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Authors: Delores Fossen
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light-headed. Actually, he began to get downright dizzy. Since collapsing would put a serious dent in the stalwart, rock-hard image he wanted to portray, he drew in a long breath.
And he waited.
Simply put, it was entirely possible that Delaney held his futureâand his heartâin her hands.
He could probably force her to have the test done. Probably. Getting a court order would be time-consuming and tricky, but he could use his team of highly paid lawyers to cut through the layers of red tape. But the lawyers and a court order would no doubt end the semiamicable bonds that Delaney and he had forged while fighting their way out of the irrigation ditch.
At least, Ryan hoped there were bonds, because he needed something, anything, to gain her cooperation. And her trust.
He didnât want to wait weeks for a court order and weeks beyond that for her to comply. Even if all of this was a long shot. And it was a long shot, Ryan reminded himselfâagain. Too bad his heart had latched on to that remote possibility and wouldnât let go.
He had to know if Patrick Nash was his son.
âI need to sit down,â Delaney said, a second before she dropped down into a bulky armchair in the living room.
The chair had a cheery floral pattern with various shades of blue and green. For that matter, everything he could see about the house was cheery, even though the single-story residence was modest by anyoneâs standards.
âI thought about calling you first,â Ryan said. He followed her and sat on the sofa directly across from her. The only thing that separated them was a coffee table covered not with knickknacks and magazines but with a pale blue blanket, a floppy-looking teddy bear and a pair of babyâs socks made to look like running shoes. âMaybe then the DNA request wouldnât be such a shock.â
âIt would have still been a shock,â Delaney quickly let him know.
She was right. This was not a blow he could have softened with a phone call or with chitchat about her lost ring and his antique pocket watch. Besides, if heâd alerted her to what he wanted, she might have grabbed Patrick and gone on the run.
He couldnât risk that.
âWe have to know,â Ryan added, praying sheâd agree. Unfortunately, her curiosity was probably overshadowed by her fear of where all of this might lead.
âDo we?â But Delaney immediately waved away her own question because she knew the answer. What she couldnât wave off was the pain all of this was causing her.
Ryan understood that.
Even now, nearly forty-eight hours after her visit to the estate, he was still debating if he should ask her to submit her son to the DNA test heâd brought with him. But, heaven help him, he didnât see another way around the problem of not knowing.
Delaney closed her eyes, lowered her head and tucked her feet beneath her. Practically a fetal position. She didnât even attempt polite conversation, which was just as well. They were past that stage.
Ryan sat there, waiting and watching her as she went through her own personal version of hell. In fact, he couldnât take his eyes off her.
Like the night of her visit, she didnât have on a business suit. She was barefoot. Her toes were painted flamingo pink. She wore denim shorts that revealed a nice pair of shapely legs and a snug little stretchy top the color of a ripe mango. It outlined her breasts.
Of course, he shouldnât have even noticed that.
Ryan leaned in closer and fought the urge to reach for herânot because of the sexual energy sizzling between them but because he desperately wanted to comfort her.
An impossible task.
Especially coming from him.
That didnât stop his hand from moving closer, reaching out, until he slid his fingers over hers.
Her eyelids flew up. She was obviously startled. Her accusing gaze slashed to his. Ryan didnât move back. He kept his hand in place. Probably
And he waited.
Simply put, it was entirely possible that Delaney held his futureâand his heartâin her hands.
He could probably force her to have the test done. Probably. Getting a court order would be time-consuming and tricky, but he could use his team of highly paid lawyers to cut through the layers of red tape. But the lawyers and a court order would no doubt end the semiamicable bonds that Delaney and he had forged while fighting their way out of the irrigation ditch.
At least, Ryan hoped there were bonds, because he needed something, anything, to gain her cooperation. And her trust.
He didnât want to wait weeks for a court order and weeks beyond that for her to comply. Even if all of this was a long shot. And it was a long shot, Ryan reminded himselfâagain. Too bad his heart had latched on to that remote possibility and wouldnât let go.
He had to know if Patrick Nash was his son.
âI need to sit down,â Delaney said, a second before she dropped down into a bulky armchair in the living room.
The chair had a cheery floral pattern with various shades of blue and green. For that matter, everything he could see about the house was cheery, even though the single-story residence was modest by anyoneâs standards.
âI thought about calling you first,â Ryan said. He followed her and sat on the sofa directly across from her. The only thing that separated them was a coffee table covered not with knickknacks and magazines but with a pale blue blanket, a floppy-looking teddy bear and a pair of babyâs socks made to look like running shoes. âMaybe then the DNA request wouldnât be such a shock.â
âIt would have still been a shock,â Delaney quickly let him know.
She was right. This was not a blow he could have softened with a phone call or with chitchat about her lost ring and his antique pocket watch. Besides, if heâd alerted her to what he wanted, she might have grabbed Patrick and gone on the run.
He couldnât risk that.
âWe have to know,â Ryan added, praying sheâd agree. Unfortunately, her curiosity was probably overshadowed by her fear of where all of this might lead.
âDo we?â But Delaney immediately waved away her own question because she knew the answer. What she couldnât wave off was the pain all of this was causing her.
Ryan understood that.
Even now, nearly forty-eight hours after her visit to the estate, he was still debating if he should ask her to submit her son to the DNA test heâd brought with him. But, heaven help him, he didnât see another way around the problem of not knowing.
Delaney closed her eyes, lowered her head and tucked her feet beneath her. Practically a fetal position. She didnât even attempt polite conversation, which was just as well. They were past that stage.
Ryan sat there, waiting and watching her as she went through her own personal version of hell. In fact, he couldnât take his eyes off her.
Like the night of her visit, she didnât have on a business suit. She was barefoot. Her toes were painted flamingo pink. She wore denim shorts that revealed a nice pair of shapely legs and a snug little stretchy top the color of a ripe mango. It outlined her breasts.
Of course, he shouldnât have even noticed that.
Ryan leaned in closer and fought the urge to reach for herânot because of the sexual energy sizzling between them but because he desperately wanted to comfort her.
An impossible task.
Especially coming from him.
That didnât stop his hand from moving closer, reaching out, until he slid his fingers over hers.
Her eyelids flew up. She was obviously startled. Her accusing gaze slashed to his. Ryan didnât move back. He kept his hand in place. Probably
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