From Here to Paternity

Christine Rimmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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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.”

“You found her on the couch?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“Sissy broke into your house and abandoned her own baby—but still, you’ll take her word against mine.”

Mia stirred again. Charlene patted her to soothe her. “Sissy has a key, so she didn’t break in. My house is her house, always. And she didn’t abandon Mia, either. She left her with me. Sissy knows she can trust me to take good care of her.”

Brand gave her a long, level look. “And that makes it all right, somehow, that she abandoned her kid with you?”

“Stop saying that word.”

“What word? Abandoned?”

“Oh, I could reach right out and slap you silly about now.”

For that, all she got was another slow shake of his head.

She counted to three and then said with slow care, “I’m not here to talk about Sissy.”

“Getting that. Big and bold as a whole new day.”

“Are you denying that Mia is yours?”

“What? You didn’t hear me? I denied it five minutes ago, I’m denying it now. I’ll always deny it. Because that baby isn’t mine.”

“Then I’ll expect you to take a paternity test.” She delivered the ultimatum and waited for him to start squirming.

He nodded. “I think that’s a good idea. And I want it done right. I don’t want there ever to be any question of the results. I want a legally binding test by a reputable lab, strict chain of custody of the DNA samples, so everyone involved is satisfied with the outcome.”

She cleared her throat. All right. She had to admit, for a guy who was trying to weasel out of taking responsibility for his child, he seemed pretty eager to get to the truth….

But then, as an attorney, maybe he knew some way to falsify the test results.

Charlene shut her eyes. No. Whatever she thought of him, she didn’t believe that. He might be lying to himself, telling himself he couldn’t be the father.

But he wouldn’t rig the test. He wouldn’t stoop that low.

She said, “I want to get going on it right away.”

He said, “Good. Get ahold of Sissy, tell her we need a copy of the baby’s birth certificate and she’ll have to show up at the collection location to sign a permission form to have the test done.”

“Uh. The collection location?”

“The lab where you’ll take the baby to have the DNA sample collected. It’s a simple, quick procedure. They run a cotton swab on the inside of the cheek. Painless.”

“But I don’t…” She cradled Mia closer, breathed in the sweet baby scent of her skin. “You’re saying we need Sissy’s permission?”

“Charlene. Think about it. You don’t go performing tests on minors without the approval of a parent or a legal guardian.”

“Can’t we just…have it done?”

“By some fly-by-night lab that sends a kit in the mail? How dependable do you think those results are going to be—let alone how legally binding?”

As much as she hated to admit it, she knew he was right. Oh, what was her problem? What had possessed her to come storming over here? She’d gained nothing for Mia—and she’d given him a chance to say things about Sissy that she really didn’t want to hear.

Gently she shifted the baby to her other shoulder. She was stalling. Coming to grips with the fact that she had no choice now but to bust to the bald, ugly truth.

She made herself say it. “You know I can’t reach Sissy. I haven’t seen or heard from her since she left town last June. She didn’t leave me so much as a PO box number, let alone a phone number or an address.”

He studied her for moment and then he suggested, “Maybe there’s some friend of hers you could call? What about that aunt she went to live with after your parents died?”

Aunt Irma. Dear God. Anyone but her. “It’s…doubtful. But I’ll check around.”

He got up and poured himself some more coffee, turning when the mug was full to lean on the counter again. He sipped. “There’s another option.”

Why did she get the feeling she was going to hate what he said next? She regarded him sideways. “What option?”

“Call Child Protective Services. Tell them what’s happened, explain that your sister has claimed I’m the baby’s father. You might be able to get the state to authorize permission for the DNA sample.”

She cradled Mia closer. “Call CPS. Uh-uh. No way.”

It wasn’t right that he knew what she was thinking. But of course, he did. “This is a different situation than ten years ago. You’re not eighteen now. You’re a grown woman with a business, not to mention a respected and well-liked member of your community.”

“I was well liked then. And respected. We had the diner then, to support us. My aunt still managed to take Sissy away—and why are we talking about this?”

“I told you. Because it’s an option.”

“No. No, it’s not. I do not want to mess with Child Protective Services, and you, of all people, ought to know that. I will not give them any chance to take this baby. I am her aunt. She’s…visiting. That’s how I want it. You understand?”

“Charlene…”

God. Why had she come here? What a stupid, stupid move. Her throat had clutched up with tears of frustration—and fear. She gulped the tears down and commanded, “Don’t you dare call CPS on me, Brand Bravo.”

He set his mug on the counter and put up both hands, palms out. As if she had a gun on him or something. “Look. Totally your call. But you have to face that CPS might eventually enter the picture.”

She would never face such a thing. What had happened to Sissy was never happening to Sissy’s child. Carefully cradling the baby with a supporting hand around the back of her tender little head, she stood. “I see now I shouldn’t have…rushed over here. My mistake. I was very upset and not thinking clearly. I understand what I’m up against now, though. I see there’s no way but to hold off on the paternity test until Sissy’s available to sign all the papers.”

“Charlene.”

She bit her lip and shook her head at him. “Don’t.”

He hesitated, but in the end he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. “You’ve got to ask yourself. What if she’s never available?”

Charlene had no intention of asking herself that. Not ever. No matter what. She said firmly, “She will be available. She’ll come home. Eventually. When she does, be prepared to take that paternity test.”

Those muscular shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Fair enough.”

She wondered why anyone would ever say that. Fair enough? As if there was anything about any of this that was fair.

Oh, why had she come here, she asked herself again. She was a thousand different kinds of fool for even talking to Brand.

Was he Mia’s father? Had he seduced Sissy last year?

She was no closer to knowing the answer to those questions than she would have been if she’d gone about her business, taken things a little slower, held off on confronting him until she’d had time to think it over and understood the situation better.

She should have been more…reasonable about all this. Not come flying over here at seven in the morning waving poor little Mia in his face, dragging him from bed and hurling accusations at him.

He just…he did that to her. Made her crazy. Made her want to pitch a big, ugly fit.

Ten whole years since he’d ripped out her heart and stomped it flat. And she still hated him, still looked for any opportunity to blame him—for anything.

It wasn’t healthy. She had to get past her never-ending anger at him. Somehow.

Soon.

She picked up the note from the table, folded it back to a small square with one hand and stuck it in her pocket again. Then she turned for the door.

Chapter Three

Brand watched her walk out and said nothing. Not see you later. Not even goodbye.

He and Charlene were long past the point where they made polite noises at each other. He and Charlene were…enemies. Or something damn close.

It really bugged him, how much she despised him. He prided himself on being a likable guy.

Yeah. It was kind of a big thing for him, to get along with the people who lived in his town. He’d worked hard to build himself a good reputation. It hadn’t been easy. He was a Bravo, after all, one of the apparently numberless bastard sons of the infamous Blake Bravo, who’d been a real bad actor, a man who had kidnapped his own nephew for a fortune in diamonds, done murder at least once and lived on for more than thirty years after the world believed him dead.

Brand had a whole bunch of half brothers, sons of women like his mother, Chastity, who had fallen for Blake Bravo’s dangerous bad-guy charm. Chastity had four sons by Blake, two of whom grew up well-known for their wild antics and troublemaking ways. Brand and Brett, Chastity Bravo’s two middle sons, did their best to be different, to live normal, noncontroversial lives.

Now Brett was the town doctor, happily married with a new baby son. And Brand had gone into law, moving back to town a couple of years ago to join his retiring uncle Clovis’s legal practice.

Brand considered himself successful, a productive member of his community. He knew he shouldn’t be the least bothered by some long-ago girlfriend’s low opinion of him.

And the fact that he knew he shouldn’t be bothered, well, that only bugged him all the more.

But it wasn’t his problem. None of it. Not that poor abandoned baby, not Charlene. Not wild, messed-up, provocative Sissy.

And, yeah. That was one thing Charlene had been right about. He never should have hired Sissy to do filing and help out at Cook and Bravo, Attorneys at Law. It had been a blazingly stupid move.

Too bad. He’d hired Charlene’s wild little sister, and now he’d be paying the price.

Eventually, the whole mess was bound to sort itself out. He’d take the paternity test when and if Sissy ever showed her face in town again. But for now his part was to stay the hell out of it.

And get on with his own damn life.

Charlene was just pulling out of Brand’s driveway when she spotted two local residents, Redonda Beals and Emmy Ralens, out for a morning stroll. They waved as she passed them, and Charlene waved back, being careful to smile as broadly as possible and to look as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Redonda and Emmy were both in their midfifties and best pals, nice ladies who came into the diner often and always tipped generously. They weren’t real big on gossip or anything. But everyone in town knew that Charlene Cooper would never be caught dead visiting Brand Bravo—at that fine new house of his or anywhere else for that matter. So the two nice ladies couldn’t be blamed for looking slightly puzzled at the sight of Charlene emerging from Brand’s driveway.

On the short drive back to town she came to a decision. Instead of turning for home, she headed for the diner. Might as well get it over with, let folks have a look at her niece.

After all, this was the Flat. Everybody knew everything about everyone else. Seeing Redonda and Emmy back there by Brand’s house had brought it home to her that there was absolutely no sense in trying to keep the baby hidden away.

Uh-uh. Smarter to play the proud auntie. Let them all know she had absolutely nothing to hide. The building loomed up on her left, the big black-and-white sign with red lettering over the door proclaiming it Dixie’s Diner.

At seven-thirty, when Charlene entered with Mia in her arms, the counter was full and so were the booths. Lots of folks liked to come in early for breakfast, and Saturdays were no exception.

Teddy was flipping pancakes on the grill and Rita—the waitress who’d agreed to come in at the last minute—was taking an order from the Winkle family at the back booth. Nan and George Winkle had three boys: twelve, eight and six. They were a rambunctious crew and prone to talking over each other. The boys would order more than they could possibly eat, while Nan and George vetoed and bargained and eventually allowed them to get whatever they wanted.

George, Jr., who had something of a crush on Charlene, waved wildly at the sight of her. “Hey. Charlene. Hi!”

Stevie, the youngest, started bouncing up and down, announcing in a loud sing-song, “Charlene has got a baby, an itty-bitty baby…”

“Shh, now,” said Nan. “Just you settle down.”

Matt, the middle son, demanded, “I want OJ and hot chocolate. I’ll drink ’em both, promise. Swear it. Please, I want both. Please…”

“Son,” said George. “Settle down now…”

Rita turned. “Hey, Charlene.” By then everyone in the place seemed to be staring.

“What’s that you got there?” demanded Old Tony Dellazola from his usual seat at the counter, three stools up from the door.

Charlene put on her widest, friendliest, happiest smile. “This is my niece, Sissy’s little girl. Her name is Mia Scarlett and she’s going to be staying with me for a while.”

Did it work? Charlene asked herself that night, as she was putting the baby to bed in a nest of pillows. Had her bold move of waltzing into the diner and introducing Mia right up front like that thrown a wet blanket on the gossip mill?

She wished.

Uh-uh. It had, however, let them all know that Mia’s “visit” was Charlene’s story and she planned on sticking to it; that was all she was saying on the subject and they might as well get used to it.

But just because it was all that Charlene was saying, didn’t mean everyone else would keep their big mouths shut. In the Flat, people talked. About each other. A lot. If you lived there, you had to learn to accept gossip as a given.

And some people were simply more interesting as grist for the gossip mill than others. Troublemakers and victims of terrible tragedies topped the list of the gossipworthy.

Sissy and Charlene’s parents had died in a car accident when Sissy was only nine. She’d been sent away to live with an aunt and uncle in San Diego, though Charlene had sold the family home to finance her failed suit to get custody of her sister. That was the tragedy part. And when Sissy returned to town last year, she’d been nothing but trouble. She was a gossipmonger’s dream. Since she’d vanished last summer—no doubt with the contents of Brand’s petty cash drawer in her pocket—the talk about her had never died down.

It didn’t take a genius or a psychic to know what people would be saying. Charlene could just hear them…

“Sissy has a baby?”

“A baby poor Charlene never so much as mentioned until today, when she shows up at the diner with the sweet little thing in her arms…”

“Isn’t that just like that crazy girl, to drop off her baby with Charlene out of nowhere like that?”

“You’re right. Just like her.”

“And I can’t help but wonder, where has Sissy got off to now?”

“Yes. And the big question, the most important question, is who might that little one’s father be…?”

Enough, Charlene chided herself. No good would come from obsessing over all the hurtful things that people might say.

She needed to take action. She needed to find her sister. But how?

Charlene got out her address book. She had two San Diego phone numbers her sister had given her way back when Sissy was in junior high. Charlene dialed the first one, for a girl name Mindy: no longer in service.

The second was for a Randee Quail. A woman picked up after it rang three times. Maureen Quail, Randee’s mother. She remembered Sissy, vaguely, but said she thought that Randee and Sissy had drifted apart in high school. Randee was a freshman at UCLA now. Maureen gave Charlene her cell number.

Charlene reached Randee on the first try. She said she hadn’t spoken to Sissy since her sophomore year in high school and had no idea where she might be now.

Next, Charlene looked through the junk drawer in the kitchen and every nook and cranny of her desk in the living room. She found two phone numbers scrawled on sticky notes, no names attached, and she was feeling just desperate enough to try them both.

The first was a chimney-cleaning company. A machine greeted her and told her to leave a message. She didn’t.

When she dialed the second number, a man answered. “This is Bob Thewlis.”

“Uh. Hi. I’m Charlene Cooper and I wonder if—”

“Charlene. Yeah. At the diner up in New Bethlehem Flat. Well. Gave you my number how many months ago…?”

“Oh.” She vaguely remembered—or she thought she did. Now and then a guy would ask for her number. She’d always tell them, Why don’t you give me yours? “Well. Hi, Bob…”

He chuckled. “I thought you’d never call. Because you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

Bob reminded her that he lived in Nevada City and he asked her if she’d like to have dinner Friday night. She almost said yes, just because she was so embarrassed to have called him and not even known who he was.

But then Mia started crying from her makeshift bed of pillows. Charlene apologized and said she couldn’t and explained that she was trying to reach someone and had found his number on a sticky note…

“Bye, Charlene,” he said, and hung up before she was through making excuses for her bizarre behavior.

She changed Mia’s diaper and then sat in the rocker in the living room with her for a while, thinking bleak thoughts.

Not only had she totally misplaced her own sister, she also never had a date. Not lately, anyway. She used to date. She’d go out now and then when some guy would ask her.

But somehow, it just never went anywhere with anyone. A couple of dates and they’d stop calling—or she’d make excuses when they asked her out again.

There was just never a…fit. There was never that excitement, that special thing that happened when you met a guy who was the right guy. There was never the thrill she’d known all those years ago.

With Brand.

By Sunday afternoon Brand wanted to shoot someone. Or better yet, punch somebody’s lights out.

Shooting and brawling did not fit the image he’d so carefully cultivated over the years. But too damn bad. A man—even a levelheaded man—can only be pushed so far before he had to start pushing back.

He’d picked up his uncle Clovis—who was also the senior and soon-to-be fully retired partner in their two-man firm—at five that morning. They went down to play golf in Grass Valley. Brand wasn’t a great lover of golf. But it pleased his uncle if he played with him now and then.

The drive down to the golf course, on a twisting mountain highway, took over an hour. Usually that drive was a quiet one. It was early in the morning, and Clovis liked to sip the coffee he brought with him in a big red Thermos and watch the sun rise.

But that day, Uncle Clovis had plenty to say.

The way Clovis had heard it, Old Tony Dellazola had seen Charlene Cooper headed out of town—going east, in the direction of Brand’s house, as a matter of fact—at a little before seven Saturday morning. Old Tony claimed he’d seen a baby seat strapped in the back of that silver-gray wagon of hers.

And then, at about seven twenty-five, Charlene had been spotted again, this time by Emmy Ralens and Redonda Beals, coming out of Brand’s driveway and turning onto Riverside Road. Not ten minutes later, she’d shown up at the diner carrying a baby she claimed was her sister’s.

“So did Charlene pay you a visit yesterday morning?” Brand’s Uncle Clovis asked.

“Yeah. She did.”

“I thought the two of you never spoke.”

“As a rule, we don’t.”

Clovis waited—for Brand to offer some sort of explanation. But Brand had no plans to do any such thing. They rolled down into the heart of one canyon, across a bridge and then began climbing again.

“You know,” said Clovis. “Daisy and I always think of you as the son we never had.”

“And I consider you like a dad, Uncle Clovis.”

“If you got a problem, I want you to feel you can come to me, that we can work it out together.”

“Thanks, Uncle Clovis. I appreciate that.”

“So, then?”

“There’s nothing. Believe me.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“No. I don’t.”

For the rest of the ride, Clovis was blessedly quiet.

At the golf course, they teed off and played three holes before, at the fourth tee, Clovis remarked, “Charlene’s story is that the baby’s here for a visit.”

“Yeah,” said Brand. “That’s what I understand.”

“Kinda strange. I mean, that is a very young baby to be without her mother. And nobody’s seen Sissy. That’s odd, don’t you think? Hard to get into the Flat without somebody noticing.”

Brand handed his uncle his favorite driver. “Here you go. And don’t worry, okay? Tell Aunt Daisy that everything’s fine. Charlene’s taking care of her niece for a while. No matter what wild stories folks like to make up, that’s all that’s happening.”

Don’t worry.

Brand wished he could take his own damn advice.

The stuff Clovis had told him ate at him. He knew people were talking, putting two and two together, deciding that there was only one reason Charlene would take her sister’s new baby and go knocking on Brand’s door.

If they weren’t already saying that Brand had to be the baby’s dad, they soon would be. Before you knew it, they’d be comparing him to his own bad dad, who’d managed to impregnate any number of gullible women in his long and disturbing life as a bona fide sociopath. Oh, yeah. They’d all be babbling on about how the apple never fell far from the tree and like father, like son….

Worst of all, he couldn’t stop thinking about Charlene.

Couldn’t stop worrying about her, wondering how she was holding up, what with not knowing where Sissy was and having to keep a brave face on things while she ran her business and took care of a new baby on her own.

His mother called at six-thirty that night from the B&B she’d been running since before Brand was born. She would have served her guests afternoon tea by then. Dinner was for herself—and maybe her boyfriend, Alyosha Panopopoulis, a widower she’d been dating for over a year. Bowie and Buck both lived out of town now, but sometimes she’d invite Brett to bring Angie and the baby over. And sometimes she’d call Brand.

Chastity said, “I’ve got that chicken broccoli casserole you like in the oven.”

“The one with the almonds and water chestnuts?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ll be there. Ten minutes.”

“I’ll set you a place.”

The best thing about Brand’s mom was how she never butted into her son’s business—well, almost never. Now and then one of them would really tee her off. Then she’d let them know in no uncertain terms what they’d done wrong and what they’d better do about it. But such times were rare.

Usually, a man could sit at her kitchen table in the back of the B&B and enjoy her cooking and her calm, easygoing ways, and never be asked to come up with an answer to an uncomfortable question.

And so it was that night. Chastity had a whiskey and soda waiting for him. He sat at the table and sipped it as she cut up a green salad and took homemade bread from the oven to cool.

They talked of ordinary stuff: how his practice was picking up, now he’d pretty much taken over from Clovis who’d only been in the office part-time for the past five or six years. Brand was attracting clients from all over the county, as well as several from down in Nevada City and Grass Valley.

Chastity said she was thinking of redoing a couple of the guest rooms upstairs. “I talked to Glory today,” she added.

Glory Dellazola and Bowie, Brand’s youngest brother, had been in love—and probably still were. Glory had gotten pregnant. Bowie had wanted to marry her. But Bowie was big trouble and she wouldn’t have him. In the end Glory had taken their baby and moved to New York to work for Brand’s oldest brother, Buck, and his wife, B.J. Glory was nanny for Buck’s son, Joseph James.

No one knew where Bowie was. He’d left town without telling anyone where he was going.

“So how’s Glory doing?” Brand sipped his drink.

“Just fine,” said Chastity. “She’s taking those online classes the way she planned, getting herself a degree.”

“That’s good.”

Chastity put the casserole on the table, along with the bread and the salad. And then she took her chair, smoothed her napkin on her lap and said a short grace, the way she always liked to do.

Brand bent his head, too.

His mother said, “Amen.”

Brand glanced up and met her eyes across the table. And suddenly it seemed the best thing, just to say what was on his mind.

“Ma?”

“Hmm?”

“I want another chance with Charlene.”

“Well, of course you do,” said Chastity. She picked up the serving spoon. “Pass me your plate.”

Chapter Four

“I think I need another drink,” Brand said.

Chastity spooned up the steaming casserole. “Help yourself.”

So he carried his glass to the refrigerator and got some more ice. She’d left the Crown Royal on the counter. He splashed in two fingers and then added club soda.

Thus fortified, he took his seat again. “Smells great.” He sipped the drink.

“Dig in.”

They ate in silence for a while. She didn’t push him. It wasn’t her way.

She was slicing more bread off the loaf when she sensed he was watching her. She set down the bread knife. “Okay. Out with it.”

“No matter what people are saying, I’m not the father of Sissy’s baby.”

She made a snorting sound. “Well, of course you’re not.”

He sipped his drink again. “You’re sounding pretty damn sure about every little thing this evening.”

“I know what’s what, thank you very much. I know my own son.”

He tipped his glass to her in a salute. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, how can you be the father of that baby when you never laid a hand on that poor, confused Sissy Cooper? You could never do a thing like that. Not only because you wouldn’t take advantage of a mixed-up kid, but also because you are and always have been in love with her sister.”

“I didn’t say I was in love with Charlene.”

“See now, that’s what comes of bein’ overly careful. You can’t even admit what’s in your own heart.”

“And I’m not necessarily talking about marriage.”

“Do you see me putting words in your mouth?”

“I’ve never thought I’d make a good husband.”

“No kidding.”

He grumbled, “And who knows if she’ll ever even give me any kind of break. She never has until now. Plus, it’s not only folks in town whispering that I’m the baby’s father. Sissy claims I am.”

Chastity clucked her tongue. “That girl. Always stirring the pot. And where is Sissy, anyway?”

He glanced toward the door to the hallway, just to make sure it was shut. “Nothing I say leaves this room.”

“This is family business. I will not say a word to anyone.”

“Charlene has no idea where Sissy is.”

“But the two of them must have talked, when Sissy arrived with the baby….”

“No.”

“But…”

“Charlene woke up yesterday morning and found the baby on her couch. There was a note from Sissy saying how she needs a break from being a mother—and by the way, I’m the dad. Charlene came flying over to my place and demanded that I take responsibility.”

“And you told her you aren’t the dad.”

“I told her.”

“Did she believe you?”

“I don’t think she knows what to believe.”

“It’ll be no easy task, gettin’ back in her good graces.”

“Gee, Ma. Tell me something I don’t already know.”

The diner was closed Sundays.

A good thing, too. Charlene had needed a free day for a trip to Grass Valley, where she stocked up on formula and diapers, bought a crib and a changing table, baby clothes, blankets and the hundred other things a person needed with an infant in the house.

At home again in the afternoon, she managed to assemble the crib and the changing table. She put them both in the guest room off the kitchen, washed all of Mia’s new bedding and clothing and put them away.

With Mia’s room set up, she’d started thinking she was really going to need day care. She called Gracie Dellazola, the wife of one of Old Tony’s great-grandsons—and the sister-in-law of Glory, who’d had a baby by one of Brand’s brothers the year before. Gracie had a two-year-old son and she babysat the kids of a couple of Charlene’s customers.

“Of course I can take her.” Gracie quoted an hourly rate and said she could watch the baby from Monday through Friday. “But unless you’re really stuck, I can’t do Saturdays. I like to save the weekends for the family.”

“I understand. I’ll figure something out for Saturdays.” She might have to bring another waitress in to open up that one day. It was doable. “If you could keep her from quarter of six until two or so, Monday through Friday? Is that too much?”

“No problem.”

“I’m figuring I can drop in and take her off your hands, now and then, when things aren’t too crazy at the diner.”

“Sure—and listen, if you need anything…”

My sister. I need my sister to come home, I need to know she’s okay, not in any kind of trouble. I need to keep this baby safe…. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

“Sometimes,” Gracie said softly, “a woman needs a friend.”

Charlene felt the moisture pool in her eyes. She cleared her throat. “See, that’s what I love about livin’ in the Flat. Neighbors like you, Gracie. You make it all worthwhile.”

“I’m here. That’s all. I can listen. And I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Thank you.”

“Tomorrow morning, then?”

“We’ll be there, Mia and me. With bells on.”

And speaking of wonderful neighbors, Chastity Bravo called that evening at a little after eight. Charlene had always liked Chastity. She liked Brand’s brothers, too—even Bowie, who’d been a hopeless drunk and general hell-raiser before he left town last year. Just because she couldn’t tolerate Brand didn’t mean she had anything against the rest of his family.

Chastity said, “I heard you were taking care of your sister’s baby for a while, and I just wanted you to know if you need anyone to babysit now and then…”

“Gracie Dellazola said she could take her. But thanks so much, Chastity, for offering.”

“I’m glad to. My schedule’s pretty flexible, and the truth is I really enjoyed having a baby around.” Glory and her baby had stayed with Chastity for a while right after the baby was born.

“Well, if there’s a time Gracie can’t take her, I’ll be calling.”

“See that you do.”

Charlene said goodbye and felt better about things—at least for a while.

Her worrying about Sissy just wouldn’t stop, though. Really, she was glad to have Mia, happy to take care of her for as long as Sissy needed her to.

But where was Sissy?

And was she okay?

She read Sissy’s note over and over, looking for clues as to how she was doing and where she might have gone. The note gave her nothing, though—not when it came to Sissy’s circumstances or her current location.

Monday and Tuesday Charlene got used to the idea of working her schedule around Mia. Both days she picked the baby up after the lunch rush and went home for a couple of hours, then she took Mia with her back to the diner until she closed up at five.

By Wednesday, she was feeling pretty good about the way it was working out. Mia seemed happy enough spending her mornings with Gracie and Baby Tony. Since she was such an easy baby, she was no trouble at the diner. And Gracie’s sisters-in-law had a whole lot of baby stuff between them. They loaned Charlene a playpen for the diner and one for the house, a baby seat and a baby pack that hooked on in the front. Since she never took the baby to the diner when she actually had to work the tables, it was fine. She could have Mia in the office while she did her bookkeeping, or even sitting in her little seat out in the main part of the restaurant, if necessary.

If only she weren’t so worried about Sissy, she’d be feeling pretty good about the way things were going.

Wednesday evening, when she and Mia got home from the diner, she did the thing she really didn’t want to do.

She called her aunt Irma in San Diego and asked if Irma might know of a way that she could get in touch with Sissy.

Irma Foxmire hadn’t changed. She was as self-righteous and judgmental as ever. In that tight, chilly voice of hers she said, “Well, Charlene. What can I say to you? Your uncle Larry and I haven’t seen Sissy in over a year—not since before she came to stay with you. No, she has not called. I have no idea how to reach her. And you haven’t called, either, as a matter of fact.” Irma exhaled, a hard sigh of anger and impatience. “Is there some emergency we should know about?”

It was the moment to mention Mia. Charlene let that moment pass. As she’d told Brand, she wasn’t giving Mia up to CPS. And she was afraid if Irma knew about the baby, the first thing the woman would do was to call them and have Mia taken away.

“Hello? Charlene? Are you still on this line?”

“I’m here, Aunt Irma.”

“Answer my question, then. Please.”

“No. There’s no emergency.” Not that I know of, anyway. “I’m just trying to get hold of my sister, that’s all.”

“She didn’t even have the courtesy to leave you a phone number where you could reach her?”

“Aunt Irma—”

“Never mind. You don’t need to tell me. I already know. And I must say, if she’s gone, well, just think of it as good riddance to bad stuff. I certainly do. That girl was nothing but a heartache and an ongoing trial to Larry and me. We gave her everything. And look how she turned out.”

“Aunt Irma. I’m asking you nicely to stop running Sissy down.”

Irma wasn’t listening. But then, she never did. “Just forget her. I’m telling you, Charlene. Forget her. It’s the only way.”

It was too much. “No, I will not forget her. She’s my sister and I love her.” Temper, temper, Charlene thought. I am going to shut up now. But she didn’t. “And in case you don’t remember, Sissy was a sweet, funny, loving little girl before you took her away to live with you.”

Irma gasped. “I did what was right for her, at considerable cost to myself and my marriage. Your sister has messed up her own life, thank you very much. All I ever did was to feed and clothe her and try to bring her up right—and I don’t wish to discuss this subject further.”

“Hey. Fine by me.” The line went dead. “Bitch,” Charlene muttered to the dial tone. She hung up and glanced over at her niece, who was cooing happily at the butterfly mobile suspended above the playpen. “All right. I know what you’re thinking. I should have been more reasonable. But that woman just makes my blood boil.”

Mia made one of those noises that sounded like a giggle.

“Okay. I’m sorry I called her a bitch. I mean, she is one. But it’s not nice to say so. And I hope when you get old enough to talk, you’ll be a more forgiving person than your Aunt Charlene.”

“Go-wahhhh…”

“My sentiments, exactly.” The doorbell rang. “Terrific. What now?” She marched into her tiny foyer, flung the door wide—and found Brand waiting on the other side.

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