Special Forces Father - By Mallory Kane Page 0,19

there are pictures around here somewhere.”

He looked at her oddly. “You suppose?”

She shrugged, trying to think of something to say to take that odd, suspicious look off his face. Even Travis knew that a mother would have photos of her children everywhere. A part of her wanted to distract him, to stop this train of thought, but she had no idea how. So she sat there, her feet riveted to the floor. Would it make a difference if he knew? Would he be more—or less—inclined to help her?

She had no idea what the man—or boy—she’d known back in college, the enraged, scary boy who’d stormed out of her apartment and her life at the mere mention of marriage, would do. He’d been furious when she’d brought it up. He hadn’t given her even a moment to explain. She knew how badly she’d handled that conversation.

She should have started by telling him she thought she was pregnant, instead of leading with the idea of getting married. She’d known how he felt about marriage. He’d talked enough about how miserable his parents were. But she’d been so nervous and she’d blurted the first thing she could think of to say, and he’d yelled and stormed out.

It wasn’t until a week later that she’d discovered she wasn’t pregnant after all. If she’d only waited. If only she hadn’t mentioned marriage.

She waited now, wondering how he’d handle what he was destined to find out and berating herself for being a coward for not just telling him outright.

Travis stood and glanced around the living room. Kate cringed internally. The newest portrait she’d just had made was at the framers, but there was a scrapbook in the bookcase filled with photos of Max, and her bedroom was filled with framed snapshots of him.

Travis stood still, his gaze sweeping the area, then he stepped over to the shelf beside the television. Kate squeezed her eyes shut. Travis picked up the packet, shot her a glance, then lifted the flap and pulled out one.

For a long moment, he stood staring at it. Kate saw in her mind’s eye what he was seeing. She’d worn a red dress and she’d dressed Max in a red plaid shirt with a little red bow tie. The portrait was beautiful. But the most interesting thing about it was how much Max looked like his dad. He had the same dark eyes, the same slightly wavy hair, the same long dark lashes.

Travis raised his head and pinned her with his gaze. He held up the photo. It trembled in his hand. His face was drained of color except for two pink spots that stood out in his cheeks. His eyes were penetrating. If they’d been laser beams, she’d be cut in half.

“Kate?” he said, walking over and standing over her where she sat on the couch. He held up one of the photos. “When were you going to tell me that Max is my son?”

Chapter Four

“He is my son, isn’t he?” Despite the certainty in his voice, Kate could see the doubt, the questions, in his eyes.

“He is,” she said, her psychiatrist’s brain noting the defensiveness in her tone. She cleared her throat and tried to make herself talk—and think—rationally, like a physician, not like a single mom finally confronting the father of her child—his child—who’d been abducted.

“God, Kate, why didn’t you tell me?” His gaze dropped to the photo again. He stared at it for a long time.

“Tell you? Really?” she said, frustration and sarcasm winning out over rational discussion. She waited for him to answer his own question.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know. You couldn’t possibly know where I was. Hell, even if you had known, you wouldn’t have been able to reach me.” He looked up. “I thought you said he was four. It’s been five years—”

She gave a little laugh. “You have to allow nine months for the pregnancy.”

“Oh, yeah.” He looked at the photo again, then slowly, he touched the front of it with a trembling finger.

He must have felt her watching him because he turned back toward the shelf and set the packet of photos down. He started to place the snapshot he held on top of the packet, then changed his mind. He cocked his hip in a familiar way that always set her heart to racing and her insides to thrumming. Sliding his wallet out of his hip pocket, he slid the little three-by-five photo into it, then returned it to his