LITMIR.BIZ

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as she could, hopefully dropping Rosa on her cranky butt. But she couldn’t. If she wanted custody of her son, she had to make nice to the people who held Jacob. One in particular who had enough money to buy a judge of his own.

      Deep down, Sylvia realized the difficulties she faced going up against a financial giant like Tate Vincent. The man had unlimited funds at his disposal. He could make the court case last for years with custody of Jacob remaining with him throughout.

      Her footsteps faltered and she came to a halt before they reached the kitchen. “I’m too dirty. Besides, I’m not hungry.”

      “Tough. The boss wants you to eat. So you will eat if I have to force feed you.” Rosa stepped into a formal dining room, Sylvia’s arm still in her grip. She whipped Sylvia around and nearly tripped her into a padded seat at the dinner table.

      Broad windows lined one wall overlooking a field dotted with horses, tails swishing in the late-evening sun. A perfect setting for dinner. A perfect home for a child to grow up in. A place Sylvia could never hope to own, not as a single mom, an investigative reporter, no less. What kind of life could she offer her son? Nothing like this. But she would give him all the love she had in her heart. That had to count for something.

      As she’d been staring out at the hill country, Maria moved in and out of the room carrying trays laden with food. She’d laid out on the smooth wood surface of the long mahogany dining table an array of platters brimming with tortillas, sizzling fajitas, rice, refried beans and fluffy mounds of green guacamole.

      Sylvia loved Mexican food, her mouth watering despite herself. The hole in her stomach overrode the worry eating at her insides. If she planned on fighting for her son, she’d better keep her energy up.

      Rosa stood over her, her arms crossed over her chest like the tough street cop. “Eat.”

      Hunger trumped anger and Sylvia lifted a fork, piling spicy chicken into a light flour tortilla. She ate like a starving person, unsure of where or when her next meal would come. If Tate decided to throw her out, she’d have nothing to live on, no money, no food, no home to go to. Basically, she was at his mercy.

      Tate Vincent stood in the living room, holding Jake in his arms. The open floor plan allowed him to monitor Sylvia’s movements. The blonde shoveled food onto her plate like there was no tomorrow. And maybe the events of the past six months made her feel that way. If her waist measurement was any indication, she hadn’t been eating enough food to keep healthy.

      While Maria had shown Sylvia to her room, Tate had called his lawyer, asking him to check into the information Sylvia had given him regarding Jake’s birth mother. Or, if Sylvia was to be believed, the woman who’d masqueraded as Jake’s birth mother.

      Tate had pulled Jake’s birth certificate from his file of important papers and studied it. Again, he couldn’t tell if it was real or not. Even his attorney hadn’t picked up that it was a fake. At this point, Tate didn’t know who the faker was, Beth Kirksey or Sylvia Michaels. He’d left a call out to Brandon, a buddy of his on the San Antonio police force, to verify whether or not Beth Kirksey had really died and her cause of death, if she had.

      Even if Ms. Kirksey was dead, it proved nothing.

      Tate’s cell phone vibrated in his pants pocket. Juggling Jake on one arm, he checked the caller ID. His buddy from SAPD. His stomach twisted as he pressed the cell phone to his ear. “Yeah.”

      “Tate, Brandon Walker here.”

      “What did you find out?”

      “Beth Kirksey died a week ago. She was struck down by a car that jumped the corner she’d been working. The vehicle hit her head-on and left the scene of the accident without rendering assistance.”

      Tate’s arm tightened around Jake until the little guy squirmed. “Any idea who did it?”

      “Still looking for the car. A witness reported seeing a black Hummer with chrome grills speeding away from the scene. Not sure it was the one that hit her, but it’s our only lead.”

      “What did you mean ‘the corner she was working’?”

      “You know. Her corner.” Brandon paused and then cleared his throat. “You didn’t know? Beth Kirksey goes by the name Bunny. She’s one of the local hookers we’ve hauled in on occasion for prostitution.”

      The air left Tate’s lungs. For a moment or two he didn’t say anything. When the silence stretched on, he swallowed past the lump building in his throat. “Uh, thanks, Brandon.”

      “Anything else I can do for you, just let me know.”

      “I might be taking you up on that,” Tate said quietly. He clicked the off button and slid the phone into his pocket. Then he hugged Jake so hard, the boy squealed and patted Tate’s face.

      “Sorry, little man.” His eyes burned, but Tate refused to surrender. Not yet. Just because Beth Kirksey was dead didn’t mean she wasn’t Jake’s mother. Tomorrow his family physician was making a house call to collect the DNA samples. Until then, Tate refused to give up hope. Jake was his, damn it!

      He carried his little boy into the dining room, intent on telling the trespasser just that.

      Rosa stood at Sylvia’s shoulder, her arms crossed over her chest.

      Tate almost laughed at her stance, sure she’d used the intimidating glare on more than one traffic violator in her job as an Austin cop.

      He was surprised Sylvia could eat while Rosa stood over her. But she finished off one fajita and loaded another tortilla with chicken. She must be really hungry.

      A twinge of guilt threatened to creep into Tate, which he promptly squashed. After all, this woman threatened the only family he had left. Jake reached out and grabbed Tate’s ear and giggled.

      Sylvia had raised the tortilla to her mouth to take a bite. Her hand froze, her lips open and ready. When Jake giggled again, her face paled and she turned in her chair. Her face softening as soon as her gaze took in Tate and Jake.

      “Oh, baby. Look at you all grown-up.” She choked on the last word, the fajita falling to the plate, forgotten. She wiped her fingers on her napkin and stood next to her chair.

      “Don’t try anything, lady,” Rosa said, taking a step closer, putting her body between Tate and Sylvia.

      “It’s okay, Rosa,” Tate said.

      “I’ll tell you when it’s okay. I’m Jake’s bodyguard,” she said. “If I think he needs protecting, I’ll do it.”

      Tate chuckled. “Always the protector, aren’t you?”

      “Damn right. And I can take you, too, if I have to.” Without turning her back on Sylvia, Rosa asked over her shoulder, “Want me to take Jake to the kitchen?”

      Tate stared at Sylvia, whose eyes swam with unshed tears. “Promise to keep your hands to yourself?”

      She dragged in a deep, shaky breath and let it out before she nodded. “I do.”

      “Then I take it you wouldn’t mind if Jake and I join you at the dinner table?”

      Sylvia’s mouth twisted into a sorry attempt at a smile. “It’s your table. I’m the one who doesn’t belong.”

      Tate’s jaw tightened, but he refused to rise to her words. “Right.” He glanced down at his son. “Jake, do you think you can control your urge to throw your food just this once?”

      Jake patted his sticky palm against Tate’s face. “Da, da, da.”

      “I’ll take that as a yes.” Tate tilted his head toward Jake’s bodyguard. “Rosa, could you bring Jake’s chair?”

      She stared at Sylvia and back at Tate before she responded. “Sí, Señor.”

      “Rosa. Stop with the señor, already.” Tate shook his head. “I pulled your ponytails, we should be able to

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