Revealed: His Secret Child (11 page)

“Go on.”

“But from what I hear he's deeply private. He can shut the whole world out. He's a bit like you that way.”

Huh? Admittedly, she didn't wear her heart on her sleeve but she wouldn't have said she shut people out.

“You both compartmentalize your lives,” Maggie continued. “I guess what I'm trying to say, badly, judging by the look of horror on your face, is don't shut each other out.”

Maggie didn't understand. If Gillian didn't wall off a part of her that was safe from Max she could lose everything. It was one thing to share her home and her life with him. She could even share her body; after all, they both had needs.

But her heart?

She had to keep that protected.

 

Max lowered himself into his office chair and flicked over the front page of this morning's edition of the
Seaside Gazette.
Gillian's opinion piece took up the top quarter of page two. He read it through once and then again and then for long seconds he just stared at it. She'd done it again. Only this time the betrayal felt personal. Attacking Rafe again, questioning what he was trying to do in this community, was an attack on him, too.

It was his job to make sure public opinion was in their favor, and she was doing her darndest to make sure it wasn't.

While he hadn't expected her to fall into line with his plans just because they were married and sleeping together, he had thought she might at least run things by him before she went to print on them. Professional courtesy?

Just last night when they'd made love she'd clutched at his back. She'd said nothing about preparing to stab him in that same back.

He picked up his phone, dialed her number and went straight through to voice mail. He didn't get it. He'd never met anyone he was so in tune with physically, and he'd thought mentally. And yet she had the capacity to totally surprise him, as though he didn't know her at all.

He glanced at his watch. She'd be at home now for lunch with Ethan. And he had time before his meeting with a local TV station about the upcoming press conference. He made his decision, pocketed his keys and strode out of his office, closing the door behind him.

Fifteen minutes later he opened the door to their home and found her sitting cross-legged on the couch. She wore soft white yoga pants and a tank top. Her laptop was open on her lap. Her eyebrows were drawn together in concentration, she had her hair pulled up in a ponytail and a pencil behind her
ear. And she was without a doubt the most captivating woman he'd ever known.

Max cleared his throat and she looked up startled, her lips parting ever so slightly.

Thank goodness Ethan was here or he'd forget all about what he needed to say to her and push her back on that couch. “Where's Ethan?”

“Play date with a friend from preschool. He'll be back at three. Sorry.” She shrugged. “I would have let you know if I'd thought you were going to come home to see him.”

“I didn't come home to see him.”

Her eyes widened.

“And I didn't come home for sex, either.”

“Our own play date?” A light danced in her eyes as though she knew now though that that was all he could think about. That in his mind she was already naked and stretched back on that couch, welcoming him home in her own special way.

He had to clear his throat again before he could speak, and furiously tried to concentrate. He was all about self-discipline, self-control. She wasn't going to derail him with sex. “No.”

She shut down the screen on her laptop and closed the machine, looking at him expectantly. “So, what did you come home for?” She leaned forward to set her laptop on the coffee table and he realized, to his horror, that she wasn't wearing a bra. He got an earth-stopping view of beautiful breasts and rosy, peaked nipples. “I haven't had lunch yet. We could eat together,” she said as she sat back against the couch. Her tank top doing nothing to disguise her nipples.

“No.” His refusal was too emphatic. Born of desperation. “I came to talk you about your opinion piece in the
Seaside Gazette.
”

“Oh.” She stretched. Nonchalant. As though she didn't know precisely what she was doing to him. How hard he was for her. “What about it?” Raising her arms above her head,
she pulled the band from her hair. Chestnut locks cascaded over her bare shoulders, grazed her pale neck.

And he was done for. Couldn't think straight. “This is fighting dirty, Gillian.”

“I'm just playing the game your way.” A sultry smile of victory widened her lips. “Besides, we can talk work afterward.”

The final thread of his self-control snapped.

Three strides had him in front of her. Gripping her shoulders, he hauled her upright and kissed her. She tasted of sweet coffee as she melted into him. He broke their kiss only long enough to pull her tank top over her head. In moments they were naked, he'd sheathed himself and he was inside her welcoming heat, driving home, needing her, filling her, overpowered by her, her body tight and hot around him, her legs wrapped about his hips as she met and matched his thrusts.

Ecstasy. Insanity.

Her eyes clouded with a mirror of the passion that gripped him. Her lips were parted, her breathing ragged. The little gasps she made grew quicker, louder, sending him closer to the edge, fighting for control till she came apart in his arms and, overpowered by sensation, he surged into her.

Home.

He held her to him.

In the recesses of his mind he knew that being with her spelled danger. And that the risks were increasing. But when he was with her only she mattered. He didn't have the strength to shut himself off.

As the ripples of satisfaction faded, he knew that soon, before it was too late, he would have to find the strength.

G
illian was hoping. Starting to dream. Starting to rely on Max and what they had.

It frightened her—losing the part of herself that had learned not to need him. She needed it back because he didn't want the things she did. The ringing of her phone startled her. She'd been only half paying attention to Ethan as he happily stacked blocks.

“I'm taking you out tonight,” the man she'd been thinking about said. “We need to talk. And it has to be somewhere we won't get sidetracked.”

Was he blaming her? She had, she admitted, known she'd stopped him from discussing her opinion piece with what happened this afternoon. But she hadn't wanted to argue and she had wanted him. She always wanted him. If he could use that ever-present desire to stop from talking about Dylan then he couldn't exactly take the moral high ground.

“Get a sitter. I'll be home at six to pick you up.”

Maybe she ought to be grateful that he wanted to take her out, and partly she was, but did the assumption that she would and could fit in with his plans, regardless of her own, mean that he knew how much she cared for him? “What if I can't, Max? What if Ethan's come down sick?”

She heard his indrawn breath. “What's wrong with him?” he demanded. “Have you taken him to his doctor? Where is he? Why didn't you call me?”

The rush of questions and the note, almost of panic, in his voice had her backtracking. “Nothing's wrong with him. I said
what if.
I wanted you to realize that when a child's involved no day is predictable. Your needs and wants can't always take top priority.”

Silence.

“Max? Are you there?”

“Don't worry about going out. I'll be home early.”

He'd shut down, shut her out, she heard it in his clipped words, but she wasn't sure whether his anger was directed at her or himself. Something was wrong and she had no idea what, but she suddenly felt that she needed to make amends. “Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “Ethan's fine, he's playing with his blocks, building towers and then knocking them down. And I was speaking to Mrs. McDonald earlier, who was complaining because her bridge evening was cancelled at the last minute, and—” she took a deep breath “—more than that, I'd really like to go out with you.” So much for not needing him. “I haven't been out in far too long.” And she'd like the chance to talk to him, properly, where they wouldn't, as he'd put it, get sidetracked. By sex.

There was another silent pause. “If you're sure?”

“Yes. I'm sure.”

He was home sooner than she'd expected, explaining that he'd pulled out of a twilight golf fundraiser, sending someone else from his department in his stead. He helped Ethan make
a tower that was as tall as their son. And then he helped him knock it down.

Leaving the two males in her life playing allowed Gillian more time to get ready than she'd had in years. Time well spent if the look of approval in Max's eyes when she walked down the stairs was anything to go by. She wore a black dress that stopped a little above her knees and fitted close over her curves with a deep vee at the front.

Desire darkened his eyes. Desire and something else, something warmer that called to her. Or was that only her wishful thinking?

At the base of the stairs and in front of Mrs. McDonald he kissed her, slow and gentle. And if it hadn't been for Mrs. McDonald's presence they wouldn't have made it out the door.

They said goodbye, left last-minute instructions and phone numbers and he took her hand as he led her to his car.

But instead of heading to the beachfront where most of the restaurants and cafés were, he headed out of town. “Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

They stopped at a private airfield. A helicopter flight later and they were setting down on a private airfield in L.A. and stepping into a chauffeur-driven limo.

Her curiosity built. “Now will you tell me where we're going?”

For his answer Max poured her a flute of champagne. “You'll see.” He wore a black, button-down shirt, with the top button undone. Gillian couldn't help but think of undoing a couple more for him, sliding her hand over his torso. But he'd said they needed to talk and that he didn't want to be sidetracked.

It was her weakness that his mere presence sidetracked her.

She glanced out the window not recognizing the road they were traveling down. “Your parents?”

He shook his head and a smile tugged at his lips. “Be patient. We'll be there shortly.”

Fifteen minutes later the limo slowed to a stop and Gillian looked out the window to see a brightly lit storefront. “A bookstore?”

Max nodded, watching her.

Her favorite kind of store. But his confirmation did little to ease her confusion.

The chauffeur opened her door and they stepped out. Doormen flanked the entrance to the store checking invitations. Gillian recognized a CNN reporter and a British diplomat amongst the guests entering ahead of them.

The large plate-glass window displayed a towering stack—high enough to impress even Ethan—of hardback books set against a backdrop of mountains and helicopter silhouettes.

She recognized the book as the release due to go on sale tomorrow morning by her favorite, and a much-respected, foreign correspondent. “This is Tilsby's book launch?”

“I thought you might like it.”

She grasped Max's hand, forcing him to stop when he would have kept walking. “I do. Thank you.”

He shrugged and tried to start moving again.

Gillian held firm to his hand, interlacing their fingers, and held his gaze with hers. “No. Don't shrug this off. Thank you. I've admired Tilsby for years and was looking forward to his book. I'm…touched that you thought to bring me here.” It meant something—that he'd done this for her, something so thoughtful and personal—she just wasn't sure what. He'd said he wanted to talk and they could have done that in Vista del Mar, he hadn't had to put this much effort into an evening for her. But he had.

They approached the short and steadily moving line. Her
hand rested too comfortably in his. “We've never been out in public together before.”

He shot her a glance, frowning. “I suppose not.”

“So that hasn't been deliberate?”

He stopped and turned to her, his attention on her one hundred percent. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. It had just occurred to me that, like I said, we haven't been anywhere public together. And apart from your family I've met no one important to you. So, I guess I wondered.”

“What? That I didn't want to be seen with you?”

She lifted a shoulder.

He shook his head. “When has there even been time?”

“There hasn't,” she agreed.

In front of the small crowd he lowered his head and kissed her, lingering and almost sweet. “Never think that. I'm more proud than you can know to be here with you tonight.”

The intensity in his voice, as much as his words, reassured her, calmed the hidden nagging fear that she was building a house of cards.

They stayed at the launch party for an hour mingling, sipping champagne and nibbling hors d'oeuvres. Max bought, and got signed for her, Tilsby's book.

After they left the gathering, Max took her to a quietly exclusive hillside restaurant with a spectacular view over the glittering lights of the city.

The maître d' led them to a corner table. Max stood waiting for her to sit. His innate courtesy and chivalry made her feel cherished, physically, if not emotionally. Emotionally, she recognized, they were both still holding back. For her it was protection—though her resolve was crumbling daily. For him it was second nature.

Since they'd left the bookstore Max had become quieter. “Is something bothering you?”

He adjusted the cutlery in front of him, realigning it with the edge of the table. “Should we call Mrs. McDonald to check that Ethan's all right?”

“She'll call if there's a problem.”

He nodded, and moved his bread plate a fraction to the left.

“I'll call if you want.”

“Up to you,” he said with a nonchalance she wasn't buying.

She called Mrs. McDonald, holding eye contact with Max throughout the conversation. She watched him relax, the subtle edge of tension he'd carried since leaving the launch seeped from him as he interpreted from what he could hear that everything was fine back in Vista del Mar.

As she finished the call, Max filled her wineglass with a dark red pinot noir. She waited as he filled his own and raised it in a silent toast to her, waiting for her to clink her glass against his before taking a sip. Thoughts and suspicions that had first taken root during their phone call earlier were springing further to life.

“What was that all about this afternoon? With Ethan?”

He shrugged. “What do you mean?” He picked up a leather-bound menu. “The seafood here is excellent.”

“It was almost as though you panicked when you thought he was sick.”

Max sent her a look that said “really, don't be ridiculous” but he didn't actually deny anything.

“And just now, wanting to check in with Mrs. Mc Donald.”

“I'm new to this, Gillian. I guess I'm not as relaxed as you are about kids.”

She watched him, aware of the way he wasn't quite meeting her gaze. “Children get sick all the time. Teething, stomach flu, ear infection. It's not a bad thing. It's part of their immune systems developing.”

“I'm sure they do,” he said. He set his menu down and finally looked at her, the intensity in his gaze making his eyes seem even bluer than normal. “What does happen when he's sick? How do you cope? How do you balance it with work?”

“It depends on how sick he is. Sometimes I call on Mrs. McDonald, sometimes I stay with him and work from home, and sometimes I take leave.”

“Must be hard.”

“I've coped.”

“It wasn't a criticism. You've done a remarkable job with him. He's a great kid.”

“I know. But thank you.”

“There must have been times when it was difficult.”

“There've been times when it's been hell juggling everything. But they always pass and they're not that frequent.” She realized he'd subtly turned the topic from him and his reaction to the possibility of Ethan being unwell. “Are you sure that's all there was to your reaction this afternoon? It seemed a little more like…panic. Which surprised me.”

He sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest. His gaze was distant. All in all it was an intimidating, uncommuni cative look. Too sexy. Too challenging. But Gillian was good with challenges. She wasn't the type to back off.

“Maybe I overreacted,” he said finally. “I guess I'm not used to children.” As though that explained everything.

She'd been a journalist long enough to know when someone was hiding something from her. “I think it's more than that. You
never
overreact. That's just not you. And you certainly never let it show.”

“Apparently, I did. Maybe you just know me better than most.”

“Tell me about your twin.”

His eyes narrowed. Surely he'd had to realize she was going to ask about that at some stage.

“This has nothing to do with Dylan.” A French-accented waiter materialized at their table to take their orders and Max's relief was palpable. But it was going to take more than that for Gillian to drop the subject he so clearly didn't want to discuss.

She waited till Pierre left. “Tell me about him. Please. What he was like? What happened to him?”

“This isn't the time or the place.” Max took another sip of wine.

“I don't think there's ever going to be a right time or place for you. But I need to know that you're not going to panic with Ethan.” It was a low blow and it hit its mark.

Anger flashed in his eyes. He set down his wineglass, but his fist remained clenched around the slender crystal stem. “Fine. Dylan died in his sleep of myocarditis caused by a viral infection five days before we turned thirteen. No warning. He went to bed a little off-color. He never woke up.” Max recited the words without emotion, his gaze fixed on some point beyond her shoulder. “End of story.”

Gillian stared at him. “End of story? That's it?”

“You asked what happened. I told you. And that's more than I've told anyone else outside of the family in the past twenty years.”

Gillian was lost for words, unable to truly comprehend the enormity of his loss. She wanted to reach for him but he looked so brittle that she knew her touch wasn't what he wanted, not when he was trying so hard to be so utterly unemotional, so shut down. She settled for questions, trying to find a way in. “How did it affect you? How did you survive?”

“How did it affect me?” One by one he unclenched his fingers from around his wineglass and rested his hand on the table in what she took as a deliberate attempt to at least
look relaxed. “What do you think? It destroyed me,” he said quietly. “I lost the other half of myself.”

“That's why you didn't want children?”

He stared at the liquid in his glass. “Part of me died with him. I lost the capacity to love.”

“Lost it or denied it?”

His fingers curled back into a fist. “It's gone, Gillian. I just don't have it in me. So let's drop the subject.”

Gillian wasn't going to back off just because he was uncomfortable and uncommunicative. She knew enough to ignore her own discomfort, and she'd known Max long enough to realize that this was something he needed to tell her. For both their sakes. He couldn't shut down on her now. Couldn't deny something that enormous. “At your parents' house there were trophies in the study for tennis for both you and Dylan, and then from later years, trophies for you for swimming.”