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She’d tracked him down to introduce him to his supposed son and plead with him to become a family. In the absence of any other motive, Liam had believed her…somewhat. He’d been disturbed that she seemed to view the child as a nuisance more than a blessing. Of course, she’d once seen her husband in that same light. Still, he might have been persuaded to believe she’d changed a bit, maybe shifted her priorities since becoming a mother—until now. Everything on her phone just reinforced that she was the same good-time girl he’d divorced.
Not only did he wonder if Kyle was his son, Liam now wondered if the lad was even Gwyneth’s. He had his doubts, which was a huge fucking relief. But if the kid wasn’t hers, who did he belong to? And why had she tried to pass Kyle off as theirs?
The way Liam saw it, Gwyneth seemed almost desperate to have him in her life again, perhaps even recklessly inventing a son. What the devil was she really after?
Liam had no bloody idea. Time to turn up the heat.
He had no more than tucked her phone away when his own began vibrating in his pocket. He slid it free and checked the screen as he moved to the window.
“Seth, talk to me.”
“Well, hello to you, too, asshole.” His friend laughed.
“Sorry. I don’t have a lot of time. Gwyneth is getting out of the shower.”
“Did you get her dirty?”
“No. Fuck no. Would you touch her?”
Seth made a gagging noise. “The thought made me throw up in my mouth a little.”
Liam rubbed at the back of his neck. “Me, too.”
“Turns out her father actually is terminal,” Seth confirmed. “Cancer. He’s not expected to live much longer. Maybe a month at most.”
“No shit, huh?” So his ex-wife occasionally did tell the truth.
Liam wondered if she’d been honest about anything else. Had he misjudged Kyle’s parentage? Was it possible he’d fathered the boy after all? His gut said no, but…
“Lots of speculation in the business section of the paper about what will happen to his empire,” Seth continued.
“Gwyneth and her sister have never been interested in actually working, so I’m not surprised. Anything more about Kyle’s birth?”
“That’s where things take a weird turn. I’m coming up empty handed. There are no recent births recorded under the name Kyle O’Neill, which is already odd. I also looked up Kyle Sinclair, just to be thorough. Nothing within the last six months. Then I tried to cross-reference Gwyneth’s name as the birth mother. No record of that, either.”
Which meant the birth certificate she’d shown him earlier today had likely been forged.
“If Gwyneth had given birth, she should be listed as a mother on that baby’s birth certificate,” Seth explained. “Can you think of another name she’d be using?”
“No. She’s always used Sinclair.” Even when they’d been married.
“Liam…I’ve got to tell you, I’m not even sure this is her kid.”
“I’m thinking that myself.” In fact, Liam was almost convinced.
“That’s all I’ve got so far. I’ll keep looking and let you know if I find anything else, but I’m not expecting much more today. The UK is eight hours ahead of us, so all official government offices are closed for the night.”
“I appreciate all you’ve found.” Liam hung up and sighed. He needed a game plan to make Gwyneth talk—and fast.
The snick of the bathroom door opening and a soft rustling sound made him turn. And stare.
Gwyneth stood before him in almost nothing. What little scraps she wore were siren red. The bra, if he could call it that, sloped over her shoulders with delicate scalloped straps. The quarter cups cradled the underside of her enhanced breasts, exposing her tight pink nipples. Below the long, lean line of her abdomen that didn’t bear a single stretch mark, a tiny scrap of peekaboo mesh cupped her hips—and completely exposed her waxed mons.
If that body has ever been through pregnancy and childbirth, then I’m the bloody Pope. You’ve yanked my chain long enough, woman.
She struck what she thought was a seductive pose, sliding a hand into her fluffed hair now spilling in wide curls around her shoulders, batting her false lashes and pursing her red-painted lips in a pout. Liam felt his stomach buckle.
Gwyneth flashed him a come-hither smile and turned slowly to reveal her wiggling ass, adorned with a red, silky bow just above the pert cheeks, bisected by her lacy thong. The ensemble looked like something out of a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog, but Gwyneth couldn’t get even the slightest rise out of him.
Swaying, she faced him once more, curling her lips coyly. “Liam…”
She approached on red patent stilettoes, tiptoeing in six-inch heels secured by cuffs around the ankles, drawn together with a black silken tie like a corset. Everything about her looked overblown and ridiculous. She was trying far too hard to seduce him.
