He’d learned to shrug off such gibes. He had also acquired the correlated ability to ride roughshod over people. “It means, dear Meg, that when people look at me, they see my father. They want to believe I’m him. They want to believe it so badly, that no matter what I say or what I do, they think I’m the one to lead them to the promised land. You know what being John B. Tarkenton Jr. means? I get away with everything.”

“You won’t get away with Katie. I’ll take her to the ends of the earth to keep her away from you.”

“I’m one of the privileged few who has the resources to follow you there. You won’t be able to hide her, not from me. I have too much money and too many connections. There are Tarkenton interests all over the world. And when I do find her, I’ll use your refusal to acknowledge me as her father against you, not only in a court of law, but in the court of public opinion. Don’t forget, Meg. My name and face are recognized around the world. Which brings me to the most pertinent fact, a fact you seem to have forgotten. My being a Tarkenton means Katie is a Tarkenton, too.”

“You want to ruin her life by making this public? Is that it?”

“I’m her father. It’s a statement of fact. I am not going to go away. I laid out my proposal. You have two weeks to come up with a better one. If you don’t, your choice is simple. You can either turn this into a public custody battle or marry me and keep Katie’s paternity private, just between us. As her mother, I happen to think you are the most qualified person to make this decision. Unlike you, I believe both her parents have Katie’s best interests at heart.”

He shoved the box at her, and then he was gone from her house.

The moment Meg pushed open the thick glass-and-brass doors of New York City’s poshest and most exclusive athletic club, she realized she had made a mistake. It was one thing to show up without an appointment at Jack’s Wall Street office. It was quite another to confront him here, far from the trappings of executives and professionals.

Her smart navy business suit clashed with the fluorescent glare and neon graphics of the club. Behind a metallic reception desk stood a cute and bouncy girl who wore a brilliant green polo shirt with the club’s insignia stitched above her name. “May I help you?” she asked brightly.

Debbie’s short sleeves showed off muscular biceps and veins that bulged on her forearms. Intimidating arms they were, too, especially to a woman who was in a crisply tailored jacket, slim skirt and the highest of heels. “Do you happen to know where I can find Jack Tarkenton?” she asked.

Debbie’s bright smile disappeared. “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to give out the names or whereabouts of our members.”

Meg tucked her purse under her arm and approached the desk. “What do you do in case of emergencies?”

“Is this an emergency?”

“It is urgent that I speak to Mr. Tarkenton, yes.”

Debbie put her hands on formidably narrow hips. “You would not believe how many women come in here claiming they know him. I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to even confirm the fact that he’s here.”

“I know he’s here. I’m his secretary. It is urgent that I speak to him as soon as possible.”

“If you’re his secretary, why didn’t you just call him direct?”

It figured with Jack’s active social life, he’d carry a cell phone. “This matter is a rather delicate one,” Meg explained, hoping the conversation wasn’t being monitored. “It really would be best if I talked to him face-to-face.”

“One of those matters, huh?” Debbie gestured Meg closer. “I’ve heard he has a bedroom suite in his office. Mirrors, waterbed, hot tub, screening room, the works. True?”

Meg wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Before coming here, she went to the address on his business card. It led to a modern office building—gray with granite and sleek with reflecting glass.

However, the pepper-haired receptionist for Tarkenton, Inc., was far cagier and more protective than this young woman, refusing to either confirm or deny whether Mr. Tarkenton was even in the country. Consequently, Meg hadn’t glimpsed anything beyond the reception area.

Tastefully decorated in rich rosewood and brass, it was classic and brooding and lawyerlike. Which fit. Like his sister, Amanda, Jack had followed in his father’s footsteps long enough to obtain a law degree.

When Meg failed to track him down at the office, she recalled Amanda mentioning this club as one of her brother’s frequent haunts.

“Tell you what,” Meg said to Debbie. “I’m not allowed to divulge anything about Mr. Tarkenton, either. But if you let me deliver my message, I’ll have him autograph something for you.”