Dad by Default

Chapter Four

After dinner, as he drove toward the motel where he’d arranged to meet the mysterious caller, Connor replayed what had happened between him and Yvonne.

With her creamy skin and expressive face, he was now certain she would make a superb model. He’d become so fascinated that admiration had shifted into fierce arousal. And she’d noticed.

He had to be careful. That sort of involvement was highly inappropriate.

The problem was that she’d surprised him in the midst of painting. Normally, he only indulged his creative side when free from observation—or, he supposed, temptation. Like the Mr. Hyde who had dwelled in a secret compartment of Dr. Jekyll’s brain, the artist persona defied rational behavior.

Upon snapping out of his daze, Connor had overreacted by blurting a remark about adoption. Although in his opinion it was the best course for most single mothers, he’d deserved the rebuke.

While he regretted giving offense, Connor wasn’t sorry about putting distance between Yvonne and himself. He only wished he’d pulled away sooner.

He’d have to use caution during the next month. Keep the attic door locked. Put on his mental armor before he ventured to the kitchen.

He felt like a teenager again, and not in a good way.

In those days, he’d confined his efforts to sketchbooks and watercolors, hiding them in a drawer whenever Dad came home. His stepmother, Louise, a self-effacing woman who seemed dazzled by her luck in marrying the great Harmon Hardison, M.D., had left Connor alone. In retrospect, he presumed he’d intimidated her.

Too bad he didn’t have that effect on Yvonne.

Yet she’d praised his work. She’d brought up the subject of models as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What harm would it have done if he’d gone ahead and asked her?

No. Bad idea.

Connor had learned the hard way that his instincts could carry him off the deep end. He had a weakness for unpredictable—his father would say unstable—women.

That notion brought him back to the man he was about to meet, a fellow named Sam Delaney. He’d conveyed the sad news of Barbara Kinsey’s death and, oddly, had mentioned a legacy.

Barb Kinsey wasn’t the sort of person who left a legacy. Debts, more likely.

Connor and Barb had shared a brief, tempestuous affair in Nashville after his divorce had become final. His next-door neighbor in a small apartment building, she’d worked at a dress shop and spent her free time partying.

At her invitation, he’d dropped by a gathering, sampled the snacks and enjoyed her sharp sense of humor. On impulse, he’d invited her to go dancing at a country-music club. That evening, he’d rediscovered the sense of freedom he’d misplaced during a marriage burdened by his-and-hers grueling schedules.

Lovemaking had been frequent and exciting. At first, he’d relished the spontaneity and sense of fun. He hadn’t counted on Barb’s expectation that he’d spend every spare moment accompanying her to events or simply hanging out. He’d had to put aside his painting. When he began showing up at the hospital with bags under his eyes, he’d realized the situation had to change.

Connor had suggested putting on the brakes. He must have come across as critical or rejecting to Barb, who’d responded with anger. After a few days of alternate pouting and demands, she’d shut him out completely.

He’d e-mailed, suggesting they meet to discuss their differences. She’d sent a message in return that she planned to move to Atlanta. She’d cleaned out her apartment that same afternoon and departed before he’d had a chance to say goodbye.

Abandonment. Betrayal. He’d endured it before, on a far larger scale, when his mother had disappeared.

Connor didn’t try to chase after Barb. They’d been a mismatch from the start, he’d realized, and he tried to take comfort in discovering their incompatibility before the relationship went any further.

He’d heard nothing more until today. The news that Barb had died in a traffic accident saddened him. Despite their differences, he remembered her fondly.

That didn’t change his uncertainty about why this stranger had insisted on meeting in person. He hoped the man wasn’t going to request money on some pretext. Actually, Sam had come across as a guy performing an unpleasant duty, which was why Connor had agreed to see him.

Spotting the Landlocked Mariner restaurant, Connor hit his turn signal. Either the adjacent inn bore the same name or it was simply called Motel, because that was all the sign said.

In the lingering twilight, he noticed a man in a black jacket, hair skinned into a ponytail, leaning against a post in front of the office. Feeling overdressed in a suit, Connor halted next to a pickup. The contrast between his sleek, color-shifting dark red sedan and the rust-streaked green truck made his car seem overdressed, too.

The man’s boots scuffed across the blacktop. “Dr. Hardison? Sam Delaney.” Above the scraggly beard, several recent scars showed on his cheeks and forehead.

They shook hands. “What’s this about?”

“It’s gonna take some explaining.” On the highway, a truck roared by. “It’s kinda loud. Let’s go inside.”

Connor tensed. If this fellow meant to get him alone in a motel room, it might indicate a shakedown.

Instead, however, Delaney ambled toward the restaurant. That seemed safe enough.

Inside, a large central aquarium dominated the entrance-way. Beyond, in the main dining room, stuffed fish and tackle on the walls portrayed the marine theme. They veered right into the nearly empty bar, where they took a small table. Sam ordered beer, while Connor chose coffee.

Since the other man made no effort to begin, he primed the pump with a question. “Barb died in a car crash?”

Finishing a deep swallow, Sam wiped his upper lip with a sleeve. “Motorcycle.”

That might explain the scars. “She was riding with you?”

“I was riding with her, matter of fact. Car came outta nowhere. She swerved, we hit a ditch, and wham.”

“How long ago?”

“’Bout a month.”

A few more questions elicited the information that the couple had lived together for three years in Atlanta, where Delaney worked as a mechanic. Gradually, he grew more talkative.

“I told her she ought to call you. She wasn’t that kind of person, though. Too independent. I guess you figured that out.”

“She ought to have called me about what?”

“That’s the thing.” Sam scooped a pretzel from a plastic basket on the table and popped it into his mouth.

Why didn’t the man stop beating around the bush? “You mentioned a legacy.”

“Yeah. See…” Sam chewed and swallowed. “His name’s Mike.”

Connor was losing patience. “Whose name is Mike?”

“Your son.” A mouthful of pretzels cut off further discussion.

Connor’s ears rang. Your son.

Impossible. He had no children. “I don’t know what she told you, but I’m afraid you’ve been misled.”

From inside his jacket, Sam produced a wrinkled document, which he handed to Connor. It was a certified birth certificate from Fulton County, Georgia.

A boy named Michael Hardison had been born to Barbara Kinsey in September, nearly five years ago. That would be seven months after she left Nashville.

Connor was listed as the father. Plus, she’d given the child his last name.

Still, it was unthinkable. Kids didn’t appear out of nowhere, especially not in Connor’s well-ordered life.

A DNA test ought to clear this up.

He folded the document and pocketed it. “Where is the boy? With his grandparents?” Barb’s mother resided in New Orleans, he recalled.

Sam took another swig of beer to wash down the pretzel binge. “I called the old lady, believe me. Paulette’s watched the boy before, but she didn’t want the responsibility. Got some new boyfriend and no job. Barb tell you she grew up bouncing between her mom and her two aunts?”

Now that he mentioned it, yes, she had. Obviously, Mrs. Kinsey—or whatever name she used—wasn’t suitable to raise a child.

“He must have other family.” Connor gathered that the man expected him to handle some legalities. “Am I supposed to sign papers?”

“You do whatever you think best, Doc.” Sam sat back, apparently relieved now that he’d unloaded his news. “You married?”

“No, I’m not.”

“That makes it easier. Might be tough explaining to a wife about bringing home a son.”

Bringing home? The man expected Connor to…

For a few heartbeats, his mind refused to function. He’d organized his life carefully. This couldn’t be true.

During his few affairs, Connor had always protected himself and his lover. He was, after all, a doctor

Except for a few occasions with Barb, added an inner voice. During a picnic at the lake, they’d rowed a boat into a secluded inlet and made love. Also, once in his car, she’d tempted him into a tryst that might have landed them both in jail had they been caught.

He must have been out of his mind.

“I guess this comes as a shock, huh?” Delaney made a sympathetic noise. “Believe me, I like the kid. I’d keep Mike myself, but the social workers wouldn’t let me. They wanted me to hand him over like he was public property, which is why I hightailed it up here.”

Social workers getting their hands on Connor’s son? That didn’t compute. “Where is he now?”

“Right over at the motel.”

Reality hit with a clunk. “You left a four-year-old alone?”

“He’s watching TV. Can’t get into no trouble that way, right?”

The physician side of Connor sprang into action. He had to assume charge until a suitable home could be found for Barb’s little boy, whoever the father turned out to be. “We’re going there. Now!”

Delaney finished his beer while Connor settled the bill.

At the motel, a key admitted them to room 12. A cartoon blared in the darkened chamber. Connor made out a small shape on the bed, watching.

When Sam switched on the light, the child buried his face in his arms. “Ow!”

“Hey, cowboy.” Snaring the remote, the mechanic muted the TV.

“Don’t call me a cowboy. I’m Biker Mike.” Indeed, the boy wore a black leather jacket just like Sam’s.

Finally, the kid lifted his face. When Connor got a good look, recognition jolted through him.

The freckled cheeks and snub nose could have belonged to his brother, Ryan, as a child. Both had the same slightly pointed chin and springy hair with a cowlick, too, except that instead of dark brown the color was chestnut, like Barb’s.

The smoky gray eyes matched Connor’s.

Biker Mike didn’t require a DNA test. The boy’s appearance, coupled with the birth certificate, erased all doubt of his paternity.

Connor had a son.

“Can we go home now?” Mike begged.

The pleading nearly made Connor say yes, until he realized the request was aimed at the other man. Home meant Atlanta.

Delaney changed the channel to a boxing match, still without sound. “I guess I shoulda explained why we came here.”

Mike had no idea what was going on? Oh, great.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell him.” Connor hated to rebuke Sam, who appeared to be doing his best under difficult circumstances. Still, after three years as the boy’s unofficial stepfather, he ought to have developed some sensitivity.

“Sorry.” The man regarded him hopefully. “Go ahead, Doc. You tell him.”

In his practice, Connor often had to give people painful news. He devoted as much time as they required to listening and answering questions, and made referrals as indicated.

Tonight, nobody wanted Dr. Hardison’s professional wisdom. As for handling the fallout, he was on his own. No guidelines, no referrals.

He sat on the bed. “My name’s Connor.”

Mike glared. “Are you a social worker?”

“No, I’m a doctor.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Good. Then I won’t have to give you a shot.” Reminded of an important point, Connor addressed Sam. “Did you bring his medical records?”

“Yeah, everything’s in there.” The man indicated a large duffel bag.

The luggage struck Connor as the type bikers used. “You didn’t…” Although it was too late to make a difference, he cared about the answer. “Tell me you didn’t bring him from Atlanta on a motorcycle.”

“Vroom! Vroom!” Mike twisted a pair of invisible handle-bars.

“No, it got totaled. I borrowed that truck you parked next to.” Delaney clicked off the TV. “Hey, Biker? Connor’s a good guy. He’s, uh, he’s your real dad, so go easy on him, okay?”

A part of Connor wanted to deny the relationship. It still didn’t seem real, and obviously, he couldn’t raise the child. No sense in building up an attachment—or arousing antagonism—for a temporary situation.

On the other hand, the truth was the truth.

“Sorry, Mike. You’re stuck with me.” He braced for the reaction.

“Papa Sam!” Scuttling across the bed, the boy flung his small body at the man who’d brought him. “I’ll carry out the trash every day, I promise. I won’t watch cartoons when you’re hung over, either. Please, let’s go home!”

Connor’s heart ached. The little guy had lost his mother and now he was losing his father figure. Under other circumstances, trying to keep them together might almost have been worth it.

Except…the man had left a preschooler unsupervised in a motel room. He also apparently drank a lot.

“Sorry. Can’t do it.” Delaney hugged the boy. “You’re lucky. I never met my real father. Your dad’s one terrific guy. You’ll see.”

The vote of confidence gave Connor a guilty pang. He wondered if Yvonne had felt as blindsided by her pregnancy as he did by this discovery. At least she’d had a few months warning before someone had laid a child in her arms.

Right now, he had to comfort a little boy on the brink of tears. Connor crouched beside him. “You’ll like my big old house.”

“Yeah, doctors have big houses.” Sam’s words carried a note of envy.

“Actually, I rent the top floor,” Connor admitted. “My landlord’s a funny old guy, and I work across the street.”

Mike chewed on his lip.

What else could he offer by way of inducement? He remembered the playroom. “We’ve got an electric train and a bunch of other toys.”

“How about a motorbike?”

“Afraid not. Just a car.” Searching for another inducement, he said, “I’ve got a whole drawer full of suckers in my office, all flavors. What’s your favorite?”

“Licorice.” Mike eyed him dubiously.

Connor was losing on all counts. “I meant fruit flavors, but I’ll buy you licorice at the store. What else do you eat?”

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

“We can do that.” Clearly, he needed more bargaining chips. “I’ve got a TV and a computer. A DVD player, too.”

The boy folded his arms. “Sam, tell him to blow it out his ear.”

Delaney made a clucking noise. “Bad attitude, fella.”

Connor decided to drop the buddy-buddy stuff. It wasn’t working anyway. “I’m afraid we don’t have a choice, Mike. Sometimes things happen that even grown-ups can’t change.”

“Yeah,” Sam seconded. “Since I’m not really your dad, those social workers would snatch you away and put me in jail if I tried to keep you. No kidding. Dr. Hardison’s doing us a favor.”

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