Free Sweet Sanctuary by Kim Vogel Sawyer

Please follow me.”
    Nic plodded across the marble floor through an arched doorway. The moment he entered the parlor, the maid discreetly disappeared. The mistress of the house—Mrs. Darwin Thaddeus Bachman the Third—sat in a velvet tufted chair beside a scrolled round table, a China teacup in her pale, slender hands. But he’d gotten a whiff of the cup’s contents on his last visit. Mrs. Bachman wasn’t drinking tea.
    When she spotted Nic, she set the cup aside and rose, hands outstretched, to greet him. “Mr. Pankin, how lovely to see you.” She clasped his hand between hers. Her lips formed a smile, but her eyes remained cold. Distant. Tipping sideways slightly, she peeked behind him. “You’re alone?”
    Nic knew what she was asking. He cleared his throat and tugged his hand from her clammy grasp. “Yeah.” He stifled the curse that rose in his throat. The midwife’s disappearance had thrown a roadblock into his plans. But he’d find his kid. He had to. Too much rested on it. “Came to tell you there’s been a little delay. But don’t worry—the kid’ll be yours soon.”
    The woman sank back into the chair. “Mr. Pankin, please understand, I’m trying to be patient. But Darwin and I have been alone for eleven years.” Her brows puckered. “Eleven . . . years . . .” She swept her hand, indicating the surroundings. “This house is longing for the presence of a child. Every generation of Bachmans before us has provided an heir. It is imperative my husband not be the one who breaks with tradition. I must secure a child.”
    Nic fidgeted in place. The woman’s high-pitched voice grated on his nerves, but he wouldn’t bark at her. Deep down it pleased him to hold the upper hand. Hadn’t taken him long on his previous visit to understand why she’d turned to him. No judge or decent person would give her a child. Her unnaturally rosy cheeks, slightly slurred speech, and trembling hands betrayedher weakness. If an uneducated bum like him read the signs, decent people would, too. Which made her dependent on the likes of him. He nearly laughed. She seemed to have everything—a fancy home, servants, nice belongings, money—yet she needed something from him. Such power he held. Almost made him want to prolong the sale. But he needed the money now, and he might lose out to somebody else if he didn’t produce the kid soon. Worry clawed at him.
    â€œYou ain’t looking elsewhere, are you? Thinking of buying a baby?”
    Mrs. Bachman cringed. “A squalling infant? Oh, mercy, no. Diapers and nighttime feedings hold no appeal to me.” She lifted her shoulder in a lazy shrug. “A child of three, already fully trained, able to speak and understand directions yet young enough to be molded into Darwin’s expectations—that is precisely what I desire.”
    Leaning forward, she fixed him with a steady look. “And it’s precisely what I expect from you. But I need to know, Mr. Pankin, if you’re able to deliver. You made a promise to me nearly a month ago and I’ve yet to receive anything more than excuses. Do you or do you not intend to allow us to adopt your child?”
    Her words— be molded into our expectations —echoed in Nic’s mind. For one brief second something at the center of Nic’s being caused a stir of apprehension. Would this woman love the kid and treat him right, or would she just hound him to become someone like herself—uppity and spoiled? He pushed the odd feeling aside. Why did he care what she did as long as he got what he wanted most?
    Narrowing his gaze, he ground out, “’Course I do. And the age’ll be just right for what you’re wanting. Just gimme another week. I’ll be back, and you won’t be disappointed.”
    Lifting her teacup, she drank until she’d emptied it. Then