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Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
About The Author
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Epilogue
Copyright
He Wasn’t Wearing A
Wedding Ring.
And, Jasmine noted, a spark of interest had flared in his dark green eyes that not only hadn’t undressed her with lascivious speculation, but hadn’t even looked below her chin, except to determine her name, which put him on a pedestal as far as she was concerned.
She considered the other candidates she’d met over the past six months, each of them flawed in some way. Potential Donor 1, who she’d decided wasn’t tall enough; Donor 2, whose ears were too large; Donor 3, whose eyes were too brooding; Donor 4, who wore turtlenecks all the time—what had he been hiding?
Jasmine recognized the alleged flaws for the excuse they were—to avoid making her plan a reality. But now there was Patrick, who was tall enough, had great ears, smiling eyes and a strong, suntanned neck.
He was perfect. Perhaps too perfect?
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Silhouette Desire, where you can discover the answers to all your romantic questions. Such as…
Q. What would you think if you discovered the man you love has a secret identity—as a movie star?
A. That’s what happens to the heroine of August’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Don’t Fence Me In by award-winning writer Kathleen Korbel.
Q. What would you do if you were pregnant, in labor and snowbound with a sexy—but panicked—stranger?
A. Discover the answer in Father on the Brink, the conclusion to Elizabeth Bevarly’s FROM HERE TO PATERNITY series.
Q. Suppose you had to have a marriage of convenience?
A. Maybe you’d behave like the heroine in Barbara McMahon’s Bride of a Thousand Days.
Q. How could you talk a man into fathering your child…no strings attached?
A. Learn how in Susan Crosby’s Baby Fever!
Q. Would you ever marry a stranger?
A. You might, if he was the hero of Sara Orwig’s The Bride’s Choice.
Q. What does it take to lasso a sexy cowboy?
A. Find out in Shawna Delacorte’s Cowboy Dreaming. Silhouette Desire.. .where all your questions are answered and your romantic dreams can come true. Until next month, happy reading!
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Baby Fever
Susan Crosby
www.millsandboon.co.uk
SUSAN CROSBY
is fascinated by the special and complex communication of courtship, and so she burrows in her office to dream up warm, strong heroes and good-hearted, self-reliant heroines to satisfy her own love of happy endings.
She and her husband have two grown sons and live in the Central Valley of California. She spent a mere seven and a half years getting through college, and finally earned a B.A. in English a few years ago. She has worked as a synchronized swimming instructor, a personnel interviewer at a toy factory, and a trucking company manager. Involved for many years behind the scenes in a local community theater, she has made only one stage appearance—as the rear end of a camel! Variety, she says, makes for more interesting novels.
Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.
For Christine Rimmer, who is everything I admire—
talented, generous, kind, intelligent and humble. Thanks
for making the journey so much fun.
And for my wonderful editor, Melissa Jeglinski,
who wanted Patrick to have his own story.
He thanks you and so do I.
Prologue
Six thousand dollars.
The words echoed in Jasmine LeClerc’s head as she pushed open the door and exited the quiet, sterile building. She descended a short flight of stairs, her legs trembling so much she had to prop herself against the discreet sign at the bottom step—Bay City Clinic, Specializing In Reproductive And Fertility Disorders.
She closed her eyes. The numbers seemed to flash in neon in front of her. Six thousand dollars.
Drawing a deep breath, she straightened, mentally tugging her dignity into place. She was stronger than this. Tougher. She had to be. Cost couldn’t defeat her purpose. Not now. Not after she had come so far and had so little time remaining on her accelerating biological clock. The only viable eggs she had left were probably in wheelchairs by now, waiting to slide down a fallopian tube and on into oblivion.
She could picture them lined up at the starting gate. “Been here long?” October’s egg would ask, and November’s would answer, “Oh, yeah. Long time. Nigh on forty years now.”
The image made her smile, her first of the day. She started walking, the mindless activity helping her focus on facts instead of emotion. The infertility counselor had said that each attempt to be artificially inseminated would cost six thousand dollars and had less than a thirty-three percent success rate.
Those weren’t the numbers she’d wanted to hear.
She did some mental calculations. Her savings account could handle a couple of tries, but giving up that much money to buy herself a pregnancy meant she’d have to go back to work right after the baby was born, and she wanted to share those first precious months with her child. Plus, she really hoped to work only one job instead of the two she’d been juggling for the past seven years.
Then again, none of that mattered if neither attempt was successful.
There was another solution to her problem, of course. Her stomach knotted at the thought. She tried to block the image, but reality insisted she look at it honestly—she had to find an oblivious human donor to father her child.
She used Lamaze techniques to combat her queasy stomach, focusing on breathing patterns to relax. She was known for her honesty—brutally honest, most people called her. What she was considering required more than simple deceit. It meant outright lies. Could she actually go through with it? Could she pretend something she didn’t feel? She wished she could talk to someone about it, but she didn’t dare take even her sister into her confidence.
Bonk.
Something hit the backs of her knees, making her stumble a couple of steps. She caught herself before she fell, then turned around.
“Jason Alexander O’Connor. How many times have I told you not to throw that ball at people?” a woman yelled, exasperation layering each word.
Jasmine picked up the offending big blue rubber ball and smiled at the little boy with the soulful brown eyes. His mother, pushing a stroller, swooped down on him.
“That’s the last time we take the ball with us.” She touched Jasmine’s arm. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right, ma’am?”
Jasmine winced. Ma’am. Another reminder of her middle age. “Yes, I’m fine. I was surprised, that’s all.” Crouching, she passed the ball to the boy, then shifted her glance to the stroller and the pink-bonneted baby who lay contentedly within, staring in fascination at her own tiny fists. “You have beautiful children.”
“Well, one’s for sale, cheap,” the harried young woman said, eyeing her son. The boy turned a brilliant smile on his mother, apparently accustomed to the threat, as her mouth twitched against an answering grin. “Put the ball in the stroller, Jason, and let’s go home.”
Jasmine watched them walk away, the strings of her heart stretching to their limits. She shoved all concerns about dishonesty aside.
The end would justify the means, she told herself, coming to a decision. She wanted—needed—a baby. But first, she needed a man.
He had to be in good health, of course, and intelligent. And fertile. It would be nice if he were attractive and kind—she hadn’t made love in seven years, so some tenderness and physical appeal would help settle her nerves. And he definitely had to be temporary. No dating, no relationship beyond the window of opportunity that ovulation affords…three days, tops.
And he could never, ever, know anything about her pregnancy. No one would ever steal a child from her again. No one.
One
Patrick O’Halloran paid the cabdriver, added a generous tip for the guided tour he’d been given from the San Francisco airport to his daughter’s house, then stood on the sidewalk smiling at absolutely nothing.
He was in a good mood, a great mood. He was about to surprise his daughter, whom he hadn’t seen since her Valentine’s Day wedding a month and a half ago, and he hoped to spend a lot of time with her over the next few weeks that the doctor had ordered him to stay away from the office.
Doctors—what did they know? So, he’d had a heart attack. A minor heart attack, his cardiologist had reminded him at every opportunity. That didn’t mean his life was over. Just because his father had died of a massive coronary at age forty-seven, and Patrick had just celebrated his forty-seventh birthday, didn’t mean he would become a statistic himself.
“Dad?”
Patrick spun toward the house and grinned. “Hey, kid.”
Paige O’Halloran-Warner flew down the steps and into his arms. “What are you doing here?” she asked, laughing, then squeezing him tighter. “I’ve missed you, Dad. Really, really missed you.”
A lump formed in his throat as he hugged her back. He might have died without ever seeing her again, without seeing how happy she was. Happy wasn’t even the word. She glowed. “I missed you, too, honey.”
He didn’t make eye contact with her as they moved apart. Instead he scooped up his luggage and followed her into the house, where he almost tripped over several suitcases sitting in the front entry.
“You should have called,” Paige said, seeing where his gaze fell. “Rye and I are leaving in an hour for Brazil. We’ve got an embezzler to track down.”
He refused to let his disappointment show, and he refused to tell her about the heart attack. He’d never seen her so…vibrant. Her hair bounced in springy curls, her makeup amounted to mascara and maybe a little blush. The blue jeans and cotton sweater she wore completed the casual picture. What a change from the formally dressed, perfectly made-up woman she’d been just over a month ago.
No, if he told her about his doctor’s orders she would stay home with him, and he didn’t want that for her.
“Patrick!”
Rye Warner hurried down the stairs. The men shook hands, then Rye retreated to Paige’s side, settling his arm around her waist and pulling her snugly to him.
The gesture reminded Patrick of what was missing in his own life, and a yearning need filled him. The need for a normal existence, with a loving woman—someone to touch and hold, someone to sleep beside, someone to talk to in the deep, dark hours of the night when fear settled in and courage failed. His beautiful wife had died twenty-five years ago, leaving him with a four-year-old daughter and only a stevedore’s salary to raise her on. Aside from the business he’d built, nothing and no one had replaced Priscilla in his heart. He didn’t think anyone ever could. But he missed—
“Why didn’t you call?” Rye asked gently, his far-to-operceptive gaze reading things Patrick wanted to keep hidden. “We have an assignment—”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision and I just took a chance. How long will you be gone?”
“At least a week. How long can you stay?”
They wandered into the living room and sat down.
“I was planning on getting a hotel room for a couple of weeks.” Patrick watched them exchange glances. “I know what you’re thinking, but everything’s fine. After almost thirty years of rarely taking vacation time, I decided I was overdue. I’m letting the company take care of itself.”
“I don’t believe it,” Paige said. “O’Halloran Shipping can’t function without you there every day. At least, that’s what you’ve always said.”
Patrick rested his arms on his thighs and clasped his hands. “Well, you know, since the merger, I’ve had a little more freedom. I’ve been delegating work—”
“Are you ill, Dad?” Paige leaned toward him, forcing him to look her in the eye.
“Do I look ill?” His heart did a little dance as he waited for her answer.
“I guess not,” she said finally.
His gaze shifted to Rye, who sat silently observing him. “You look good, both of you,” Patrick said in an effort to distract his son-in-law. “Marriage agrees with you.”
“Paige agrees with me,” Rye said, twining his fingers with hers.
“I never knew it could be like this.” She smiled at her husband. “He fills up every corner of my life, yet he lets me be independent, too. If anyone had told me marriage could be like this, I would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the notion.”
Patrick ached for someone to look at him with the same kind of love.
“I’m just so sorry we’re leaving town now,” Paige continued, her gaze returning to her father. “Promise me you won’t leave before we get back. You can use our house while we’re gone.”
“Thanks, but I’d prefer a hotel, I think. Someplace with room service. You know my cooking skills.”
A slow grin spread across Rye’s face. Patrick noted it, and didn’t like the pure devilment in it.
“I’ve got just the place.” Rye stood. “Let me call and see if it’s available.”
“Don’t go to any trouble—”
“Give up, Dad. Once he’s got an idea in his head, an earthquake can’t shake it loose. So, tell me everything that’s happened at work since I left.”
As restaurant kitchens went, it was quiet. The tinkle of utensils against china, the muffled clatter of pans on the stove, the hiss and sizzle of food cooking—sounds comforting in their familiarity. The tone of quiet efficiency pervaded the building housing the Carola, a private club whose members included the famous and the infamous, giving them space apart from paparazzi and curious onlookers.
Jasmine LeClerc hummed softly as she prepared four dinner salads. Tuesday meant a smaller crowd, a lighter load and slower pace.
“Code green, table twenty, Jazz.”
Jasmine looked up at the sound of her sister’s voice. Code green was staff lingo for an unaccompanied male.
“Hubba-hubba,” Maggie said as she plucked at her blouse and fanned herself with the fabric, pretending to cool herself down. “And J.D. gave him to lucky ol’ you.”
Ignoring her sister’s theatrics, Jasmine poured a healthy scoop of honey dijon dressing on each salad. She hated serving men who came to the Carola without women, although she’d gotten good at diverting their halfhearted propositions and wholehearted innuendos. Her opinion of the male species, not particularly high before she began waiting tables, had sunk to subterranean levels over the years. And the maître d’, J.D., ever the hopeful romantic, took great delight in foisting single men on her, but not on the equally single Maggie—although Jasmine had her opinions about that, too.
“He looks a mite lonely to me, Jazz,” Maggie said.
Hope flared briefly within Jasmine, then died. Since beginning her quest almost six months ago, she had avoided considering any club member as The Donor, as she’d come to think of him, needing the detachment and anonymity. First, most of them were married. Second, she didn’t dare. No matter how desperate she became, she still needed a man who wouldn’t drop back into her life.
“Men have perfected that lonely look,” Jasmine said as she lifted the salad plates onto a tray, then added a basket of crusty sourdough bread and a dish of iced butter, “because women are pushovers. And as long as we allow them to behave like needy little boys, they’ll continue to sucker us in.”
“Pay the bank!” Maggie crowed.
Jasmine half smiled. Undoubtedly it wouldn’t be her last contribution to the bank tonight. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a quarter and deposited it in a ceramic jar shaped like Michelangelo’s David and sporting a sign on a string around its neck. She scooped up the tray and headed for the dining room. Her glance drifted to table twenty. The code green definitely qualified as hubba-hubba material. He nodded at J.D., who set a tall glass of iced liquid on the table with his usual dramatic flair. Instead of leaving immediately, J.D. stayed to talk for a few minutes.
Jasmine served salads, refilled water glasses, and tried not to look at the auburn-haired stranger who toasted the air before taking a long swallow of his drink after J.D. left. Then he opened the menu, blocking himself from her view.
He wanted a steak. A one-inch-thick prime sirloin smothered in sautéed mushrooms. He craved a huge baked potato dripping with real butter and mounded with sour cream. And chives. Chives would count as a vegetable, right?
He snapped the menu closed. He would order broiled chicken breast, steamed vegetables and rice.
It was no damn meal for a man.
Patrick glanced around the darkened dining room of the Carola. Along with hotel accommodations at a quaint ivycovered cottage, the English countryside interior of which was a little too froufrou for Patrick’s tastes, Rye had arranged a guest membership for him at an exclusive club not far from the cottage.
The scene was familiar to him—subtle background music, dark furnishings, flickering candlelight, efficient service and undoubtedly superb food, just like his club at home in Boston. Upstairs he’d probably find card rooms, a billiard room or two, and lounges, segregated by gender. He swept an encompassing glance around the room. Even the women looked the same, with their perfectly coiffed hair, their clothes hanging from their shoulders and hips in nice, straight designer lines.
His glance followed the waitress who had come into the room a few minutes earlier balancing a tray of salads on one hand. Now there was a woman. Generous curves in all the right places, curves that made a man wonder and dream, and maybe even salivate. As she moved around the table serving, she smiled in return to something one of the women said and listened attentively to the man Patrick recognized as the star of the San Francisco-based TV detective series “Blue Fog.” She disappeared into the kitchen, the tail of her white-blond braid skimming her waist. She came back empty-handed and headed toward his booth.
“Good evening,” she said, her voice intriguing in its husky timbre. “Have you decided what you’d like tonight?”
Snared by her soft gray eyes, he focused on her face. Late thirties, he guessed, and like the dark-haired waitress he’d seen working the opposite side of the room, she wore a tailored white dress shirt, narrow black tie and straight black skirt. He looked down at the closed menu, taking advantage of the moment to let his gaze flicker briefly to her discreet name tag.
Jasmine. It was a rather exotic name for an American beauty.
“I’ve decided,” he said, handing her the menu and ordering the requisite heart-healthy meal.
“I figured you for a meat-and-potatoes man,” she said, her smile friendly.
“I guess I’ve eaten plenty of both in my day. But the best way to overcome jet lag is to drink no alcohol and eat light.”
“And fresh fruit, I understand,” she added. “Maybe you’d like some for dessert?”
Patrick toasted her with his club soda, signaling an affirmative answer. Fruit. Swell. He supposed apple pie wouldn’t count.
She started to leave, then glanced sideways at him. “Do you mind telling me—No, never mind.”
“What?”
“I was being nosy, that’s all. Forget it.”
“Jasmine.” He liked the way her name brushed his lips, bringing to mind mysterious evenings and sultry fragrances. “Ask.”
“What were you toasting a while ago?”
He lifted his glass again. “A clean bill of health.” He wondered at the sudden narrowing of her eyes, as if she were assessing his-answer for truth.
“Was that something you were worried about?”
He sipped his drink before answering. “Not particularly. It was just my annual checkup.” The lie came easily. He’d never felt so vulnerable. He just wanted it all to go away. Maybe he could learn to ignore—
“That’s always a relief,” she said, angling a little closer.
Curious at the change in her body language, he waited for her to make the next move.
She patted an ironed crease on the tablecloth, flattening it. “And you said you were suffering from jet lag?”
He kept his gaze on her face. “I flew in today from Boston.”
“Business or pleasure?”
Patrick leaned back and smiled slightly at her show of interest. “Just a vacation.”
He watched a smile flicker across her lips before she straightened.
“I’ll be right back with your salad,” she said.
His gaze lingered on her as she moved across the room and disappeared through a swinging door with an economy of movement, no teasing swing to her hips.
He sought a word to describe her that wouldn’t get him into trouble. In his day, if you called a woman stacked or built, everyone knew what it meant. But in these days of political correctness, he was sure he couldn’t use either of those words.
Missing his usual Scotch on the rocks, he sipped his club soda as visions of the gray-eyed blonde with the tempting feminine curves filled his head. Voluptuous. Yeah, voluptuous. That suited her to a tee.
And he’d probably be slapped for even thinking it.
Jasmine set a chilled salad plate carefully on the kitchen counter, afraid if she didn’t control the movement she would fling the plate like a Frisbee across the room.
She mentally listed his credentials. He was here on vacation, he lived three thousand miles away, and he was in good health. Would a complete annual exam include all of the important blood tests? she wondered. Since there wouldn’t be time to get any before they slept together—if they slept together—she had to trust that it did.
He was of an age that he might be interested in her for a brief vacation fling, instead of some twenty-year-old hardbody he could likely have if he wanted one. A spark of interest had flared in dark green eyes that not only hadn’t undressed her with lascivious speculation, but hadn’t even looked below her chin that she could tell, except to determine her name, which put him on a pedestal as far as she was concerned.
He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, nor did his finger hold that telltale indentation of having recently worn one.
He was extremely attractive, with his auburn hair that begged for a trim yet entreated a woman to comb it with her fingers, and his tall, athletic frame looked amazingly fit for a man she guessed was in his mid-forties.