“Oh, Shaw dear, you look…”
“I know, Sister,” I say when she trails off and grabs my hand to drag me into her office.
“What’s going on and don’t even mention that mother of yours because I’m a nun and I’d hate to blow my shot at the Pearly Gates for that…specimen,” she spits out, throwing a towel around my wet shoulders and bustling to her sideboard to get me a Styrofoam cup filled with weak, hot tea.
“I did something really stupid, Sister. Like brain dead stupid. And now…I lost my job and my apartment and Mom kicked me out when she found out about…” I close my eyes and bite my lip. “I’m pregnant.”
“Don’t cry. Please. Or I’ll drop this habit and go find your mother.”
That makes me laugh, and I grin at her scowl around the rim of the cup.
Sister Fran is one tough-talking, straight-shooting bride of the Church, and for some reason, she took a shine to Alec and I the few times we’d come to church.
I’m not even Catholic, so you can understand how much this nun must like me to even consider me a good bet. A lot of Catholics think the rest of us are going to Hell just on principal, but to hear Sister Fran talk, a lot of her own flock is headed for the hellfire.
At any rate, she’s my last hope.
“Is there any room here at the shelter? I have some money, but nothing that’ll last me more than a few weeks if I’m frugal and…I need some time to track down the father, so I can’t start working just yet.”
“I can give you a month before the new rotation starts. The program requires all of the women to make an effort to find employment and housing, but I can give you some work right here in my office while you’re trying to look for the man.”
I thank her and finish my tea while she teaches me how to curse like a God-fearing nun. She’s creative about it, I’ll give her that, but nothing replaces a good “Fuck you!” or my personal favorite “Go fuck yourself!”—and that’s exactly what I’m planning to say to Robert when I finally find that bastard.
Chapter Two
Cam
I’ve had about three hours’ worth of sleep in as many days, and I’m still nowhere near my goal when the jet finally touches down at the private airstrip near New York City.
I’m pissed off and ready to start nailing heads to the wall by the time I disembark and the car takes off, getting ever closer to my destination.
I don’t want to do this, not now when the pain and loss is so fresh, but I’d seen Mum crying for the umpteenth time yesterday, and it had gutted me enough that I’m willing to travel all the way across the ocean to check out this paternity issue that Shaw Mallory has brought to our attention.
I remember that conversation so clearly; I feel a vague sense of discomfited guilt before I quash it and focus instead on what I must do.
I don’t believe that Rob would have dropped his standards so low that he would consider taking Miss Mallory. My brother was a man of refined and very specific tastes, and Shaw Mallory in no way fits that image.
She’s a little on the heavy side, her hair is an unremarkable shade of brown, and if it weren’t for her unique blue-purple eyes, I myself wouldn’t give the girl a second look.
And now she wants me to believe that my playboy brother, the man who’d said the only shade worth seeing is blonde, has left her pregnant and stranded.
I refuse to believe it, but Mum is so insistent about it that I’ve finally said screw it, and I’m investigating her claims. If she’s lying, I’ll make her suffer so terribly she’ll wish she never heard the name Stone.
But what if she isn’t? What if, for some reason, God is blessing us with a final piece of the man we’d lost just last month?
I can’t risk that being the case and turning my back on her, so I’m doing my best to keep an open mind while I get at the truth. It’s hard though. With Rob’s death still so fresh, it’s bloody hard to hear these accusations and not retaliate swiftly and brutally, as I am wont to do whenever anything threatens the security and happiness of my family.
My conscience is a bloody bastard, and it keeps reminding me of the way I’d spoken to the woman when she’d finally managed to get through to my office. Helen, my secretary, had put her through after she’d gotten hysterical on the phone, and I’d answered only to hear the person capable of ruffling my usually stone-cold Helen.
“Your deadbeat brother knocked me up and left me holding the bag. I need his number please.”
To the point and matter of fact.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Look Mr. Stone. I’ve been trying to find Robert for three months now, and he’s nowhere to be found. His cell number isn’t working, and I think he’s ducking my calls. I need to tell him about the baby, and I need him to help me. I lost my job, and my mom kicked me out, and—”
I put the phone down without batting an eye and went about my day the way I always did. Focused and unruffled. Unfortunately, she managed to get hold of Mum’s home number, and I’d arrived home to find her crying hysterically while my father stood scowling.
“Do something about this. She won’t stop bloody blubbering!”
Dad loves Mum. A lot. So her tears have the nasty effect of turning him into a raging lunatic, ready to trample anyone and anything that even remotely upsets the poor dear.
“She’s lying. She must be.”
I knew the minute the words left my mouth that I was only lying to myself. Rob, while being a great bloke and jolly good fun, is and has always been a cad of the first order.
Dad joked that Rob must be blessed because he’s never knocked one up through all his fifteen years of philandering.
Until now.
If she’s to be believed.
“We’re here, sir.”
I look out of the window and grimace when the dreary stone façade of St. Mary’s stares back at me, the dark grey mortar giving the place a sad air of desperation.
“I’ll be out shortly.”
The inside is no better, having that classic poor lighting that seems to make up such establishments.
“Hey, you can’t come in here. Only women allowed.”
I tower over the short, frumpy receptionist and glare for all I’m worth, silently crossing myself in case she’s a nun and raise a brow.
“My name is Cameron Stone. I’m here for Shaw Mallory. She’s expecting me.”
I grin when the little mouse scuttles away and comes back minutes later, followed by a short, thin corpse instead of the plump plain Jane I’m expecting.
Shaw Mallory must be sick because no healthy person can carry that pallor and still be walking.
“Mr. Stone?”
Her voice is so relieved and hopeful that I tense and force myself not to react outwardly in any way. Never show them emotion and they won’t have weapons to use. It’s my creed and one that has served me well for the ten years since I’ve taken my family’s business—and not only saved it but turned it into one of Britain’s leading telecommunications firms.
“Miss Mallory. We have a doctor’s appointment. Please collect your things and come with me.”
Her eyes go wide at the command, and I see a spark of rebellion there before she squashes it and nods once.