Bundle of Trouble
Elle James
Sylvia Michaels had raised her son for four short months before he was cruelly snatched from her arms. Desperate and alone, her investigation led to Texas and the ranch of multimillionaire Tate Vincent. The ruggedly handsome bachelor was an intriguing man…and the father of a child who looked suspiciously like hers!But what was supposed to be a joyous reunion was shattered by a hail of gunfire–and an empty cradle. Now both parents were on the hunt for the kidnappers and the child they each claimed as theirs. Tate couldn't deny that Sylvia fought with a mother's passion, and Sylvia couldn't help but notice that the protective man made the perfect father. But would their dream of a family be shattered before it even began?
“The longer we wait, the farther away the kidnapper gets. I love my son even if you don’t.”
He dragged her against him, crushing her chest into his. “I love Jake more than life itself. He’s my reason for living.”
His move left her breathless, the feel of his body against hers more shocking than his accusations. “Okay, so you love him. What next?”
“We find him.”
“Then what are you doing now?”
“Making a mistake,” he said, staring down at her, his smoldering black eyes burning into hers. “But for some damned reason, I can’t help myself.”
“Then don’t.” She leaned up, pressing her lips to his, which started an avalanche of repercussions neither expected.
Bundle of Trouble
Elle James
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to my wonderful editor, Denise Zaza, for having faith in my writing and helping me to grow as a Harlequin author.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Golden Heart winner for Best Paranormal Romance in 2004, Elle James started writing when her sister issued a Y2K challenge to write a romance novel. She managed a full-time job, raised three wonderful children and she and her husband even tried their hands at ranching exotic birds (ostriches, emus and rheas) in the Texas Hill Country. Ask her and she’ll tell you what it’s like to go toe-to-toe with an angry 350-pound bird! After leaving her successful career in information technology management, Elle is now pursuing her writing full-time. She loves building exciting stories about heroes, heroines, romance and passion. Elle loves to hear from fans. You can contact her at ellejames@earthlink.net (mailto:ellejames@earthlink.net) or visit her Web site at www.ellejames.com (http://www.ellejames.com).
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Tate Vincent—Texas multimillionaire rancher who adopted a baby boy to satisfy his dying father’s wish for grandchildren.
Sylvia Michaels—A mother who has spent the past six months desperately searching for the baby stolen from her in Mexico.
Kacee Leblanc—Executive assistant with a shady past and shadier relatives who is in love with her boss, Tate Vincent.
Rosa Garcia—Former Austin City Police officer medically retired from the police force after receiving an injury in the line of duty. Tate Vincent hired her to protect his son.
El Corredor—Man in charge of trafficking babies in the San Antonio area and selling them to the highest bidders.
Danny Leblanc—Kacee’s brother with a police record recently released from prison.
CW Middleton—Tate Vincent’s ranch foreman and best friend. He served three tours of duty with the millionaire in the Middle East.
Jake Vincent—Tate Vincent’s adopted son. Could he really be Sylvia’s baby who disappeared six months ago?
Beth “Bunny” Kirksey—Woman claiming to be Jake’s mother who signed over Jake to Tate in the adoption proceedings.
Velvet—Bunny’s friend who may have information regarding the sale of babies in San Antonio.
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 One
Sylvia Michaels balanced tenuously on one long strand of barbed wire as she slung her leg over the fence. So far so good. Sweat dripped from her hairline, running down her forehead toward her eyes. No chance of brushing it away, not when she needed both hands to hold on.
Bowing her legs around the jagged barbs, she perched one foot on the wire and swung her other leg over. As she dropped to the ground, her jeans snagged on a sharp barb, ripping open the denim and tearing into her flesh. She screamed and fell the rest of the way, landing facedown on the ground, coughing up dust, bleeding and wishing this nightmare would end.
Overheated, tired and scared, she worried that this was just one more wild-goose chase she’d rack up on her quest to find her child. Adding to her stress, someone had been following her for the past couple days since she’d left the coroner’s office in San Antonio. She choked not only on the fine Texas dirt, but a sob welled in her throat, despair threatening to take control.
Six months. She’d given up six months of her life to find the son stolen from her in Monterrey, Mexico, last March. He’d be ten months old now. She’d missed seeing him sit up for the first time, missed watching him learn to crawl. Possibly even missed his first word.
Damn it! She pushed to her feet, wiping the tears and dust from her eyes with her dirty hand. She hadn’t come this far to fail. She hadn’t risked her life investigating a potential baby-theft ring terrorizing mothers from Mexico to Texas. She’d been the only one to come forward and give a detailed description of the person who’d stolen her child. None of the other witnesses in Monterrey had seen the man’s face or had the guts to identify the perpetrator if they had. She’d gone to the U.S. Embassy in Monterrey when the Mexican police had done nothing.
She should never have brought Jacob to visit her ex-husband. So what if his work made it impossible for him to travel to the States for his scheduled visit? She should have insisted he come to the States. And he’d blamed her when a man had knocked her down and taken Jacob from his stroller in broad daylight in a crowded marketplace.
After six months, a half dozen dead ends and completely draining her savings, she’d reached her limit, her last hope—the Vincent Ranch in Texas hill country. She’d followed every lead imaginable from a frightened Mexican woman who barely spoke English to an adoption agency in San Antonio. A child matching her son’s description was adopted by Texas multimillionaire Tate Vincent two weeks after her son was abducted. When she’d tracked down the woman who’d signed over the child, she’d found she’d died in a hit-and-run the day before.
Sylvia had tried to get an appointment with Tate Vincent, but his personal assistant made excuses every time and flat-out told her to buzz off. It didn’t help that she couldn’t be openly honest with his assistant. What chance did she stand against a millionaire in claiming the son he’d adopted was in fact her son? She didn’t have money left to fight a lengthy court battle to request an opportunity to even get close to the boy. All she had was the cash left in her wallet, beneath her car seat.
After all this time, Sylvia wanted desperately to see Jacob, to hold him in her arms, to hear his baby voice.
Sylvia had hidden her car a mile away behind brush, near a creek along the highway. She moved among the shadows to avoid detection, keeping close to a stand of dwarfed live oaks. A large field stretched in front of her, rising up a hillside with only scattered clumps of cedar and live oak. She hurried from shade patch to shade patch, sweat oozing from every pore.
When she’d left her car, her temperature gauge read ninety-eight. It felt more like well over one hundred. Her gaze darted from side to side, and she listened for sounds of people, horses or motor vehicles. As she topped the rise in the terrain, the Vincent Ranch house came into view, a large, sprawling, white limestone, one-story with a wraparound deck.
Her gaze panned the exterior, searching for movement. Careful to stay out of sight, she made a wide circle around the homestead until she rounded the front of the house. She paused in the shade of a tree, leaning against the gnarly trunk and squinting in the haze of dust and heat. Then she gasped, exhaustion, dehydration and hope bringing her to her knees.
There in the shadow of a large red oak stood a playpen. Leaning against one side was a baby tossing toys onto the grass. The wind ruffled the leaves on the shade tree, and a ray of sunlight found its way through the branches to the baby, gleaming off his head.
Sylvia clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. The baby had a cap of pale blond hair, highlighted by the sun’s beam. It had to be Jacob. Her baby had spun-gold hair just like hers.
She staggered to her feet and pushed away from the tree, stumbling down the hillside toward the ranch house.
TATE VINCENT SLIPPED his right foot out of the stirrup and slid from the back of Diablo, his black quarterhorse stallion, one of the many horses he’d raised from a colt, since they could afford quality horses on the ranch. When his boots hit the dry Texas soil, a cloud of dust puffed up around him. “Need rain.”
His foreman, C. W. Middleton, snorted. “Needed rain a month ago.” He reached for Tate’s reins, his own gelding tugging to get into the barn. “Let me take Diablo. I thought I heard Jake out in the yard. You go on—I’ll manage the horses.”
Tate grinned. “I’ll take you up on that as soon as I get Diablo’s saddle off. And remind me I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me nothin’. You’re the boss. I’m just hired help.”
“Bull. We both know who runs this place.” Tate followed C.W. into the cool shadows of the barn, tying Diablo to the outside of his stall. “You’ve been more than hired help since Dad died.” He pulled at the thick leather strap, loosening the girth around Diablo’s belly. When the strap dangled free, he lifted the saddle off the beast. The saddle blanket was drenched in sweat and coated in a heavy layer of fine Texas dust from their ride along the northern fence line. “Jake was asleep when we left this morning. I would like to see him again before he goes down for the night.”
“Go on. Get out of here.” Brush in hand, C.W. took over the care and grooming of Diablo, urging Tate out the door. “That boy thinks the sun rises and sets on you. ’Bout time you spent a little more daylight with him.”
C.W. had been his friend since they’d met as army recruits. They’d gone on to Special Forces training and Afghanistan where they’d tracked down the al-Qaida rebels in the desert hills. Ranching in Texas seemed tame in comparison. But C.W. had fit right in, learning all the responsibilities of a good ranch hand. He’d learned how to ride, rope, brand and mend fences in a matter of weeks, too stubborn to admit defeat. Just like the boss. When the foreman had passed on, C.W. stepped up to the plate, assuming the role like he’d been born to do it.
Tate crossed the hard-packed ground between the barn and the Vincent homestead established by his great-great-grandfather in the mid-eighteen hundreds. He had to remind himself that he could hire people to do the work he did out in the field. The ranch wasn’t what made him the money. His investments had taken him from struggling rancher to multimillionaire in just five years. Too bad his father hadn’t lived longer to enjoy his son’s success.
Richard Vincent had passed on five months earlier, his presence still missed by his son and the ranch staff. He hadn’t gotten to know Jake a little better and Jake wouldn’t know his grandfather.
Tate flexed his muscles, rolling the tension and weariness from his shoulders. Sure, he had the money to hire more ranch hands, but he liked the hard work. It kept him humble. At one point in his struggle to rise from rags to riches, he thought for sure he’d lose the ranch. He’d lost nearly everything else, including his wife.
Tate’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Laura didn’t have the stomach for the hard times. When cattle prices had plummeted and the creditors came knocking on their door, she’d packed up and left, stating that she’d only married him because she thought he was a wealthy landowner. Not that he was sad to see her go. He was more upset at having wasted two years of his life on chasing her dreams instead of his own.
When he rounded the corner of the house, he spied a bright blue playpen situated in the shade with his son standing up against the inside of the pen. The child pushed a plush toy over the edge and watched it drop to the ground. Pickles, the black-and-white border collie, barely waited for it to leave Jake’s hand before she grabbed it and shook it. Jake giggled and tried to get a leg up over the side of the pen. He liked playing with Pickles.
A swell of love and pride filled Tate’s chest. Jake was his reason for living. He would never have thought he’d become so completely besotted over a kid. At the urging of his dying father, he’d arranged to adopt a baby boy. He’d paid big bucks to skip over the usual routine of social services snooping around his home, going directly to an adoption agency his executive assistant had located, one that specialized in quick adoptions. Pricey, but quick.
Now he couldn’t put a price tag on what Jake brought to the Vincent household. Disappointed that Tate hadn’t remarried and had a dozen grandchildren for him to spoil, Richard Vincent’s dying wish was to hold his grandchild in his arms.
Tate stopped in front of the playpen.
When Jake saw him, his smile widened and he gurgled, reaching up with one hand.
“Por favor, don’t pick him up, Señor Vincent.” Rosa Garcia hurried forward, a frown on her pretty dark face. “Usted está muy sucio. Dirty. You are dirty.”
“A little dirt never hurt a kid.” Despite her admonishment, Tate lifted his son from the playpen and tossed him in the air.
Jake screamed and giggled, drool slipping from the side of his mouth to plop against Tate’s shirt.
“Poor baby is still teething.” Rosa reached out with a burp cloth to wipe up the drool.
Tate didn’t care. He loved Jake more than anyone on God’s green earth. Besides, a little spit was an improvement to his dust-caked clothing. “Hey, buddy. Have you and Pickles been playing fetch?”
“Da, da, da,” Jake said.
Tate’s eyes widened and a grin spread across his face. “Did you hear that? He just called me Dad.”
Rosa’s dark brown eyes rolled skyward. “He says that to me and mi madré.”
Tate frowned. “Give a guy a break, will ya?” He tossed Jake into the air again, making the boy squeal with delight.
“Madré de Dios.” Rosa hurried forward, reaching for Jake. “He just had a bottle of juice. Unless you want to wear the juice, don’t shake him up so much.”
Tate held Jake away from Rosa. “It’s a little hot for him outside, isn’t it?”
“We’ve only been out for quince minutos. Mama is cooking supper, Señorita Kacee drove to town to drop off papers at FedEx. Por favor, let me have Jake. You should shower before dinner is served.”
Tate handed the child over to his caregiver, chucking him beneath his chin. “Okay, for now. I guess I am a little dirty.”
Rosa plugged her nose, shaking her head. “Understatement.” She balanced Jake on her hip and headed for the porch steps.
“Wait!” A shout from the field behind him made Tate turn.
A woman wearing jeans and a smudged white shirt—her hair flying out in long, blond strands—ran across the field, yelling, “Wait!”
Tate’s brows dipped low. The fences along his property were posted with no trespassing signs. Only people with legitimate business were allowed access past the gate with clearance from his security service.
The woman’s face was red and streaked with dirt and sweat. Her jeans were torn with blood staining the ragged edges, and she had a wild look in her eyes.
Tate shot a glance at Rosa. “Take Jake inside.”
“Who do you think she is?” Rosa asked, clutching the baby to her chest.
“Do as I say,” Tate bit out.
“Sí, Señor Vincent.”
Rosa had been his buddy since childhood, having grown up on the Vincent Ranch alongside him. Why she insisted on calling him Señor Vincent was beyond him. With a wild woman crossing the field toward them, now wasn’t the time to argue the point.
Rosa climbed the steps and hurried inside the house, Jake reaching over her shoulders, a wail rising from his little mouth.
“No! Please! Don’t take him away!” The woman came to a halt at the wooden fence surrounding the yard. She grabbed the top rail and hauled herself up.
“Stop where you are.” Tate didn’t want her anywhere close to the house and his son. A crazy man who’d gotten past security had ultimately been the cause of his father’s death five months ago. He refused to take any intrusion onto his property lightly. Without waiting for the woman to cross the fence, Tate marched across the manicured lawn.
Perched precariously on the top rail, the blonde swayed and fell over the fence, landing with a crash, her head hitting the post with a sharp crack.
When Tate reached her, she lay on the ground, her eyes staring up at the sky, blinking.
For a moment, Tate forgot to be angry with her.
Dirty and sweat-soaked, she was still a beautiful woman beneath the layer of smeared dust. When fat tears rolled out of the corners of her pale blue eyes, Tate couldn’t help a sudden swell of protectiveness. He chalked it up to the fact that her eyes were the same pale blue as Jake’s.
He dropped down beside her, forcing his voice to sound stern and distant when his instincts urged him to pick her up and carry her into his house. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing on private property?”
She raised a hand to her head, and scraped it over her eyes. “Please. I only want to see him.”
Tate’s brows furrowed. “See who?”
“My son,” she said, her voice wavering, dropping down to a whisper. Her eyes closed, and the woman had the nerve to pass out.
“Damned woman.” His gut knotted and Tate swore. What did she mean by “my son”? He reached down and shook her. “Wake up.”
She didn’t budge.
He bent low, pressing his head to her chest to listen for breathing.
Although shallow, her breaths came regularly. Impatience gnawed at him. He couldn’t shake her awake to answer his questions, and he couldn’t really leave her out in the full force of the Texas sun. With his luck, her fall might have given her a concussion.
“Whatcha got there, boss?” C.W. trotted up beside him. When he got close enough to see the woman on the ground, he whistled. “Another stray?”
Tate glared at his foreman. “Looks like it.”
“Want me to call the sheriff?”
“No.” Why he didn’t do just that, he couldn’t explain. Something about the way she’d looked up at him, her gaze pleading with his, made him want to question her before he turned her over to the sheriff. Maybe she’d been mistaken, gotten the wrong place, hallucinated due to dehydration. She couldn’t mean Jake. Jake couldn’t be her son. He’d met Jake’s mother. She’d signed the papers allowing him to adopt the boy. This woman was a stranger.
“If you’re not going to call the sheriff, do you want me to call an ambulance?” C.W. rocked back on his boot heels. “Looks like she hit her head, and she’s got a gash in her leg.”
Tate’s frown deepened. “No.”
“Can’t just leave her in the sun. She’ll die of heat stroke.”
He knew that, still he hesitated. “She’s trespassing.”
“Maybe so, but she is another human being. If you leave her here, you could be up on charges of negligent homicide.”
If he took her into his house and she threatened his son, he’d be up on charges of murder anyway.
C.W. bent and reached for the woman.
“Don’t.” Tate held out his hand, blocking the man’s attempt to lift her. “I’ll get her.” With all the trepidation of a man cornering a poisonous snake, Tate lifted the woman into his arms. Thin, light and limp, she had curves in all the right places and a soft pink mouth much too close to his own for him to think straight. What did she want? And why did he have this feeling that he wouldn’t like what she had to say?
Morbid curiosity made him carry her into the cool air-conditioned interior of his home. He’d force-feed fluid into her and get her back on her feet, hear what she had to say and then send her packing. If that didn’t work, then he’d call the sheriff and have her forcibly removed.
Rosa stood in the living room, Jake propped on her hip. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know.” Tate shot a pointed look at Jake’s caregiver, a woman he’d hired not only for her skills with a child, but also for her skills as a bodyguard. A former Austin police officer, she had a proven track record taking out bad guys. “Take Jake to the nursery.”
“But it’s dinnertime.”
“Feed him dinner in his room.”
“Sí, Señor.”
He laid the woman on the brown leather sofa in the living room.
Maria, Rosa’s mother and also the housekeeper, entered through the doorway leading to the kitchen, carrying a damp rag and a glass of ice water.
Tate took the damp rag and laid it across the woman’s forehead, mopping away a layer of dust and sweat. “Wake up, lady,” he muttered, willing her eyes to open.
“Get her to drink,” Maria urged.
Tate lifted the woman in one arm and touched the cool glass to her lips, letting the liquid slide down her throat.
At first the liquid filled her mouth and trickled out the sides. Then she swallowed and coughed, her eyes blinking open.
“What…” she said, her voice hoarse, her gaze blurred. “Are you—” she coughed again “—Tate Vincent?”
He frowned. She knew who he was, which meant she’d found her way to his place on purpose. Was she just another gold digger out to get money from him? “Yes,” he answered, his tone clipped. “Who are you?”
Her eyes closed for a moment and then opened again. “I think you have my baby.” After delivering that punch in the gut, the woman had the audacity to pass out again.
Chapter Two
Something blessedly cool stroked across Sylvia’s forehead as she swam through the murkiness inside her head. A deep baritone hummed in the back of her mind, pulling her closer to the light. When the strokes moved to her cheek, she turned her face into the coolness and surfaced, her mind inching toward clarity. “Ummm, that feels good.”
“Glad you think so. I’d appreciate it if you’d wake up before the sheriff arrives.”
Sylvia’s eyes popped open and she stared up into intense, brown eyes, so dark they could be considered black. A man with midnight-black hair and thick dark brows drawn into a frown glared down at her.
Fear and something else shot through her veins, pushing her to a sitting position. As soon as she sat up, her head swam and her world turned fuzzy around the edges. When she would have toppled over onto the floor, strong arms circled her shoulders and eased her back to cool leather.
“Who are you?” she asked as she edged one eye open and attempted a look around. All she could see was the broad chest and intimidating glare of the incredibly sexy man in front of her. He smelled of dust, sweat and leather. Very earthy and tremendously appealing.
“We’d already established the fact that I’m Tate Vincent. You’re trespassing on my property.” The man’s countenance didn’t change, except the glare deepened until his black eyes shot sparks. “Who the hell are you?”
She sighed, draping an arm over her brow to block out her unwanted attraction to the grouchy man. “Sylvia Michaels.” As her vision cleared, so too did her memory. After a moment, she dropped her arm, her eyes widening. “You’re Tate Vincent?” She sighed. “Oh, thank God.”
“Don’t be thanking Him yet. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you hauled off to jail for trespassing.”
“I’m sorry. I tried to get an appointment to see you, but your assistant wouldn’t give me one.”
“That’s why I have an assistant.” His frown deepened, his face fierce. “Now that you have my attention, what exactly do you want?”
She stared up at him, her determination wavering briefly under his angry countenance. “I’m here because there’s a good possibility that you have my child.”
For a moment he said nothing, the only sign he had heard her was the muscle ticking dangerously in his jaw. “How much do you want?”
Sylvia’s brow furrowed. “Want? What do you mean?”
“Most people who trespass or sneak onto my property want something, usually money. What’s your price?”
Anger and indignation shot into her veins, stiffening her spine and forcing her back into an upright position. This time her vision didn’t waver. “I don’t want anything from you. I only want my child.”
“And what makes you think I have him?”
Her eyes widened and a gasp whooshed from her lips. “The baby I saw outside is a boy?” Joy filled her chest. “I knew it,” she said, her happiness stealing breath from her lungs. “How is he? Where is he?” She leaned to the side to look around Tate.
Strong fingers gripped her arms, forcing her to look at him. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I don’t have your son.”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “Did you adopt a child about six months ago?”
“Anyone who follows the gossip columns would know the answer to that.” The muscle ticked in his jaw again. “Besides, it’s none of your business.”
If she wasn’t mistaken, she’d scored a hit and she wasn’t backing off until she got answers. She stared up at him, her mouth firming into a determined line. “It is my business if that child was stolen from me.”
“You’re wrong. I met the mother of my son. She signed the papers in front of an attorney swearing the child was hers and that she was giving away all legal rights to him.”
“Was her name Beth Kirksey?”
Tate’s eyes narrowed. “And if it was?”
“She wasn’t the mother of the baby you adopted. The birth certificate was forged. She’d given up her real baby for adoption four months earlier. The baby she gave you was mine.”
“I don’t believe you.” He reached for the cell phone in his back pocket. “A quick call will confirm.”
“Don’t bother, Ms. Kirksey won’t be answering.”
“Why?”
“She’s dead.” Sylvia swallowed hard. “She was killed in a hit-and-run ‘accident’ a week ago.”
“I’m calling the sheriff.” He stood, towering above her.
If he’d intimidated her before, he terrified her now. Well over six feet tall, his massive presence and his ferocious scowl could stop an angry bull in his tracks.
But Sylvia hadn’t come this far or risked this much to give up now. “Just let me see him. Please.”
“No way. For all I know, you’re crazy and might hurt my son. You’d do well to get the hell out of my house now while I’m feeling generous enough to let you go without a police escort.”
Sylvia crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not leaving until I see my son.”
“We’ll see about that.” He nodded to the man standing in the doorway. “C.W., call the sheriff.”
“Will do, boss.”
“Wait.” Sylvia couldn’t afford to waste time in jail. She had to see her son. “I can prove he’s my son.”
“Yeah, and I’m the King of Hearts.” Tate turned away. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. Keep an eye on her, will you, C.W.?”
Sylvia rose from the couch, swaying but determined, and reached for his arm before he could walk away. “He has blond hair and blue eyes just like mine, doesn’t he?”
“So what if he does? His mother had blond hair and blue eyes.”
“Does your son have a star-shaped strawberry birthmark on his right hip?”
About to take a step, the man stopped in midstride, his back to her, his body rigid. “That proves nothing.”
Her hand tightened on his arm, her nails digging in. Then she let go, her fingers going to her waistband. She loosened the button of her jeans and unzipped the fly. Then with a deep breath, she shoved the jeans down low enough to expose her right hip. “Does it look like this?”
The man Tate had called C.W. stopped in the doorway and let out a long, low wolf whistle.
Tate’s chest expanded and contracted before he finally stared down at the mark on her hip. “How do I know that’s real?”
“Touch it,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. The thought of the big cowboy touching her made her tingle all over, but she held steady. She had to do this to get her son back.
His hand came out and he rubbed a work-roughened thumb across the birthmark. “It could be a tattoo.”
Sylvia’s breath caught in her chest and she held it for a moment before replying, electric current tingling throughout her body from where his fingers touched her. “You know it’s not. It’s as real as the one on my son’s hip.” She pulled her jeans up and zipped. “Can I see him now?”
His mouth drew into a tight, forbidding line. Then he caught her by her arms and shook her. “Get it through your head, he’s not your son! Now, get out of my house.” He practically flung her away from him.
Steadying herself against the back of the couch, Sylvia struggled to remain calm. Even with Tate breathing fire down on her, she refused to give up. “Not without my son.”
“You won’t see him without a court order. I’ll be contacting my lawyer. I suggest you contact yours.”
Sylvia’s heart dropped to her stomach. She didn’t have a nickel left in her account and she’d been living on credit cards for the past month until they had maxed out. A long court battle would be way out of her league. She flung her long hair back and stood with her shoulders squared, her feet wide, hands propped on her hips. All she had left was false bravado and her conviction that she’d really found her son. “If you want me to leave, you’ll have to call the sheriff. I’m not going anywhere until I see my son.”
“Let me remind you who is trespassing and who is within legal rights to shoot you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been shot at trying to find my son. Go ahead.” Inside she shook, but she refused to show him an ounce of fear. “I want to see the son stolen from me in Mexico six months ago.”
“What’s it going to take to convince you that he’s not your son?”
“Show me his right hip. If the birthmark isn’t there, I’ll leave, no argument.” Sylvia held her chin high and when her mouth threatened to tremble, she bit down hard on her lower lip.
Tate sucked in a deep breath and let it out. It did nothing to calm the racing beat of his heart. He sucked in another breath and tried again. But as long as the woman who claimed to be his son’s mother stood in his living room, he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.
After all the years he’d begged Laura for children…then she’d left and his father had died. Tate refused to give up the only family he had left. Ever since he’d adopted Jake, he’d had that niggling worry in the back of his mind that someone would someday come and claim him. Hadn’t he seen court cases where the mother came back and claimed she’d been wrong to let her child go? Never afraid of anything in his life, Tate feared losing Jake. He stiffened.
No way in hell.
“C.W., help me load this woman into the truck so we can kick her off the ranch.”
C.W.’s lips curled upward. “Gladly.” As he walked toward Sylvia, his grin widened. “If you don’t mind me saying, I wish it had been me touching that birthmark, ma’am.”
Sylvia raised her fists to a fighting position and squared off with C.W. “Touch me, and I’ll break every one of your fingers. I won’t leave until I see my son.”
Tate shook his head. “Lady, I don’t know what happened to your son, but since you’re not going to see my son, you might as well shove off.”
The front door to the house slammed open. “Tate?” Kacee LeBlanc’s heels clicked across the hardwood floors in double time. “What’s with the fire down by the creek?” She jerked to a halt when she spied Sylvia with her fists up. “Who the hell’s she?”
Tate nodded toward Sylvia. “This woman claims to be Jake’s mother.”
“That’s just bull. I was there when the real birth mother signed over the child. She didn’t look anything like this woman. Other than the blond hair.” Kacee whipped out her cell phone. “Have you called the sheriff?”
“We were just about to do that.” Tate stared pointedly at Sylvia. “Care to leave before he gets here?”
“You call him Jake?” Sylvia smiled. “My son’s name is Jacob.”
“I don’t care what your son’s name is. He’s my son.”
“I’m not budging until I see the baby.”
“Oh, you’ll be budging all right.” Tate nodded to Kacee. “Make that call.”
She punched a button on her cell phone. While she waited for an answer, she frowned. “There’s a fire down by the creek. You might want to get some of the ranch hands on it before it spreads.”
“Fire?” C.W.’s brows rose. “Damn, as dry as it is, it’ll spread fast.” He nodded at Tate. “You can handle her on your own?”
“Go. We can’t afford a range fire. Take Dalton, Cody and anyone else who’s back from the south range.”
“Will do.” C.W. ran out of the room.
“Yes, we have an emergency. This is Kacee LeBlanc out at the Vincent Ranch. We have a fire by the highway near Rocky Creek. We also have a trespasser at the ranch house.” Kacee’s steel-gray gaze scraped Sylvia from head to toe. “Send the sheriff. The woman claims to be Jake’s mother and refuses to leave. Thirty? That’s the best he can do? Okay. Thank you.” She flipped her cell phone shut and tilted her head to the side. “The sheriff will be here soon.” She crossed the room to Tate and touched his arm. “Want me to get a gun, Tate? You know you can shoot trespassers, especially if they’re threatening you or a loved one.” Her voice was hard, her words menacing. She meant to scare the woman across the room, dressed in a dirty shirt and jeans, looking like she’d been run through the wringer of his grandmother’s old-timey washing machine.
Despite her threat to his son, Tate didn’t like where Kacee was going. “No. I reckon she’s harmless.”
Kacee leaned in to whisper, her breath warm on his ear. “That’s what you thought about that homeless man who stabbed your father.”
A band tightened around Tate’s chest. “That’s enough, Kacee.” But he wasn’t taking any chances. He walked to the desk in the far corner of the room, removed a gun from the drawer and dropped the clip from the chamber. From another drawer he retrieved bullets, sliding them into the clip. “But it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”
“Good grief. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I only want my son.” Sylvia Michaels, eyes wide and face pale, backed toward the door, her hands raised.
“Take one more step, and I’ll shoot,” Tate warned.
She paused for only a moment, her gaze connecting with his, determination hardening her chin. Then she spun around, throwing her parting comment over her shoulder. “Then just shoot me.”
Chapter Three
With a gun pointed at her back, Sylvia’s skin crawled, but she pushed forward, headed for a hallway and the sound of a baby squealing happily.
“Damned woman.” The cowboy cursed behind her, his boots clattering against the wooden flooring.
“Give me the gun, Tate. I’ll shoot her,” the woman Sylvia assumed was the assistant called out.
If Sylvia had any chance at all of seeing Jacob, she’d have to move faster than the two people behind her. She shot away from the man holding the gun, her heart pounding in her chest. Several doors opened off the hallway, only one remained closed and the joyous sounds of a baby could be heard through the wood paneling. Without slowing, she grabbed the handle and opened the door.
A large hand clamped down so hard on her shoulder she jerked to a halt, unable to move another step.
She caught a glimpse of a baby boy sitting in a high chair, a cracker clutched in his fist. All she got was that little peek before Tate Vincent flung her around and shoved her against the hallway wall. “You hurt one hair on my son’s head and I’ll kill you.”
With the door wide-open, the sounds of the baby’s cooing reached her, warmth spreading throughout her body, filling all the cold, empty places she’d endured since Jacob had been stolen away from her in Mexico. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. “Please.” She sniffed, unashamed of begging for a chance to see her son. “Please. I want to see him. If he’s not mine, I’ll leave.”
For a long moment, the man glared down at her, his heavy hand never leaving her shoulder. Based on his size, he’d probably be ten times stronger than her. More than Sylvia could hope to fight off, but she would do anything to see Jacob again.
“You say your son was abducted six months ago. How will you recognize him besides the birthmark? Babies change a lot in six months.”
“I’ll know,” she said. Didn’t mothers always know the cries of their own babies? After six months of searching, she’d almost given up hope. Could this cowboy be right? Would she recognize her son? Her shoulders pushed back and she wiped the tears from her eyes with an angry hand. “I’ll know.”
Another long moment passed, Tate’s eyes narrowing into slits. “How do I know you’re not here to hurt him?”
“Oh, God.” A nervous, almost hysterical laugh escaped her lips. “I wouldn’t hurt my own son. I’ve spent the past six months looking for him, hoping no one has hurt him. I just want to see him. That’s all I ask.” She’d work on custody once she was satisfied the baby truly was Jacob. “Don’t you see? You could be just as much a victim as I am. My baby was stolen. Your baby could have been signed over to you illegally.”
“I met the mother, she signed the papers, I adopted him. My lawyer went over the paperwork at least a dozen times.”
“Still, you could have been duped. The baby may not have been that woman’s to give.”
He smacked the hand holding the gun flat against the wall. “The contract was ironclad. You’re a liar!”
Sylvia winced, but stared up at him, meeting his glare with a level stare. “I don’t lie.”
“And if my son has this birthmark, that doesn’t prove anything.”
“Maybe not. If the birthmark is there, then we do a DNA test.” How she’d come up with the money, she didn’t know, but she’d get her baby back if she had to sell her soul to the devil himself.
The baby giggled in the next room, so joyous and innocent.
All the motherly longing she’d buried deep inside surged into her chest, squeezing her lungs so hard she couldn’t breathe. “Just let me see him.”
The man’s eyes narrowed even more. “I don’t trust you.”
“Search me. I’m not carrying any weapons. I only want to see if he has the birthmark. I won’t try to take him away. I won’t hurt him.” Her voice caught on a sob, rising up to choke her. “I need to know.”
“You’re not buying this crap are you?” The woman in the business suit stood with her hands held out in front of her, a small pistol clutched between her fingers.
Tate Vincent shot a stern look at her. “Put the gun down, Kacee.”
The beautiful assistant pouted. “You take away all my fun.”
“Put it down.” Tate stared at Sylvia, his words directed at Kacee. “I can handle this. I don’t want my son injured by a stray bullet.”
The other woman’s hand lowered. “Good point. Besides, the sheriff should be here any moment.”
“Why don’t you go watch for him.”
Kacee frowned. “But, what if…”
“Just go,” Tate bit out. “I can handle this.” He stared down at Sylvia, his steely brown-eyed gaze boring into her. When Kacee rounded the corner, he growled, “Why should I believe any of this?”
Tired, dizzy and beyond her endurance, Sylvia stared back at the millionaire who could have had her physically removed by now, but for some unknown reason hadn’t. “If you had your child stolen from you, would you just let him go?”
The man holding her arm continued to glare, the silence lengthening between them. When Sylvia thought he wouldn’t respond to her question, the man sighed, his grip loosening. “No, I would never stop looking.”
“Exactly.” Hope blossomed in her chest, a smile trembling on her lips. “Then you’ll let me see him?”
His hold stiffened. “I didn’t say that.”
She raised her hand to peel his fingers loose from her arm. “Please. I’ve been searching for so long. If there is any chance the baby in there is mine…”
For a brief moment, Tate’s face grew haggard, then his mouth tightened, the expression returning to the cold hard mask of a harsh businessman. “Are you prepared if the boy isn’t yours?”
“If he has the birthmark—”
“I repeat, the birthmark proves nothing.” Tate’s hand squeezed tighter. She’d have a bruise there by morning.
“If he has the birthmark, will you agree to a DNA test?” To be this close was killing her. “Look, I know this can’t be easy for you, either. You’ve had Jacob for the past six months. I only had him for four.” She gave a watery smile. “But I remember what a good baby he was, always laughing and happy. If he’s like he was back then, anyone would fall in love with the little guy. His smile could light up a room.”
“I’m going to let you go. Don’t try anything.” Tate’s hand loosened and dropped to his side.
Sylvia closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer to the heavens. Then she opened them again. “Then, you’ll let me see him?”
“On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You can’t touch him. I don’t want you anywhere close to my son.”
Sylvia dragged in a deep breath and let it go. Her arms ached with the need to hold her son, but she could wait a little bit longer. She swallowed hard. “Okay.”
Tate sensed that by showing the woman his son everything would change. But the look in her eyes, the desperate plea to see the boy tugged at Tate’s heart. This dusty woman who’d defied his no trespassing signs, crossed long distances, chased leads and finally made it to his home showed a courage he hadn’t seen in the women he’d known. If everything she said was true. Not that he believed any of it, yet.
The thought of having Jake stolen from him made his stomach clench into a bigger knot than he could have imagined.
“Señor Vincent?” Rosa, clutching Jake against her chest, peered around the door. “Is everything okay?”
The golden-haired child spied him, squealed and reached out for Tate. Instinctively, he held out his arms for his son. Jake fell into them, giggling.
Over the top of his son’s golden head, Tate could see the trespasser’s eyes fill with tears, spilling over and running down her cheeks. Her hand rose as if to touch Jake.
Tate stepped back, out of reach.
Her hand fell to her side. “Will you look?” she whispered.
He told himself it didn’t matter if his son had the star-shaped birthmark. Nothing short of a DNA test would convince him. But the pale blue of his son’s gaze reflected through the sheen of tears in the woman’s eyes. The bright gold cap of silky smooth hair resembled that of the woman with the long, straight, blond locks.
“Please,” she said, her voice a quiet entreaty in the hallway.
His heart heavy, Tate pulled the tape tab from the right side of Jake’s disposable diaper and pushed the plastic and cotton aside.
There on his right hip was a light red birthmark in the shape of a star.
Sylvia gasped. “Oh, God, oh, God…I’ve found him.” Then she sank to the floor, burying her head in her hands, silent sobs shaking her narrow frame.
“Tate, the sheriff’s here.” Kacee’s heels clicked a sharp staccato on the smooth, Mexican terra-cotta tiles. “He wants to talk to you. I told him about her.” His assistant’s brows rose as her gaze found Sylvia on the floor. “Good Lord, did she pass out again?”
“Rosa, take Jake to the kitchen and let him finish his meal there.” Tate handed his son to his caregiver and squatted beside the overcome interloper. “You come with me.” He held out his hand.
When she placed her hand in his, he couldn’t ignore the spark of electricity, the flare of desire he’d felt. She was just a crazy woman out to take his son away from him. Most likely, she was after more. Maybe she wanted to blackmail him.
But the watery blue eyes staring up at him were just like Jake’s and had a similar melting quality that affected him more than he’d likely admit. Angry with himself for feeling anything for this person who claimed Jake was hers, who threatened to take away the only family Tate had left, he jerked her up off the floor.
Sylvia came up so fast, she slammed into his chest. His arm came up around her narrow waist, steadying her against him.
Her breath caught on a gasp, her fingers laying flat against his shirt, her eyes wide. “I…I can stand on my own.” She gave a light push to free herself.
“Sure you can.” For some reason he couldn’t let go, his arm slipping around her waist. Mistake, his brain warned. “You’ve already fainted once. I refuse to give you another opportunity to bring a lawsuit against me.” The lawsuit of his life loomed like a dark cloud of doom. If Jake truly was her child, he’d be in a hellacious court fight like no other.
He steered her toward the living room. Her gaze darted toward the kitchen doorway as they passed, Jake’s giggles carrying through. “I’ve found him,” she whispered, a smile curving her lips.
“Don’t count your chickens, lady,” Tate grumbled. “You’re trespassing on private property.”
Sheriff Thompson stood in the living room, his hat in his hand. “Mr. Vincent.” He nodded.
“Sheriff.” Tate guided Sylvia to a seat and pressed her into it.
“Ms. LeBlanc tells me you have a trespasser.” He tipped his head toward Sylvia. “This the one?”
Tate didn’t look at Sylvia. “Yes.”
The woman in question gasped. “I only wanted to see my child. How can that be a crime?”
“You want to file charges, Mr. Vincent?” Sheriff Thompson crossed the living room and stood in front of Sylvia, his feet parted, his hands fiddling with the case containing the handcuffs attached to his utility belt.
The blonde stared across at Tate, that same desperation in her eyes gnawing away at the knot in his gut. Damn it! He didn’t need this. “No,” he said.
“Are you crazy?” Kacee marched over to him and laid a hand on his arm. “Remember what happened to your father? Are you willing to let something like that happen to Jake?”
Tate finally turned and stared into Sylvia’s eyes. “I really don’t think she’ll hurt Jake.”
“You willing to bet Jake’s life on that?” Kacee planted hands on her hips. When Tate refused to meet her eyes, his gaze still on Sylvia, Kacee threw her hands in the air. “Don’t get mad when I tell you I told you so.”
Sylvia stood, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “If you don’t feel comfortable my being around Jacob, I’ll leave with the sheriff. But I promise I’ll be back for my son.”
Tate’s gaze nailed hers. “For the moment, she can stay.”
Sheriff Thompson shrugged. “Okay, then maybe you can tell me whose car it is burned up in the creek outside your property?”
Sylvia’s gaze shifted to the sheriff. “A car in the creek? Was it a Ford Escort?”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s my car!” Sylvia’s hand rose to her mouth.
“Sorry, lady. It’s totaled. Looks like someone didn’t like where you parked.”
“What do you mean?”
The sheriff shook his head, his mouth a thin line. “Someone lit a rag and stuffed it in the gas tank. By the time we got to it, it was already history.”
Chapter Four
Sylvia sank onto the couch, suddenly light-headed. “That’s all I had left,” she whispered. Worse, it confirmed her worst fears. Someone had been following her since she’d left San Antonio. Burning her car had been a message.
Dear God, the car had been her home for the past few weeks. She’d let her apartment go, sold her furniture and everything else to allow her to continue her search. Now that she’d found Jacob…what next?
How could she start over when she didn’t have enough money in her bank account for a cup of coffee and all her credit cards were maxed out? She didn’t have enough money to hire a cab to take her back to town, much less hire a lawyer to sue for custody. Despair, fear, joy, the emotions drained every last bit of fight left in her.
No car and no money meant she’d never get her child back. Even if she did, would she provide a safe home for him? Who was after her? What did he want? Why burn her car? Her head spun with the unending barrage of questions.
Then she heard a child’s happy squeal echoing against the walls. Her back stiffened and she forced herself to a standing position, facing the sheriff. “That was my car, Sheriff.”
“Since it appears to be arson, we have to have it towed to the impound lot for a thorough investigation. I’ll need a statement from both you and Mr. Vincent, seeing as how the car was found in the creek, which is part of Mr. Vincent’s property.”
“Were there any tracks or clues as to who might have done it?” Tate asked.
Sheriff Thompson shook his head. “I arrived just minutes before the pump truck. They sucked every last drop of their tank dry putting out the fire and tamping down the dry brush around the site. Nothing left but mud and ashes.” He turned to Sylvia. “Why did you park in the creek anyway, Ms….?”
“Michaels, Sylvia Michaels.” Sylvia swallowed and looked down at her dirty hands. “I needed to see Mr. Vincent.” She glanced up, her gaze clashing with Tate’s.
His brown eyes narrowed and he shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly.
Sylvia turned toward the sheriff. “On a personal matter.”
“So you trespassed.” Sheriff Thompson’s brows rose. “You sure you didn’t light the fire in the car yourself?”
“No, sir.” Nor could she tell either of the men that she thought she was in danger. What court in the land would give her custody of any child if they thought her unfit to provide a safe haven for him?
“Really, Tate, you trust this woman in your home? She just admitted to hiding her car so that she could get in to see you?” Kacee rolled her eyes. “If that isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s up to you, Mr. Vincent. I’m headed back to town. I can take her with me. Just say the word.”
Tate Vincent stared at Sylvia for a long, drawn-out moment.
Her heart hammered blood through her veins, pounding against her eardrums, but she refused to look away from his intense gaze. She pushed her shoulders back and her chin tipped upward just slightly. If she had to, she’d beg to stay. But for now, he needed to know she wasn’t backing down.
“She can stay.” His eyes narrowed even more. “For now.”
Kacee snorted. “Tate, be reasonable.”
“Thank you, Sheriff Thompson. Let us know what you find out about the car.” Tate walked toward the front entrance, opened the door and held it for the sheriff.
The sheriff gave Sylvia one last look, plunked his hat on his head and took the hint. “I’ll be in touch.”
Once the sheriff had descended the stairs and climbed into his SUV with the word sheriff marked in bold letters on both sides, Tate let the screen door swing shut.
Sylvia braced herself for the storm to come.
“What are you going to do with her now?” Kacee asked, her high-heeled foot tapping against the wooden floor.
“On your way home, contact Dr. Richards. Tell him I want a DNA sampling kit out here ASAP.”
Kacee flipped her phone open. “I’ll just call him, now.”
Tate glared at her. “Do it on your way out, Kacee. I don’t need your services for the rest of the afternoon.”
“But—”
The man stopped her next words with the look on his face.
Sylvia almost felt sorry for the woman, except for the fact she would have happily shot her for trespassing. Once the millionaire’s assistant left, Sylvia would be alone with Tate Vincent. In his current mood, the meeting wouldn’t be pleasant. But at least she could speak plainly when they were alone.
She’d let him know she’d fight with every last breath to get her son back. But she wouldn’t tell him her breath and the clothes on her back were all she had left to her name.
Tate stood at the door, holding it open much as he’d done for the sheriff. Kacee pouted, her brows drawing together as she gathered her briefcase and car keys. “We haven’t gone over the figures on the purchase of the Double Diamond Ranch.”
“Tomorrow.” He held the door and waved his hand, inviting her through.
Kacee sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, crossing the threshold as directed. When she passed by Tate, she leaned close to him. “She’s nothing but trouble, I tell you.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know…without me.” She glared over her shoulder at Sylvia.
Tate shut the door behind Kacee and stared after her as she climbed into her car and drove away. Not until her dust trail cleared the driveway did he drag in a deep breath and turn to Sylvia standing quietly behind him.
“You know I’m telling the truth, don’t you?” Sylvia whispered. “You know Jacob is my son.”
Anger bolted through him. “No, I don’t know anything.” But that niggle of doubt made him more afraid than any other time in his life. Losing Jake ranked right up there with losing his father. Jake was family. He couldn’t lose him. “What other proof do you have that you ever had a child?”
Sylvia reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and a tattered photograph. “His birth certificate and a photograph of him when he was four months old.” Her lips twisted in a semblance of a smile and she shook her head. “They are the only things I have left of Jacob. Everything else was in my car.” Tears filled her eyes, making them a shimmering blue, so like Jake’s when he didn’t want to lie down for his nap.
Rosa always told Tate to let Jake cry himself to sleep, let him learn to soothe himself. But Tate couldn’t, not when the child looked up at him through those liquid blue eyes. He wanted to hold him, make the fear go away, make him know that nothing on the earth would take this child away from him.
Tate’s fists tightened and he resisted the draw of Sylvia’s blue, watery eyes. He snatched the paper and the photograph from her hands. Prolonging the inevitable, he bent to read the words on the document, etched in permanent ink with the state seal of Texas embossing the corner.
Mother’s Maiden Name: Sylvia Leigh Michaels. Father: Miguel Tikas. Baby’s Name: Jacob Paul Michaels. The birth date indicated ten months ago.
Ignoring the knot twisting in his gut, Tate handed the paper back to Sylvia, telling himself it was just a piece of paper. It didn’t prove anything. Then he stared down at the picture of a baby with golden hair and bright blue eyes. The baby could be Jake six months ago. He had the same smile, the same halo of golden hair. Damn it! Jake was his son!
He clutched the photograph in his hand, his gaze rising to lock with the woman in front of him. “How do I know you really are Sylvia Michaels? That you aren’t lying and that you didn’t steal this document?”
The dusty blonde fished in her back pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to him. He stared down at the hard plastic of a Texas driver’s license. An image of a blond woman smiled up at him. Less gaunt, her hair neatly combed into long, straight lengths, she looked happy, healthy and different than the woman standing in his living room. But the resemblance was there. On the license, the name read Sylvia Leigh Michaels, just like on the birth certificate. The address that of San Antonio, Texas.
Again, Tate forced himself to remain calm. This was all just a bad dream. He inhaled a full, deep breath and let it out slowly, handing the card back to Sylvia, his hand still curled around the photograph. “What do you want from me?”
She folded the driver’s license into the birth certificate and shoved them into her back pocket. “I only want my son.” She held out her palm. “May I have my picture back? It’s the only one I have left.”
Strangely reluctant, he handed her the photo, their fingers touching briefly, the impact sending a jolt of something he couldn’t describe through his veins.
“So what now?” she asked.
“I won’t let Jake go without a fight.”
“Then you admit there might be truth in what I say?”
“You present a good argument, but anyone can forge documents. You could have had a child. There’s no guarantee my son is the son you had stolen.”
“But you agree that there is a possibility that someone might have forged the birth certificate you have?”
“I’m not agreeing to anything until I have my lawyer check into it.”
Sylvia nodded, her shoulders rising and falling on a sigh. “I didn’t expect you’d give up without a fight. But I’m not, either.”
“Please leave. My lawyer will be in touch with yours.” He moved toward the front door, holding it open. “And I need to know where you will be staying.”
Sylvia stared across at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. That little display of uncertainty doing funny things to him. She didn’t answer.
“I’ll need an address to forward any documents from my legal staff.”
“I don’t have an address.”
Tate shook his head. “What do you mean you don’t have an address? Don’t you live in San Antonio?”
“I did. I don’t. Oh, hell.” She threw her hands in the air. “I haven’t lived anywhere but hotels and my car since Jacob was stolen. I let my apartment go.”
“I’ll have my foreman drop you at the hotel in Canyon Springs.”
“Wouldn’t do much good,” she muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.
“What did you say?” Tate asked.
“Nothing. Never mind. I’ll accept that ride since my car is toast.”
“Answer me first. What did you say?”
When she stood in stony silence, refusing to answer him, Tate grabbed her shoulders. “You try my patience, woman. You’ve barged into my life, threatening to take my son from me, the least you can do is answer my question.”
Sylvia threw off his hands, dull red spreading up her neck into her cheeks, her eyes flashing. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Everything I owned went up in flames in my car. What little money I had left with it. I’m broke, I’m homeless and I’m tired of you yelling at me! All I want is my son back.”
Her hand lifted to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Don’t think lack of money will stop me from getting Jacob back. I can provide him a good stable home. I can. No judge or jury in the state of Texas will deny my right to Jacob. He’s my son!”
She stood trembling, her fists clenched at her sides, her blue eyes turning stormy.
If Tate wasn’t facing losing Jake, he’d find her defiance attractive, her flashing blue eyes beautiful and the tilt of her breasts appealing. But damn it, she wanted to take his son away from him. “You’ll stay here for now.”
Sylvia gasped. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Now don’t make me change my mind.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“Take it or leave it.” He walked to the edge of the room and leaned out into the hallway. “Maria!”
“But…” Sylvia’s brow creased, her head tipped to the side. “But I want to take Jacob away from you. Why would you do this?”
“Maria!”
“Sí, Señor.” The older Hispanic woman hurried toward Tate, breathing hard, her forehead knitted in a concerned frown.
“Prepare a room for Ms. Michaels.”
Her brows rose into her graying hair. “Porqué?”
“She’ll be staying here.” Tate frowned. “Now, please prepare the room.”
“Sí.” Maria shot another confused stare at Sylvia and turned away.
“Get this straight…” Tate directed his attention to Sylvia. “I’ll be watching you. If you attempt to take Jake before any of this mess is legally settled, I’ll kill you.”
Sylvia’s hand went to her throat, her face blanching. “How do I know you won’t try to kill me anyway?”
“All you have is my word.”
“I don’t know you, Mr. Vincent. Is your word enough to go on?”
“You’re asking me to go on your word that Jake is your son.” He gave her a challenging look, all the while wondering what he was getting himself into.
“But you should hate me,” Sylvia whispered. She didn’t think he’d heard until he turned back to her with a pointed gaze.
“I have a philosophy of keeping my friends close, and my enemies closer.”
Chapter Five
Sylvia stood at the window of the spacious bedroom, staring out at the dry Texas hill country, her gaze panning the horizon but not seeing a thing. Her ears perked at every sound in the household, hoping to hear the faint noises a baby makes. Her baby. Jacob.
So tuned in to the specific sounds of a child, she didn’t hear adult footsteps outside her door.
“These should fit you.”
Sylvia spun, her hand going to her throat. “Oh, Lord, you scared me.”
The young Hispanic woman Tate had called Rosa, the woman who’d been caring for Jacob in the nursery, stepped into the room, moving with a slight limp. She laid a stack of clothing on the bed, the corner of her lips quirking upward. “These belonged to Mr. Vincent’s ex. I found them in a bag of clothing mi madré planned to donate to the homeless shelter. That and an old Mexican dress my mother wore.” Rosa’s lip curled tighter into a sneer.
Sylvia had read everything she could find in the San Antonio public library about the infamous young millionaire and most eligible bachelor of the state of Texas. His wife had walked out on him early in their marriage when Tate wasn’t so rich. In fact, he’d been close to losing his ranch and everything he owned when his wife walked out on him. Had she stuck with him “for richer or poorer” she’d have been sitting pretty in this fabulous house that Tate had built onto and modernized to make it anyone’s dream home, not wanting for anything. Stupid woman.
Feeling every bit the homeless person, Sylvia had no other choice but to take what was offered, even if it had been the ex-wife’s clothing. Another possible strike against her in her struggle to get her child back—a reminder to the great Tate Vincent of what he’d lost in his failed marriage. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Mr. Vincent is to thank for allowing you to stay.” Rosa’s eyes narrowed. “Just so you know, I’m Jake’s nanny…and bodyguard. I’m expert with the nine millimeter and I’ve never missed a target.”
A shiver snaked up the back of Sylvia’s neck. Jacob’s bodyguard could no doubt take her, but Sylvia had no intention of letting Rosa know she was scared. Her back straightened and she tipped her head back, her brows rising. “Are you threatening me?”
Rosa shrugged. “All I’m saying is that the Vincents—that would be Tate and Jake—are like family to me. Hurt either one of them and…” She stared straight into Sylvia’s gaze. “Let’s just say, a nine-millimeter bullet can make a pretty big mess.”
Before Sylvia could respond, the Hispanic woman turned and limped away.
The image she’d left Sylvia with was of herself being gunned down by a crazy woman with a pistol. “And this is the woman he trusts with my son?” Sylvia muttered, her hand sifting through the clothing on the bed. “Maybe I should check for explosive devices before I wear any of this.”
“I see you’ve met Rosa.”
Sylvia squealed and dropped the shirt she’d lifted from the pile, her face burning.
The man who’d been with Tate when he’d found her in the pasture stood with his hat in his hand. “Yes, Rosa can be pretty harsh with her words, but she wouldn’t hide explosives in clothing. She’s more…” The man paused, his hands turning the hat in his fingers before he stopped and looked up. “She’s more in-your-face violent. You’ll know when she plans to do harm.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
He shrugged. “Don’t take her too seriously. She’s had a bug up her…” Color rose in the man’s cheeks, making them a ruddy-brown. “Well, since she took a bullet in Austin.” A brief shadow crossed his face, then he smiled, his deeply tanned skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “I’m C.W., the foreman. Supper’s ready.”
Sylvia’s stomach growled. She wanted to say that she wasn’t hungry. The truth was she hadn’t eaten since last night when she’d left the library in San Antonio to drive here. “Thank you.”
C.W. waited for Sylvia to pass through the door. “About what Rosie said—”
“Don’t call me Rosie. I hate it when you call me Rosie.” Rosa’s voice called out from another room down the hallway.
C.W. chuckled and winked. “Love to get her goat.” All humor left his face. “As for what Rosie—Rosa—said…Same goes for me. Tate and Jake mean the world to all of us. If anything happens…”
Although C.W. said the words gently, Sylvia couldn’t mistake the steel behind them. “You have a nine-milli-meter bullet with my name on it, right?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
“Point taken.” Sylvia sighed. “I’m not here to hurt either one of them. I’m here to get my son back. My son. The child I gave birth to and didn’t willingly give up.” She planted her fists on her hips and squared off with C.W. “Did you hear that, Rosa?” she called out loud enough for the woman down the hallway to hear.
“Sí.” Rosa stepped through a doorway, Jacob perched in her arms, his baby fists waving and a wet smile spreading across his chubby cheeks at the sight of C.W. “Let the courts decide where Jake belongs.”
Sylvia’s heart melted at the sight of her son.
C.W. met Rosa halfway down the hallway, reaching for the child. “Come here, little man. Come see ol’ Uncle C.W.”
Ready tears sprang to Sylvia’s eyes. Jacob was beautiful. He’d grown into a healthy, happy baby. At least she could rest assured he hadn’t been abused since coming to the Vincent Ranch. All those months of worry could be left behind. When Jacob had been stolen, Sylvia imagined all kinds of horrors her son could have been subjected to. She’d cried too many tears thinking about it.
The smile on Jacob’s face, the happiness he displayed for the people surrounding him let Sylvia know that he’d found a loving family to take care of him until his own mother could find him.
Her arms ached to reach out and hold her son, but she held back, determined to let Tate Vincent know that she was on the up-and-up. She planned to get her son back the legal way. Justice would side with the biological mother.
Sylvia had to believe that, even though, as an investigative reporter, she’d seen too many cases fouled up in court with corrupt judges and equally corrupt attorneys. She marched ahead of Rosa, C.W. and her son, determined to get the ball rolling as soon as she could get a call through to a lawyer she knew in San Antonio. The same one she’d used when she’d filed for divorce from Miguel Tikas a year and a half ago, before she’d known she was pregnant.
With her resolve strengthened, she followed the smell of food toward the kitchen, ever aware of the people at her back.
She passed an open doorway to an office the size of her old apartment. Tate Vincent stood looking out double French doors, his hand pressing a cell phone to his ear. “Tell him I want it done ASAP. The sooner we know something the better off we all are. Tomorrow morning would be best. Have Dr. Richards call to confirm.”
Sylvia paused. Now would be a good time to ask Tate if she could use a telephone. Her cell phone had sketchy reception this far out of Austin, the charger lost with the contents of her car.
When Tate Vincent turned toward her, his brows snapped together in a frown. “What are you doing here?”
His abrupt demand raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Before she could answer, Rosa stepped up beside her.
“She’s on her way to the dining room.” The Hispanic woman jerked her head, indicating Sylvia should keep walking.
C.W. ducked into the office, Jacob perched on his shoulder. “Someone wants to see you.”
Even before C.W. got close, Jacob was leaning toward Tate.
Tate held out his hands and plucked Jacob off C.W.’s shoulders. “Come here, Jake.”
Rosa hooked Sylvia’s arm with an iron grip. “Come with me.”
Sylvia’s gaze remained on Tate and Jacob until Rosa jerked her past the office with a violent tug.
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to get mean. I’m coming.” If she could afford to be nasty, Sylvia would have jerked back as hard 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 call each other by our first names for heaven’s sake.”
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