“What?” Kara said.
“Robert?” Margaret said, a frantic edge to her voice. “What is he saying? What does this mean?”
“My God,” Robert said, his gaze riveted on Andrew. “You’re…oh…oh…pain…I…”
Robert pressed both fists to his chest and in the next instant collapsed to the floor, knocking over his chair in the process.
It was bedlam. Margaret screamed Robert’s name and jumped to her feet as people at other tables rose and turned in the direction of the commotion. Everyone seemed to be talking at once as Margaret dropped to her knees beside her husband.
“Get out of my way,” Kara said, pushing past Andrew. “Move.”
Andrew took a step backward as people began to hurry to where Robert lay on the floor, his eyes closed. Kara knelt beside her uncle, loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. She looked up and quickly scanned the crowd of people.
“Give him air,” she yelled. “Ryan, I need help here with CPR. Forrest, call 911. Hurry up. We need an ambulance, paramedics. Tell them to contact Mercy Hospital where I’m on staff and tell those on duty in the emergency room to stand by for our arrival. I think Uncle Robert has had a heart attack!”
Hours later Andrew wandered aimlessly along a dimly lit hall in the hospital. He’d removed his tie, shoved it into his jacket pocket and opened three buttons on his shirt. A deep frown was on his face as he walked slowly, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.
A nightmare, he thought. He was in the middle of a nightmare he had created. He’d never be able to erase from his mind the image of Robert MacAllister crumpling to the floor.
What had followed was a blur, one scene slamming into the next in his mental vision.
The band had stopped playing. How strange that he should remember that. There had been no more pretty music floating through the air. Just shocked and panicked voices. People shouting. Margaret MacAllister crying. Kara MacAllister giving orders, telling everyone to move back, move back.
Kara was a doctor, that much was obvious. She’d assisted the paramedics when they’d arrived, told them what she wanted done. The guy who had helped her perform CPR on Robert—what was his name? Ryan. Yes, Ryan MacAllister. Someone had said that he was a cop.
Andrew dragged a restless hand through his hair and continued his trek.
Reporters had appeared in the ballroom at almost the same moment as the paramedics. Flashbulbs had gone off and questions had been asked of the people who were standing around with horrified expressions on their faces.
He’d kept backing up, backing up, until he’d reached the door, then hurried from the ballroom to the registration desk to ask directions to Mercy Hospital.
He’d managed to enter the hospital through a delivery door and had stayed out of view, not wishing to encounter any of the MacAllisters or the reporters. In the confusion he’d gone unnoticed, but had heard the grim bulletin that had been given to the press corps.
Robert MacAllister had suffered a severe heart attack and was being transferred to the cardiac intensive care unit.
His condition was critical.
“My God,” Andrew said aloud, his voice ragged with emotion, “what have I done?” He stopped in his tracks and swept his hands down his face.
He’d never intended to harm Robert. He’d only wanted what was rightfully due Sally Malone. He’d gone to the restaurant to confront Robert with his existence, to force the man to acknowledge that Sally had mattered, had been important.
That long-ago summer affair had taken place, and Robert would no longer be allowed to deny it, or the existence of the special and innocent young girl who had had her heart broken and her dreams shattered.
But he hadn’t achieved his goal, Andrew thought, shaking his head. Instead? Robert MacAllister lay near death a floor above this one, while his family was gathered in a waiting area, clinging to one another, seeking solace from one another, waiting to hear whether Robert MacAllister would live or die.
And if he died, it would be Andrew Malone’s fault. Robert’s own son would be guilty of killing him.
Andrew closed his eyes for a moment and drew a shuddering breath.
He felt as though he was being crushed with the weight of his guilt, with the truth of what he had caused to happen. What kind of man was he? How had it come to this?
Confronting Robert MacAllister had seemed so right, a way of getting Sally Malone the recognition she deserved after all these years. But his mother would be appalled if she knew what he had done to Robert. She would be ashamed of the actions of her son.
Andrew opened his eyes again and stared down at the floor.
His life was completely out of control. During the past few months he’d felt strange, edgy, as though something was missing from his life, but not having a clue about what it was.
He kept telling himself he had everything he wanted and needed: a hefty bank account, classy apartment, an endless string of women who asked nothing more of him than he was prepared to give. His business was thriving and he knew he was respected, known as a man of integrity.
Despite everything there was a void, an emptiness within him that was chilling. And no, damn it, he wasn’t falling prey to some midlife crisis because he was approaching his fortieth birthday. He didn’t know what was wrong, what was plaguing him, but it would pass. He hoped.
And now? On top of his inner turmoil he had just created a hefty serving of guilt to heap on the pile.
“Malone,” he said with a disgusted shake of his head, “you’re a real piece of work.”
Andrew started to walk slowly, turned a corner in the corridor, then was stopped in his tracks by a good-size wall that had glass installed from the ceiling halfway down to the floor.
The room beyond the glass was dimly lit, and Andrew stepped closer, his eyes widening as he peered into it.
Babies. A whole slew of tiny babies. As he’d traveled from one floor to the next in the hospital, using the stairs, he’d apparently ended up in the maternity wing.
What irony, he thought dryly. Here before him was life in its purest and most innocent form. And staring at these little miracles was a man who might very well have caused the death of his own father.
Andrew started to turn to leave the area when a sudden movement beyond the glass near the rear of the nursery caught his attention.
There in the shadows he could see…yes, she was definitely there. It was a woman in a rocking chair, holding a baby in her arms and feeding it a bottle. He couldn’t see her face because from the shoulders up she was cast in shadow.
She wasn’t a nurse. He could see the hospital gown she wore, but beneath it was a long dress that came to the tops of her high-heeled shoes.
Oh, man, Andrew thought, look at that. She was a mother, who had been out celebrating on New Year’s Eve, then had come to the hospital to feed her baby before going home. She was bringing in the new year with her child, who apparently hadn’t been able to be released from the hospital with its mother.
She was rocking slowly back and forth in the chair, holding that tiny infant tightly in her arms, safe from harm, as she fed it.
Andrew was unable to tear his gaze from the scene before him.
Mother and child. So beautiful together. So real, and honest, and perfect.
A foreign warmth suffused him as he stood watching the woman and child. With the strange warmth came a sense of fulfillment, of completeness, a startling realization that he had finally discovered what was missing in his life.
A wife. A soul mate. A partner. And a baby created with that woman, who would have vowed to stay by his side until death parted them.
That was what he wanted, needed, and he hadn’t even known it.
He was tired of being a solitary man who came home to an empty apartment each night, having no one to talk to, to share with, to sleep close to in his big bed.
He wanted for his own what he was seeing beyond this nursery window.
But as
the realization of his wants, his needs, really hit home, the warmth within Andrew was shoved roughly aside by a bone-deep chill.
He splayed one hand on the nursery window, feeling the hard surface, the wall that stood between him and what was within.
And the same was true of his heart. While still a teenager, he’d vowed that he would never love, never render himself vulnerable, be at the mercy of another who had the power to shatter his hopes and dreams. He would not be a victim of love as his mother had been.
If a woman he was dating began to make overtures about a permanent relationship or declared her love for him, as had happened on several occasions in the past, he ended things quickly, in a state of near panic as he registered a sense of being smothered, caught in a web he might not be able to escape.
The wall around his heart was as solid as the glass separating him from the babies, from the mother and child he could see in the shadows.
And he had no intention of lowering that wall. Not ever.
Andrew stiffened as the woman inside the nursery rose from the chair and disappeared into a deeper shadow beyond his view.
He should leave, he supposed. He had no business standing here in the middle of the night—he might frighten that mother when she came out of the nursery. But he just wanted to see her for a second, mentally thank her for revealing to him the truth about himself that he hadn’t known, the inner yearning he would now be aware of and be on even greater guard against. He would do that in his mind while he bid her a happy New Year.
He heard a door open, then close, then the click of high-heeled shoes on the tile floor. He turned in the direction the sound was coming from along the side of the nursery, prepared to greet the mother from the shadows.
Andrew’s heart thundered as Kara MacAllister came around the corner.
Chapter 2
Kara stopped so suddenly when she saw Andrew Malone standing before her that she teetered slightly, then steadied herself. She narrowed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
“I’m not following you, if that’s what is going through your mind,” Andrew said, frowning. “I was restless and went for a walk, that’s all.”
“I don’t mean here,” Kara said, flinging one hand in the direction of the nursery window. “I’m referring to your being in this hospital. How dare you come here after what you did?”
“It’s because of what I did that I’m here,” Andrew said, his voice rising. “I need to know that Robert MacAllister is going to be all right.”
“Your needs, Mr. Malone, are very low on my priority list. I want you to leave, and as you’re exiting the premises, keep your voice down if you speak to anyone. This is a hospital, you know.”
“You may be on staff at this hospital, Dr. MacAllister,” Andrew said, “but you don’t own it. You don’t have the authority to toss me out. I have every intention of staying put until Robert…” His voice trailed off.
“Until Robert what?” Kara said, shifting her hands to her hips. “Either dies or it’s determined by his doctors that he’ll live? Will that take care of your unfinished business so you can be on your way?”
“Look, I—”
“Oh, do tell me, Mr. Malone, because the suspense is more than I can bear. Which way are you voting? Do you want Uncle Robert to live? Or die? Which of those will meet your ever-so-important needs?”
“That’s enough,” Andrew said, his jaw tightening. “I never intended for anything like this to happen. How could I have known it would? I just wanted…” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’m not even going to attempt to explain it to you in the frame of mind you’re in. You hate me. That’s coming across loud and clear.”
“Hating you would take more of my emotional energy than you’re worth,” Kara said. “But I truly despise you. How could you have done such a horrible thing? It was a family celebration and…My God, Andrew Malone, you’re more of a MacAllister than I am, and you came to that party and…” She stopped speaking as her throat closed from the ache of unshed tears.
“What do you mean I’m more of a MacAllister than you are?” Andrew said.
Kara waved a hand in the air, dismissing Andrew’s question.
“I owe the MacAllisters my life,” she said. “But you’d better think about this, Malone. If what you claim is true about what happened between Robert and your mother all those years ago, you owe your life to a MacAllister, too.
“If it wasn’t for that summer you made reference to at the restaurant, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t even exist. As far as I’m concerned, that would be preferable to the person you are.”
“I—”
Tears brimmed Kara’s eyes. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to be anywhere near you after what you did to my uncle Robert tonight. You are the most despicable man I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”
As tears spilled onto Kara’s cheeks, she spun around and hurried away.
“You’re right,” Andrew said quietly as Kara disappeared from view. “Despicable? Ah, beautiful Kara, I can come up with a lot worse than that to describe me and what I did at that party.”
Andrew sighed and shook his head. He looked at the nursery window again, attempting to recapture the fleeting sense of peace he’d had, the inner warmth and completeness, but it remained beyond his emotional reach.
He started slowly down the hallway, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was, how totally drained. Entering a waiting room that beckoned with the glow of a small lamp, he slouched into a chair, rested his head on the back and stared up at the ceiling.
If only…he thought. No, forget it. There was no purpose to be served by starting an “if only” list. But damn it, if only Clara, his drunk and bitter aunt Clara, hadn’t shown up at his door with that newspaper in her hand.
He’d been sweaty, dirty and tired to the bone when Clara had arrived that night. He’d spent the day working with his men, instead of doing the suit-and-tie portion of his business, which was more the norm.
He hadn’t slept well the previous night, had once again been plagued by the sense of restlessness, emptiness, of knowing something was missing from his life but not having a clue about what it was. A day of hard labor, he decided, would give him an opportunity to blank his mind and push his body to the maximum.
He was standing in his living room with visions of a long hot shower in his head when the intercom by the door had buzzed. He strode across the room and pushed the button with more force than was necessary.
“Yes, Roger?” he said.
“Ms. Malone is here to see you, Mr. Malone.”
Ah, hell, it was Clara, Andrew remembered thinking, as his mind continued to travel back in time to that fateful night.
If Clara was using the name Ms. Malone again, it meant that her most recent divorce must be final. How many broken marriages did that make? Three? Four? Hell, he didn’t know and really didn’t give a rip.
“Tell her that I’m sorry, but I’m busy, Roger,” Andrew said.
“Yes, well…um…she’s rather…um…insistent, sir,” Roger said. “She says it’s imperative that she speak to you and won’t leave until she does, sir.”
Clara was drunk and giving Roger a hard time, Andrew thought. Damn it.
“All right,” he said with a weary and disgusted sigh. “Send her up.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” Roger said. “Thank you very much.”
Andrew mentally tracked Clara’s unsteady trek across the large lobby of the building and into the elevator. He ticked off the floors in his mind, and when he determined that Clara was now in the hallway leading to his apartment, he opened the door with every intention of not allowing her to enter his home.
Clara appeared before him and he frowned as the sickening odor of liquor reached him, along with a heavy dose of perfume.
Clara’s bleached-blond hair was perfectly coiffured, her peach-colored suit and the jew
elry she wore obviously expensive, but the class act stopped right there.
Her makeup was artfully applied, but even so wasn’t able to cover the damage caused by years of excessive drinking. She had once been a beautiful woman, but now looked haggard and much older than she actually was.
“What do you want, Clara?” Andrew said, filling the open doorway.
“Is that any way to speak to your sweet auntie?” Clara said, her speech slurred slightly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, darling?”
“No, I’m not,” Andrew said, keeping a tight rein on his rising temper. “I’ve been on the job all day and I’m headed for the shower. I’m tired and dirty, and I don’t have time to play games with you, Clara.”
“I’m not here to play games,” she said, her voice rising as she poked his chest with one manicured fingernail. “I have something to show you, and I definitely have an important announcement to make.”
“Like what? You’re getting married again? Fine. Have a nice life. Goodbye, Clara.”
“Damn you, Andrew, listen to me!” Clara shrieked. “The time has come. I’ve kept Sally’s secret all these years, but I don’t intend to be silent one second longer.” She waved a folded newspaper in the air. “This is the final insult, by God, the last slap in the face that he’s going to get away with.”
“What are you raving about?” Andrew said, frowning deeply.
“Your father! I was down in Ventura at a spa and…Damn him. Look at this newspaper, Andrew. See what your oh-so-important and filthy-rich father has that you don’t. A family! A huge, warm and loving family surrounding him. But you and I are alone.”
A sob caught in Clara’s throat.
“We’re so alone,” she went on. “So alone. It’s not fair. It’s not. He walked out on your mother when she discovered she was pregnant with his child, with you, and it’s time he paid his dues to you. And to me. No, to you, to you.”
Clara flung the newspaper to the floor of the carpeted hallway, and it opened as it landed. She pushed past Andrew and went into the apartment, weeping as she staggered forward.
The Baby Bet: His Secret Son (The Baby Bet #5) Page 2
