CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Son of a –" Rob"s words were cut off by the roar of the tractor-trailer blasting by with its horn blaring.

Obviously, people in Wyoming didn"t care about a motorist broken down on the side of the road. Well, broken down was the wrong word. The car was out of gas.

He could have blamed himself for not bothering to fill it up at the last gas station he passed, but Rob was eager to reach his destination.

From what he"d gleaned from the local news and from the chatty waitress in town where he had dinner last night before going back to her place and sharing her bed, the Blackstone family were tantamount to royalty in this part of the country.

That annoyed the hell out of him. He didn"t like being made to feel second class to anyone, but then what did a hick like this chick Barbara know anyway? She was just good for a quick screw and a place to sleep.

She gave him directions to the Blackstone ranch. She reminded him that if he wanted to interview any of the kids, he"d need to get there soon because tomorrow was the final day of the camp. Everyone would be leaving the next day.

That worked just fine with Rob. He fully planned on leaving that ranch with a wire confirmation of a massive amount of money deposited in his account or a kid he didn"t want, but would take until that bitch Hope gave him what he did want.

Money. And lots of it.

Right now, what he wanted was a ride. He considered walking but figured if he showed up on foot, he"d get the boot as some lowlife looking for a handout. No, he needed to show up looking the part of a journalist. Thanks to a quick con in Vegas, he had credentials. Yeah, they were stolen and altered to appear they belonged to him. Still, they"d pass a cursory glance.

On top of that, Rob knew he could talk his way out of just about anything or talk anyone into just about anything. He was confident he"d walk away from the Blackstone Ranch with what he wanted. If he could just get there. Damn, was this miserable state deserted?

Like an answer to a prayer, a late-model red pickup slowed and rolled to a stop beside his car. The passenger window rolled down about halfway, not enough to see into the truck but enough to hear the voice coming from within it. "Car trouble?" The voice was a woman.

Perfect. Rob knew how to get what he wanted.

"Can you believe it? I had no idea there were no gas stations out here. I"m supposed to be covering the final day of a conservation camp at the Blackstone Ranch, and if I don"t get there soon, my editor will have my ass. Any chance you can help me out?"

"Sure," the voice agreed, and the window rolled down. "I have a can in the back for emergencies."

"Bless you," Rob stepped over and smiled into the truck"s interior. "In the back." He pointed to the rear of the truck.

"Yep."

Rob nodded and hurried past the cab. Sure enough, a red gas can sat in the corner of the truck bed on the driver"s side.

He skirted around the back of the truck and reached over, grabbed hold of the tank"s handle, and—nothing. He couldn"t lift it. He"d have to get in the truck.

"Tennis elbow," he called out to the woman, rubbing his right arm as he went to the rear of the truck. Three seconds later, he had the gas can and climbed out of the truck.

"Need help with that?" the woman called out as he made for his car.

"No, no. Fine. Just fine," he huffed the words and clomped the rest of the way.

His exhale when he put the can on the ground was louder than he"d have liked. Rob made short order of transferring the gas from the can into his car"s tank.

Once the task was done, he replaced the can in the back of the woman"s pickup and looked in the passenger window. "Can I at least pay you for the gas?"

"You can buy me a drink later." She gave him a smile that looked more hungry than horny.

Rob knew her type. A little over her prime, her looks starting to fade, and her figure was not quite as firm as it once was; she was starving for attention. Her husband would just as soon have another beer and jerk off as have to listen to her go on about her needs every time he wanted a blow-job.

God bless America; she was just the kind of woman Rob sought. Desperately unnoticed and unattended. Ripe for being duped.

That being the case, he turned on the charm and flashed her that smile everyone said was magnetic. "Tell me where and when, and I"m there."

"There"s a roadhouse. Go five miles back from here or thereabouts, take county road 317 to the right, and it"ll be about three miles down on the left."

"And the time?"

"Nine?"

"You"re not going to stand me up, are you?" He knew the answer. It was on her face. She was already thinking about how she"d screw him in the bathroom.

"Not a chance."

"Then I"ll see you at nine." He shot her another megawatt smile, turned, and walked to his car.

As soon as he started it, he put it in gear, threw up a hand, and gave her a wave as he pulled onto the road. And without another thought of the woman who"d helped him, he turned his attention to the family harboring Hope, her mother, and her child.

He"d reached out to them, asking that they do the right thing and return the child to his father. Hope had stolen Andy from him and denied him his own son.

Even now, that memory started rage bubbling in his gut.

Out of the blue, he received a text message from someone claiming to be Clayton Blackstone. The sender demanded Rob call him and left a phone number.

That was easy enough. Rob just went to his most recent call and called it.

"Blackstone Group, how may I direct your call?"

"Clayton Blackstone."

He was placed on hold and waited impatiently. Finally, a man came on the line. "Good afternoon, Mr. Wingate. This is Clayton Blackstone."

"What do you want?"

"We"re having this conversation to determine what you want, Mr. Wingate."

"I want my –"

"If you say son, I"ll hang up now. We both know you don"t care about that child, so what do you want? Money."

"I"m insulted you"d think I"d sell my child, my own flesh, and—"

"Half a million?"

Rob"s mouth went dry. Half a million was a tidy sum. He almost said yes, but a voice inside whispered, Half a mil is chump change to this guy. He"ll go higher.

"Seriously, half a million dollars for the only son I may ever—"

"A million."

Rob swallowed. A million would set him up. He wanted to press for more, but something in the man"s voice told him this would be his final offer.

Afraid the man would withdraw it, Rob agreed. "I can live with that."

"I bet you could."

Something in Blackstone"s voice gave Rob an uncomfortable shiver. "Pardon?"

"I said I bet you could. But you won"t because I"m not giving you a dime. You lost all rights to that child when you walked out on Hope after hearing she was pregnant."

"You can"t prove that."

"I don"t have to." Clayton"s voice now carried something that struck Rob as sinister. "You already have. This call is being recorded; thus, I have proof you were willing to sell your rights to your son. I doubt a court would look favorably on that.

"So, I suggest you forget this idea of profiting from this family or Hope"s. It"s not going to happen."

"I guess we"ll see about that. I just might have to pay them a visit."

"That would be unwise. Goodbye Mr. Wingate."

Rob could still remember the feeling he had when Blackstone hung up. He felt—dismissed. Cast aside without consideration, forgotten before the call ended.

Just like a rich bastard. A seed of potential hate-seeking nourishment found what it needed to germinate. Rob swore he"d get even. He"d take that old bastard"s entire fortune.

But first, he was going to take that bitch"s son.