Kitabı oku: «The Playboy’s Unexpected Bride»

The Playboy’s Unexpected Bride

Sandra Marton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Rio de Janeiro, April

CARNAVAL had ended almost two months ago, but Rio didn’t seem to know it.

Lincoln Aldridge wasn’t surprised. He’d been to Rio before. The city could be an endless party, especially for a man with money, rugged good looks and connections.

Linc had all three but he wasn’t in a partying mood. He’d been on the go for almost two weeks, first flying to Argentina, then Colombia, then Brazil. His business meetings had gone well but he had a more important matter on his mind.

Too much time had gone by since he’d heard from his sister. Kathryn and her husband, married five months, were on what she’d called a belated honeymoon, seeing the world.

New York City was part of the world, Linc had said wryly, and he damned well expected that Kath and the husband he’d never met intended to make it part of their trip.

“Absolutely,” she’d answered, sounding almost like the kid he still thought of her as being. “We’re going to stop there last so we can spend some time with you. And, Linc? Get ready for a wonderful surprise!”

The best surprise would be seeing her again. Kath was twenty-two and he’d all but raised her. Now she lived in L.A., where she’d met Mark and eloped to Vegas. Linc, ten years her senior, would have felt better if he’d laid eyes on the guy before the wedding but at least he would meet him soon.

It was why he was eager to get home.

First, though, he had to finalize the deal he’d made with entrepreneur Hernando Marques. They’d shaken hands on it but Marques wanted to sign the contract at his home. An odd request, maybe, but when a man was about to spend twenty-five million bucks a year giving Aldridge Inc. full responsibility for the security of all his residential and commercial properties, an odd request was okay.

“This is my poker night, Lincoln,” Marques had said. “I spend it with a few old friends whose company I am sure you would enjoy. Please. Join us.”

So Linc had smiled and said he looked forward to it.

A little before eight, his taxi glided through the massive iron gates that guarded the Marques estate.

Force of habit made Linc check the perimeter. One of his teams had installed the latest security systems a couple of weeks ago. Electric eyes. Hidden cameras. Sensors. He couldn’t spot them all, which was as it should be, but what he saw looked perfect.

The taxi stopped at the foot of wide stone steps. His host flung the door open before Linc could ring the bell.

“Lincoln!” Marques grinned and extended his hand. “I was afraid you might have forgotten my invitation, meo amigo.”

“Traffic,” Linc said with a quick smile, even as he wondered at his host’s reaction. Brazilians were a friendly people but Marques seemed to be taking things to a new level.

Marques led him to a leather-walled game room where a dozen or so men stood chatting in small groups near an expansive buffet laid out on a mile-long table.

“Come and meet my friends, Lincoln.”

Linc shook hands, smiled, said hello and how are you to men he’d met before and others he knew by reputation. This was a gathering of some of the wealthiest men in South America. Eight years ago, when he’d started Aldridge Inc. with nothing but guts and his Special Forces experience, he’d have given anything to have been invited to an evening like this.

Now, it was Marques’s guests who expressed pleasure at meeting him.

He moved from group to group, eating a little, drinking hardly at all, wondering when he could get away. No one seemed in a hurry to play cards.

At last, Marques sought him out again. He was smiling but tiny drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. Something was wrong. Had the man decided against the deal despite the binding handshake?

“Hernando,” he said pleasantly. “I was just going to look for you. This is great but—”

“But you have had a long day and you wish for an early night.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

“I do. So perhaps—perhaps, now, we might adjourn to the library to—to—”

“To sign the contract,” Linc said, his eyes on the other man’s.

“Certainly. To sign the contract.” Marques hesitated. “And to talk.”

The library was big and leather-paneled like the game room. A pair of French doors graced the far end; a fire blazed on the hearth of a stone fireplace to ward off the faint chill of the night.

Marques offered brandy. A cigar. Coffee. Linc said no to all three.

“Something’s on your mind, Hernando.” Linc’s tone was polite but cool. “I’d appreciate it if you’d just get to it.”

His host nodded. Licked his lips. Fussed at the logs on the hearth with a poker before finally looking at Linc.

“This is difficult for me, Lincoln.”

“But?”

“But there is something I must ask.” A quick laugh. “I am not good at asking for favors. Not that this is a favor, exactly. I mean, it is something that will surely benefit you, as well as me.”

Here it comes, Linc thought, folding his arms over his chest. A request to change the terms of their agreement? To renegotiate the price? What else could it be?

“And what is it you must ask?”

Marques cleared his throat. “You are unmarried Lincoln. That is correct, yes?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, you are single. Am I right?”

Linc frowned. What did his marital status have to do with anything? “Uh, yes. Yes, I’m single.”

“No children, then?”

“Marques. What is this about?”

“Because, you see, it is possible only a man with a child—with a daughter—would understand my feelings on this matter.”

“What matter?”

Marques looked at him, then away. “I have a daughter. She is young—but,” he added quickly, “mature for her age.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see what—”

“She is also bright and well-educated. Obedient and well-mannered. And—”

And, Linc thought in horror, as the truth began to sink in, Marques wanted to marry her off. To him?

“I am a modern man, Lincoln. Still, when it comes to my daughter, I have some old-fashioned ways.”

Hell. Absolutely to him. He’d heard about this kind of thing, of course, arranged marriages, especially in wealthy families in Europe and South America…

“…would never hand her off to a man I didn’t trust and respect…”

They did this back home, too. Not quite this openly but he’d been the target of a couple of attempts at marriage-brokering. He was in his thirties, he was single, he was well-off…

Why think in polite euphemisms? He was rich and that was fine because he’d gotten that way strictly on his own. Nobody had given him anything in this life, which made what he’d acquired, the homes, the cars, the private plane, all the more enjoyable.

And his looks were acceptable.

Okay. Most women made it clear his looks were more than acceptable. He’d always had his pick of women, even back in the days he’d never had more than ten bucks in his pocket. So, yeah, he’d been here before. Approached, you could call it, by some of New York’s best-known grands dames. They had daughters and he was, by their reckoning, eligible, and so what if his blood wasn’t as blue as theirs?

You’d love my Emma, they said. Or, Why don’t you come out to our place in Easthampton this weekend? Glenna will be there. You do remember Glenna, don’t you?

Yes, but nobody had ever come straight out and said, Here’s my daughter. I’d like you to marry her.

“…a charming young woman, Lincoln, polite and very willing to accommodate. If you’d simply agree to meet her—”

“Hernando.” Linc took a deep breath. “I—I want you to know I appreciate how—how direct you’re being. This can’t be easy for you.”

Marques gave a little laugh. “It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.”

“I’m sure it is but the thing is—the thing is—”

A polite knock sounded at the door. A servant popped his head in, smiled apologetically and said something in rapid Portuguese.

Marques sighed. “My wife is on the phone, Lincoln. I’ll take the call in my office. She is visiting her sister but you know how it is with women.”

Linc didn’t. Not with wives, at any rate, and he had every intention of keeping it that way.

“I’ll only be a minute. Help yourself to some brandy while you consider my proposition.”

Linc waited until the door closed. Then he muttered an oath and decided brandy was a fine idea.

How did a man turn down what Marques called a proposition? Grimly, he poured an inch of amber liquid into a snifter. He didn’t want to insult him. He didn’t want to lose this account, either, but if that was what it took to get out of here…

What was that?

Had something stirred outside the French doors? Clouds had moved in to obscure the moon; the light was poor but… Yes. There it was again. He had a better look now, enough to be sure what was out in the darkness wasn’t a something.

It was a someone.

Linc put down the brandy glass. He moved slowly, instinctively falling back into survival tactics honed to a fine edge years ago. Adrenaline pulsing through him, breathing steady, he felt himself come alive as he always had in moments like this.

The handles to the French doors were almost within reach. One more step…

He exploded into action, yanked the doors open, threw himself into the night and wrapped his arms around the intruder.

Wrapped his arms around a woman.

Definitely a woman. Her long hair swept across his face. Her breasts filled his hands. Her rounded bottom pressed against his groin. She fought him with all her strength, which was considerable, but it was no match for his.

A cry rose in her throat. Linc sensed it coming and clapped his hand over her mouth. For all he knew, she had an accomplice.

The feel of his hand increased her frenzy. She twisted like a wild thing caught in a trap. Linc lifted her off the ground and drew her, hard, against his body. She grunted. Her elbows slammed into his belly. Her heels rapped his shins.

He put his mouth to her ear.

“Stop it,” he hissed.

She fought harder. Deliberately, he spread his hand over not just her mouth but her nose.

“I said, stop!”

Another jab. Another kick. His hand pressed more insistently. After a few seconds she sagged against him but he wasn’t fooled. The fight had gone out of her too fast. She was faking it.

He put his mouth to her ear again. She smelled of roses or maybe lily-of-the-valley. He wasn’t much on flowers or scents. All he knew was that she fought like a man but she sure as hell smelled like a woman.

“Behave, or it’s lights out. You hear me?”

A second passed. Then she nodded. Slowly, carefully, he eased his hand from her face and swung her toward him.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“Let go of me!”

It was too dark to see her features but he could hear the fury in her voice, sharp with command and condescension. It was almost enough to make him laugh but laughing when your best security system had been breached didn’t quite cut it.

“I asked you a question, lady. What’s your name? How’d you get past the gate?”

“You asked two questions. And I gave you an order. Let go of me. Now!”

He did laugh then; how could he help it? The woman, who had been speaking in lightly accented English, spat out a phrase in Portuguese he was pretty sure women didn’t generally use.

Right then, the moon decided to put in an appearance. It was only a quarter moon but it gave enough light for him to see her.

His breath caught.

She was, in a word, spectacular. Long blond hair. Big blue eyes. Razor-sharp cheekbones, an elegant nose, lush mouth and a body made for sin, poured into a black one-piece thing that lovingly molded every feminine curve.

“How dare you look at me that way?”

He’d seen a lot of thieves in his life but never one who looked like this.

“Damn you,” she said, “are you deaf? I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

Was that really his voice? So low? So hoarse? Better still, was this really happening? Was he holding an intruder in his arms who looked like every man’s dream?

She began to struggle. He drew her closer. Her breasts, her belly, pressed against his. Was it the sense of danger? Was it the feel of her? Whatever the cause, his body responded in a heartbeat.

He froze. So did she.

“Let go,” she said, her voice suddenly trembling. “If you don’t, I swear, you’ll pay for this.”

She was right, he would. Once he dragged her into the house, told Marques, the contract they’d yet to sign would go down the drain…

In which case, wasn’t he entitled to some compensation?

The thought was cold; the swift rise of heat in his blood was not. He wasn’t a man to take what had not been offered but suddenly that didn’t matter. Nothing did, except the feel of the woman in his arms.

Deliberately, he cupped her face with one hand. Tilted it up to his. She read what was coming and gasped, beat her fists against his shoulders.

He didn’t give a damn. Slowly, he bent his head to hers and kissed her.

She made a sound of protest. Tried to twist her head away. He wouldn’t let it happen. He thrust his fingers into her hair, felt it slide like silk through his hand and went on kissing her.

Kissing her. Kissing her…

She ignited like dry tinder under the flame of a match. Her hands slid up his chest. Her mouth softened. She gave a sexy little moan…

A light came on just outside the house.

The woman stiffened. Linc, lost in the moment, started to draw her into the shadows.

“No!” she gasped, and sank her teeth into his bottom lip.

Startled, he loosened his grip. One lithe twist and she disappeared into the darkness.

“Lincoln?”

It was Marques. Linc shuddered. He drew his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it to his bloody lip. He was a man who lived by rigid rules of self-control; there was no way to explain what he’d just done. He could only tell his host that an intruder was on the grounds and he had lost her.

No need to supply the humiliating details.

Marques smiled when he saw him. “There you are.

I thought perhaps you’d…” His smile faded. “What happened to your lip?”

“It’s nothing. An insect bite.”

“One of the maids will get you some antiseptic.”

“No. No, thanks. I…” Linc cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Nonsense. Small wounds can become a problem in this climate. Come inside, Lincoln. I’ll ring for—”

“Hernando, listen to me. That security system my people installed?”

“It is excellent,” Marques said, smiling broadly. “The best, just as you promised.”

“It isn’t. I mean, it is but—”

“Papa?”

A girl—obviously Marques’s daughter—stood silhouetted in the hallway just outside the room. Marques held out his hand.

“Ana. Come in, child.”

Linc smothered a groan. Damn, what a mess! Bad enough he had to tell Marques his high-tech security system had been compromised and he’d let the intruder slip away. Now he had to top that off by saying no, he wasn’t interested in marrying a sweet, well-bred innocent young woman while she stood by, listening.

Oh, yeah, this was definitely turning into a fun night, Linc thought glumly…and felt his jaw slide to his shoe tops as Marques’s daughter entered the well-lit room.

The sweet, well-bred innocent was the woman he’d just kissed.

The sexy black outfit had been subtly altered by the addition of a pale pink jacket, long and loose enough to hide all those feminine curves. The silky tousle of golden hair was drawn back in a severe knot. But it was she, and one look at her face told him she was as stunned as he was.

“Ana,” Marques said, “this is the man I’ve been telling you about. Lincoln, this is my beloved daughter, Ana Maria.”

For the first time in his life, Linc found himself struggling for words. What did you say to a man whose “beloved daughter” had been in your arms moments ago? Whose innocence was obviously a ruse only her father was foolish enough to believe?

His cell phone rang. Ordinarily, he’d have ignored it. Now, he yanked it from his pocket like a lifeline.

“Aldridge,” he barked.

“Lincoln,” he heard his lawyer say solemnly, “I’m afraid I’ve had word about your sister.”

Somehow, in that instant, he knew what was coming. He turned his back to the room, to Marques, to Marques’s daughter. The lawyer was hemming and hawing, stalling for time. Linc interrupted with a sharp command.

“Spit it out, man. What’s happened?”

A chartered plane had gone down in a mountain pass. The pilot, the passengers…all of them, gone.

Linc felt the blood drain from his head. Dimly, he heard Marques say something but he ignored him and stepped blindly into the night.

“No,” he said sharply. “Not Kath.”

“I’m sorry, Lincoln. Your sister and her husband both. But, miraculously, there was a survivor.”

One survivor. A baby. A two-month-old little girl.

A little girl who was Lincoln Aldridge’s niece.

CHAPTER TWO

New York City, two months later

IT TURNED out that some clichés were true.

Tragedy fell on a man without warning, but life went on. It changed, but it went on.

Somehow, you kept going. Somehow, you adapted.

You adapted, Linc thought groggily, as the piercing wail of the gorgeous, brilliant, impossible four-month-old hellion who now ruled his life shot him from sleep.

He threw out a hand, searched on the bedside table for his watch and peered blearily at the luminescent dial.

Oh, God!

It was five-oh-five. Five-oh-five in the a.m. He had a meeting at eight-thirty with his own people, another at eleven with the European clients he’d taken to dinner last night. He had to be sharp and focused and how could a man be either when he hadn’t had a solid night’s sleep?

He never had a solid night’s sleep anymore. And he rarely had a full day to devote to his work.

First there’d been the awful, sad details of Kath’s death to handle. When that was over, the baby—Kath’s secret—had taken center stage.

At first, he’d wondered why his sister had kept the child a secret but simple math had explained it. Kath had reversed the usual order of things. She’d gotten pregnant first, then married. Maybe she’d worried he’d have thought less of her for that reversal, which damned near broke his heart. Or maybe she just hadn’t known how to break the news to him long-distance.

Whatever the reason, all that mattered now was the baby’s welfare.

He had met with his attorney and, of course, immediately agreed to provide the baby a proper home. He didn’t know a damned thing about babies—how could he? But he hadn’t known a thing about running a business, either, when he’d started out.

No problem.

You didn’t know how to do something, you learned. Or, if it was more expedient, you hired people who did. That was what he’d done, what he’d assured the social worker whose job it was to make sure the baby was properly cared for he would do.

And he had.

He’d sent his PA shopping for baby clothes, a crib, a highchair, bottles, formula, diapers and the thousand other things an infant required. He’d had the interior designer who’d done his Fifth Avenue triplex turn the guest suite into a nursery. He’d contacted a nanny agency and interviewed more women eager to clean baby bottoms than he’d have imagined existed in the world, let alone New York.

And, last week, Kath’s mother-in-law had suddenly come on the scene. Nobody had even known she existed until then.

Would she ask for custody? If she did, should he fight her for it? Or would his niece be better off in her care?

Linc couldn’t come to a decision. On the one hand, women knew more about kids than he ever could. Wasn’t it in their DNA? On the other, the child was his blood. She was his only remaining connection to Kathryn.

What would Kath have wanted? She’d loved him the way he’d loved her. The circumstances of their lives—no father, a mother who drank and forgot they existed most of the time—had made them unusually close. Still, there was no way to know if she’d have wanted her baby raised by him or her mother-in-law. His attorney was checking things out.

The bottom line was that Kath was gone and a small, squalling stranger had dropped into his life. He’d had to leave increasing responsibility for running Aldridge Inc. in the hands of his people. They were all excellent managers, hand-selected by him, but Aldridge had grown into a multimillion-dollar company and he was integral to that growth.

He knew it was time to put the turmoil of the past months behind him and get back to the work he loved and maybe to some kind of social life, but you had to sleep nights to do that.

Right now, the baby’s screams were reaching a crescendo, carrying all the way from the guest-suiteturned-nursery on the second floor of the penthouse to his bedroom on the third.

Where in hell was the nanny?

Linc threw back the duvet and started to the door. Halfway there, he remembered he was wearing boxers, his usual sleeping apparel but not what you’d choose for an appearance before Nanny Crispin.

She was the fifth woman he’d hired and the first that seemed to be working out.

The first hadn’t lasted a week. Linc had come home an hour early one night and found her rolling on the Aubusson rug in the great room with a guy with studs in his ears, nose and lip and other places he’d glimpsed and tried to forget.

He’d thrown them both out.

Nanny Two had lasted ten days. Day eleven, she’d reeked of pot.

Nanny Three had simply vanished. Her replacement, Nanny Four, had seemed okay until the evening she’d greeted him at the door wearing one of his Thomas Pink handmade shirts, spiked heels and a smile.

Then the agency sent him Nanny Crispin.

She was sixtyish, tall and skinny. Her hair was steelgray, her small, wire-framed eyeglasses sat squarely on the bridge of a high, narrow nose. Linc doubted if she knew how to smile but she’d come highly recommended and, he supposed, whether or not she ever smiled was immaterial.

It couldn’t possibly matter to a four-month-old infant. A baby’s needs were purely physical. Food. Warmth. Cleanliness. This baby was getting all that. He’d made sure of it by hiring Nanny Crispin.

Sighing, Linc grabbed the trousers he’d worn last night. The baby’s howls had reached earsplitting proportions. Nanny Crispin would have to endure the sight of his bare chest—and what the hell was she doing, anyway, letting the kid scream?

He marched down the hall and went down the steel and oiled teak spiral staircase.

The door to the nursery stood open. All the lights were on, illuminating the crib where the baby was screeching like a wind-up toy gone berserk. Nanny Crispin, wrapped like a mummy in a flannel robe the same color as her hair, sat in a straight-backed chair beside the crib, arms folded over her flat chest.

Linc cleared his throat. Pointless. Nobody could have heard the roar of a jet engine over the wails of the baby.

“Nanny Crispin?”

As always, he felt like an idiot addressing a woman twice his age that way but she’d made it clear that she expected his housekeeper, his driver and him to call her by her title.

He walked to the crib and waited for her to notice him. When she didn’t, he tapped her on the shoulder. She reacted as if she’d been scalded, leaping to her feet, spinning to face him, her mouth forming a perfect O.

“I didn’t meant to startle you.”

Nanny Crispin stared at his chest.

“I said, I didn’t mean to—” Hell. He took a breath, fought back the urge to grab something to cover his naked chest and decided to get to the point. “What’s wrong with the baby?”

“Do you not own a robe, Mr. Aldridge?”

“Do I not…?” Linc flushed. Suddenly, he was six years old. “Well, sure, but I heard the baby and—”

“Your attire is inappropriate. I am a single woman and you are a man.”

“Yes, but—”

But one of them was crazy. He was indeed a man. She was about as sexually appealing as a stick, never mind the age difference or the fact that she was his employee. If she’d looked like the reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe, that last fact would have been enough to keep him at arm’s length.

Linc jerked his chin toward the crib. “I’m not worried about decorum right now, Nanny Crispin. I want to know why the baby is screaming.”

“She is screaming because she is undisciplined.”

“Undisciplined. Well, then, of course she…”

His voice faded away. Undisciplined? He frowned. True, he knew nothing about babies, but did four-month-old infants cry because they were undisciplined?

“Are you sure?”

“I have been taking care of babies for forty years, Mr. Aldridge. I know an undisciplined child when I see one.”

Linc looked at the baby. Her face was purple. Her arms and legs were pumping. His frown deepened.

“Maybe she’s hungry.”

“I gave her eight ounces of formula four hours ago. Eight ounces is the proper amount.”

“What about her diaper? Does it need changing?”

“No.”

“Well, is she too warm? Too cold? Could something be hurting her?”

Nanny Crispin’s thin mouth narrowed until it all but disappeared. “She is simply in need of discipline, as I said.”

“And that means?”

“It means I shall outlast her temper tantrum. Goodnight, sir.”

Linc nodded. “Okay. Sure. Goodnight.”

He turned, walked away, got halfway up the stairs and paused. The baby was still crying but her screams had become sobs. Somehow, that was even worse.

Would Kath have let her daughter weep? Would she have called this a temper tantrum?

He swung around, went back to the nursery, ignored the scowl of disapproval and the pursed lips.

“How about picking her up?” Nanny Crispin looked at him as if he’d spoken in Urdu. “You know, take her out of the crib. Hold her, walk around with her.”

“One does not reward poor behavior.”

“No. Of course not. I mean…”

What in hell did he mean? Suddenly, Linc plunged back in time. He remembered coming home from football practice, finding Kath sobbing her heart out in the corner of the kitchen that had been her bedroom. He’d been maybe seventeen, so she’d have been seven. She’d been crying because some kid had made fun of her, the way she’d looked in the too-big winter coat he’d gotten her at the Salvation Army, and she hadn’t stopped weeping until he’d scooped her up, rocked her, told her everything would be all right.

Linc walked slowly to the crib. Looked in. Hesitated. Then he reached down and picked up the baby. It was the first time he’d held her since the day a social worker had placed her in his arms.

This is your sister’s daughter, she’d said.

Those simple words, the unfamiliar feel of the kid in his arms, and he’d finally had to accept that Kath was gone.

Now, he stared at the red, unhappy face of Kath’s child. His niece. Funny how he never thought of her that way. Awkwardly, he cupped her head with one hand, her bottom with the other, and rocked her back and forth.

A little bubble of spit appeared in the corner of her mouth.

The kid was cute, he thought grudgingly. He hadn’t really noticed before, but she was.

“Mr. Aldridge, I must protest. You are undermining my authority in front of the child.”

He looked at the baby, then at Nanny Crispin. The look on her face said he was committing a capitol offense.

“She has a name,” he heard himself say.

“What has that to do with anything?”

“She has a name. Jennifer. I’ve never heard you use it.”

“Her name is irrelevant.”

It wasn’t irrelevant, nor was the fact that he never used the baby’s name, either. He knew that, deep where it counted.

“Mr. Aldridge. The child needs to be taught a lesson. Either you put her back in her crib or I’m afraid I will have to tender my resignation.”

Linc looked down at his niece. Her sobs had stopped. She was staring up at him, her expression solemn.

“Did you hear me, sir? I said—”

“I heard you. Consider your resignation accepted.”

Nanny Crispin gasped. Linc almost did, too. What in hell had he done?

“Wait a minute,” he started to say, but his cell phone, still in his trouser pocket, beeped. He shifted the baby to the crook of one arm and dug out the phone.

It was his attorney. At—what was it now?—at six in the damned a.m.?

“I couldn’t reach you last night, Lincoln.”

“Well, you’ve reached me now, Charles. This better be good.”

Kath’s mother-in-law had filed for custody. Linc wondered whether he felt relief or maybe something else.

“Yeah, well, we kind of figured—”

“What we didn’t figure,” his lawyer said briskly, “was that the lady basically abandoned her own son—Kathryn’s husband—when he was three. Now she’s claiming to have been a devoted mother who had problems.”