Deadly Secrets (49 page)

“I hate doctors.”

“I imagine you do, but I’ll be there with you.”

Chapter 35

Albuquerque, Thursday morning

“Do you think she’s too warm?” his wife asked him yet again.

DeSaro sighed and set the paper aside. “I don’t know. I told you I didn’t know when you asked me before.”

“What if something is wrong with her?” she asked him, worrying her bottom lip as she bounced the little bundle in her arms. The baby had cried most of the night.

He stood, sighing, and wished again he’d researched the agency they’d used a bit deeper.

The news was filled with the story of the mother found wandering bloody and disoriented, looking for her baby.

The police and federal agents were looking for the missing baby as well. Luckily his wife had been too busy with the baby to notice the news, or to hear it, or to know that the baby the police were looking for had red hair and was only about a week old.

He’d kill someone at that agency. It didn’t really matter that the baby was theirs; legally he was looking at a fucking nightmare.

And he knew Ian Kinncaid had not just called him out of the blue. He still wanted to know how the boy had gotten his private number. He knew Jock, remembered his boys. He had his guard look up the family and had a dossier on the entire clan.

Granted, Mr. and Mrs. Ian Kinncaid had adopted other children, but no babies. And he ran a high-end security firm.

Mr. DeSaro would bet the man was here to find that baby. If he was, then why? Had the mother hired him, and if she had, then the woman was better connected than he’d first thought. He wanted to look at the adoption papers again but his wife had them tucked away, and he didn’t want to ask for them and alarm her. He hadn’t really paid attention to the birth parents on the forms. He’d just signed the papers. If memory served there were no parental names other than theirs on the paperwork. It was a closed adoption. So there wouldn’t be a birth mother’s name or father’s name on the paperwork.

God help anyone who lied to him. He knew that world was not a black-and-white place with readily defined lines. He knew there were varying shades of gray. The fact the damned agency did not return a single phone call he’d made to them, well, that was telling as well, wasn’t it?

If they sold him someone else’s child, and one not up for legal adoption, he’d make sure they never hurt anyone like that ever again. They wouldn’t have to worry about the feds, or the cops, or the fucking Kinncaids. He’d take care of them himself.

His wife crooned to the baby and rocked her again. “What if she’s sick, Vincent?”

She was so worried, already so attached to this baby. They could have just gone home immediately, but something had kept him here.

He couldn’t tell her, though, what he was already worried about. He couldn’t hurt her that way. She wanted a baby so badly and he’d made certain she’d gotten one.

The baby was beautiful, there was no arguing that fact. Bright red hair, pale perfect skin. She’d grow into a beautiful girl and woman someday.

As
their
daughter.

He’d always liked and respected the Kinncaids.

Could he keep their child? What if it were his child or grandchild, as the case could easily be?

He’d kill anyone who stood in his way of getting the baby back. Hell might be a furious woman, but a man on revenge, well, he knew all about that, didn’t he? Women and their fury was one thing, but a DeSaro wronged was another thing altogether.

Vincent took the baby from his tired wife and felt the baby’s forehead. She was burning up.

“How long has she been this hot?” he asked, worry icing through him, shoving thoughts of the Kinncaids and revenge away.

She sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Since this morning when she woke up. I gave her some Tylenol and the fever went down a bit, but it’s still too high, she’s too hot. Something is wrong. We need to take her to the doctor. I told you this but you just smiled at me like I was being over-worrying or something. I’m not. She’s
sick
.”

He thought about what that could mean.

“Sweetheart, maybe we should head home and have one of our own doctors look at her.”

She shook her head. “No. No. We need to take her to the doctor here. If she needs something, then she can get it and then we can go home. What if we flew home and something horrible happened, I’d never forgive myself, Vincent.” Tears filled her eyes. “Little Sophia needs a doctor now.”

Sophia. They’d picked her name out weeks ago when the Nursery contacted them about the baby. Sophia had been his mother’s name.

He looked down into the tiny red face and her coppery hair. Little ones should be protected. If the Kinncaids couldn’t protect their own, it wasn’t his fault.

He had no problem protecting his own and little Sophia had definitely become his own.

“Vincent, she’s sick. She needs a doctor.”

She was right. He could feel the heat radiating off the small defenseless body even through her onesie and blanket. She didn’t even cry anymore, as if crying for the half hour before had completely worn her out.

The hospitals, though, would be looking for a newborn like this precious little one. He held her up to his neck, shocked again at how hot she was.

She wheezed against his neck.

“Vincent—”

“Shh,” he told her, listening again.

Wheeze. Wheeze. Maybe she was snoring?

He pulled her away from him, cradling her head and looking into that tiny helpless face. Bright red cheeks. Her mouth was open and she wheezed again.

What if she couldn’t breathe like she was supposed to be breathing? Didn’t babies sometimes get that breathing disease? R something or other. He hadn’t really ever paid attention, as all his other grown children had been perfectly healthy.

He swallowed and nodded. “Get her things, and the papers. We’ll take her to the hospital.”

They left with their guard and headed to the car. He knew, knew this was a bad idea. He should tell his wife what was going on, what he suspected. Worry lined her mouth and eyes. She hadn’t gotten much sleep. He had a feeling she wouldn’t be getting a lot in the days to come.

Damn that Dr. Merchant. He knew this was all too good to be true.

* * *

Almost an hour later, they walked back out the hospital doors. The bright day was still cool and Quinlan made sure she’d zipped up her coat so she wouldn’t get cold.

He’d checked his phone. Texts from both Ian and Aiden. Their parents were here. Ian was pissed John hadn’t come with them. Too damned bad. Quin wanted time alone with his wife. His overprotective brother could just deal.

“See, I told you everything was fine,” she told him yet again as he helped her into the car. He quickly slid into the car and merged with traffic while she continued. “This was a waste of time. We should have gone to the house.”

He didn’t need to ask which house she was talking about. “No.”

“I might remember something else.”

He stopped her. “You. Are. Not. Going.”

Her eyes narrowed on his. “I’m done wallowing. You might not like it, and I will hate it. I’ll probably get sick and throw up, but I’m going. Not to is stupid, cowardly, and could cost our daughter her life. Something is wrong. I know it, Quin. I just know it. I have to help, and if looking at that house will help then I’ll try it.”

“It’s not going to help with anything other than giving you more nightmares,” he bit out. He didn’t want her anywhere near the damned house.

They maneuvered through the late morning traffic.

Look, I know I haven’t done much more than cry and lay in bed, but—”

“You almost fucking died!” he yelled and then took a deep breath, fisting and flexing his hands on the steering wheel.

She didn’t say anything. For several moments silence weighed between them, but he wasn’t going to speak until he was in better control. He was always in control. Or he used to always be in control, at least of his own emotions anyway.

“What were you supposed to do? Jerk out the IVs and search through Albuquerque in your hospital gown until you finished what they started and put yourself in a damned grave?” he said softly and quietly.

She didn’t answer him.

He looked over at her and took another deep breath. “I apologize for yelling, that doesn’t help anything and was uncalled for. Please, stop blaming yourself, Ella, for not doing more.”

“I can’t do that, Quin. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do that,” she admitted quietly.

He took another deep breath, not having a clue what to say to her. Nothing came to mind. Nothing. They’d just keep going around in circles.

As they pulled back into the parking lot of the hotel, he thought about valet parking, but he didn’t want to have to wait on them if he needed the car. Besides, no one in their crew had used the valet service thus far. Too many times the car was needed. And his brothers were like him. If they wanted something, they didn’t want to have to ask for it, let alone wait for it. It wasn’t like this was a huge hotel with a multilevel parking garage. It had one lot out front and to the side around the pueblo-style boutique hotel. He found a slot and pulled in near the back of the lot.

He realized the parking lot was nearly full and probably had been when they left, he’d just been too preoccupied to notice.

She’d leaned to the side, rested her head against the window. “Do you think she’s okay, Quin?”

He’d tried like hell not to think of his daughter all morning. He’d been better at it after the doctor’s appointment. He’d focused on traffic and on the surroundings.

He sighed and shook his head. Did he think she was okay? How the hell did he know that? He was scared, like he’d never been before, like he hadn’t allowed himself to even contemplate. But he didn’t tell her that, couldn’t tell her that.

He reached again for her hands, which she had fisted in her lap. “She’ll be fine. If you think about it, someone who would or could pay that much money for her must have wanted a baby very badly, Ella. They’d be able to see to her comfort and make sure she’s not sick, that she needs for nothing.”

“She’s
my
daughter.
Your
daughter. She should be with us!” She hit her chest with her fist. “Ours! And someone else is . . . someone else is . . .”

He bit down. “I know, Ella. I know. But I can’t think that way. I have to look at it as though she’s just taking a break from us with people who will take care of her, and look after her. I can’t think about what might be happening or I’ll go nuts.”

She closed her eyes, swallowed, and nodded even as a tear rolled down her cheek. He brushed it aside. “We. Are. Going. To. Get. Her. Back.”

Her eyes met his. “How can you be so sure? So certain?” she whispered.

“I refuse to let it be any other way.” He opened his door and walked around the car to help her out. His phone rang just as he shut her door. Ian. “What?”

“You back yet? Mom and Pops are here and Rori is about to head back. I didn’t want to leave until you guys were back. Safely.”

He shook his head. How his brother could make him feel like a kid so easily was beyond him. “Yeah, Dad, we’re back. Did we break curfew?”

“You left Johnno here. The bad guys are still out there. They tried to kill your wife. You do realize . . .”

The rest of Ian’s words were lost. Quinlan saw a man approaching with his hand in the pocket of his jacket. Dark shades hid his eyes but Quin sensed he was watching them. The hair stood up along the back of his neck.

He shifted the phone to his other ear with the hand that also held his cane and pulled Ella closer with his other hand, changing their course to walk between two cars. Why, he had no idea other than just a feeling.

“Hello?” Ian said in his ear.

He ignored him. When they’d rounded the front of the cars, he glanced back and the man was gone. Huh.

Paranoia probably wasn’t a healthy thing. Probably. Could be a reporter.

He looked around, but the wall of pickup trucks and SUVs all but blocked him. Why did he park way the hell over there? He should have dropped her at the front door and—

The man stepped out from between two of the pickups.

“Ella Ferguson?” the man asked.

She stepped to the side of Quin. “Yes?”

The man smoothly lifted a gun. So fast. Too fast. Time slowed in some weird way to Quin, as it always did when things went wrong.

Quinlan shoved Ella away and swung the cane at the man in a clockwise spin, catching the gunman’s right hand, hoping to bring the gun toward him, not toward her. “Run, Ella!”

Two shots pinged and fire blazed across his arm. He twisted the cane the other way as the man tried to leave. To hell with that. Quin took two running steps, pain screaming up his left leg, and brought his cane around in a hard sideswipe, catching the guy in the head. It was like striking the ground on a great golf swing, vibrations echoing up the cane into his arm. The man stumbled, tumbling down. He fell, his head smacking against the edge of the next pickup’s metal grille guard.