“Whatever you say.” Henry’s broad face was impassive as always. Henry was as unemotional as Tyler, which was probably why they worked so well together.
Tyler crossed the room quickly, pausing to pull his camel-hair coat from the mahogany coatrack. It had been a raw, chilly March day in Baltimore, although Caldwell Cove would be something else.
Again the image shimmered in his mind like a mirage. Surf. Sand. A laughing, sun-kissed face. His wife.
They all want something. What did Miranda want?
He shoved the thought away and strode to the door. He’d deal with this, just as he dealt with any project that went wrong. Then he’d bury the memory of his first love so deeply that it would never intrude again.
The bell on the registration desk jingled impatiently. Miranda Caldwell dusted flour from her hands as she hurried from the inn’s kitchen toward the front hallway. The Dolphin Inn wasn’t expecting any new guests today, and the rest of the family had taken advantage of that fact to scatter in various directions.
She’d thought she’d have an uninterrupted half-hour to bake some molasses cookies before Sammy got home from school. It looked as if she’d been wrong.
She shoved through the swinging door to the wide hallway that housed the inn’s registration desk, along with whatever clutter of fishing poles and baseball bats her brothers had left on the wide-planked floor.
“May I help you?”
The tall stranger turned slowly. Afternoon sunlight through the front screen door lit broad shoulders, dark hair, an expensive suit that was far too formal for the island. Then he faced her, and her heart stopped entirely.
Tyler Winchester, the man she’d never expected to see again. The man who’d broken her eighteen-year-old heart when their marriage dissolved. The man who’d never known he’d fathered a son.
“Hello, Miranda. It’s been a long time.”
His voice was deeper than she remembered. More confident. Through a haze of dismay came the knowledge that Tyler didn’t sound surprised. He’d known he was going to find her here.
“Tyler.” Pain ripped through the numbness of shock when she said his name. She hadn’t said it aloud in years. How could two syllables have such power to hurt?
He lifted his brows, eyes the color of rich chocolate expressing nothing at all. “Aren’t you going to say you’re surprised to see me?”
“I…yes, of course I’m surprised.”
Tyler made no move to close the gap between them, thank goodness. If he attempted to shake hands with her, she’d probably turn to stone.
“What brings you to the island?” She managed to get the words out.
He seemed to move farther away from her, even though he didn’t actually move at all. Maybe it was just the effect of the chill in his strong-boned face.
“Not a pleasure trip,” he said crisply.
No, it wouldn’t be that. Tyler probably vacationed in the south of France. He certainly wouldn’t choose to come to Caldwell Cove after what had happened between them.
Maybe that didn’t matter to him. After all, he’d had eight years to forget his youthful indiscretion. While she’d been looking at a reminder every day in Sammy—
Sammy. She sent a frantic, fearful glance at the clock. Her son would be walking in the door from school any minute now. As soon as he heard the name, he’d know who Tyler was.
But Tyler didn’t know Sammy existed, and she had to keep it that way.
Oh, Lord, please. She sent up a fervent, desperate prayer. Help me get rid of him before Sammy gets home.
“You’re here on business, then.” She tried to sound as cool as he did, as if it were an everyday occurrence for the man who’d been her husband for one short month to walk back into her life. She moved behind the desk, putting an expanse of scarred oak between them. It wasn’t enough of a barrier, but it was all she had.
“You might say that.” Tyler leaned on the desk, the movement bringing him close enough that she caught the expensive aroma of his aftershave. “Maybe you’d better give me a room. I’ll be here at least for one night.”
Panic surged through her like a riptide. He couldn’t stay here. “No. I mean, I’m sorry.” She put both hands on the register to hide the pages. “We’re all booked up.”
His brows lifted again. “This early in the season? Try again, Miranda. I don’t buy it.”
When had Tyler become so sarcastic? That hadn’t been part of the boy she’d married.
Her heart ripped a little. She didn’t know him any longer. The boy who’d held her in his arms and promised to love her forever had turned into a man she didn’t understand at all.
He was rich, of course. Winchesters had always been rich and successful. They were filled with the arrogance that came with always getting everything they wanted just by lifting a hand.
Once what Tyler wanted was her—shy little Miranda Caldwell, an island girl who hadn’t had the least notion of the world he lived in. But that wanting hadn’t lasted long. Just long enough to make the baby he’d never known about.
She swallowed hard, trying to come up with the words that would make him go away.
“I’m sorry, Tyler.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I’m afraid we don’t have room for you. I think you should leave now.”
Some emotion she couldn’t identify chased across his face, and the skin around his eyes seemed to tighten. “Leave? After you’ve gone to so much trouble to get me here? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Get you here?” That was the last thing she’d ever do. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Tyler planted both fists on the desk, leaning so close their faces were scant inches apart. She felt the heat radiating from him—no, it was anger, so hot it threatened to singe her skin. His lips were a hard, bitter line.
“I’m talking about the little surprise package you sent me. Didn’t you think I’d come down here as soon as I received it?”
She stared at him, baffled. “I didn’t send you a package.”
With a swift movement he took something from his pocket and tossed it to the desk between them. It fluttered onto the faded red blotter. She forced frozen fingers to pick it up.
Sammy. Her stomach twisted, making her feel as she had during those months of morning sickness. Tyler had a picture of Sammy.
No. He couldn’t. Her mind moved slowly, struggling against the unthinkable reality.
With a quick, angry movement he turned it over in her hand. “Don’t forget the inscription.”
Your son.
The printed words struck her in the heart. They rang in her ears, mocking her. All these years of protecting her secret from him, only to have it blown apart by two simple words.
“Where did you get this?”
“You sent it to me.”
“No!” The word nearly leaped from her mouth. “I didn’t.”
He made a quick, chopping motion with one hand, as if cutting her away from him. “Who else? I have to warn you, Miranda. If you want child support, you’d better be prepared to prove that boy is mine.”
It took a moment for his words to penetrate, another for her brain to actually make sense of them. Then anger shot up, hot and bracing. How dare he imply she’d had someone else’s