Jesse Hawk: Brave Father - WhiteFeather Sheri

“How about a cold drink to celebrate,” he suggested. There was no turning back now. Fiona was already arranging the reception desk to her liking, her bracelets clanking in the process.

He brought her a canned iced tea and chose a soda for himself. She whipped out her fan again and drank the tea from a paper cup, fanning and sipping like an aging Southern Belle.

“So,” she said, “have you been keeping in touch with the Boyd girl? She was so lovely. Always wanted legs like that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You know damn well her daddy hated me.”

“Doesn’t mean the two of you haven’t been carrying on a secret rendezvous.”

Jesse finished his drink. “Tricia came by last week, but nothing happened.” Nothing but a kiss that had made him hungry for a thousand more. “That romance is history.”

“Well, in any case, you must be proud that she gave the boy your name. It was gossip for a long while. This county flourishes on gossip, especially tidbits concerning the rich.”

Jesse’s heart nearly stopped. “What are you talking about? What boy?”

“Oh, my.” Fiona chewed her fading lipstick line. “Oh my, oh my.” She reached for his quaking hand. “You mean after all these years, she never told you about your son?”

“Miss Boyd,” the receptionist said over the intercom, “there’s a Mr. Hawk here to see you. He—” the young woman paused and lowered her voice “—seems quite upset. He threatened to find your office himself if I don’t accommodate him. Should I call Security?”

Patricia straightened her spine, preparing for a battle Jesse would surely force her to wage. He knows, she told herself, taking a deep breath. He found out about Dillon.

“I’ll see Mr. Hawk, Susan. There’s no need for Security.”

Within seconds Patricia’s door opened, and Jesse shouldered by the receptionist. Petite and pale, Susan looked like a quivering mouse next to him, eager to escape something even more dangerous than a surly tomcat. A grizzly, Patricia decided. A grizzly with long black hair and gunmetal eyes. When in God’s name had Jesse gotten so big?

Avoiding his glare, Patricia rose and nodded to the receptionist. “Thank you, Susan. Please hold my calls.” She glanced at her watch, determined to keep her manner professional. “I’ll let you know when this meeting ends.”

The woman cast a wary glance at Jesse, who kept his stare focused on Patricia. “Yes, Miss Boyd.” She darted out the door and closed it soundly.

“Well…” Patricia smoothed her jacket. Did she look as nervous as she felt, or did her red suit boast confidence? She lifted her chin. If her designer apparel didn’t, then certainly the plush office should.

“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked, sweeping her hand toward a wet bar. “Or would you prefer something cold?” Like the frost glazing your eyes.

“Cut the crap, Tricia.”

He strode toward her, his faded denims and casual T-shirt mocking the decor. Suddenly the hours of labor spent perfecting the office seemed insignificant. He dwarfed the room and all of its high-powered pretense.

“Do you have a child?” he asked. “An eleven-year-old boy?”

She resisted the urge to remove the scarf draped around her neck. Deep, calming breaths were difficult as it was, and the flowing strip of silk felt like a noose. “Yes.”

He stepped closer. Dangerously close. “And am I his father?”

“Yes.”

“And tell me,” he said, moving closer still, “did you know you were pregnant when I left town? Did you know then that you were carrying my child?”

“Yes,” she stated once again, refusing to offer an explanation. She had begged him to come back for her. The fault was his.

He stood dead still, his metallic eyes boring into hers. “Do you know how hard it is not to hate you right now?”

“No harder than it is for me,” she shot back. Love and hate were only a fine line apart. And she had loved him once. Loved him beyond comprehension.

She wanted to scream, claw his skin and make him bleed. But instead she stood facing him as years of pain stretched between them. God help her. Jesse was back, making her insides ache all over again. Everything hurt: her lungs as they battled for air, her heart as it pumped erratic beats. Yes, she struggled not to hate him. How could she not?

“By the way,” she said, angry that he hadn’t asked, “your son’s name is Dillon.”

He flinched, and those eyes, those slate-gray eyes lightened, softening his stare. He repeated the name in a near whisper, his voice cracking. “Dillon.”