Jesse’s heart nearly stopped. “What are you talking about? What boy?”

“Oh, my.” Fiona chewed her fading lipstick line. “Oh my, oh my.” She reached for his quaking hand. “You mean after all these years, she never told you about your son?”

“Miss Boyd,” the receptionist said over the intercom, “there’s a Mr. Hawk here to see you. He—” the young woman paused and lowered her voice “—seems quite upset. He threatened to find your office himself if I don’t accommodate him. Should I call Security?”

Patricia straightened her spine, preparing for a battle Jesse would surely force her to wage. He knows, she told herself, taking a deep breath. He found out about Dillon.

“I’ll see Mr. Hawk, Susan. There’s no need for Security.”

Within seconds Patricia’s door opened, and Jesse shouldered by the receptionist. Petite and pale, Susan looked like a quivering mouse next to him, eager to escape something even more dangerous than a surly tomcat. A grizzly, Patricia decided. A grizzly with long black hair and gunmetal eyes. When in God’s name had Jesse gotten so big?

Avoiding his glare, Patricia rose and nodded to the receptionist. “Thank you, Susan. Please hold my calls.” She glanced at her watch, determined to keep her manner professional. “I’ll let you know when this meeting ends.”

The woman cast a wary glance at Jesse, who kept his stare focused on Patricia. “Yes, Miss Boyd.” She darted out the door and closed it soundly.

“Well…” Patricia smoothed her jacket. Did she look as nervous as she felt, or did her red suit boast confidence? She lifted her chin. If her designer apparel didn’t, then certainly the plush office should.

“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked, sweeping her hand toward a wet bar. “Or would you prefer something cold?” Like the frost glazing your eyes.

“Cut the crap, Tricia.”

He strode toward her, his faded denims and casual T-shirt mocking the decor. Suddenly the hours of labor spent perfecting the office seemed insignificant. He dwarfed the room and all of its high-powered pretense.

“Do you have a child?” he asked. “An eleven-year-old boy?”

She resisted the urge to remove the scarf draped around her neck. Deep, calming breaths were difficult as it was, and the flowing strip of silk felt like a noose. “Yes.”

He stepped closer. Dangerously close. “And am I his father?”

“Yes.”

“And tell me,” he said, moving closer still, “did you know you were pregnant when I left town? Did you know then that you were carrying my child?”

“Yes,” she stated once again, refusing to offer an explanation. She had begged him to come back for her. The fault was his.

He stood dead still, his metallic eyes boring into hers. “Do you know how hard it is not to hate you right now?”

“No harder than it is for me,” she shot back. Love and hate were only a fine line apart. And she had loved him once. Loved him beyond comprehension.

She wanted to scream, claw his skin and make him bleed. But instead she stood facing him as years of pain stretched between them. God help her. Jesse was back, making her insides ache all over again. Everything hurt: her lungs as they battled for air, her heart as it pumped erratic beats. Yes, she struggled not to hate him. How could she not?

“By the way,” she said, angry that he hadn’t asked, “your son’s name is Dillon.”

He flinched, and those eyes, those slate-gray eyes lightened, softening his stare. He repeated the name in a near whisper, his voice cracking. “Dillon.”

Patricia glanced away. She didn’t want to see that side of Jesse, the vulnerable, gentle side she had loved. In that moment he could have been eighteen again—the teenage boy who had pledged “forever.” The man she’d almost come to hate. The thought made her sad and sick inside.

Jesse raised his voice to a commanding level once again. “I want to see Dillon. As soon as possible. I have a right to see my son.”

She reached toward the edge of her desk, felt for the ridge and leaned against it. “I’m sorry, but Dillon isn’t ready to meet you.” That truth intensified the sickness, especially when Jesse jerked as though he’d been struck.

“What?” He pulled his hands through his hair. “Oh, God, what are you saying? Does he know about me? Does he know I’m his father?”

“Yes, he knows, he’s just confused right now.” She gestured for Jesse to sit, and surprisingly he did, lowering himself onto a contemporary leather sofa. She seated herself beside him. “This isn’t easy for Dillon.” She thought about her son, about his sensitive, protective nature. “He used to ask about you, but now that so many years have passed, I think he’s gotten used to the idea of not having a father.”

Jesse scrubbed his hand across his jaw. “Did he tell you he didn’t want to meet me, or are you just assuming—”

“He told me,” she answered honestly. “And he asked me not to go back to your house. Made me promise I wouldn’t.”

Jesse’s breath hitched. Big, strong and vulnerable, she thought. He looked as though he wanted to cry, bury his head in his hands and let the tears flow. Patricia touched his shoulder and felt it shake. He was, she realized, as hurt and confused as Dillon. He leaned toward her, reached up and skimmed his fingers across her cheek. She wanted to cry, too. Cry for their youth and what should have been.

Patricia closed her eyes as images of Dillon flashed through her mind—birthday parties, skinned knees, warm hugs, toothless grins, fevers, chicken pox. Years of motherhood. A sweet, loving little boy who had waited for his father to return.

She opened her eyes and pushed Jesse’s hand away. “Damn you. Why didn’t you come back?”

He clenched the hand that had touched her, his face still except for a twitching muscle in his cheek. “Because I didn’t know I had a child,” he hissed. “You stole him from me. Dillon is my flesh and blood as much as yours, but you kept him for yourself. You didn’t want me involved in his life.”

“Stole him?” She moved to the edge of her seat. “I gave birth to him. Loved him, rocked him, fed him from my breast. And I told him about his father. Good things. But you didn’t come back and prove me right. So I’d say Dillon has the right to decide if you’re worth meeting.”

He rose and began to pace the room, the restless movement reminding her of Dillon. How alike yet different they were. Father and son. Strangers.

“Oh, God,” he said, anguish vibrating his voice. “What if Dillon never wants to meet me?”

She took a deep breath, composing herself. Watching Jesse hurt didn’t seem to ease her own pain, the ache he’d renewed. “Dillon will come around. He’s just angry…upset that—” She paused, exhaled again. “He knows that you and I—that our reunion hasn’t been a friendly one.”

Jesse stopped pacing and turned to face her. “That’s what’s wrong? You and me?”

“Dillon’s a sensitive child. It bothers him that we’re not friends,” she said, grateful she hadn’t been forced to reveal the conversation Dillon had stumbled upon. She hadn’t forgiven herself for that act of irresponsibility. Her son’s emotional well-being had been jeopardized simply because she hadn’t thought to close a door.

Jesse trapped her gaze. “I’m taking you to dinner tonight.”

Patricia startled. “What?”

“Our son wants us to be friends.”

Just like that? Sit down for a cozy dinner and wipe away years of pain? Two people who not more than ten minutes before had admitted they were battling hatred? She stood to face him. “You’re crazy.”

“Damn it, Tricia. Don’t you dare fight me on this.” He took one of her business cards off the desk and handed her a pen. “Write your address down. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

She did as he asked and shoved the card back at him. For Dillon, she told herself. She’d do it for Dillon. Deep down she knew the boy wanted a father.

“We’ll go to The Captain’s Inn.” Scowling, he grabbed the pen and tossed it back onto her desk; it rolled off and landed on the floor. “But remember, this isn’t a date. We’re making peace with each other for the sake of our son.”