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  Even the idea of it cheered her up enough to have her smiling, perhaps a bit wickedly as she struck the first notes.

  It took only thirty seconds for him to pound a fist on the adjoining wall. Grinning now, she continued to play.

  He continued to pound.

  A few seconds after the pounding on the wall stopped, she heard his door slam, then the pounding started on hers.

  Taking her time, she set her bow aside, braced her instrument on the chair and went to answer.

  He looked so damn sexy when he was pissed.

  “Cut it out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Cut it out,” he repeated and gave her a little shove. “I mean it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And watch who you’re shoving.” She shoved him back, harder.

  “You know I hate when you play that.”

  “I can play my cello if I want to play my cello. It’s barely ten o’clock. It’s not bothering anyone.”

  “I don’t care what time it is, and you can play until dawn, just not that.”

  “Oh, now you’re a music critic?”

  He slammed the door at his back. “Look, you only play that Jaws theme to annoy me. You know it creeps me out.”

  “I don’t think there’s been a shark sighting in western Maryland in the last millennium. You can sleep easy.” She picked up her bow, tapped it lightly on her palm.

  His eyes were sharp and green, that handsome rawboned face livid.

  He was, she thought smugly, hers for the taking.

  “Anything else?”

  He ripped the bow out of her hand, tossed it aside.

  “Hey!”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t wrap it around your throat.”

  She leaned in, the better to snarl in his face. “Try it.”

  He slid a hand under her chin, gave her throat a quick, threatening squeeze. “I prefer my hands.”

  “You don’t scare me. You never did.”

  He hauled her up to her toes. He could smell her hair, her skin. The candle she had burning on the dresser. Lust crawled along with temper in his belly. “I can change that.”

  “You know what pisses you off, Graystone? You never could push me into doing everything your way. It burned your ass that I had a mind of my own. You couldn’t tell me what to do then, and you sure as hell can’t tell me what to do now. So take a hike.”

  “You said that to me once before. I still don’t like it. And it wasn’t your mind that burned my ass, it was your pigheaded, ego-soaked streak of pure bitchiness.”

  He caught her fist an instant before it plowed into his gut. They grappled a moment.

  Then they fell on the bed.

  She tore at his shirt, ripping cotton as she yanked it impatiently over his head. Her breath was already in rags. He rolled, tearing her shirt down the front and sending buttons spinning. Her teeth were digging into his shoulder, his hands were dragging through her hair.

  Thank God, thank God, was all she could think when he flipped her, when his body pinned hers, when his mouth rushed down to take.

  Life spurted inside her, so bright and hot she realized she’d been cold and dead. She arched against him, her mind screaming for more. And her hands streaked over him to take it.

  She knew the line of bone, the play of muscle, the shape of every scar. She knew his body as well as she knew her own. The taste of his flesh, the quick scrape of stubble when it rubbed against her.

  She knew the single, shocking thrill of him.

  He was rough. She’d flicked a switch in him—she’d always been able to—that turned the civilized to the primal. There was a craving in him now, a hunger that bordered on pain. To mate, hard and fast, maybe a little mean. He wanted to invade, to bury himself in wet heat and have her plunging under him.

  Months of separation, of denial, of need gathered together inside him like a bruise until everything hurt. Everything ached.

  She was the answer. Just as she’d always been.

  He took her breast, with hands, then with mouth. She bucked under him, levered her hand between their bodies and fought with his zipper.

  They rolled again, gasping for breath as they fought off jeans. The momentum had them pitching off the side of the bed, landing on the floor with a thud. Even as the fall jarred and dazed her, he was driving into her.

  She cried out, a short, shocked sound, and her legs wrapped around his waist like chains.

  She couldn’t speak; she couldn’t stop. Each violent thrust fired in her blood until her body was a mass of raw nerves. She clutched at him, her hips pistoning, her vision blurring.

  The orgasm seemed to tear up from her toes, ripping her to pieces on the flight through loin, heart, head. For one instant she saw his face, vivid and clear above her. His eyes were nearly black, fixed on hers with the kind of intensity that always made her feel stripped to the bone.

  Even as they glazed, as she knew he was falling out of himself, they watched her.

  She’d rolled over on her stomach and lay flat out on the floor. He lay beside her, staring up at the ceiling.

  A second-rate motel room, Jake thought, a senseless argument, mindless sex.

  Did certain patterns never change?

  This hadn’t been in his plans. All they’d accomplished was a temporary release of tension. Why was it they both seemed so willing to settle for only that?

  He’d wanted to give her more. God knew he’d wanted to try to give them both more. But maybe, when it came down to it, this was all there was between them.

  And the thought of it broke his heart.

  “Feel better now?” he asked as he sat up to reach for his jeans.

  She turned her head, looked at him with guarded eyes. “Don’t you?”

  “Sure.” He stood, hitched on his jeans. “Next time you’re in the mood for a quick fuck, just knock on the wall.” He saw emotion flicker over her face before she turned her head away again.

  “What’s this? Hurt feelings?” He heard the cruel edge in his own voice, and didn’t give a damn. “Come on, Dunbrook, let’s not pretty this up. You pushed the buttons, you got results. No harm, no foul.”

  “That’s right.” She wished for him to go. Wished for him to crouch down and scoop her up, to hold on to her. Just to hold on to her. “So we’ll both sleep better tonight.”

  “I’ve got no problem sleeping, babe. See you in the morning.”

  She waited until she heard the door close, until she heard his open next door. Shut.

  Then for the second time that day, she wept.

  Callie told herself she was steady when she took a seat in Lana’s office the next afternoon. She would do what needed to be done. This was only another step.

  “You want coffee?” Lana asked her.

  “No, thanks.” She was afraid her system would explode if she added any more caffeine. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. In fact, you don’t look like you’ve slept in a week.”

  “I had a bad night, that’s all.”

  “This is a difficult situation, for everyone. But you, most of all.”

  “I’d say it’s tougher on the Cullens.”

  “No. Tug-of-war’s harder on the rope than the people pulling it.”

  Unable to speak, Callie simply stared. Then she pressed her fingers to her lids. “Thanks. Thanks for getting it, for not just being the objective legal counsel.”

  “Callie, have you thought about counseling?”

  “I don’t need counseling.” She dropped her hands back in her lap. “I’ll be okay. Finding answers is all the therapy I need.”

  “All right.” Lana sat behind her desk. “The investigator’s found a similar pattern in Carlyle’s practice after the mid-fifties. That is, a decrease in adoption petitions after Carlyle establishes himself in an area. Yet from what we’ve gathered, it appears his income and client base increase. It’s fair to assume the main source of that income was in black-market adoptions. We
’re still working on tracking him after he left Seattle. There’s no record of him practicing law anywhere in the States after he closed his offices there. But we have found something else.”

  “Which is?”

  “His son, Richard Carlyle, who lives in Atlanta. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Isn’t that handy.”

  “My investigator reports he’s clean. Squeaky. He’s forty-eight, married, two children. He got his law degree from Harvard, graduated in the top five percent of his class. He worked as an associate for a prominent Boston firm. He met his wife through mutual friends on a visit to Atlanta. They courted long-distance for two years. When they married, he relocated to Atlanta, took a position as junior partner in another firm. He now has his own.”

  Lana set the folder aside.

  “He’s practiced in Atlanta for sixteen years, primarily in real estate. There’s nothing to indicate he lives above his means. He would have been nineteen, twenty, when you were taken. There’s no reason to believe he was involved.”

  “But he must know where his father is.”

  “The investigator’s prepared to approach him on that matter, if that’s what you want.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Her intercom buzzed. “That’s the Cullens. Are you ready?”

  Callie nodded her head.

  “If you want me to take over, at any time, if you want me to do the talking, or call for a break, you’ve only to give me a sign.”

  “Let’s just get it over with.”

  Thirteen

  It was a strange moment, seeing what would have been her family had fate taken a different turn. She wasn’t sure just what to do as they came in. Should she stand, remain in her chair? Where should she look? How should she look?

  She tried to get a bead on Jay Cullen without staring. He was wearing chinos and a shirt with tiny blue and green checks, and very old Hush Puppies. A blue tie. He looked . . . pleasant, she decided. Quietly attractive and reasonably fit, and very like the fiftyish math teacher she knew him to be.

  And if the shadows under his eyes—oh, God, her eyes—were any indication, he hadn’t been sleeping well.

  There weren’t enough chairs in Lana’s little office to accommodate everyone. For a moment—seconds, Callie supposed, though it seemed to drag out endlessly—everyone stood in awkward formality, like a posed photograph.

  Then Lana stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Cullen, Mr. Cullen. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Doug would be joining you. Let me get another chair.”

  “I’ll stand,” he told her.

  “It’s no trouble.”

  He only shook his head. There was another slice of silence, like a knife cutting through the strained pleasantries. “Sit down, Mrs. Cullen. Please. Mr. Cullen. Can I get you some coffee? Something cold?”

  “Lana.” Doug put a hand on his mother’s shoulder, turned her toward a chair. “We can’t make this normal. This is hard on everyone. Let’s just get it done.”

  “It’s a difficult situation.” And nothing she could do, Lana admitted, could make it less so. She moved back behind her desk, separating herself. She was here only as liaison, as legal assistance. As, if necessary, arbitrator. “As you know,” she began, “I’m representing Callie’s interests in the matter of her parentage. Recently, certain questions and information have come to light regarding—”

  “Lana.” Callie braced herself. “I’ll do this. The preliminary results on the tests we agreed to have taken are in. These are pretty basic. The more complex DNA studies will take considerably more time. One of the tests, standard paternity, is really a negative test. It will show if an individual isn’t the parent. That isn’t the case here.”

  She heard Suzanne’s breath catch and curled her hand tight. She had to keep level on this, logical, even practical. “The results so far give a strong probability that we’re . . . biologically related. Added to those results is the other information and the—”

  “Callie.” Doug kept his hand on Suzanne’s shoulder. He could feel her trembling under it. “Yes or no.”

  “Yes. There’s a margin for error, of course, but it’s very slight. We can’t know conclusively until we locate and question Marcus Carlyle, the lawyer who handled my adoption. But I’m sitting here looking at you, and it’s impossible to deny the physical similarities. It’s impossible to deny the timing and the circumstance. It’s impossible to deny the scientific data gathered to date.”

  “Almost twenty-nine years.” Suzanne’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, but it seemed to shake the room. “But I knew we’d find you. I knew you’d come back.”

  “I—” Haven’t come back, Callie wanted to say. But she didn’t have the heart to say the words out loud as the tears spilled down Suzanne’s cheeks.

  She got to her feet, an instinctive, almost defensive move when Suzanne leaped up. It seemed her heart and mind collided, left her with shattered pieces of both when Suzanne flung her arms around her.

  We’re the same height, Callie thought dully. Almost exactly the same. And she smelled of some breezy summer scent that didn’t suit the drama of the moment. Her hair was soft, thick, a few shades darker than her own. And her heart was hammering, hard and fast, even as she trembled.

  Through her own blurred vision, Callie saw Jay get to his feet. For an instant their eyes met and held. Then, unable to bear the storm of emotion on his face, the shine of tears in his eyes, the horrible regret, Callie closed her own.

  “I’m sorry.” She could think of nothing else to say, and didn’t know if she was speaking to Suzanne or herself. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right now.” Suzanne stroked Callie’s hair, her back. She crooned it, softly, as she might to a child. “It’s going to be all right now.”

  How? Callie fought a desperate urge to break away from the hold and run. Just keep running until she found the normal cycle of her life again.

  “Suze.” Jay touched Suzanne’s shoulder, then drew her gently away. He was there, arms ready when she turned to him.

  “Our baby, Jay. Our baby.”

  “Ssh. Don’t cry now. Let’s sit down. Here, you need to sit down.” He eased her down, then took the glass of water Lana held out to him. “Here, honey, come on, drink some water.”

  “We found Jessica.” She gripped his free hand, ignored the glass. “We found our baby. I told you. I always told you.”

  “Yes, you always told me.”

  “Mrs. Cullen, why don’t you come with me?” Lana slipped a hand under Suzanne’s arm. “You’ll want to freshen up a bit. Why don’t you come with me?” she repeated, and drew Suzanne to her feet again.

  It was, Lana thought, like picking up a doll. She hooked an arm around Suzanne’s waist, and gazed at Doug as she led Suzanne out of the room. His face was blank.

  Jay waited until the door closed, stared at it a second longer before he turned to Callie. “But we haven’t, have we?” he said quietly. “You’re not Jessica.”

  “Mr. Cullen—”

  He set the glass down. His hand was shaking. He’d spill it in a minute if he didn’t put it down. But then his hands were empty. “It doesn’t matter what the tests say. The biology doesn’t matter. You know that—I can see it on your face. You’re not ours anymore. And when she finally understands that—”

  His voice broke, and she watched him gather the strength to finish. “When she finally comes to grips with it, it’s going to be like losing you all over again.”