists some more, and the pink blanket made a rustling sound, a sound like paper crackling….

Charlene shot to her feet again and approached the cooing infant.

There. Pinned to the blanket on the far side. A folded sheet of lined paper.

The baby gurgled and cooed some more, blinking its blue eyes, smiling up at Charlene as if it recognized her.

But that was impossible. This baby was tiny—too tiny to recognize anyone—at that age when they seemed to be smiling at you, but weren’t, really. No more than they were actually waving at you when they wiggled their fat little arms in the air.

Hands shaking, Charlene unpinned the folded paper. She set the pin in a pinecone bowl on the side table. Her knees felt kind of wobbly, so she backed up again and sat in the rocker before she dared to unfold the lined sheet.

It was wrinkled, the note. She smoothed it on her knee, blinking in horrified disbelief as she recognized that sloppy, back-slanted scrawl.

“Oh, God,” she heard herself whisper. “Oh, no…”

Dear Charlene,

Surprise! LOL.

Meet your niece, Mia Scarlett Cooper. She is five weeks old, born on March 15. Isn’t she beautiful? Takes after her mommy that way. And I need a little favor. See. The thing is. It’s just not working out for me, dragging a kid around everywhere I go. I need a break, and even though you and me don’t always get along on stuff, I know you’ll take good care of her. She’s a good baby.

And I don’t know how to tell you this, but I guess you need to know that Brand is her dad. And in case you’re wondering, the answer is yes, that’s why I ran away last year. Because of Brand and how he treated me.

With love, even though I bet you don’t believe me,

Sissy

Sissy…

Charlene had the strangest feeling, as if she would shatter and fly apart, pieces of her shooting everywhere. Carefully, holding herself together by sheer effort of will, she rose again and approached the child.

The baby—Mia. Her name was Mia—and she didn’t seem to be smiling anymore. But she wasn’t crying, either. She gazed up at Charlene through wide, calm eyes and went on gently waving those itty-bitty fists.

She had the cutest little dimple in her chin.

A dimple that reminded Charlene of the cleft Brand Bravo had in his chin.

“Oh, God…”

Charlene turned and sat on the sofa at the feet of the pink-blanketed bundle. Some time went by. Seconds? Minutes? She couldn’t have said. She sat there, unmoving, staring straight ahead at the grouping of family photos on the opposite wall—pictures that included one of her mom and her dad on their wedding day. Her mother was laughing as she stuffed wedding cake into the open mouth of her groom. They looked so happy. Young. Strong in the certainty that they had long lives ahead of them.

There were family groupings of the four of them: father, mother, two smiling daughters. And of Charlene and Sissy—separately and together. In one, Charlene stood on the steps of the big white frame house on Jewel Street, the house where they’d all been a family, before the accident. The child, Charlene, was grinning wide, proudly holding her newborn baby sister in her nine-year-old arms.

“Sissy…” Charlene said the name aloud.

And then she blinked some more, shook her head and read the note again. And again—three times through before her stunned mind could finally encompass the enormity of all this.

Her baby sister had a baby of her own, a baby who just happened to be lying right there beside Charlene, kicking her tiny feet under the blanket, staring up at the slanted, beamed ceiling, making those adorable happy-baby sounds.

A baby named Mia, whose father was…Brand?

No. Charlene couldn’t bear to believe that—and really, it just wasn’t possible. Was it?

Of course not. He wouldn’t…

Yes, it was true that she had a low opinion of Mr. Bigshot Lawyer and Confirmed Bachelor, Brand Bravo. Anyone in town could tell you that. Still, Charlene would have sworn he’d never sink so low as to seduce a mixed-up kid like Sissy, a kid who just happened to be Charlene’s own sister.

But then again…

Well, the timing did add up. And last year, during Sissy’s disastrous month back in town, she’d grown swiftly notorious. And not only for her skimpy outfits, spiked purple hair and the safety pin she wore in her nose, but also for the way she would throw herself at every guy in sight.

And even if her style was way out there for a conservative community like New Bethlehem Flat, no one could deny that she was pretty in her own über-Goth kind of way. It was just possible that she’d caught Brand in a moment of weakness.

“Ga,” the baby said. “Wa…”

And what about the way Sissy left last June, vanishing in the middle of the night on the same night that someone ransacked Brand’s law office and stole his petty cash drawer? The thief had never been caught, but everyone in town—including Charlene, though she’d never admit it out loud—knew it had to be Sissy.

Why would Sissy do that, trash Brand’s office, steal the cash drawer and disappear into the middle of the night, unless she was really mad or desperately hurting—or both?

The baby kicked, sharply nudging Charlene’s thigh. Charlene instinctively responded, smoothing a hand on the blanket, feeling the shape of that tiny, perfect foot, almost smiling in spite of the shock and confusion she was dealing with.

And besides, she thought, though Sissy had problems—a raft of them—there would be no point in her lying about Brand being the father. Even a messed-up nineteen-year-old has to know that all it takes is a simple paternity test to settle that question once and for all.

So. Well. It had to be true, didn’t it?

This baby, her niece, was Brand Bravo’s child.

“Oh, no,” Charlene whispered and put her head in her hands. “Oh, God, no…”

Chapter Two

Let it never be said that Charlene Cooper didn’t take care of business—no matter how impossible and distressing that business might be.

A half hour later, she’d made use of the contents of the diaper bag to feed and change her niece. She’d called Teddy, the cook, and told him she wouldn’t be in until later, and she’d found another waitress to open up for her.

She carried Mia into her own room and put her down on the bed, bolstering her with pillows on either side. Then she collected the car seat from the living room and went out to strap it into the backseat of her AWD wagon.

Charlene had zero experience with baby seats, so the process took longer than expected. She read the half-worn-off instructions on the side of the seat and followed them as best she could, feeling edgy and frustrated the whole time, hoping the baby was all right, alone in the house.

Finally, after twenty-five minutes of fiddling with the darn thing, she managed to get it in place and secure. She rushed back inside, where she found Mia right where she’d left her, tucked among the pillows, sound asleep, sucking her tiny thumb.

Those bright blue eyes popped wide for a moment as Charlene picked her up, but then she only snuggled in on Charlene’s shoulder and went back to sleep. Same thing when Charlene put her in the car seat. She blinked awake, yawned and promptly dropped off again, her head drooping to the side, the little tufts of peach fuzz on her pink scalp clinging to the musty-looking fabric of the seat cover.

Charlene ran back inside to grab her purse and the diaper bag. She threw them both across the front seat, climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. At the end of her gravel driveway, she turned right onto Upper Main.

In no time she was driving through the heart of New Bethlehem Flat—known to all who lived there as, simply, the Flat. Resisting the temptation to continue past the diner farther along and make sure her cook and substitute waitress had got the place open all right, she turned left on Commerce Lane and crossed the Deely Bridge, passing Old Tony Dellazola strolling over town on foot as he did every morning at about that time.

Old Tony was one of Charlene’s diehard regulars. He spotted her silver-gray wagon going by and frowned, probably thinking that she ought to be at the diner, awaiting his arrival, a full pot of decaf close at hand, ready to make sure Teddy fried up his bacon just right. Charlene pasted on a smile for him, sketched a jaunty wave and drove on, past the Sierra Star Bed and Breakfast—which was run by Brand’s mother, Chastity—on the right and the Methodist Church on the left.

Up the street and around the corner, Commerce Lane became the highway. She was heading east out of town, the steep mountain to her left, a sharp cliff dropping down to the river on the right, the occasional bridge providing a way across the swiftly flowing water to the cabins and houses on the other side. She passed the bridge to the Firefly Resort and a second that led across to a series of vacation homes. At the third bridge, which was just wide enough for one car to pass at a time, she turned.

On the far side, she took the road to the left. It was a short ride to the sign that read Bravo. 301 Riverside Road. She turned into the driveway.

The new, chalet-style house appeared before her, nestled attractively among the evergreens. Charlene had never seen it from the driveway side before. It looked kind of cozy and unassuming. From across the river, its soaring walls of windows gleamed and twinkled in the sun, and the wraparound redwood deck was spacious and inviting.

Brand loved his new house. Everyone in town said so.

Charlene had to admit that even from the plainer, driveway side, it was a fine-looking house. Not that it mattered, not that she cared.

She pulled in next to the garage and got the baby out of the back. Mia did a little blinking and squinting at being disturbed, but quickly settled back to sleep, snuffling at Charlene’s shoulder, sighing in the sweetest way.

Charlene pushed the door shut. It closed with a tight, final sort of sound. Somewhere in the trees nearby, a woodpecker rat-tat-tatted and a little farther off a mourning dove cried. The air smelled of cedar and of woodsmoke from some nearby cabin’s chimney. Above the canopy of pine branches, the morning sky was clear and blue as Mia’s eyes.

A beautiful setting, so picturesque and peaceful.

Yet Charlene’s pulse raced. Her stomach ached, it was tied in such a tight knot of fury and hurt and unswerving determination.

She followed the stone walk around to the main entrance, on the west side of the house. She marched right up to the big front door and rang the bell.

The sound echoed within.

She waited, gently rocking the sleeping baby in her arms, trying to take slow breaths and think peaceful thoughts. She wanted her mind clear as a mountain spring when he answered, she needed to be logical and calm when she spoke to him.

Through the leaded glass that decorated the top half of the door, she could see a slate-floored entry area, daylight slanting in from a skylight above. No sign of him, though.

She shifted the baby a little more firmly on her supporting arm and used her free hand to punch the bell again. That time she rang it longer, pressing her lips tight together in her impatience, pushing on that bell, good and steady for a full count of ten.

Still he didn’t come.

Again she pressed it, this time in short bursts.

Apparently, big-shot bachelor lawyers didn’t get up at the crack of dawn on Saturdays like a lot of regular folks had to. Well, too bad. She shoved at that bell again, longer and harder and with more determination than ever.

That did it. Finally. He appeared in the entry, scowling and scratching his head, squinting at her through the glass of the door.

Charlene stood straighter and laid a protective hand on Mia’s back. The door swung open and he was standing there, droopy-eyed, barely awake, wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants—and nothing else.

His bronze-colored hair stuck out at all angles and there was a sleep mark on his cheek. He looked disgustingly sexy and manly and rumpled.

Not that she cared. She didn’t. Not in the least.

“Charlene,” he muttered in that warm, lazy, slightly rough voice of his. “What the hell?” He braced a lean arm on the door frame and looked her up and down through low-lidded eyes. “Never thought I’d see you come knocking at my door.”

She wasn’t letting him get to her. She spoke without emotion. “It’s important. Let me in.” And she didn’t wait for him to get out of the way, either, but just pushed right on past him into that handsome sky-lit foyer.

“What’s with the baby?” he asked from behind her. “I didn’t even know you were pregnant.”

“Ha-ha.” She cradled Mia all the more tenderly as she turned to look into those fine hazel eyes. “We need to talk.”

He scratched his head again and snorted. “I’m dreaming, right? In real life, you haven’t spoken to me in ten years.”

“This is no dream,” she told him smartly, “and you’d better believe it’s not.”

“Whoa,” he said, with far too much good humor. “So, then. Coffee?”

She longed to inform him that she wanted nothing from him, ever. Under any circumstances. But that would be a lie, since she did want something. She wanted him to admit he’d had sex with her sister.

That he’d fathered the sweet child she held in her arms….

She realized she was staring blindly into space when he waved a hand in front of her face. “Charlene. You in there?”

She blinked and focused on the rat in front of her. “Yes. Of course.”

“Well, then? Coffee?”

“Yes. Coffee. Fine.”

In his huge kitchen, with its top-of-the-line appliances and endless expanses of granite counters, she took a seat at the table, lifting the baby a little higher on her shoulder as she lowered herself to a chair.

He ground coffee and put water in the coffeemaker and slid the pot in place beneath the brewing spout. She said nothing, only waited, until he pushed the brew button and turned to her, leaning back against the counter, folding those big arms of his over his gorgeous bare chest. “Okay. What’s up?”

She supported the baby on one arm as she lifted her hip and slid Sissy’s note from the front pocket of her jeans.

“What’s that?” He looked at her from under his golden brows—not suspicious, exactly, but not eager, either.

“See for yourself.” She dropped the folded square of paper on the table and slapped her palm on it. “There you go.”

He watched her for a moment, as if seeking some clue to what might be going on inside her head. Then he shrugged and pushed himself away from the counter.

She listened to the coffeemaker gurgle and drip as he unfolded the paper and stared at the words scrawled there. He stared at them for a long time.

Charlene waited, saying nothing, shifting Mia to her other shoulder, smoothing her blanket, gently rubbing her little back.

Finally he looked up. He shook his head. And then he yanked out the nearest chair and plunked himself in it. He threw the note on the table. “No way. I never touched your sister. I am not the father of that kid.”

Charlene glared at him. He glared back at her.

Finally she said wearily, “Now, why did I just know you’d say that?”

He shifted, drawing his bare feet under the chair, leaning his muscular torso her way. “Because it’s true? Because, in spite of how much you hate my guts, you know I’m an honest man who doesn’t have sex with screwed-up teenagers—and that means you know that baby isn’t mine?”

Okay, he had a point. Whatever she might think of him, she’d never doubted his honesty. Not until right now.

She said, “There’s no reason for her to accuse you—unless it’s true.”

He leaned back in the chair. “Come on, Charlene. Get real. It’s not as if your crazy little sister needs a reason to do the insane stuff she does.”

She refused to reply to that. If she did, she knew she would screech at him and call him terrible names. How dare he say that about Sissy?

Even if it did happen to be true.

He glanced away, his hand on the table tightening to a fist. She watched him control himself. When he spoke again, it was softly. Carefully. “Okay. I shouldn’t have said that. I realize your sister’s a sensitive subject with you.”

Sensitive didn’t even begin to cover it. She’d always felt so guilty about the way Sissy got sent away after their parents died. She’d fought and fought hard to keep Sissy with her. But she’d been eighteen and single. And the judge had been the kind who thought a nine-year-old would be better off in a two-parent home.

If Brand had only—

But no.

There was no point in going there. That was then and it was over. They needed to talk about what to do now. Still, she couldn’t resist getting on him about the more-recent past. “You should never have hired her to work for you last year.”

He looked at the note again, touched the edge of it, pulled his hand away quickly. “I was only trying to help.”

She stared at him dead-on and refused to say another word to him until he lifted that golden head and met her eyes. Then she instructed, slowly and clearly, “Do me a favor. Don’t help. Ever.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Charlene. I know you want to believe the worst of me, but—”

“That’s not true!” She said it much too fast and much too loud, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him. Mia stirred and whimpered.

Brand only shook his head.

Something about that, about the simple denial in the movement, got her fury building again. It would accomplish nothing to start screaming at him. Still, she burned to give him a giant-size piece of her mind.

Mia whimpered some more.

Poor little thing. She was probably picking up on the tension Charlene was trying so hard to control.

“Shh. It’s okay, honey,” Charlene whispered, not looking at Brand, trying to think peaceful thoughts, rocking the baby gently back and forth, rubbing her tiny, warm back. “It’s okay….”

Mia sighed and snuggled close again, going loose and limp once more.

The coffeemaker gave a final sputter. Brand rose, went to the counter, filled a pair of mugs and returned to the table. He slid one mug toward her as he sipped from the other.

She ignored the coffee and challenged in a voice she somehow managed to keep low and calm, “So. That’s your story, huh? You’re insisting this baby isn’t yours.”

“It’s not a story. It’s the truth. That is not my baby—and by the way, where’s Sissy?”

Exactly the question she didn’t want to answer. “Um. What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. How come she sent you here to do her dirty work?”

“Dirty work?” She tried to sound superior and aloof.

“Figure of speech. Where’s Sissy?”

“How would I know? You read the note.”

He looked down at the wrinkled note again. “You want me to figure the situation out for myself, is that it?” He slanted her a glance. When she refused to respond, he continued, “Okay. I’ll take a crack at it. You haven’t seen Sissy since last year. You haven’t even talked to her. She left that baby on your doorstep along with this note. She abandoned her own kid, dropped her off with you and took off again.”

It hurt. A lot. To hear him say it right out loud like that. “Not on the doorstep,” she argued, sounding ridiculous and knowing she did, taking issue with a minor point to soften the enormous awfulness of what Sissy had done. “Not on the doorstep. On the couch. I…found her there, this morning, on my way out the door.”