His Child Or Hers?

“Would you like to come in?” Hank said

The woman standing on his front porch was downright gorgeous. And gorgeous women did not routinely come calling. Not to his door, at least.

“Hank Ballantyne,” she said.

He nodded. She was looking for him.

“I’m Natalie Lawson,” she went on. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. I just…where’s your little boy?”

She knew he had a son. Okay, then, she’d done some homework. “My housekeeper took him shopping.…But you aren’t here to talk about my son.”

“Actually, I am.”

“Oh?” He glanced at her briefcase, an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine. “Because…?”

Instead of replying, she opened her briefcase, pulled out a spiral-bound document and handed it to him. The title page read, “Final Report on Benjamin Lawson-Garcia.”

She bit on her lower lip for a moment before saying, “I’ve spent days trying to think of some way to lessen the shock. There isn’t one, though.…My Benjamin is your Robbie.”

Hank could feel the panic growing inside him. There was only one reason Natalie Lawson had come here. To get Robbie back!

Dear Reader,

Hank Ballantyne first appeared in my October 2000 Superromance novel, The Man Behind the Badge. He was the partner and best friend of that book’s hero, Travis Quinn, and long before I’d finished writing about Travis and Celeste, I’d grown to like Hank so much that I wanted to tell his story.

Initially, I had no idea what it was. All I really knew about him was that he was a single father with an adopted three-year-old son, Robbie, whom he adored. But what if…?

This is the magic phrase for writers. We take the little bit we know about our unwritten story and play “what if” in our heads.

In this case, it wasn’t long before an absolutely gut-wrenching “what if” occurred to me. What if Robbie’s “dead” birth mother suddenly appeared—very much alive and wanting her child back?

That’s what happens at the beginning of His Child or Hers? And it sets up a conflict that tears at all three characters’ emotions throughout the book.

I hope you enjoy reading about how they come to terms with an extremely difficult situation.

Warmest regards,

Dawn Stewardson

His Child or Hers?

Dawn Stewardson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To John, always

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With special thanks to two fellow Harlequin authors for answering numerous questions during the writing of this book:

Marisa Carroll provided the medical information I needed. Illona Haus, who writes as Morgan Hayes, was (as always) my expert on homicide detectives.

They made my research considerably easier, and I sincerely appreciate their generosity.

I also want to thank Michele Billung-Meyer, for being so in tune with the psychosocial development of children—and for sharing her sense of how Robbie and Emma would react as the story unfolded.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

NOT FAR FROM Guatemala City’s main plaza, the taxi turned down a narrow street, then stopped in front of a tired old colonial building.

Her hands trembling a little, Natalie paid the driver and climbed out. As he pulled away, she stood gazing at the words carved in stone above the doorway. Orfanato de las Hermanas de Socorro.

Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. Where her baby had spent the past four months. Being cared for by strangers.

She closed her eyes, not wanting to think about all the nights she’d lain awake in her hospital bed, the ache to hold Benjamin worse than any of the pains from her injuries.

But that was over. Now she was well enough to take him home, to what was left of the town of Villa Rosa, and start rebuilding their lives.

Lives without Carlos.

Blinking back the tears suddenly stinging her eyes, she told herself she was lucky she hadn’t lost both her husband and her son in the earthquake. And lucky she’d survived.

If there’d been no plane to transport the critically injured to the capital city, she wouldn’t be alive today.

She was, though. And she was about to reclaim her son.

Brushing her hair back from her face, she started toward the front door, her excitement tinged with a trace of apprehension that she simply hadn’t been able to shake.

From the first moment she’d been lucid enough to understand what people were saying, they’d assured her Benjamin was fine, that he’d escaped with only cuts and scrapes.

Even so, she wouldn’t entirely believe it until she saw for herself. Until she held him and hugged him. Smelled his sweet baby smell and felt the soft smoothness of his skin.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped into the orphanage. It reminded her of the ancient grade school she’d attended as a child—a worn slate floor at its entrance and, beyond that, a broad staircase consisting of half a dozen stone stairs.

In reality, of course, she was light-years away from her childhood in Michigan. She was a doctor practicing in a foreign country where people, for the most part, spoke only Spanish.

At first, that had caused her problems. But once her college Spanish had improved to reasonable fluency she’d been okay.

Her heart beating quickly, she headed up the stairs and across the hallway to what was obviously the administration area.

A young nun, wearing a long-sleeved brown dress that hung almost to her sturdy shoes, was working at the counter. She looked up as Natalie approached. “¿Puedo ayudarle?”

“Hola. Me llamo doctora Natalie Lawson. Y tengo una cita con la madre superiora.”

The young woman nodded, then turned and started in the direction of an office.

Natalie nervously licked her lips. Yesterday, when she’d phoned, she’d spoken personally to the mother superior, Madre María-Teresa—who’d been thrilled at an opportunity to practice her English. And she’d assured her that all the paperwork would be ready when she arrived. So in no time at all, Benjamin would be in her arms.

She waited, trying not to watch the clock on the wall ticking away the minutes, until an older nun finally walked out of the office and approached her, her gray habit swishing quietly with each step.

“Doctora Lawson,” she said, smiling. “Much pleasure to meet you.”

“And I’m very glad to meet you. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.”

Acknowledging the gratitude with a slight nod, the mother superior said, “One of the sisters bring Benjamin. You will sign the forms.”

“Fine.” She followed along into the office, her legs feeling only a little rubbery, and wrote her name on each line indicated with an X.

Just as she finished, there was a tap on the open door and another nun stepped into the office, a baby in her arms.

“Here he is,” the mother superior murmured.

At first, Natalie couldn’t move. She’d been waiting so long for this moment that it seemed like a dream.

It wasn’t, though. Her son was mere feet from her. She took a deep breath, then pushed herself out of her chair, crossed the room and reached for him—her heart so full of love it was threatening to overwhelm her. But then…

This baby wasn’t Benjamin.

The realization struck with a cold, dark sense of certainty. Aside from anything else, her son had a birthmark on the left side of his neck. This child didn’t.

Telling herself not to panic, that the sister had merely brought the wrong baby from his crib, she turned to Mother María-Teresa and said, “This isn’t my son.”

The woman gave an understanding smile, rose from behind her desk and walked over to them.

“It has been four months, Doctora Lawson. He has grown. But he is your son. For now, we have only one boy child this age in our care.”

Only one? Only this one? But he wasn’t Benjamin! Tentacles of fear had wrapped themselves around her so tightly that she could scarcely breathe. If her baby wasn’t here, where was he?

“And look,” the mother superior said, taking his tiny hand and fingering his identity bracelet.

Natalie stared at the name on it and numbly read, “‘B. Garcia.”’

“That is his name, sí? His father was Carlos Garcia? Archaeologist from Spain? That is in the file.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “My husband was Carlos Garcia. But this is not our son.”

CHAPTER ONE

HANK KNEW THE ASSAILANT was making his way toward the bedroom, sneaking down the hall as silently as possible.

Feigning sleep, he lay waiting. Coiled to move when the moment arrived. Listening to the whisper of fingers slowly turning the knob. A breathless sigh as the door opened across the carpet. Barely audible footsteps moving toward the bed.

Four…three…two…Now! He thrust his arm from beneath the covers and wrapped it around his son.

Robbie shrieked into his ear—one of the occupational hazards of fatherhood—then threw himself onto Hank’s chest in a fit of giggles.

Hank caught him in a bear hug.

“I almost got you!” he hollered, struggling to get free. “I almost did!”

“Uh-huh. You had me right to the last second. Then my instincts warned me someone was there.”

When Hank released his hold, Robbie scrambled around so he could sit straddling his father’s chest. “Mrs. Chevy said I should come wake you up.”

“By launching a kamikaze attack? Is that how she told you to do it?”

He nodded, looking so sincere that Hank would have believed him if he didn’t know Audrey Chevalier better.

But he could practically hear her saying, in her most grandmotherly voice, “Now, wake your father very gently, darling. You know how he likes to be a little lazy on his days off.”

And he did. Working ten days at a stretch sometimes felt as if he were working forever, but he really enjoyed having four days off between shifts. Especially when the weather cooperated, which it was doing at the moment.

The next three days promised to be just as nice as yesterday—three more spring days that were going to be gorgeous, and that he intended to spend with his son.

Except for this morning, he remembered. Audrey was taking Robbie shopping for clothes.

It was a task she’d insisted on assuming more than a year ago, after Hank had arrived home with an expensive pair of jeans that Robbie put his knees through in a week, and four designer T-shirts that came out of their first wash too small for a teddy bear.

Hank lifted his son onto the floor, then rolled out of bed, aware that if he believed in guardian angels he’d be convinced his had sent Audrey to him.

She’d spent her entire life in New Jersey, most of it right in the town of Madison, and she hadn’t wanted to leave the area after her husband died.

But she’d been both lonely and nervous on her own, so taking a job as a live-in housekeeper had been the perfect solution for her. And she’d been the perfect solution for a single father who worked irregular hours.

If she ever decided to leave…The mere possibility made him shudder.

“You’re cold, huh, Dad? You oughta get dressed.”

“Right. So why don’t you go tell Mrs. Chevalier I’ll be there in five.”

“’Kay.”

Robbie took off running, standard three-year-old speed if he was a good example.

As Hank watched him disappear, he tried to recall what life had been like without a child in the house.

He smiled to himself, thinking that it had been a whole lot quieter. And he hadn’t had to worry about tripping over toys in the dark.

But he’d never once regretted adopting Robbie. Not even during those first harrowing weeks after Jane had walked out on them. Because he’d been absolutely crazy about his son from the first moment he’d laid eyes on him.

HANK’S IMMEDIATE IMPULSE was to ignore the doorbell.

He had a section of the ceiling down in his basement office, and was wrestling with a wrench and a length of old galvanized pipe he wanted to replace before Audrey and Robbie arrived back from their shopping expedition.

If he didn’t make his deadline, Robbie would be down here helping. And that always resulted in jobs taking ten times longer.

As the bell rang again, he vaguely recalled Audrey saying something about a delivery. He hadn’t thought she’d meant today, but he decided he’d better go check things out.

Wiping his hands on his jeans, he headed up the stairs and along to the front door. A glance through its small window almost started him rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

The woman standing on his front porch had a long tangle of dark hair, a killer figure and a face that would make any red-blooded male take a lengthy second look. A lengthy third one, too.

She was downright gorgeous. And gorgeous women did not routinely come calling. Not to his door, at least.

In fact, he was positive it had never happened before. It was definitely the sort of thing he’d remember.

Opening up, he gave her a warm smile. Then his gaze involuntarily flickered to her legs—and he ordered himself to keep his eyes off them.

It might be tough to do, though, because he’d always been a leg man and hers were great.

“Hank Ballantyne?” she said.

He nodded. This was getting better by the second. She hadn’t just rung the bell because she was looking for directions or something. She was looking for him.

Of course, that briefcase she was carrying could mean trouble. She might be a lawyer or a process server—it wouldn’t be the first time one had appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe she wanted to sell him something. Or she could be some sort of scam artist.

But his instincts were telling him she wasn’t. And like most cops, his instincts about people were usually reliable.

“I’m Natalie Lawson,” she said. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

Okay, not a process server. If that was it she’d have told him straight away.

“Would you like to come in?” he said, taking a backward step.

“I…are you alone?”

He nodded again. “I’m a pretty safe risk, though. I’m a police detective. NYPD.”

“Yes. I know.”

She knew. Okay then, she’d done some homework—which got him back to thinking either lawyer or a sales pitch. But if it was the latter, wouldn’t she be acting friendly instead of looking so darned serious?

Glancing across his greening property to the Taurus parked in his driveway, he noted the Atlas Car Rentals sticker on its front bumper. Salespeople didn’t normally drive short-term rentals.

He ushered her inside and began gathering up the toy trucks that were parked all over the couch, while she stood gazing at the pictures of Robbie on the mantel.

“There,” he said. “That gives you room to sit down. Would you like coffee? Or something cold?”

“Thanks, but no. I just…where’s your little boy?”

“My housekeeper took him shopping. He outgrows his clothes awfully fast. Either that or he plays hard enough to destroy them.”

Natalie smiled. It was a great smile that made him smile back—yet he was still wondering what she was after.

As he sat down on one of the wing chairs facing the couch, she said, “He’s pretty active, then.”

The comment was almost enough to make him laugh. When he wasn’t asleep, Robbie seemed to be in perpetual motion.

“That’s a real understatement,” he said. “He gets into more…but you aren’t here to talk about my son.”

“Actually, I am.”

“Oh?” He glanced at her briefcase again, an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.

Had she come in some sort of official capacity? If so, he had no idea what it might be. But there was a simple way to find out.

“You’re here to talk about Robbie because…?”

Instead of replying, she opened the briefcase, pulled out a spiral-bound document, then leaned forward and handed it to him.

The title page read, Final Report on Benjamin Lawson-Garcia. Prepared by Rodger Spicer, Private Investigator, Licensed by the State of Michigan.

“Michigan?” He looked at her uncertainly.

“That’s not really relevant. I just hired him because he was recommended by a friend. One who lives in Detroit, which is where I grew up.”

She bit her lower lip for a moment before saying, “Look, I know what a shock this is going to be, and I’ve spent days trying to think of some way to lessen it. There isn’t one, though. Benjamin Garcia is my son, and…my Benjamin is your Robbie.”

For an endless moment Hank felt as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t think. He could only stare at Natalie Lawson while the meaning of her words sank in.

He finally managed to take a deep breath, which started his brain working properly again. After that, he only needed half a second to realize this picture was completely out of focus. And that maybe his instincts had been wrong. Maybe Natalie was a scam artist. Because she was not Robbie’s mother.

Ordering himself to deal with this calmly, he set the report down on the coffee table and said, “Both Robbie’s parents were killed in an earthquake. In Guatemala. He was just a baby at the time.”

When she didn’t reply, merely sat gazing at him, he decided that the more details she figured he knew the quicker she’d back off from whatever her game was.

“The quake left hundreds of children orphaned,” he elaborated. “And a lot of them ended up being adopted in the U.S. Robbie only remained in Guatemala for a few weeks afterward. Then he was flown here and placed with my wife and me.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “It’s all in the report. The adoptions were arranged by Worldwide Child Rescue and…” She shrugged. “But you know that as well as I do. What you don’t know is that Rodger Spicer has spent the past three years tracking Benjamin down.”

“Three years,” Hank repeated. “That’s roughly how long I’ve had Robbie. Since he was about six months old.”

“Yes, well…The Worldwide people weren’t exactly cooperative. They did everything they could to prevent Rodger from accessing their records. But child by child, court order by court order, he…”

She paused, then continued. “Some of the babies they brought here came from an orphanage in Guatemala City. And Benjamin was one of them. He shouldn’t have been, though. There was a mix-up, and…

“You see, my husband was killed in the quake, but I was only injured. And Benjamin was taken to the orphanage—to be cared for while I was hospitalized.

“Only, somehow the sisters mixed him up with another baby and turned him over to Worldwide.”

Hank could feel panic growing inside him. What if Robbie really was her son? If he was, there was only one reason she’d have come here. To get him back!

But no. That report had to be wrong.

“Look, I’m sorry you lost your child. And your husband,” he managed to say evenly. “I can only imagine what that’s put you through. But this…”

His gaze flickered to the document. “Your Rodger Spicer’s made a mistake.”

“No, he hasn’t,” she said gently. “Robbie has a birthmark on the left side of his neck, doesn’t he. Just above his shoulder. My baby had a birthmark there.”

His heart pounding, Hank glanced over at the photos on the mantel. “You saw that three minutes ago, when you were looking at those,” he said, turning back to her.

“I don’t think it shows in any of them.”

Did it?

He’d seen the pictures a thousand times, yet right this minute he was so upset he couldn’t answer his own question.

“Then you know about it from the report,” he said.

Natalie shook her head. “I’ve always known. It’s one of the identifying features I was able to tell Rodger about way back in the beginning.

“Robbie has Benjamin’s birthmark,” she reiterated quietly. “And according to his medical records he has the same blood type as my son. And—”

“Fine. Your P.I.’s poked around and come up with enough coincidences to build a case. But that’s a long way from proving—”

“Hank, it isn’t only the birthmark and the blood type and Robbie’s age. Most Guatemalans have a darker complexion than Benjamin does, and…if you read the report…There’s no mistake. I’m his mother. A simple DNA test will prove that.

“In fact, I spoke to someone at a private lab in Englewood. If you’ll agree to take Robbie there, we can both be tested and have a definitive answer within twenty-four hours.”

He pushed himself out of his chair and paced across the room—his heart pounding harder still.

Of course he’d agree. He’d take Robbie tomorrow, and hope to hell the test would prove Spicer had arrived at the wrong conclusion. But deep down his fear was telling him that wasn’t going to happen.

One by one, he scrutinized the photos on the mantel and discovered Natalie was right. The birthmark didn’t show in any of them. And if she’d actually told Spicer about it in the beginning, this was no scam. It was the real thing.

He turned and stood gazing at her. There were no striking similarities between her features and Robbie’s, but their eyes were the identical shade of brown. And something about the way she held her head…

Dammit, if she was Robbie’s mother, he was at risk of losing his child. The thought made his chest feel hollow.

“Maybe if you just looked at the report,” she murmured.

As much to give himself some breathing space as anything else, he walked back over, picked it up and began flipping through the pages.

The document was exhaustive, even contained a brief description of his house. “A comfortable, three-bedroom bungalow in a semirural area outside Madison, New Jersey,” he read before moving on to biographical information about him and Audrey.

He skimmed the summary section headed Hank Ballantyne. “Thirty-six years of age. NYPD homicide detective. Work involves rotating shifts and frequent overtime.”

He swore under his breath. That hardly made him sound like the ideal single parent.

As for Audrey…

“Live-in housekeeper. Fifty-eight years of age. Widowed. One married daughter living in Idaho.”

Hell, couldn’t Spicer at least have mentioned that she was crazy about Robbie? And that she was one of the nicest people in the state of New Jersey?

Thinking that—thanks to Rodger Spicer—Natalie knew almost as much about his adult life as he did, he moved on to the next section and discovered it discussed Jane’s leaving him. And their subsequent divorce.

He read through the overview, which contained details that had obviously come from the divorce pleadings.

Jane hadn’t been able to have a baby and had been pressing him about adoption for quite a while. Then, when they’d seen the news coverage of the earthquake, so many children suddenly needing homes had made him agree to the idea.

Once he had, with Worldwide matching prospective parents to the orphans before they even left Guatemala, getting Robbie had been a relatively quick process.

But after he was theirs, it hadn’t taken Jane long to decide that a baby wasn’t actually what she’d wanted. And she’d left mere weeks after the adoption was final.