Dex clenched his hands into fists under the table. What he wouldn’t give to launch himself over the table, to drive his fists into that smug old face, to take out the years of grief and guilt and bitterness on the man who inspired it. “Believe me, if I had a choice I wouldn’t be your son.”
“Funny how we don’t have that choice, eh?” The old man had the nerve to chuckle. “Now spit it out. What could you possibly want with me after all these years?”
What had he come for? What did he hope this meeting would prove? That he could forgive his father? That he could forget what the old man had done to his mother? To him? There wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening.
What, then?
“I wanted to see you. I wanted to look into your face and know that I’m nothing like you.”
“No can do. You’re a regular chip off the old block, sonny boy.”
Dex took a deep breath and willed himself to remain seated. “I’m nothing like you.”
“You can’t B.S. a B.S.er, son. I can see me in your eyes just as clearly as I could fifteen years ago.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “Sure, you don’t drink and you don’t steal and all that other crap they’ve been saying I do. But you’re hard, my boy. Just like me. Like I said, I can see it.”
“If I am, it was you that made me hard.”
“Guilty as charged. Isn’t that what you lawyer types say? And who do you think made me this way? You ever think about that?”
No. He hadn’t. And he didn’t care to think about it now. Knowing his father, he’d only pin the blame on Dex or his mother or society in general. “You made yourself that way, old man.”
“You may be right about that. And if that’s true, you have only to look in the mirror to find who made you.”
Uneasiness clamped down on Dex’s shoulders. Had he chosen bitterness the way his father had chosen booze? Was judging others as addictive to him as alcohol to an alcoholic?
He shook his head. His father was damn good at turning everything around, making Dex blame himself for anything the old man did. Just as he’d made his mother feel as if she’d failed him. “Did you feel anything when Mom died? Did it even register that you’d killed her?”
His father flinched as if Dex had reached across the table and hit him. “You leave your mother out of this.”
“I’m not talking about Mom. I’m talking about you. Did you ever face the fact that you killed her? That it was your fault she died?”
“I faced everything I needed to face. I had six years to do nothing but think about it, remember?”
“Not long enough. Six years doesn’t make up for her death. Not even close.”
“No. There ain’t enough prison time in the world to make up for that.”
At first, Dex wasn’t sure he’d heard the old man right. He’d offered no excuses, shifted no blame. He sat back in his chair and watched his father through narrowed eyes.
The old man clawed a hand through his gray hair. “I only wish your precious court system had done its job.”
“There it is. The excuses. The blame shifting. For a second there I thought you might have changed. Just a little. But you’re just as pitiful as you always were. You’re just getting craftier at avoiding fault.”
“I’m not shifting blame. I’m stating fact. If the courts had put me away when they should have, I never would have been driving the car that night. And your mother would still be here.” His voice cracked. Tears pooled in his eyes. “I know it’s my fault she’s dead, Dex. It’s something I’ll never forgive myself for. I deprived you of a mother. And I deprived the world of an angel.”
Dex’s lungs ached as if he’d just had the wind knocked out of him. He tried to recover, to drag oxygen into his lungs, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but stare at his father’s face and listen.
“Your mother was the rarest of all people—a woman who loved unconditionally, who forgave without question, who lived life with grace. You and me are alike, Dex. But there’s one big difference. We both had scoundrels for old men, but my mother was little more than a whore. You lucked out. An angel raised you. And if I could wish for anything in this world besides bringing her back, I’d wish that you’d grow up to be more like her.”
Dex sat and stared, his body numb. His old man was right. Dex had spent his life trying to punish his father, to get revenge against his father with every defendant he put behind bars. And in doing so, he had forgotten totally about his mother, about the example she set, about the woman she was.
“I had a good thing with your mother, Dex. Something so good, I couldn’t let myself believe it. And I didn’t feel like I deserved it.”
He pulled his thoughts back from his mother and focused on the old man again. “You didn’t.”
A tired sigh escaped his father’s lips. “You’re right. I didn’t. Why do you think I drank?”
“I suppose you’re going to blame that on Mom or society. Anyone but you.”
He shook his head. “There you’re wrong. It was me. All me. I drank because I knew I’d let your mother down. And you. I was afraid I wasn’t enough of a man, enough of a father. And as a result, I did exactly what I was afraid of doing.”
Tightness assaulted Dex’s throat. Alyson’s words beat at the back of his mind. You have to believe you deserve happiness. You have to believe happiness is more than just a dream.
“Prison wasn’t the price I had to pay for your mother’s death. Living with what I’ve done, what I’ve lost through my own cowardice and stupidity, is the price. And it’s a price I will never finish paying until I’m buried in the ground.”
Dex ran a hand over his face and leaned back in his chair. He’d gotten things wrong. He’d gotten things all wrong.
He’d been so careful to live a good, responsible life—a life different from his father’s—and he hadn’t escaped being like his father at all. The old man was right. In the matters that really counted he fit the old man’s mold to a tee.
The disappointment, the bitterness, the judgment weren’t reality, they were a nightmare. And Alyson wasn’t a dream. She was reality. Her love. Her acceptance. The life she offered him. They were as real as the scarred wooden table in front of him. As real as his mother’s love for him. And he’d been too stupid—too cowardly—to see it.
He looked into his father’s eyes, blue like his own. “I never thought I’d thank you for anything. But I’m thanking you now.”
His father’s eyes crinkled around the corners and his mouth stretched into a tooth-baring grin. “For what?”
“For holding up that mirror and making me look.”
ALYSON WATCHED Patrick’s little chest rise and fall in perfect rhythm in the muted light coming from the closed curtains. The morning had been challenging, to say the least. Whether the baby was struggling to adjust to returning to his home and old routine or whether he was responding to the tension he could feel in his mommy was hard to say. But thankfully he was quiet for now. For now he was at peace.
Which was much more than she could say for herself.
She stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. Shutting her eyes, she pressed her fingers to her lids until color mushroomed behind them. Pain pulsed in her head like the throbbing red and blue of police lights. But that was nothing compared to the pain pulsing with each beat of her heart.
Maybe it would have been better if she had never spent the past few days with Dex. Getting to know him again. To miss him. To love him. Maybe it would have been better if they’d never made it to the brink of a new life together only to discover that nothing had changed. Maybe a host of scenarios would have made things better. But she didn’t think so.
Opening her eyes, she tiptoed down the hall and descended the stairs. She loved Dex. She had for years. And even if she hadn’t been with him the past days, sharing with him, loving him, that love would still be there. And she would feel just as alone. Just as powerless.
She padded across the foyer’s wood
floor in stockinged feet and made her way into the living room. The day was still brilliant, warm rays filtering through the sheers covering the windows like a happy glow. As if the very weather was mocking her.
She crossed the living room to the window overlooking the street and pulled aside the sheers with one hand. Two police officers sat in one of the cars parked on the street and one officer sat on a park bench on the other side of the house. She should feel safe. Secure.
Then why did she feel so vulnerable? So powerless?
She let the curtain fall across the window. She knew the answer. And she couldn’t do anything to solve the problem. Dex needed to sort through his own feelings, his own past. She couldn’t do anything to smooth his path. Or to influence him. Or to make things turn out in the end.
And that’s what scared her.
She crossed the room and lowered herself onto the couch. The cushions plumped around her, so soft, so comforting. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. If only comforting her mind was so easy. If only comforting her heart….
A sound so soft she wasn’t sure she’d heard it broke through her thoughts. The sound of a footstep.
In a house where she was supposed to be alone.
Her heart stilled in her chest. Opening her eyes, she bolted off the couch and spun in the direction of the sound.
Andrew Clarke Smythe’s hard blue eyes met her own. His fingers clutched a rag and on his belt draped a length of rope. “Hello, bitch. I’ve been waiting for this a long time. Now you’re going to pay.”
Fear clogged her throat. Shock paralyzed her limbs. She had to get away. She had to run. If she could reach the front door, the police outside would help her, save her.
Smythe moved into the room, blocking her path to the front door. “You know, I wasn’t going to hurt the kid. I’m no sicko. If you wouldn’t have screwed things up for me, I would have just left him for Nanny to raise. But you wouldn’t let me do that, would you? Well, now you’re all going to pay.” He raised the rag and smiled. Chloroform.
She glanced at the front window. Thanks to the sheers, she couldn’t see outside. And the police couldn’t see what was happening inside, either. But if she could reach the window, if she could rip the sheers aside and get the officers’ attention—
She dodged to the side and dashed in the direction of the front window.
Smythe reacted just as quickly. His footsteps thundered across the plush carpet behind her. His curse echoed in her ears.
She lunged forward, reaching for the curtain. Her fingers brushed the fabric just as a fist closed around her hair.
He yanked, pulling her backward. Away from the window. Away from help. Pain ripped her scalp. Fingers bit into her throat. And the sickly sweet rag pressed over her face.
Chapter Seventeen
Alyson held her breath and forced her muscles to go limp. Every cell in her body clamored to fight. Every instinct told her to scream. But she couldn’t fight and she couldn’t scream. That would only make Smythe close his hands around her throat as he had before. Choke her until all she could do was gasp for breath. Gasp for oxygen. But she wouldn’t get oxygen. She’d breathe in chloroform.
She had to stay awake. She had to find a way to save Patrick. To save herself. She couldn’t let him hurt her baby.
Smythe finally pulled the cloth from her mouth and tossed it on the floor. He released her, letting her fall to the carpet in a heap, like a piece of discarded trash.
Her head hit the floor hard, the soft carpet cushioning just enough to keep her from plunging into blackness. She struggled to breathe without gasping for air.
“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you, redhead bitch?” Smythe’s smooth voice took on a guttural edge. “Well, we’ll just see what you think when I’m finished with you. And we’ll see what Harrington thinks when he finds you and the kid dead.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to stop the scream building in her throat. Blood filled her mouth, its copper sweetness choking her. She had to bide her time. She had to catch Smythe off guard. It was her only chance.
He grasped the rope from his belt and tied a knot around one of her ankles. He pulled the knot tight, the rope biting into her leg. He wrenched her leg up tight behind her.
She remembered the dark lines around Connie Rasula’s wrists and ankles. Oh, God, he planned to hog-tie her. Once he did that, she would be helpless. She could do nothing but watch as he did anything he wanted to her.
Watch and wait to die.
She had to make her move. She had to find an opening, or it would be too late. She tensed her muscles, waiting for her chance.
Smythe grabbed one of her wrists and twisted it behind her back.
Pain knifed through her shoulder. She stifled a cry of pain. Dizziness swam through her head. No. She couldn’t give in to the pain. She couldn’t let herself pass out. She had to concentrate. She forced herself to focus on Smythe’s legs, his balance.
He shifted positions, stepping over her to get a better angle to tie the knot around her wrist. A knife blade flashed in his hand, poised to cut a section of rope.
Terror stabbed her. She couldn’t think about the knife. She couldn’t let herself imagine that steel blade slicing into her flesh. Into Patrick’s flesh. She had to make her move. It was her only chance. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed his ankle with her free hand and lifted with all her strength.
Caught by surprise, Smythe toppled backward. He landed hard on the floor, the thump reverberating through the house. A curse erupted from his lips.
Alyson scrambled to her feet. Smythe was between her and the window. She spun in the other direction and raced for the door, dragging the rope behind her. She had to get outside. She had to alert police. It was her only chance. To save Patrick. To save Dex. And to save herself.
Her stockinged feet skidded on the hardwood floor. She could feel Smythe climb to his feet, she could hear him thundering behind her. Growing closer. Reaching for her.
He was going to be too late.
She lunged for the door. Her fingers closed around the brass knob.
The rope yanked tight and cut into her ankle. Her foot skidded out from under her. She slammed into the closed door before crashing to the floor.
A LOUD CRASH echoed through the house, audible even above the whir of the lowering garage door. Dex’s heart stilled for a moment and then erupted in a frenzy of beats.
There could be dozens of explanations for the sound. Alyson could have dropped a pot in the kitchen or knocked over a chair—anything. But Dex didn’t think so.
Something was wrong.
He scrambled from the car and raced for the door to the kitchen. His lungs seized in his chest. Smythe couldn’t be in the house. It was impossible. The police were still out front. He couldn’t have gotten through their surveillance. Could he?
Dex burst into the kitchen. The house was still. Quiet. Leaving the door open behind him, he stole across the hardwood floor, trying to make his footsteps as silent as possible. If Smythe was in the house, he didn’t want him to know he was back. The rapist wasn’t very big, but he was strong, his body built to sinewy hardness in the prison weight room. Dex needed to get the jump on him.
Damn. If only he had his gun. If only he hadn’t left it upstairs, safely locked away. If only he hadn’t been so sure Alyson would be safe. So sure the police would protect her.
How the hell did Smythe get in the house?
A muffled gasp came from the direction of the living room.
Alyson.
Dex’s gut clenched. If the bastard had hurt her, he didn’t stand a chance. Dex would dismember him with his bare hands.
He turned the corner into the foyer. Circling the staircase, he reached the entrance to the living room.
Alyson lay on the floor. Smythe hunched over her, a rope in his hands. His full weight drove down on the knee he had planted in the center of her back.
Rage roared in Dex’s ears and flashed red in
the corners of his vision. He glanced at the front door. The police were still outside. The safest thing for him to do was to throw open the door and call them in. They had the guns and the manpower to neutralize Smythe.
He glanced back into the living room and took a step toward the door. Just then Smythe completed his knot and reached for something on his belt. Filtered sunlight glinted off a sharp, steel blade.
Dex froze. He had to take on Smythe himself. He couldn’t summon the police. If he did, Smythe would use the knife on Alyson. He’d kill her right in front of Dex’s eyes, long before the police burst through the door. Smythe would never allow himself to be captured or killed before he had his revenge.
Dex sucked in a sharp breath. He balled his hands into fists and tensed his muscles.
Dex sprang. Racing across the living room floor, he hurled himself at Smythe. He caught the rapist in the back with all his weight. Smythe careened to the floor, Dex on top of him.
Pain sliced into his thigh.
The knife.
The blade flashed in Smythe’s hand, muted with blood. Ignoring the pain in his leg, Dex grabbed for Smythe’s knife hand. His fingers closed around his muscular wrist. Grasping. Holding. Pinning his arm to the floor.
Smythe uttered a curse. He twisted and thrust backward.
Dex’s free arm skidded on the soft carpet and then crumpled.
Smythe pushed backward again, rolling Dex onto his back. He came down hard, his back to Dex’s chest, knocking the air from his lungs.
Gasping, Dex tried to focus. He had to hold Smythe’s knife arm. He couldn’t release his grip. If he did, he’d be dead.
Smythe twisted around to face Dex, struggling to wrench the knife free. He stabbed into the carpet, the blade nicking Dex’s forearm.
Dex grunted. Blood oozed down his arm.
The knife flashed again. Smythe slashing and missing.
Dex’s grip on Smythe’s knife arm slipped. He couldn’t hold on much longer. Gritting his teeth, he pounded his fist into Smythe’s face. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood from Smythe’s nose covered his knuckles, sticky and slick at the same time. But the rapist continued to struggle.
Claiming His Family Page 16
