His Woman, His Child Read Online Free PDF Page A

Hank laid his hands flat on the table, palms down. And every time he told me how wonderful you were, I wanted you all the more.
    "I loved him," Susan said, her voice soft and low.
    "I'm sure you did. And you must know how much he loved you."
    "I tried to be a good wife to him."
    "You were."
    "He wanted to be a perfect husband," she said. "It almost killed him when the doctors told us that he could never … that he was sterile."
    "He wanted to give you a child. That's why he came to me."
    Susan lifted her head and looked Hank directly in the eye. "You aren't going to tell anyone that my baby isn't Lowell's, are you?"
    "You don't want anyone to know the child is mine, do you?"
    She shook her head. "No. What would people around here think if they knew? As Lowell's friend, you and I can have a friendly relationship and you can be my child's favorite Uncle Hank. But if people knew you were my baby's father, they'd watch us and judge us and—"
    "I'm going to tell Caleb," he said. "No one else."
    "Promise?"
    It took a great deal of strength not to reach across the table and grab her small, delicate hands, but Hank resisted the almost overwhelming urge.
    "Susan, why are you so afraid of me? Don't you know that I'd never hurt you?" Every time she looked at him, he saw the fear in her eyes. Was there something more to her fear than not wanting anyone to know the truth about their child? If so, what was it?
    "But you could hurt me," she said, gazing into her lap, letting her long lashes shade her eyes. "If you don't keep my secret … our secret. Yours and mine and Lowell's."
    "I want to tell my brother, but I promise no one else will know."
    Susan gulped in a large swallow of air and nodded her head affirmatively. "All right. Tell Caleb. Sheila has been my one confidante, so …"
    "This isn't what I wanted, either." Hank shoved the untouched mug of coffee away from him, scooted back his chair and stood. "I never planned on being a father. The last thing I need in my life is a child. The plan was for that baby—" he glanced at her stomach "—to be Lowell's and yours. Not mine."
    "I haven't asked you to take responsibility for this child," she told him, her cheeks flushed with emotion. "I don't expect you to be a father to—"
    Hank slammed his fist into the palm of his hand, creating a loud smack. Susan jumped.
    "Dammit, don't you see? Without Lowell around, that kid isn't going to have a father unless I step in and do the right thing."
    "And just what is the 'right thing,' Hank?" She watched him pace the floor in her kitchen, his big, lean body stalking back and forth like an animal trying to escape a captor's trap. And that had to be the way he saw her and her baby— a threat to his much-loved freedom.
    "I don't know."
    Yes, you do, some inner voice urged.
    The right thing to do would be to marry Susan and for the two of them to raise their child in a family unit. But heaven help him, he wasn't willing to put his head in that particular noose—no matter how desirable he found Susan or how determined he was to not abandon his child.
    "The right thing is for me to do what I can to take care of you while you're pregnant and then to take financial responsibility for my child."
    "I see." Susan eased back her chair, stood and faced Hank. "You've undoubtedly given this a great deal of thought."
    "Look at it from a logical standpoint. You're a pregnant widow, without parents or brothers and sisters to help you. As Lowell's best friend, no one is going to think it odd that I've elected myself as your guardian or the child's godfather."
    "Yes, you're right, of course. And I know I should be grateful that you're willing to give up a year of your life, to take a leave of absence from the FBI and—"
    "I don't want your gratitude," he told her. "I want your cooperation."
    He infuriated her with his cool logic. So calm and controlled. So unemotional. She was sure he hadn't shed one single tear for Lowell. Hank wasn't the kind of man who cried.