Introducing Daddy

Cover Page

Excerpt1

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Excerpt2

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

Dear Reader,

What makes a man a Fabulous Father? For me, he’s the man who married my single mother when she had three little kids (who all needed braces) and raised us as his own. And, to celebrate an upcoming anniversary of the Romance line’s FABULOUS FATHERS series, I’d like to know your thoughts on what makes a man a Fabulous Father. Send me a brief (50 words) note with your name, city and state, giving me permission to publish all or portions of your note, and you just might see it printed on a special page.

Blessed with a baby—and a second chance at marriagethis month’s FABULOUS FATHER also has to become a fabulous husband to his estranged wife in Introducing Daddy by Alaina Hawthorne.

“Will you marry me, in name only?” That’s a woman’s desperate question to the last of THE BEST MEN, Karen Rose Smith’s miniseries, in A Groom and a Promise.

He drops her like a hot potato, then comes back with babies and wants her to be his nanny! Or so he says…in Babies and a Blue-Eyed Man by Myrna Mackenzie.

When a man has no memory and a woman needs an instant husband, she tells him a little white lie and presto! in My Favorite Husband by Sally Carleen.

She’s a waitress who needs etiquette lessons in becoming a lady; he’s a millionaire who likes her just the way she is in Wife in Training by Susan Meier.

Finally, Robin Wells is one of Silhouette’s WOMEN TO WATCH—a new author debuting in the Romance line with The Wedding Kiss.

I hope you enjoy all our books this month—and every month! Regards,

Melissa Senate,

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

Introducing Daddy

Alaina Hawthorne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

As always, eternal thanks to Pat Kay,

Heather MacAllister, Marilyn Amann and Carla Luan.

For Julian Staehely.

ALAINA HAWTHORNE,

a native Texan, has been writing fiction and nonfiction since she was a teenager. Her first Silhouette Romance won the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award for Best First Book. She lives in Houston with Sallie, her rottweiler, and loves hearing from her readers. Write to Alaina at P.O. Box 820342, Houston, TX 77282.

Chapter One

Sheets of rain sluiced against the windows of the shop, and every so often thunder boomed in the distance and rattled the panes. Through the gray rivulets Evie Rabalais could just make out the waists of Houston’s skyscrapers; the tops of the buildings were plunged into the clouds that had hovered over the city for days. The radio said the bayous were jumping their banks. Beneath the streets the storm drains roared with brown foamy water. Evie stood by the front door, arms crossed and motionless, and watched the traffic—wheel-deep in water—crawl miserably down Westheimer. Her mood matched the bleak weather.

Edward and Frank, both of the part-time delivery drivers, had called in saying they couldn’t make it into the shop because of the flooding. Evie wondered if that was really true. She scowled and sighed. Not that their absence would make much difference. This type of weather was terrible for business. There wouldn’t be any foot traffic at all today, and gloomy weather also seemed to affect human generosity: there were always fewer orders when it rained.

When the phone suddenly jangled, Evie flinched and crossed quickly to the desk. She wanted to catch it before the ringing woke Juliette. The baby had fussed all night. Since it was too soon for her to be teething, Evie assumed the infant had sensed her unhappiness and responded to it. All the books she’d read said babies were sensitive to moods.

She lifted the receiver. “Something Different. This is Evie, may I help you?”

“Um, yes, I think—well, I hope so.”

The woman’s voice was high-pitched and tentative. A nervous type, Evie thought. This might take a while.

“Um, are you that place that makes those gift baskets with all kinds of, you know, different stuff?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Evie replied. “We make gift baskets and boxes for all occasions. Our slogan is Why Just Send Something When You Can Send ‘Something Different.’“ Evie winced. It sounded stupid today. But then, she thought, it could just be the way she was feeling.

“Oh, good. Let’s see, well, I’m not really sure what I want. I mean this may not be appropriate. I…well, it’s—you see, there was a picture in yesterday’s paper. A business associate of my husband’s. The caption was about some sort of charity thingie…”

Ah, of course, a charity thingie.

“…but the caption hinted that she might be getting engaged, too.”

Getting engaged, too? Surely it can’t be… Evie choked, but the woman apparently didn’t hear her.

“It’s not for sure, you see, so I don’t really know if it’s appropriate to send, you know, congratulations. The paper implied it was just a rumor, you know, but Betsy’s never wrong. She knows everyone and everything. Like God.” The woman cackled at her own joke. Evie wrestled with the urge to slam down the phone and run from the room.

“Anyway, so Vic, my husband, he wants to be the first to send something if there really is an engagement. Nothing too obvious or flashy, you know. Kind of a two-way gift—mostly for the award, but with something about the engagement, too. Something in the two-hundred-and-fifty range. What do you think?”

I think I’m going to start screaming. For one panicstricken instant Evie considered saying that they were closed—going out of business even. She didn’t want to scour her favorite shops and bookstores for beautiful, thoughtful gifts. But the woman had said “the two-hundred-and-fifty range.” The shop had suffered over the past week. Olivia would be thrilled to hear someone wanted to spend more than two hundred dollars. Evie swallowed and tried to sound normal. “Do you know any of her interests? If you give us a couple of days I’m sure I can—”

The woman gave a little scream of protest. “Oh, no, no, no. It has to be delivered today. Before noon, in fact. You can do that, can’t you?”

Evie swallowed hard. It wasn’t so much that she had to make a suitable presentation from the available inventory—there were plenty of beautiful things in the shop. But there would be no one to deliver the basket. Except her.

“I see. Yes, of course, we can do that. Well, how about a nice Burka hamper with a book of poems and…champagne and flutes. We can also enclose a gift certificate for a day-long session at La Paradise…” For what seemed an eternity, Evie made tasteful suggestions, understated suggestions. No matter how outraged and betrayed she felt, she knew she would have to choke back her anger. The basket would be elegant; nothing ostentatious or overwhelming. She was very good at her job.

Her client clucked and exclaimed gleefully over each recommendation, and in less than twenty minutes every item had been approved.

“Thank you so much, Edie,” the woman gushed. “I know she’s going to love it—”

“It’s Evie.”

“And you’ll guarantee she’ll have it before noon. We don’t want anyone to beat us to the punch. Oh, and the card will have to say congratulations or something. Only not the word congratulations. I think that’s too masculine, don’t you? And you should see her, she’s such a gorgeous girl. I just hate her.” The woman hooted at her own humor. “Now, it’s for Kimberley Van Kyle at Van Kyle Oil. Van Kyle is two words, capital V and capital K.”

“Yes, I know.”

Evie had also read the item in the Sunday Metropolitan section of the paper. “Kimberley Van Kyle Receives Nighthawk Award.” Besides, Evie had known how to spell the name Van Kyle for years. After all, Van Kyle Oil had been instrumental in the disintegration of her marriage. She’d even met Kimberley three or four years ago at a Christmas party at the Van Kyles’ River Oaks estate.

That was long ago. Yesterday’s paper was the first time Evie had thought of Elvin Van Kyle’s daughter in years. Olivia had seen the article, too. She’d stayed up with Evie well past midnight listening to her cry and rail against the beautiful heiress and her ruggedly handsome companion. In the photograph, just to the right and behind the stunning redhead stood Kimberley’s escort for the charity gala, Adam Rabalais. Evie hadn’t even known he was back in the country. She recalled the almost physically sickening sensation of seeing the photograph-the exuberant, smiling faces. She had stared at the picture with the same fascinated horror a patient regards a terminal X ray. She had no idea how many times she’d read Betsy’s chatty tidbit.

And who’s the tall, silent hunk escorting Kimmie? Mizz Van K’s not spilling any beans, but folks in the know have mentioned wedding bells…

Evie jerked herself back to the present and tried to concentrate on her customer’s voice. She repeated the address, which she already knew. Van Kyle Oil occupied six floors in One Shell Plaza, smack in the middie of downtown Houston. Evie nearly shuddered. She hated downtown.

“And you will guarantee the basket arrives before lunch?” The woman now sounded peevish.

“Yes,” Evie replied quietly. “Before lunch. I’ll take care of it myself.”

Evie set the receiver quietly in the cradle. Why, she wondered, why, of all the places in Houston to call would she have to call us? It was probably the advertising, Evie reasoned, not some cruel twist of fate. Lately Olivia had taken out a couple of ads in the downtown tabloids and shoppers’ guides. Evie dropped her forehead on her arms and let a few hottears slip out.

She willed herself not to cry anymore. It was so odd, she almost never cried, but last night she’d boo-hooed so hard her face was as swollen as if she’d stuck it in a beehive. This morning her puffy, reddened eyes defied her attempts to camouflage them with makeup. She eventually gave up and washed the mess off. Or most of it.

Rings of stubborn mascara still circled her eyelids, since the baby’s hungry demands had superseded her attempts to scrub it away. Besides, she hadn’t planned on leaving the shop all day. No one here gave a damn if she looked like a raccoon.

But now she was going to have to go downtown. What if she had to come face-to-face with Kimberley? With Adam? She took a calming breath. That would never happen. She wouldn’t go near the executive floors. She’d make up the basket, hustle downtown and drop it off with the receptionist. No fuss, no muss. In and out. After all, she’d done it a hundred times in buildings all over the city. But despite her efforts to be brave, Evie felt a deepening of the pain in her torso.

This is why they call it a heartache—it really hurts. I can’t stand this feeling. How long does it last? Months? Years?

She bit her lip. Maybe Olivia could make the.but no, Olivia never made deliveries. After all, she owned the shop, and besides, she was past seventy and too frail to wrestle with the cantankerous transmission of the van or lug around heavy gift baskets. Evie glanced up at the clock. Nine forty-five. She mentally calculated the amount of time it would take to fill the order. An hour to put the basket together. Twenty minutes to make it downtown in the rain. Another fifteen to park and get up to the thirtieth floor. If she got right to work she’d make it just in time.

Twenty minutes later Olivia came down the stairs from her apartment over the shop. Evie’s quarters took up the back half of the top floor of the giant old Victorian house.

“Is that an order?” she asked, obviously pleased.

Evie nodded, but couldn’t hold her friend’s gaze for long. The minute she saw sympathy in those warm, gentle eyes, she knew she would start crying again. Still, there was no hiding her feelings from Olivia.

“What is it, honey? Are you still…?”

Evie shrugged and gestured toward the order pad.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars?” Olivia exclaimed. “But why the long face? This is wonderful. Praise the—Oh. Oh, dear. I…what did you say?”

“What could I say? I promised to have it there before noon as requested.”

“Evie, I’m sorry. Call her back. Tell her we can’t—”

“No way. We need the order. It’s been a crummy week.”

Olivia opened her mouth to protest but slowly closed it. The shop hung on by a tenuous thread at the best of times. “Maybe I could take it.”

Evie rolled her eyes. “Thanks for offering, ‘Liv, but downtown’s horrible even when you know your way around.” She sighed. “Besides, this thing’s gonna weigh a ton. Would you look at the size of it? You’d be doubled over for a week.”

Frown lines creased the older woman’s forehead. “I’m going to murder Ed and Frankie. If I find out they’re somewhere goofing off I’ll…”

Evie gave her friend an attempt at a smile. “Oh, well, we were young once, too. I used to love to goof off on gloomy days, didn’t you? Hot chocolate, good books or an old movie. Maybe even a fire. Or best of all…” Evie’s voice was beginning to shake.

Adam had loved rainy days. Years ago when they were first married, he’d worked construction to put himself through grad school, but. every rainy day meant the work stopped. Back then Adam always seemed gleeful to have a day alone with her.

“I arranged this for us,” he’d say. “I just used my magic words—Come on, rain clouds, show your power. Adam wants a shutdown shower.”

He was greedy for her in those days. If it was winter they’d build a fire, and if it was summer they would fill the fireplace with candles and enjoy the colors of the little flames dancing on smooth skin. Adam almost always insisted that they splurge on a bottle of good wine, and they’d take turns reading passages of their favorite books to each other.

After love, it was always the same. He would trace slow patterns on her back. “Guess what I’m writing,” he’d say. “Now, if you win.” Most of the time they skipped dinner and fell asleep curved together on the hearth.

But those times were gone—eroded by years of explosive arguments, hurt silences and the slow, creeping abandonment of two people sharing less and less. Sometimes Evie still couldn’t comprehend exactly what had happened.

“I’ll make us some tea.” Olivia said softly. She had heard most of Evie’s story over the past ten months. The rest she just seemed to understand without being told.

Before she left, she paused to look at the artfully packed basket to which Evie was just applying a few special touches—sheer pastel cellophane and satin ribbons. “Beautiful work as always. Are you sure you can do this?”

“Oh, it won’t be so bad. I’ll just put on Frank’s slicker, pull the hood over my head and duck behind this big thing.” She smiled. “Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. There’s no way I’ll run into either of them.”

By the time Evie pulled into the underground loading area beneath One Shell Plaza, her nerves were even more frayed than before. Just as she’d been leaving the shop, Juliette had woken up squalling and had refused to settle down. Not even Olivia had been able to do anything to soothe her. Then Westheimer had been flooded at three intersections, and though the van rode high, other cars had stalled and traffic had backed up for blocks.

Finally she’d had to circle around and take the Allen Parkway. The trip that normally took twenty minutes had taken almost three-quarters of an hour. By the time Evie had turned onto Louisiana Street she’d felt the beginnings of a potent and long-lasting headache. Traffic had been snarled around the building, and she’d had to spend another fifteen minutes inching toward the light at the corner of Walker. When she’d finally made the turn into the underground parking, there hadn’t been a single space in the loading dock.

Evie checked her watch. Fifteen minutes until twelve. The tunnel system would be crowded with lunch traffic—dry, smartly dressed, professional people. Evie was soaked just from walking from the shop to the van. Wind had blown the rain almost horizontally. Her hair, which normally fell in bouncy natural ringlets past her shoulders was wildly corkscrewed and unruly from the humidity.

She double-parked next to a courier’s truck and stepped out of the driver’s side into an inch and a half of water. As the brackish runoff soaked into her good running shoes, Evie indulged her temper with a few words she seldom used and went to the back of the van. It took both arms to carry the basket, and she had to peek around it to see where she was going.

She stopped at the security window and balanced the basket against the narrow ledge to sign in.

“Where’d you park?” the attendant asked, not looking up.

“I’m doubled, but there’s plenty of room for the other guy to get around me.”

“Can’t do that, lady. You’ll get towed.”

Evie felt the ache in her chest ratchet up a notch. “But there’s nowhere else. I’m running late and I’ll only be five minutes. I’m just going up to Van Kyle to deliver this.”

He glanced up with unsympathetic hazel eyes. “Suit yourself,” he said. “But if you’re not down in fifteen minutes, it’ll be towed.”

Evie scrawled her signature and bumped the heavy swinging door open with her hip. The blast of airconditioning made her damp skin feel clammy, and the distant murmur of voices echoing through the tunnels sounded spooky and disquieting.

As soon as she passed through the double swinging doors of the service entrance she saw the sea of bodies surging through the narrow underground walkways. She wasn’t really surprised at the crush of people; no one would brave the weather outside today unless it was an absolute necessity.

The knot of people waiting at the tunnel level elevator was at least twenty deep, so she made a quick decision and took an escalator up to the street level. Through the glass walls of the lobby Evie could see City Hall and the dark green oaks that lined the reflection pool. Their crowns whipped in the stiff breeze while the fractured surface of the pool reflected the dark underbelly of the sky.

Across the street the fountains in Tranquility Park gushed water straight up, where the wind immediately tore it away while simultaneously dumping rain back down into the stone-lined ponds. Evie glanced back at City Hall clock. The day was so dark the hands glowed red even at noon. High noon. She was now officially late.

The lobby was choked with people pressed almost up to the glass, some waiting to bolt for cabs as they pulled up on Smith Street, some just eager to leave their desks but not wanting to brave the tunnels or venture far in the wretched weather. A few miserable smokers huddled outside against flanks of the building, obviously unable to wait until after work to indulge in their cigarettes.

Evie thought the people looked as gray and threatening as the sky. The women wore dark power suits, chopped-off hair and sculpted nails, and the men glided among them as smoothly and gracefully as sharks. At least it seemed that way to her.

She shrugged her yellow slicker a little higher on her shoulders and hefted up the basket. On both sides of her face, her wiry hair seemed to be trying to claw its way out of the hood by itself. More than anything Evie wanted to put the damn basket down and shove the ugly mess back under her hood, but there was nowhere to stop.

The One Shell Plaza lobby was a gleaming expanse of white, echoing marble with polished brass appointments and ruthlessly tamed ficus trees standing obediently erect in their architectural planters. The seating edge of the planters didn’t look inviting at all. In fact, Evie wouldn’t dare sit down on one. She had a feeling that there was a ficus guard lurking somewhere who’d leap out, grab her by her collar and make a humiliating example of her in front of all the frostyeyed MBAs and their administrative assistants. No, she thought, best to just hurry up and get this over with as soon as possible.

When the elevator doors closest to her slid open, she practically lunged in. She ignored the disapproving looks and noises from the people she’d shoved past, but this was an emergency. Besides, she told herself, the predatory downtown atmosphere was contagious; here it was every man for himself. God, if she didn’t hurry up and get out of here she’d turn into one of them.

She elbowed the button for the thirty-eighth floor and then pressed herself to the back of the car. In the close quiet of the little space she became aware of noises she hadn’t noticed earlier—the crackle of the cellophane, the squishy noise of her soaked sneakers and the cheap rustle of her yellow slicker. She felt a slight itch, just a tickle really, just alongside her nose.

Somewhere between the thirty-first and thirty-third floors a particularly loud and long roll of thunder rumbled outside. The lights flickered and the elevator car hesitated. One of the passengers groaned.