LITMIR.BIZ

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during the next month. Keep the attic door locked. Put on his mental armor before he ventured to the kitchen.

      He felt like a teenager again, and not in a good way.

      In those days, he’d confined his efforts to sketchbooks and watercolors, hiding them in a drawer whenever Dad came home. His stepmother, Louise, a self-effacing woman who seemed dazzled by her luck in marrying the great Harmon Hardison, M.D., had left Connor alone. In retrospect, he presumed he’d intimidated her.

      Too bad he didn’t have that effect on Yvonne.

      Yet she’d praised his work. She’d brought up the subject of models as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What harm would it have done if he’d gone ahead and asked her?

      No. Bad idea.

      Connor had learned the hard way that his instincts could carry him off the deep end. He had a weakness for unpredictable—his father would say unstable—women.

      That notion brought him back to the man he was about to meet, a fellow named Sam Delaney. He’d conveyed the sad news of Barbara Kinsey’s death and, oddly, had mentioned a legacy.

      Barb Kinsey wasn’t the sort of person who left a legacy. Debts, more likely.

      Connor and Barb had shared a brief, tempestuous affair in Nashville after his divorce had become final. His next-door neighbor in a small apartment building, she’d worked at a dress shop and spent her free time partying.

      At her invitation, he’d dropped by a gathering, sampled the snacks and enjoyed her sharp sense of humor. On impulse, he’d invited her to go dancing at a country-music club. That evening, he’d rediscovered the sense of freedom he’d misplaced during a marriage burdened by his-and-hers grueling schedules.

      Lovemaking had been frequent and exciting. At first, he’d relished the spontaneity and sense of fun. He hadn’t counted on Barb’s expectation that he’d spend every spare moment accompanying her to events or simply hanging out. He’d had to put aside his painting. When he began showing up at the hospital with bags under his eyes, he’d realized the situation had to change.

      Connor had suggested putting on the brakes. He must have come across as critical or rejecting to Barb, who’d responded with anger. After a few days of alternate pouting and demands, she’d shut him out completely.

      He’d e-mailed, suggesting they meet to discuss their differences. She’d sent a message in return that she planned to move to Atlanta. She’d cleaned out her apartment that same afternoon and departed before he’d had a chance to say goodbye.

      Abandonment. Betrayal. He’d endured it before, on a far larger scale, when his mother had disappeared.

      Connor didn’t try to chase after Barb. They’d been a mismatch from the start, he’d realized, and he tried to take comfort in discovering their incompatibility before the relationship went any further.

      He’d heard nothing more until today. The news that Barb had died in a traffic accident saddened him. Despite their differences, he remembered her fondly.

      That didn’t change his uncertainty about why this stranger had insisted on meeting in person. He hoped the man wasn’t going to request money on some pretext. Actually, Sam had come across as a guy performing an unpleasant duty, which was why Connor had agreed to see him.

      Spotting the Landlocked Mariner restaurant, Connor hit his turn signal. Either the adjacent inn bore the same name or it was simply called Motel, because that was all the sign said.

      In the lingering twilight, he noticed a man in a black jacket, hair skinned into a ponytail, leaning against a post in front of the office. Feeling overdressed in a suit, Connor halted next to a pickup. The contrast between his sleek, color-shifting dark red sedan and the rust-streaked green truck made his car seem overdressed, too.

      The man’s boots scuffed across the blacktop. “Dr. Hardison? Sam Delaney.” Above the scraggly beard, several recent scars showed on his cheeks and forehead.

      They shook hands. “What’s this about?”

      “It’s gonna take some explaining.” On the highway, a truck roared by. “It’s kinda loud. Let’s go inside.”

      Connor tensed. If this fellow meant to get him alone in a motel room, it might indicate a shakedown.

      Instead, however, Delaney ambled toward the restaurant. That seemed safe enough.

      Inside, a large central aquarium dominated the entrance-way. Beyond, in the main dining room, stuffed fish and tackle on the walls portrayed the marine theme. They veered right into the nearly empty bar, where they took a small table. Sam ordered beer, while Connor chose coffee.

      Since the other man made no effort to begin, he primed the pump with a question. “Barb died in a car crash?”

      Finishing a deep swallow, Sam wiped his upper lip with a sleeve. “Motorcycle.”

      That might explain the scars. “She was riding with you?”

      “I was riding with her, matter of fact. Car came outta nowhere. She swerved, we hit a ditch, and wham.”

      “How long ago?”

      “’Bout a month.”

      A few more questions elicited the information that the couple had lived together for three years in Atlanta, where Delaney worked as a mechanic. Gradually, he grew more talkative.

      “I told her she ought to call you. She wasn’t that kind of person, though. Too independent. I guess you figured that out.”

      “She ought to have called me about what?”

      “That’s the thing.” Sam scooped a pretzel from a plastic basket on the table and popped it into his mouth.

      Why didn’t the man stop beating around the bush? “You mentioned a legacy.”

      “Yeah. See…” Sam chewed and swallowed. “His name’s Mike.”

      Connor was losing patience. “Whose name is Mike?”

      “Your son.” A mouthful of pretzels cut off further discussion.

      Connor’s ears rang. Your son.

      Impossible. He had no children. “I don’t know what she told you, but I’m afraid you’ve been misled.”

      From inside his jacket, Sam produced a wrinkled document, which he handed to Connor. It was a certified birth certificate from Fulton County, Georgia.

      A boy named Michael Hardison had been born to Barbara Kinsey in September, nearly five years ago. That would be seven months after she left Nashville.

      Connor was listed as the father. Plus, she’d given the child his last name.

      Still, it was unthinkable. Kids didn’t appear out of nowhere, especially not in Connor’s well-ordered life.

      A DNA test ought to clear this up.

      He folded the document and pocketed it. “Where is the boy? With his grandparents?” Barb’s mother resided in New Orleans, he recalled.

      Sam took another swig of beer to wash down the pretzel binge. “I called the old lady, believe me. Paulette’s watched the boy before, but she didn’t want the responsibility. Got some new boyfriend and no job. Barb tell you she grew up bouncing between her mom and her two aunts?”

      Now that he mentioned it, yes, she had. Obviously, Mrs. Kinsey—or whatever name she used—wasn’t suitable to raise a child.

      “He must have other family.” Connor gathered that the man expected him to handle some legalities. “Am I supposed to sign papers?”

      “You do whatever you think best, Doc.” Sam sat back, apparently relieved now that he’d unloaded his news. “You married?”

      “No, I’m not.”

      “That makes it easier.

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