Page 13 of The Black Sheep's Secret Child

Trent felt a tug on his pant leg and looked down. His nephew was standing, looking up at him. The boy’s blue eyes, so reminiscent of Rafe’s, were fixed on Trent’s face. Something in his chest tightened. All at once he couldn’t breathe.

This was Rafe’s son. Savannah’s son. Like a man drowning, Trent saw his past with Savannah flash before his eyes. The joy on that Christmas morning when she’d woken up to Murphy’s sweet puppy face and adorable snuffles. What had he been thinking? He’d bought her a dog. She’d been feeling gloomy about spending the holidays alone. So he bought her something to take care of and flown to New York to give it to her. Making a woman happy had never been as easy as it had been with her.

And then because she’d misinterpreted his gift, he’d felt compelled to distance himself for months after.

When the toddler continued to stare at Trent, he bent down and picked the boy up. He didn’t have much experience with children, but something about his nephew made it a simple thing to settle the child against his chest as if he’d done it a hundred times before. The amount of curiosity in the infant’s eyes intrigued Trent. What could possibly be going on in that developing brain of his?

Dylan latched on to Trent’s tie the same way he’d grabbed Savannah’s pearls, and Trent heard her soft cry of dismay.

“He’s going to ruin your tie,” she said, stepping toward them with her hands outstretched as if to take her son.

“It’s just a tie.” Trent pivoted away from her advance. He couldn’t explain his sudden reluctance to give the child up. “It looks like your breakfast is getting cold. Why don’t you sit down and eat? Dylan and I will be just fine.”

The distress in Savannah’s eyes made no sense. It wasn’t as if he was going to spirit the infant out of the suite. He had no interest in his nephew outside of satisfying a brief bit of curiosity about him.

Rafe had died within months of his son being born. Having a father like Siggy, Trent had little positive experience when it came to father-son bonding. Would Dylan suffer never knowing his dad? On the other hand, once Savannah settled in Tennessee, she might marry again and Dylan would be raised by a stepfather. Either way, at least he would grow up dearly loved by his mother. That much was clear.

Trent picked up one of the picture books from the floor near Dylan’s toys and sat down on the couch with the boy.

“That’s his favorite,” Savannah said, sitting with an untouched plate of eggs before her. “He’d love it if you read it to him.”

Left on his own with the boy, Trent opened the book and began reading while Dylan patted the pages with his fat little hands and wiggled. Trent found himself smiling. For the last year he’d avoided thinking about his nephew. Although he’d never intended to saddle himself with a wife and children, the fact that Savannah had given his brother a son ate at him.

Rafe had gotten everything. Their father’s love and approval. The family business. And Savannah. The first two Trent had come to terms with. The last one had blasted a hole in his heart big enough to drive a semi through. But it was his own fault. He could’ve had her. Dylan could have been his son. Except the conventional family Savannah craved wasn’t what he wanted.

The idea that anyone would rely on him was a suffocating weight. Sure, he’d helped her out several times in the past, but those had been random acts when it had been convenient for him. He had to do things on his terms, not on anyone else’s. Even now, stepping up to help her with the label, he wasn’t doing it for her. He was doing it to piss off his old man.

Trent wanted to see if Siggy hated him enough to bankrupt the record label before he would let his son be in charge. To Trent’s recollection, his father had never shown him anything but disdain. Rafe had been the favorite son. Siggy’s firstborn. He’d taken after his father in appearance and mind-set: a businessman mired in ego and lacking vision.

Like his sister, Melody, Trent had inherited his mother’s voice and musical talent. Not that he had any interest in pursuing a career in the business. He left the songwriting, piano playing and singing to his younger sister. Trent could not be more proud of Melody.

She’d struggled to find her wings in a household that didn’t appreciate what she could do. Forced to attend Juilliard as a classic violinist when what she really wanted to do was compose pop songs for others to perform, Melody had dropped out of school midway through her junior year of college.

The gap in their ages had kept Trent from knowing Melody as well as he could. But when he’d gone to visit her in New York City and she’d come clean about her passion for writing music, he’d been behind her 100 percent about quitting school. She needed money to rent studio time to make a demo of her music and he’d happily provided it. He’d also put her in contact with the people in the music industry who could help her get started.

This bit of assistance and support had only added to the acrimony between Trent and his father. It was shortly after this that Siggy stopped speaking with Trent. The owner of West Coast Records had a vision in his head regarding his daughter, and it had nothing to do with her lowering herself to being someone else’s songwriter.

Trent hadn’t understood his father’s perspective. Melody was immensely talented. She could have become an incredible star if she’d been interested in the spotlight. But she preferred being behind the scenes and having her music developed by others. At least that’s the way it’d been until his friend and partner in Club T’s, Nate Tucker, had convinced her to bring her violin on tour with Free Fall. Seeing a star in the making, Tucker had pushed her to sing one of her songs during his set. It had gone so well that she was now opening for him.

And as far as Siggy was concerned, this was Trent’s fault, too.

“How are things going?”

Trent looked up from the book and spied Savannah standing before him. Although her makeup was flawless, he thought she looked pale. Was that brought on by stress or lack of sleep? He’d had a hard time settling down after walking her to her suite. Although he was no stranger to spontaneous encounters, usually the moments lingered in his mind for a short time and then faded away.

With Savannah everything was different.

; He couldn’t just revel in a quickie with his brother’s widow, chuckle at the irony and move on. There was too much history between them. Too much he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

“Great,” he said. “You’re right about him liking this book.”

“He enjoys being read to.” She smiled fondly at her son. “I guess what kid doesn’t.”

“I don’t remember anyone reading to me, do you?”

Savannah shook her head. “My grandmother used to tell me stories about when she was a little girl. She grew up on a farm in Kansas and talked about milking the cows and barn cats having kittens. She described what it had been like to be in the cellar while a tornado took out the chicken coop but missed the barn and house.”