by Linda Style
Albert relaxed, one arm slung over the back of the couch.
“Pardon me, but I can’t help noticing that you’re not jumping up and down with excitement.” His soft brown eyes questioned her. “Isn’t this what we started out to do?”
Slumped bonelessly on the loose pillows, Whitney stretched out her legs on the coffee table and dropped her head to one side to look at him. “Yep. It sure is.”
“Well? How come we’re not ecstatic?”
There was a knock on the door and she got up to let the bellman in with the food. In less than two seconds, Albert was at her side.
“Smells good. Maybe I am a little hungry.”
Whitney glared at him.
He backed off, holding up his hands. “Hey, I only said it smells good.”
That coaxed a reluctant grin from her. Albert really was a sweetheart and she was glad he was here. Glad to have someone on her side. The Tanya, Albert, thing…she wasn’t so sure about that.
She sat at the table to remove the metal covers on the plates, then motioned for Albert to sit across from her. “Okay, help yourself,” she said, pointing to the French fries. “I can’t eat them all, anyway.”
Her cell phone rang. Caller ID showed it was her attorney.
“Hi, Willie,” she said, not making any effort to sound more cheerful than she felt. “What’s going on?”
Atwater’s low voice resonated through the phone wires. Usually she found it soothing. Not so today. Nothing could make her feel better. After the small talk, she put him on speaker phone and set it on the table so Albert could hear the conversation, too.
“So,” he said. “I filed the motion, but I wasn’t the only one. Your guy in Estrade filed one, too.”
Whitney froze. “What? I don’t understand.”
“Uh, let me see.” She heard shuffling. “Here it is. Rhys Gannon, who claims to be the baby’s grandfather. Claims he’s had physical custody since the child was little more than a year old. Abandonment by the mother and subsequent incarceration of the father.”
Rhys filed for custody? He’d just told her he wouldn’t do that to R.J. What on earth…?
“What does it mean? What do we have to do?” Moreover, what did she want to do?
A week ago she would’ve been deliriously happy if Rhys had even expressed an interest in gaining custody.
A glimmer of hope struggled for life inside her. Maybe there was still a chance? But remembering the hatred in his eyes, the bitterness in his words, she couldn’t imagine anything of the sort.
And it wouldn’t change the fact that if R.J. was acquitted, he could come for SaraJane and Rhys would let her go. If Rhys had custody, it would be the same as if his son did.
That had to be it. Rhys was filing to protect his son’s rights.
“We continue,” Willie said. “Don’t know how much leverage we have at the moment. Guess I need to do a little more research. You know I haven’t been involved in this kind of thing for years.”
“I know, Willie, and I thank you for taking it on.” William Atwater was her contract lawyer, and she’d only used him for those purposes. When she’d asked him to help her out, it was because he was the only person she could think of on short notice. “What do you think?”
“We have the birth certificate and we can show relationship. Since the father’s name is not listed, they’ll have to establish paternity before they do anything else. If it’s established, things’ll be more difficult for us.”
“How’s that?”
“A grandparent with physical custody, one who’s able to care for the child well, would be seen favorably by the court. It’s a stable environment, and any judge will look at what’s best for the child. We have to prove you’re in a position to do it better, and that it’s in the child’s best interests to live with you.
“We’ll have to show reason why Gannon isn’t the best person to have custody.”
Whitney’s breath caught. “You mean…discredit Rhys.”
“Whatever it takes. Got any ideas?”
“I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t say things against Rhys.”
“Believe me, he’ll do it to you. And to be very frank, he might have a pretty good case. Your life-style, with all your traveling, isn’t exactly conducive to raising a child. Not only do we need to show chinks in his armor, we also need to show how much better you can make life for your niece.”
She’d already planned to change her working schedule, at least cut back on the travel.
“What about the baby’s maternal grandparents?” Willie asked. “Can they stand behind you to support the family unit?”
Whitney squeezed her eyes shut. Finally she picked up the phone and said on a long breath, “My father’s a drunk. A very rich drunk, but a drunk nonetheless. Yeah, we’ve got a lot of support there,” she said hollowly. “In fact, the last time I saw him was at Morgan’s funeral, and he wasn’t sober then, either.” The irony of it all hit her, and she fought the urge to dissolve in a hysterical fit of laughter—or maybe tears. Instead, the pain of the past came tumbling out.
She picked up the phone again, “And while we’re at it, let’s call my mother, too. She’s in a substance-abuse center. After thirty years of pills and booze, she tried to off herself. My parents haven’t had a real marriage since I was a baby, and I doubt whether they even had one then. Let’s see, their child-rearing philosophy consists of shipping children off with the nanny, the maid, or to boarding school, anywhere out of sight.
“And if the children get in the way or, God forbid, act like children, well, that’s taken care of by locking them in the basement or closet.”
Her body started to shake. In a blur of pain and regret, Whitney barely felt Albert’s hand on her shoulder as he pried the phone from her hand.
“Hi, Mr. Atwater, it’s Albert Evans.” He urged Whitney to sit, but she shook her head. “Yes,” Albert said. “We spoke yesterday. Listen, I think it might be better if Whitney called you back later.”
Whitney wrenched herself from his hold, threw herself face down on the bed and buried her head under a pillow.
“Okay, shoot,” Albert said. “I’ve got a pen.”
A moment later, Whitney felt Albert sit next to her. She didn’t move, even when he massaged her shoulders. She stayed like that for a long time, until she finally grew numb, again.
Sitting upright, she brushed the hair from her face and gave Albert another apologetic look. But she couldn’t hide the hopelessness and despair that suddenly filled her. “I never summed it up quite so succinctly before,” she said, her voice so faint she could hardly hear herself. God. Her whole ugly life blurted out in a few sentences.
“Hey, sometimes it’s good to get it all out there. Then you can forget about it and go on with your life.”
A strange urge to laugh bubbled up. “Yeah, I thought I’d done that when I left home twelve years ago. I made a life for myself, quite successfully, too.” She shook her head. “Now look at me.”
She bolted to her feet, stalked to the table and picked up the remains of her drink, tossing it back in one swallow.
“Hey, you look pretty good to me, and if we weren’t related…” He clicked his tongue and gave her a thumbs-up.
Grateful for Albert’s light banter, she sank onto the couch, feeling as if she’d been torn apart and hastily glued back together—but the glue was still wet and one small nudge was enough to make her fall apart.
“I guess you’re in love with him, huh?” Albert asked as he ate some cold French fries.
Whitney did a double take. “Why do you say that?”
“I saw the expression on your face when you thought you might have to testify against him.”
“But it’s the truth. I couldn’t discredit him. He’s a wonderful person, kind, affectionate, loving…” Her voice softened as she spoke. “And he’s devoted to SaraJane. She couldn’t ask for a better father.”
Albert’s grin broadened into a one-hundred-watt smile. Befo
re taking a sip of his drink, he raised his glass. “Point made.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RHYS TUCKED SARAJANE into bed and headed toward the garage. On the way, he stopped at a window in the living room and listened to the wind howling outside like a coyote baying at the moon…an eerie lonely sound that reflected how he felt. Cold and alone. A few flakes of snow began to fall.
He allowed his mind to drift, fantasizing Whitney and SaraJane curled up with him under thick afghans in front of the fireplace on a snowy day, sipping cocoa with tiny marshmallows bobbing in their cups.
He willed the image away, for all the good that would do. Or not. The die was cast and no amount of wishing would change it.
Whitney had come to Estrade with one purpose. To gain custody, to take SaraJane away with her. And it appeared she was going to do everything she could to make that happen.
And dammit, he’d do whatever he could to stop her.
He flicked on the lights in the stairwell and descended to the garage. A week ago he’d had other plans for his collection of vintage motorcycles, plans that didn’t include selling the bikes it had taken him years to accumulate.
At the bottom of the steps he switched on the garage lights. Now, instead of extending the shop to accommodate the collection, he’d need to sell some of the inventory to pay the attorney representing him in the custody suit.
His attorney had painted a grim picture of what would happen in court. With R.J.’s background, his son wouldn’t stand a chance in a custody battle against Whitney, and the attorney had recommended Rhys file for himself.
He’d tried to call R.J. a couple of times to see if he agreed, but as usual, his son hadn’t been available. And because it all had to happen quickly, Rhys hadn’t had time to think, much less okay it with R.J. Better that he see him face-to-face, anyway, to tell him what was going on.
R.J. would understand because there was no other choice. He gnashed his teeth and, infused with anger at the unfairness of it all, he drew back a fist and punched the leather chaps hanging next to the door. Bitterness pumped through his veins.
Dammit! Dammit, dammit all to hell! He sent a flurry of punches into the wall, the chaps doing little to pad the surface.
Spent, his chest heaving, his knuckles throbbing, he sagged against the doorjamb, surveying the collection. How much did the attorney say he needed for a down payment? Was that one Norton or two?
He hated to sell any of the bikes. They were the only part of his old life he’d retained. The only good part.
But he couldn’t think about any of that now. He had to stand by his family…whatever it took to do it. He only wished he hadn’t made such a damned fool of himself in the process.
***
The next day Rhys waited at the prison door in Florence for the guard to let him into the room where he could talk to R.J. Provided R.J. was more willing than he’d been during their last visit. He hadn’t been receptive to much of anything.
God, he hated this place, hated seeing his son locked up like an animal. Most of all, he couldn’t fathom any possibility that R.J. might be here for the rest of his life.
When R.J. sauntered out, Rhys was struck by the resemblance between his son and how he himself had looked at that age. A carbon copy, and yet R.J. was a total stranger to him. He didn’t even know the boy.
His fault. He had only himself to blame. If he’d demanded custody, demanded visitation… True, he’d had to work seventy-hour weeks to get established, and there didn’t seem to be much point in just leaving R.J. with a sitter when he was gone so much of the time. And it was also true that Steph had dragged R.J. all over the globe, so Rhys didn’t know where his son was most of the time, and yeah, he was young and stupid—but all the excuses in the world didn’t make it any less his fault.
If he’d hauled Stephanie’s ass into court back then, gone through every court process possible to make it happen, maybe R.J. wouldn’t be in the trouble he was today.
But that was all water under the proverbial bridge. He couldn’t change the past.
Now, R.J. sat opposite him, slumped on the straight-backed chair. His cobalt-blue eyes shuttered by long black lashes, and as usual, Rhys couldn’t tell what was going on inside the boy.
“Something major happened since I was here last.” Rhys’ gut twisted at the thought of replaying the scenario with Whitney; it hurt too much. But, he went on. “Remember Whitney, the woman I told you about before? I found out she’s SaraJane’s aunt.”
R.J. perked up.
Good. He’d hit a nerve. Maybe it would make his son take an interest in his own life again. “The baby’s mother, Morgan, is Whitney’s sister.” Correcting himself, he added, “I’m sorry. Was her sister. Morgan died a few months ago.”
R.J. pinned him with a gaze as hard as marble. “Where’s the kid now?”
Rhys blinked. R.J. showed no emotion whatsoever. Nothing. No trace of feeling for the mother of his child.
Still, for the first time since he’d been incarcerated, R.J. had asked about his child. Rhys’s spirits lifted. “She’s still with me. And I intend to keep her there. That’s why I came down to see you. I need you to consent to blood tests.”
R.J. was silent. The news about SaraJane’s mother must’ve finally sunk in, Rhys decided. He wished he could comfort him, but he was sure R.J. would reject that, too. “I’m sorr—”
“Blood tests! What for?”
Okay. R.J. didn’t need condolences. Maybe he already knew. “Whitney promised SaraJane’s mother that she’d find the girl and raise her.”
Rhys waited a moment, but R.J. made no visible response, so he cut to the chase. “She’s filing for custody.”
Nothing. Not even a blink.“Uh…so, anyway, I talked to an attorney and we figured the only way around it is for me to file for custody—because I’m the grandfather and SaraJane has been with me for two years. It needed to be done quickly and the attorney has already petitioned the court on my behalf.”
R.J. bolted to his feet. The metal chair flipped backward. “You already did this? You hired an attorney?” he spat out the words. “I thought you didn’t have the money to spring me from this shit hole, but now you have enough money to hire someone to get custody of the brat.”
Rhys flinched. He’d seen R.J. like this before, when he’d been found guilty. He’d excused his behavior then, because he had good reason to be angry and bitter.
But this was different. Way different.
Rhys glanced at the guard, who was already on his way over, and motioned for R.J. to sit so they could finish. R.J. yanked the chair back to the counter and held his hands up to the guard, indicating he’d make no more disturbances.
Rhys’s blood surged hot through his veins. He’d forgiven R.J. many things, blaming himself for much of it, but where SaraJane was concerned, no one, no one, was going to hurt her.
Clenching his fists, Rhys said through gritted teeth, “I don’t have the damn money. I still have to sell some things to get it. Now, sit your ass down and listen. You need to have a blood test to show paternity. Without it, we’ll lose custody.”
R.J. drummed his fingers on the counter, his gaze cold and calculating. Finally he leaned toward Rhys. “Well, tell you what, Dad,” he said, his voice menacingly low and drawing out the words. “After you left the last time, I did a little research.”
His son paused, leaned back, as if relaxing for a long conversation. “The prison has a great library, you know. Anyway, since you’d talked about your photographer friend being famous and all, I checked her out. People magazine did a story on her about a year ago. Did ya know that?”
Rhys stared blankly at his son. What the…
“Yeah, nice story about her jet-set life—the celebrity photographer who does all these photos of the rich and famous. Nice story about her wealthy family, too. And it got me thinking about shit.”
“You checked out my…girlfriend?”She wasn’t’, but R.J. didn’t know that. Rhys clenched his
hands. God, the kid pissed him off! Royally. But even worse, R.J.’s tone was filled with so much venom it made his skin crawl.
“Yeah.” R.J. paused to lean in, then spoke low. “Let me tell you something. For a little blow, I can get any information I want. Some dudes here have connections and they’ll do anything for some primo—or cash.”
He laughed, an ugly contemptuous cackle, his voice rising. “D’ya know your girlfriend’s parents are drunks? Did ya know that?” His eyes sparkled with excitement. “And now I find out that little whore Izzy had a fortune behind her and never said a damned word.” He scrubbed his chin with his knuckles. “Man, I knew that bitch was hiding something.” A thin smile appeared. “But I have the all the cards now.” He looked at Rhys. “Don’t I.” He laughed again, and Rhys’s nerves twitched, the way they did when he heard chalk screeching on a blackboard.
He shook it off. R.J. was a kid, a kid whose whole life was in the trash. The boy’s response was defensive, self-protective. That had to be it.
“What’s your point?” Rhys finally asked, struggling to maintain what tiny shred of control he had left.
“The point, Daddy dearest, is that your little Ms. Whitney and her family have tons of bucks I’m sure they’d be willing to part with in order to get custody of that brat.”
A malevolent grin formed. “Probably enough to get me out of this hellhole and to start a new life in another country.” He paused. “Maybe Mexico or Brazil?” He slapped a hand on the counter. “Better yet, the French Riviera.”
Rhys bolted to his feet, stumbling back as he did. His face burned and his gut twisted into a tangle of knots. He felt as if he’d just been kicked in the groin and couldn’t draw a full breath.
“What’s the matter, Pops? I think it’s a pretty good exchange. The kid’ll have a good life and so will I. I’ll even repay you for the lousy attorney you hired.”
R.J. rose to face Rhys, leaned forward, hands spread on the counter, his face as close to the glass as he could get.
“So, no blood tests,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Just tell the broad that for the right amount of money, she can have the kid.” He rolled his eyes. “Say we start with a mill. Yeah,” he said. “Kinda like a settlement. My attorney fees and a million bucks oughtta do it.”
