Tracy Solheim - Foolish Games

“Don’t thank me.” The doctor laughed. “It was his dad’s blood that did the trick.” She pulled a sheet of paper out of the metal chart case she carried. “And this makes it official. The DNA test is positive. You’re Owen’s father.”

Will’s face was impassive as Dr. Ling handed him the results. Without looking at it, he folded the paper up and placed it in his shirt pocket. “How long until he can be released?”

The question sent a shiver of unease up her spine.

“He’ll need to stay in the NICU for several more days, just to be sure his body functions return to normal. Once he has the all-clear from the various specialists, then he can go home.” The doctor looked at each of them, clearly wondering who would be taking Owen home. “I’ll leave you two to sort everything out. I’ll stay a few more hours to keep an eye on things, and I’ll update you after his morning blood work.”

Dr. Ling seemed unfazed by the unorthodox relationship between her patient’s parents. Of course, she worked in a hospital, so it was likely she’d seen all sorts of awkward family situations. Nonetheless, Julianne was still embarrassed. She looked over at Will, who had buttoned his cuffs and was pulling on his suit jacket. When his hands were occupied draping his tie over his shoulders, she jumped on the chance to speak.

“Thank you.” The words fell soft and hollow, almost as if she’d dropped them down a well. Clearly, they were inadequate, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Thanks for saving my son.”

He paused with the tie in midair behind his neck. “What did you say?”

Julianne swallowed. The look in his eyes made her want to run, but she stood her ground. She deserved his derision and his anger. Owen had been through so much and now he was going to live, thanks to the man towering in front of her. She owed him his pound of flesh. She just hoped she’d still be standing when he was done with her.

Will dropped the tie and stalked toward her. Julianne pushed her shoulders up, determined to force her body, and her soul, to withstand whatever he planned to dish out.

“Owen is not your son.” He tapped his chest where the paternity test results were tucked away. “This little piece of paper says I have just as much right to him as you do. He’s my son, too.”

This was the part where he whipped out his Viking sword and ripped out her heart. Blinking back tears, she forced her question through dry lips. “How exactly are you going to exert those rights?”

“Princess, we’ve just teed up the ball for the kickoff. This game has barely started. But the first thing we will be doing is getting Owen’s birth certificate amended so my name is on there.”

“Your name is on it!” Sort of.

Will arched an eyebrow at her as he pulled his iPhone from his pocket. He scrolled through it before reading aloud. “Owen Connelly Marchione. Nice touch with the middle name.” The insincerity of his tone belied his words. “Mother, Julianne Valerie Marchione. Father, unknown.”

Obviously his agent had been busy while Will was giving blood. Julianne stared at him. There were no words she could offer. No explanation that he’d accept for not listing him as Owen’s father. At least none that she could justify.

“No child of mine is growing up a bastard!” His shout reverberated off the walls in the small room. Julianne cringed as she imagined that the entire hospital heard him.

“Okay,” she whispered. There was no other answer she could give. She’d never meant to deny either Will or Owen. She just hadn’t thought the whole thing through. But explaining that to him right now seemed like a moot point.

He raked his hand through his hair, mussing up his perfect appearance. “Get your things. I’ll take you home.”

“My home is in Italy.” Technically, she had a place in New York, but it belonged to the company she no longer owned, so she didn’t feel she had to mention it.

“Fine, I’ll take you to your brother’s place. I assume he lives here in D.C.?”

He did, but she wasn’t going there, either. “I’m not leaving Owen.” She crossed her arms in front of her. If he wanted her to leave her son, he’d have to drag her out. Julianne shivered as she mentally pictured him doing just that.

Will blew out a breath as if he were counting to ten. “You need to get some rest and you won’t get that here. We’ve got a lot of things to work out, and I’d appreciate it if you came to the discussion with a clear head.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me.” She was being churlish, she knew, but it irked her that he thought he could control her life now that he knew he was Owen’s father.

“What you need, Princess, is a keeper!”

Before Julianne could open her mouth to protest, Carly and Shane Devlin stepped in front of the partition.

“Connelly.” Shane’s hand wrapped around Will’s bicep, pulling him back from Julianne. “Keep it down unless you want to read about this on TMZ tomorrow.”

Will jerked out of Shane’s grasp, shooting him a malicious glare.

“Don’t get all pissy with me.” Shane went nose to nose with Will. “I didn’t know anything about this until a couple of hours ago.”

Will looked over at Carly, who just gave him an empathetic shrug, which irritated not only Julianne, but Shane as well. “My wife didn’t know you were the father, either. Not until this morning. So watch yourself with her or you’ll answer to me.”

When Will’s eyes met Julianne’s, she held his stare for a moment. Something flashed in them that she couldn’t make out—anguish, she thought—before they were hard emeralds again.

“Make sure she gets some rest, will you, Carly?” Then he disappeared through the curtain, his long stride echoing down the corridor.

Julianne wanted to chase him down. She wanted to rail at him, to scratch his eyes out. Anything to wipe that smug look off his face.

But most of all, she yearned for him to hold her, just as he’d held her that night at the wedding. The past several months of pregnancy and duplicity, coupled with Owen’s brush with death, had exhausted her. Guilt was weighing her down and she wanted someone to help carry her burden. Not since her mother died in that awful accident on the sea had anyone been able to provide Julianne with comfort the way Will Connelly had the night they’d spent together.

And now he hated her.

Julianne shook herself. Thinking about Will would only make her crazy. She’d deal with him and whatever plans he had tomorrow. Right now she needed to concentrate on Owen. Her baby was going to live! Joy and relief surged through her body as she collapsed onto the sofa. Carly gathered Julianne in her arms as she sat down beside her.

“Owen is going to live,” Julianne said through her tears. “My baby is going to be okay.”

“I know.” Carly rubbed Julianne’s back. “Will’s blood was all Owen needed.”

Julianne felt the now-familiar hitch of anguish and anger at the mention of Will saving Owen. But she pushed it deep down. The fact remained that despite the way she’d duped the man, he’d stepped in and saved Owen with only her word that he was the father. She owed him much more than just her gratitude.

Julianne wiped her face with her hands. “I know. And I’m going to make it right with him, Carly. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.” She got up to get a drink of water, completely missing the troubled look that passed between Shane and Carly.

Sleep eluded Will that night. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Julianne, dressed like a temptress in that skintight red dress, her hair flowing behind her as she laughed at him while she pushed Owen in a stroller across the turf in the Blaze stadium. No matter how hard he tried to catch them, they kept getting farther and farther away. The senator’s voice blared across the PA system repeating over and over again: “She never wanted you to know about the baby. She’s going to raise him by herself in Italy. You’ll never have to see him.” Will’s cleats sank like cement into the grass at the fifty-yard line as he helplessly watched her flounce out of the stadium, Owen in tow.

He woke up drenched in sweat and in need of a cold shower, for multiple reasons. It was hard to separate the erotic fantasy Julianne presented from the duplicitous woman she was. The fact that his body still reacted to her made him madder than hell. He would never be able to trust her. She had every intention of denying him the right to raise his son. The sooner he got Owen’s paternity sorted out legally, the better. Especially if it meant less contact with his son’s mother.

Thirty minutes later, Will made his way downstairs to his kitchen for some much-needed coffee. As he peered over the metal railing leading down from his bedroom to the high-ceilinged living area of his loft apartment, he spied a pair of yellow running shoes hanging off the side of the sectional sofa. Unfortunately, they were still attached to the muscular legs of Blaze tight end Brody Janik. Will swore as he stomped down the stairs.

The Today Show blared from the sixty-inch plasma TV hanging above a gas fireplace. Will maneuvered through a storm of dust motes floating across the oak plank floor in front of the large industrial windows. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with the ineffectiveness of his cleaning service, much less the six-foot-three, two-hundred-ten-pound pretty boy sprawled out on his sofa.

“That Natalie Morales is hot. Think she’s married?” Brody thought every woman was hot. And hot for him, which, given his cover-boy good looks and athletic superstardom, was probably true.

Will shoved Brody’s sneakered feet off the sofa and picked up a bottle of orange juice that was leaning precariously against the ottoman. “Show a little respect, Janik. This isn’t a frat house.”

“Jeez, Grandma.” Brody pulled himself up to a seated position before standing and following Will into the state-of-the-art galley kitchen. “You treat this place like a museum just because it’s been featured in Architectural Digest.”

He doubted Brody, who’d grown up in a wealthy Boston suburb, could appreciate the sense of accomplishment Will took in living in a place he actually owned. It had nothing to do with his loft’s appearance in national magazines. That was his buddy Gavin’s doing. Gavin, a successful architect, had helped to design and restore the bank of warehouse lofts in the trendy Federal Hill area of Baltimore, where Will now lived. For Will, the eighteen-hundred-square-foot loft represented a form of security he’d never felt growing up inside a drafty trailer parked in hurricane alley.

Standing in the galley kitchen decorated in varying shades of gray, Will surveyed his home. The kitchen featured concrete counters, stainless steel appliances, a glass-tile backsplash, and glass-front mahogany cabinets. The two-story living area and the large upstairs master bedroom gave the illusion of an abundance of space, but he was just one person living there. Where would he put Owen? And the kid’s crazy mother, if it came to that? There weren’t any parks or playgrounds nearby. Boys needed a place to run and throw balls. Owen couldn’t do that in Fed Hill.

He loaded a canister into the Keurig machine and contemplated his housing dilemma as Brody straddled one of the two bar stools, hooking his heels on the bottom rung. “I brought you some doughnuts.”

Will watched as Brody crammed half a chocolate doughnut in his mouth, sprinkles raining down on the counter like confetti. “Seriously, how do you eat such crap and still run the forty in four point six seconds?”

“Great genes.” At least that was what it sounded like around the doughnut.

Shaking his head, Will grabbed a piece of wheat bread and the peanut butter out of the pantry. When he was growing up, peanut butter made up two meals a day most weeks. He swore when he had money he’d never touch the stuff again. But when he was stressed, his body seemed to crave the familiar taste. After slapping the peanut butter on the bread, he pulled his cup of coffee out of the machine and took a tentative sip. He was reminded of Sebastian and his tea the day before, and he felt the squeezing begin at his temples again. “How’d you get in here, Brody?”

“You gave me a key, remember?” He tossed a key chain with a miniature bobblehead Blaze football player onto the counter.

“For emergencies.” Will picked it up; the player was wearing number forty-eight, Will’s number. He shook his head as he pocketed the key. “Like when that crazy porn star was stalking you.”