Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [37]
He cocked his head in a careless gesture. “Lucky for me, my father checked the boat registration, tracked it back to the man Monica borrowed it from, and figured out who the mother of his son was. But she wanted nothing to do with either of us. When she left, she desired no reminder of the year she’d spent with my father and her son. Not a pretty story, but true.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said so hotly Cece put a hand on my arm to restrain me. “You’re a liar.”
“That I am.” His open enjoyment of my outrage made me want to slap him. “But I’m not lying about this. Monica Levert is my mother. I’d say ask her, but she’ll lie. You’re left with only my word—and my total willingness to submit to a DNA test.”
Monica couldn’t answer his accusation, and I wondered if he knew this. “Eleanor has no idea you exist?”
“I doubt Monica shared that particular bit of history. At the time, I believe Eleanor was in Italy with her own sexual pursuits. They’re both narcissistic women, but of the two, I prefer Eleanor. She has more human qualities. My mother would probably have eaten me for breakfast had my father not intervened.”
“Very interesting that you turn up now, just when a valuable necklace has been stolen.” Cece joined the fray. “How long have you been in town?”
“Three weeks.”
“But you—” I started.
“I checked into the Eola yesterday. Before that…” His eyes sparked with devilment. “I had other accommodations.” He’d applied his many sexual talents and earned a place in someone’s bed. Even a fool could see that Barclay Levert, or whoever he might be, worked on women. Cece might label him a Byronic hero, but I knew him for exactly what he was—a bad boy. He exuded the charm, the heartache, the promise of “I can be fixed if only you’ll love me enough.” Total hogwash.
“Why are you here, in Natchez?” I asked.
“To claim my birthright.”
“By means fair or foul?” Cece asked.
I wanted to stomp her foot. Her phrasing was archaic, as though we lived in the nineteenth century. She was still caught up in the Heathcliff thing.
“By whatever means necessary.” His chuckle was as soft as a touch, and as intimate. “You would do the same. Both of you. The facts of my birth were beyond my control. My father would have married Monica. He loved her. When she disappeared one day without even a note, he ultimately honored her desire to be rid of us. He sought her out once and was rebuffed, and after that he never tried to involve her in our lives, never asked for help for my clothes or food or education. He was an honorable man.”
“But you are not,” I said.
“No. I am not.” He moved toward me so swiftly I didn’t have time to react. He grasped my arms and pulled me so that my face was only an inch from his lips. His very sensual lips. “I am not honorable, I am angry. Furious. My father died in pain, without medical care, because we couldn’t afford it. Monica has all the money in the world, and my father couldn’t afford good doctors.” He held me tightly and leaned so close I could feel the pressure of his words on my face. “I am angry, and I have every right to be.” He let me go so suddenly I almost fell. It was as if he’d melted my bones.
Cece’s arm wrapped around my waist to support me. “I’m sorry for all you’ve lost,” she said, “but that isn’t Monica’s responsibility. You’re a little old for child support now.”
“I’m her son. I didn’t ask to be born. What does she owe me?”
Cece sighed. “First you have to prove you’re related. DNA can do that. Have you had a test?”
The streetlight shimmered in his wavy hair as he nodded. “I don’t have any of Monica’s DNA and I don’t know how to get any.”
“A court can order a test,” Cece said.
“I hoped Monica would give it willingly. I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to ask.”
“That’s convenient,” I said as endless possibilities came to mind. Barclay’s revelations had thrown the case into a totally new light. What