As if hearing her name, Emilie chose that moment to burst into wails. She stiffened, thrusting herself backward in the stroller.
Anne bent over her. “Hush, sweetheart.” She lifted the baby, standing to hold her on one hip. “There, it’s all right.” She bounced her gently. “Don’t cry.”
The wail turned to a whimper, and Anne dropped a kiss on Emilie’s fine, silky hair. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought the baby with her, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being away from her in this crisis.
The whimpers eased, and Emilie thrust her fingers into her mouth. Anne looked at the man on the other side of the desk, searching vainly for any resemblance to her daughter.
“I didn’t put that well.” She cradled the baby against her. “I’m not Emilie’s birth mother. I’m her foster mother. I’m trying to adopt her.”
Donovan shot out of the chair, as if he couldn’t be still any longer. He leaned forward, hands planted on the desk.
“Why did you come in here with an accusation like that? What proof do you have?”
“I have the birth mother’s statement.”
That had to rock him, yet his expression didn’t change. “Where is she? Let her make her accusations to my face.”
“She can’t.” Anne’s arms tightened protectively around the baby, knowing this was the weakest link in her case, the point at which she was most vulnerable. And Donovan was definitely a man who’d zero in on any vulnerability. “She’s dead.”
Mitch stared at the woman for a long moment, anger simmering behind the impassive mask he kept in place by sheer force of will. What game was this woman playing? Was this some kind of setup?
“What do you want?”
The abrupt question seemed to throw her. She cradled the baby against her body as if she needed to protect it.
From him. The realization pierced his anger. Protecting was his job, had been since the moment he put on a shield. Assist, protect, defend—the military police code. Nobody needed protecting from him, not unless they’d broken the law.
“You admit it, then? That you’re Emilie’s father?”
He leaned toward her, resisting the urge to charge around the desk. It was better, much better, to keep the barricade between them.
“I’m not admitting a thing. I want to know what brought you here. Or who.”
Something that might have been hope died in her deep-blue eyes. “I told you. The baby’s mother said you were the father.”
“You also told me she’s dead. That makes it pretty convenient to come here with this trumped-up claim.”
“Trumped up?” Anger crackled around her. “I certainly didn’t make this up. Why would I?”
“You tell me.” It was astonishing that his voice was so calm, given the way his mind darted this way and that, trying to make sense of this.
One thing he was sure of—the baby wasn’t his. His jaw tightened until it felt about to break. He’d decided a long time ago he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood, and he didn’t take chances.
“That’s ridiculous.” Even her hair seemed to spark with anger, as if touching it might shock him. “I came here because I know you’re Emilie’s father.”
His life practically flashed before his eyes as she repeated those words. Everything he’d worked for, the respect he’d enjoyed in the two years since his return—all of it would vanish when her accusation exploded. If the story got out, it wouldn’t matter that it wasn’t true. By the time it had spread up one side of Main Street and down the other, all the denials in the world wouldn’t make it go away.
Those Donovans have always been trouble, that’s what people would say. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“You’re wrong,” he said flatly. “I don’t know who that child’s parents are, but you’re not going to get anything out of claiming I’m her father except to cause me a lot of grief.”
The idea startled her—he could see it in her eyes. “I didn’t come here to create a scandal.” She stroked the baby’s back, her mouth suddenly vulnerable as she looked at the child.
“Good.” He almost believed she meant it, and the thought cut through his anger to some rational part of his mind. He had to start thinking, not reacting. He went around the desk and leaned against it, trying for an ease he didn’t feel. “Then why did you come?”
She thought he was capitulating, he could tell. A smile lit her face that almost took his breath away. A man would do a lot for a smile like that.
“All I want is your signature on a parental rights termination so the adoption can go through. Once I have that, Emilie and I will walk out of your life for good.”
“That’s all?”
She nodded. “You’ll never see us again.”
“And if I don’t sign?”
Her arms tightened around the baby. “I’ve taken care of Emilie since the day she was born. Her mother wanted me to adopt her. Why would you want to stand in the way?”
They were right where they’d started, and she wouldn’t like his answer.
“I don’t.” He leaned forward, bridged the gap between them and touched the baby’s cheek. It earned him a smile. “She’s a cute kid. But she’s not mine.”
She turned away abruptly, bending to slide the baby into the stroller. Emilie fussed for an instant, until Anne put a stuffed toy in front of her.
When she straightened, her eyes were chips of blue ice. “I’m not trying to trap you into anything.”
“I’d like to believe that, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m still not her father.”
She gave an impatient shrug. “I’ve told you the mother named you.”
“You haven’t even told me who she is. Or how you fit into this story.” He was finally starting to think like a cop. It was about time. “Look.” He tried to find the words that would gain him some cooperation. “I believe I’m not this child’s father. You believe I am. Seems to me, two reasonable adults can sit down and get everything out in the open. How do you expect me to react when an accusation like this comes out of nowhere?”
He could see her assess his words from every angle.
“All right,” she said finally. “You know what my interest is. I want to adopt Emilie.”
There had to be a lot more to the story than that, but he’d settle for the bare bones at the moment. “And the mother? Who was she? What happened to her?”
He gripped the edge of the desk behind him. He probably shouldn’t fire questions at her, but he couldn’t help it.
She frowned. Maybe she was editing her words. “Her mother’s name was Tina Mallory. Now do you remember her?”
The name landed unpleasantly between them. Tina Mallory. He wanted to be able to say he’d never heard of her, but he couldn’t, because the name echoed with some faint familiarity. He’d heard it before, but where? And how much of his sense of recognition did Anne Morden guess?
“How am I supposed to have known her?”
“She lived here in Bedford Creek at one time.”
In Bedford Creek. If she’d lived here, why didn’t he remember her? “I’m afraid it still doesn’t ring any bells.”
That was only half-right. It rang a bell; he just didn’t know why.
“Doesn’t the police