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“Uh…the one?” Ben asked.
“The one who’s going to finally get me pregnant?”
Ben completely lost his train of thought. He stared at her.
Natalie leaned against the door and winced. “I just woke up. But I feel so…” She seemed to sink, about to fall.
He reached for her and pushed her gently back toward the bed. Her hands clasped his arms and held on.
Natalie’s eyes looked into his, their gray depths almost lucid. He felt her tension in the grip of her fingers.
“You are him,” she whispered.
She looked so grave. What was she talking about? “Who?” Ben asked.
“The father of my baby,” she replied.
Dear Reader,
Heartwarming, emotional, compelling…these are all words that describe Harlequin American Romance. Check out this month’s stellar selection of love stories, which are sure to delight you.
First, Debbi Rawlins delivers the exciting conclusion of Harlequin American Romance’s continuity series, TEXAS SHEIKHS. In His Royal Prize, sparks fly immediately between dashing sheikh Sharif and Desert Rose ranch hand Olivia Smith. However, Sharif never expected their romantic tryst to be plastered all over the tabloids—or that the only way to salvage their reputations would be to make Olivia his royal bride.
Bestselling author Muriel Jensen pens another spectacular story in her WHO’S THE DADDY? miniseries with Daddy To Be Determined, in which a single gal’s ticking biological clock leads her to convince a single dad that he’s the perfect man to father her baby. In Have Husband, Need Honeymoon, the third book in Rita Herron’s THE HARTWELL HOPE CHESTS miniseries, Alison Hartwell thought her youthful marriage to an air force pilot had been annulled, but surprise! Now a forced reunion with her “husband” has her wondering if a second honeymoon couldn’t give them a second chance at forever. And Harlequin American Romance’s promotion THE WAY WE MET…AND MARRIED continues with The Best Blind Date in Texas. Don’t miss this wonderful romance from Victoria Chancellor.
It’s a great lineup, and we hope you enjoy them all!
Wishing you happy reading,
Melissa Jeglinski
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin American Romance
Daddy to Be Determined
Muriel Jensen
www.millsandboon.co.uk
To Austin and Jordan Jensen, with love from Grandma.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Muriel Jensen and her husband, Ron, live in Astoria, Oregon, in an old foursquare Victorian at the mouth of the Columbia River. They share their home with a golden retriever/golden Labrador mix named Amber, and five cats who moved in with them without an invitation. (Muriel insists that a plate of Friskies and a bowl of water are not an invitation!)
They also have three children and their families in their lives—a veritable crowd of the most interesting people and children. They also have irreplaceable friends, wonderful neighbors and “a life they know they don’t deserve but love desperately anyway.”
Books by Muriel Jensen
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
73—WINTER’S BOUNTY
119—LOVERS NEVER LOSE
176—THE MALLORY TOUCH
200—FANTASIES AND MEMORIES
219—LOVE AND LAVENDER
244—THE DUCK SHACK AGREEMENT
267—STRINGS
283—SIDE BY SIDE
321—A CAROL CHRISTMAS
339—EVERYTHING
392—THE MIRACLE
414—RACING WITH THE MOON
425—VALENTINE HEARTS AND FLOWERS
464—MIDDLE OF THE RAINBOW
478—ONE AND ONE MAKES THREE
507—THE UNEXPECTED GROOM
522—NIGHT PRINCE
534—MAKE-BELIEVE MOM
549—THE WEDDING GAMBLE
569—THE COURTSHIP OF DUSTY’S DADDY
603—MOMMY ON BOARD*
606—MAKE WAY FOR MOMMY*
610—MERRY CHRISTMAS, MOMMY!*
654—THE COMEBACK MOM
669—THE PRINCE, THE LADY & THE TOWER
688—KIDS & CO.*
705—CHRISTMAS IN THE COUNTRY
737—DADDY BY DEFAULT**
742—DADDY BY DESIGN**
746—DADDY BY DESTINY**
756—GIFT-WRAPPED DAD
770—THE HUNK & THE VIRGIN
798—COUNTDOWN TO BABY
813—FOUR REASONS FOR FATHERHOOD
850—FATHER FEVER**
858—FATHER FORMULA**
866—FATHER FOUND**
882—DADDY TO BE DETERMINED**
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Prologue
Natalie Browning sat in the middle of her darkened living room and watched the nightly news, a pillow pulled up to her face just below her eyes. Delia Jones, her former assistant at KRTV and now a weekend anchor for KXAV, had called twenty minutes ago to warn her about Karen Kaufman’s lead story.
The beautiful redhead with the face of a Mucha model and the heart of a viper smiled benevolently at the camera.
“Welcome to Channel 4 News. I’m Karen Kaufman,” she said in a flawlessly clear voice. “The final chapter of the Moss Laboratories story played out today in court when Donald Parker was indicted on seventeen counts of fraud, thanks to the tireless efforts of Philadelphia’s KRTV newswoman, Natalie Browning, who was herself a victim of the sperm bank’s deceptions.
“Her investigation uncovered Parker’s practice of creating false donor profiles and filling orders with his own sperm. The ruse was uncovered when Browning’s fertility specialist requested a second delivery of sperm from the laboratory, after the first attempt at impregnation proved unsuccessful.”
Natty felt pain and humiliation splash over her like a cold shower. She clutched the pillow more tightly.
“When that also failed,” Karen continued with what appeared to be genuine concern, “Browning’s doctor had the sperm sample analyzed, thinking he might discover that it hadn’t been handled properly in the transfer from the laboratory. What he discovered instead was that the sperm was indeed motile, but that both samples had precisely the same DNA pattern—and therefore the same donor.”
“And that the impregnation problem,” Natalie said to the television, her voice thick because she had a head cold, “lies with Browning and not with the sperm. Thank you, Karen. Kind of you to point that out.”
“Investigation of other samples proved that Parker had been perpetrating his scam for some time,” the redhead continued relentlessly. “The laboratory has been closed pending the outcome of the trial.”
She could have lived through that, Natty thought, pressing a tissue to her sniffly nose, but the last segment was a feature called “Celebrity Dish”—a sort of gossip roundup dispensed by Jolie Ramirez, a perky brunette who loved uncovering the most embarrassing details about the most notable people.
Tonight it seemed that a male vocalist was in rehab, an actress on Broadway beat her baseball-playing husband’s Jaguar with his own bat, and “Natalie Browning, the darling of the nightly news on Philadelphia’s Channel 6, apparently is no one’s darling at home, considering her story about Moss Laboratories, the now-infamous sperm bank. It was a story she stumbled upon while availing herself of the lab’s services.
“‘She appears beautiful and sexy,’” according to an old boyfriend who preferred to remain anonymous, “‘but she has the cold heart of an old maid. No wonder she had to go to a sperm bank.’”
Natalie stared at the screen, aghast, then threw her pillow at it, barely suppressing a scream. That action brought on a coughing fit.
She knew the anonymous former boyfriend was Artie Webb, producer of the Channel 4 nightly news, whose advances she’d spurned at a weekend news conference in Boston three years earlier. He’d been married at the time—to Karen Kaufman—but his ego had never forgiven Natalie. Jolie Ramirez, unfortunately, was just doing her job.
Natalie clicked off the television, called the airport and made a reservation to fly out to Portland, Oregon, on the red-eye. Then she went into her bedroom to pack.
Tomorrow morning she’d probably be front page news and the subject of every radio talk show on the Atlantic seaboard. She didn’t want to be around for that, and she still had four weeks left of the three-month leave she’d taken to get pregnant.
Six weeks ago, the story had developed and the professional in her had come to the fore, pushing her own concerns aside in the interest of protecting and informing the public.
She’d suspected as she had filed the story that she might become part of the news—an undesirable consequence for any good reporter. But she hadn’t counted on Channel 4 taking its exploration of her involvement in the story to such lengths.
Even as she threw clothes haphazardly into her suitcase, she understood that such things happened. Enemies in the business were vengeful, and the only response was silence.
But this was the final straw in a long series of events that conspired to make her feel like a failure as a woman. What, after all, could contribute to that feeling more completely than the inability to reproduce, and having that news spread over the entire East Coast network?
She threw several pairs of shoes into her case, along with her makeup bag, an extra box of tissues and several chunky sweaters. Dancer’s Beach, Oregon, would be chilly in November.
She was willing to admit to herself that she was running away, and she knew that was probably cowardly. But she needed a comforting shoulder and there was nobody around who could provide one.
Her mother had been against the whole sperm bank thing in the beginning and was happy to say “I told you so.” Natalie’s brothers were geniuses, but generally clueless about her. And what friends she had time for in her busy schedule all had husbands and children, and she couldn’t burden them with her problems.
But she’d recently reconnected with her cousin Dori in Dancer’s Beach. They’d been great friends as children, and Natty suddenly longed for her smiling understanding.
It occurred to her seven hours later, at about nine o’clock the following morning, that it would have been wise to call first, despite the lateness of the hour when she’d made her decision. Because there was no one home.
A smiling older man walking by with a golden retriever on a leash said politely, “The Dominguez family is away for a few weeks.” His eyes went to her suitcase, then to her probably puffy face and red nose. “Is it important that you reach them?”
She sighed and shook her head. The long plane ride had made it feel like a brick with ears. “No, thank you.” She walked down the steps and was snuffled by the friendly dog. “I made a last minute decision to visit without calling first. Can you recommend a motel?”
The man pointed up the street. “See that greenand-white Craftsman on the corner? That’s Lulu Griffin’s B-and-B. Very comfortable. Good food. And Nugget and I just walked by. The Vacancy sign is out.”
“Thank you.” Natalie shook his hand. “I appreciate your help.”
“It was my pleasure.”
As the man and the dog walked on, Natalie headed for the bed-and-breakfast, barely able to breathe, and feeling lower than she’d ever felt in all her twenty-six years. With her demanding mother and her genius brothers, she’d always felt inadequate.
Then, after years of trying to fit a little social life into her busy schedule and finding the singles scene soul-deadening, she’d met Kyle Wagner. A young actor with fire and passion, he’d seemed like her dream come true. Until they’d become engaged and his fire and passion turned to complacency and only mild interest in her life.
But she’d wanted a baby more than she wanted anything, and she’d almost settled for Kyle—until he told her he didn’t want children until he was in his forties.
She’d broken the engagement and turned to the sperm bank. And then she hadn’t been able to become pregnant, even under perfect conditions.
What was left for her? she wondered as she climbed the steps of the B-and-B. She now had no man, no baby and very probably no job.
Nothing could save her now. Natalie Felicia Browning had blown her life.
Chapter One
Ben Griffin lifted five-year-old Roxanne out of the bathtub and wrapped her in a thick blue towel. He sat on the closed lid of the john with her and helped her dry off. She had his dark eyes and hair, though hers hung in thick ringlets—when it wasn’t snarled in knots.
“I wanted to wash my hair,” she complained as she held tightly to Betsy, a small rag doll with black button eyes and a painted heart-shaped mouth. “Julie Callahan Griffin made that,” he used to remind himself when the pain of her loss had been so enormous he had to say her name or burst. The doll was never more than a hand’s span away from Roxie, awake or sleeping.
“We washed your hair yesterday,” Ben reminded her.
“Vannie gets to wash her hair every day,” she argued.
“Vannie has very short hair. And she blows it dry.” Vanessa was seven, and the decision to cut her hair had come at the end of the summer, when she’d returned from camp. She hadn’t explained why she wanted to cut her long, golden-brown hair, but she’d been adamant.
Since their mother had died a year and a half ago, Ben had done his best to allow them whatever was in his power and wouldn’t hurt them.
Roxie swung her head from side to side so that her long hair flew out. It would have slapped him in the face if he hadn’t drawn back.
She giggled, then declared, “I don’t want to cut my hair.”
“I don’t blame you,” he said, helping her into lavender flannel pajamas patterned with pink kittens and blue puppies. “It’s very pretty.”
“Can I wear lipstick to Marianne’s tomorrow?”
Marianne Beasley owned and operated the day care where Roxie spent several hours every day.
“Nope,” Ben replied. She asked this question every night. “Sorry.”
“Can I get my ears pierced?”
This was a new question. Having finished putting her pajamas on, he turned her toward him to look into her eyes. They were bright and frighteningly intelligent. “Do you even know what that is?”
“Yeah,” she said, pulling her little lobe out for him to see. “A lady sticks it with a needle and it doesn’t even hurt! She puts a little hole right there and you can wear different earrings in them every day.”
“No,” he said, knowing he had to say it firmly or she’d be cajoling him all night long. “You have to wait until you grow up a little more.”
She looked indignant. “I’m five! Paloma has pierced ears, and she’s only four!”
“I’m sorry. That’s the way it is.”
“Can I have ice cream before bed?”
He lifted her onto his hip and carried her downstairs, wondering if part of her strategy was to ask for the impossible, knowing she could bargain him down. Ice cream at night sometimes gave her a stomachache, but tonight he’d risk it in the interest of making her feel less deprived.
The telephone rang when he was halfway down the stairs.
“I’ll get it!” Vanessa shouted.
When he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he saw that she was already dressed for bed. She used his bathroom at night and always got herself ready without fuss. He wondered if she was the only second-grader in the world with a tidy sock drawer and clothes on hangers instead of all over her room.
He worried a little about her efficiency at such a tender age but reminded himself that Julie had been a stickler for tidiness and order. Vanessa came by it naturally.
“He’s right here, Grandma.” Vanessa put her hand over the mouthpiece and handed the telephone to him. “Grandma’s having trouble with a guest,” she whispered.
“Thank you.” He put Roxie on her feet. “Van, can you scoop up some ice cream for you and Roxie?”
She looked surprised. “At night?”
“Just tonight.”
“How come?”
“Because I said so.”
With a shrug, Vanessa pulled open the door of the side-by-side refrigerator and delved into the freezer at the bottom.
“Ha!” his mother said into his ear. “You used to get upset when I gave you that answer, and now you’re doing it. The best revenge is watching you become me.”
“Thanks to the gender difference,” he said, backing onto a stool near the counter, “that’ll only go so far. What’s up?”
“Well…” She made a small sound of distress. “I’m not entirely sure. Do you know Natalie Browning?”
“No,” he replied. He’d never been wild about his mother buying a seven-bedroom house and turning it into a bed-and-breakfast, inviting complete strangers to be locked in with her at night without benefit of any information about them except their names. “Why?”
“I think she’s a celebrity in the East. Her driver’s license says Philadelphia. When I asked her what brought her to Dancer’s Beach, she said something about needing to hide out from cameras and publicity.”
“Interesting.” He watched Vanessa struggle with the ice cream scoop, and was about to get up and help her when she went to the sink and ran it under the hot water. She tried again and the ice cream scooped out easily. He wondered if Julie had taught her that. What a kid. “Never heard of her.”
“Well, she arrived yesterday looking as though her only friend had died. And I haven’t seen her since, except peeking out from behind her door. Today I haven’t seen her at all.”
“Have you knocked? Or called?”
“She doesn’t answer.”
“Maybe she’s just sleeping.”
His mother sighed. “I think it’s worse than that. She had a terrible cold, so I mixed her a hot toddy with my apricot brandy. I left her the bottle, and I haven’t seen her or it since.”
“Sounds as though you have a guest on a bender, Mom. What do you want me to do?”
“I told her she could have that room for only one night. It’s reserved for a pair of honeymooners who are due in less than two hours. Would you…come and talk to her? Beautiful women always respond to handsome men.”
“Mom…” He groaned. She was always finding some excuse to introduce him to some young woman or get him invited to some event where single women would be present. Between her and Marianne Beasley, who came on to him at every opportunity, he was clutching his bachelorhood with both hands.
“It has nothing to do with that!” she said firmly. She’d always read his mind. He hated that she could still do it. “I’m simply trying to take care of a difficult matter in a discreet and civilized way. I don’t want to call the police or make a fuss, because she looks like a woman who’s had enough trouble, but if you’re too busy for me…”
“The girls are just out of the bath,” he pleaded, “and eating their snacks before bed.”
“I said that was fine,” she repeated stiffly. He could imagine her, wounded look in place on her carefully made up face, spiked white hair even spikier in her imagined state of neglect. “If you’re too busy, I’ll just—”
“We’ll be there.” He caved; it was inevitable. “Give me ten minutes.”
“You can have twelve,” she said. “Thank you, Ben.”
“Sure.” He hung up the phone. “Get your slippers and coats,” he said to the girls. “Put away the ice cream. We’re going to Grandma’s.”
They hurried to comply, and he had to smile as he watched them run upstairs. Coming home to Dancer’s Beach to give them a sense of family after Julie died had been a good idea. They loved their grandmother, who didn’t seem to persecute them the way she picked on him, and their Sunday evening dinners at the B-and-B were enjoyed by all of them.
He just hoped he survived the move. Leaving his work in Portland as a developer of high-density urban dwellings and purchasing the Bijou Theater Building in downtown Dancer’s Beach left him more time to be with the girls. However, their standard of living had taken a considerable dive, though he seemed to be the only one who noticed.
The old lodge-style house on a hill overlooking the town had been in serious need of repair. But, licensed in plumbing and wiring, he’d made short shrift of the major problems and was working slowly on giving the place a facelift.
He kept thinking he’d adjusted to life without Julie. Then Vanessa, who looked so much like her, would smile at him with an arched eyebrow, or Roxie would fold her arms in displeasure, and he was ambushed by old memories and ever-present longings.
He’d bought the house to keep him busy. Evenings after the girls had gone to bed were difficult, but Sundays were abominable. They’d always done special things on Sunday—picnics, sight-seeing, driving to the coast. With Saturday’s chores done and Monday’s responsibilities not yet upon them, they were particularly carefree.
Though the pace of his life had slowed considerably, Ben felt as though he never had a carefree moment anymore. He worried about the girls constantly, hoping he was giving them everything they needed, knowing it was impossible for a father to do so.
Slippers and coats on, Betsy tucked into Roxie’s pocket, the girls raced past him and out the door to the indigo van emblazoned with his logo and company name, Bijou Development.
He smiled as he followed in their wake. At least he didn’t have to worry about their physical well-being. He wished he could move that energetically.
LOUISE GRIFFIN’S bed-and-breakfast could only be described, Ben thought, as “country coordinates gone mad.” The living room, which flowed into the dining room, was wallpapered from ceiling to waist height in an all-over rose-and-ivy pattern that had a coordinating border of tightly clustered roses. Then a rose-and-green-striped paper swept down to the rose-colored baseboards.
Every room in the house was similarly decorated, though the motifs and colors were different. Every bedroom had coordinating papers and border, as well as bedding and curtains that also matched. Each bed had several sets of pillows, all mix and match, like something out of a linens ad.
Looking at them too long made him crazy, as though there was no room for free thought, and everything in the world had to coordinate with or match everything else.
But his mother loved it and apparently so did her guests. Ben did her books, and after only three years, she was doing very well.
The girls rushed into the kitchen, where his mother had a small table and a television. She stood at the counter, placing cookies on a plate, and they stopped briefly to greet her.
She leaned down to sweep them into her arms. Then she handed Roxie the plate and Vanessa two glasses of milk.
“You two eat up while your dad and I do business.”
“With the drunk guest?” Vanessa asked as Roxie ran over to the television.
“We don’t know that she’s drunk,” his mother admonished gently. “I’m just worried about her. Go on, now.”
Vanessa followed Roxie.
Ben waited for his mother in the kitchen doorway. She didn’t look like anybody’s mother. She was medium height and slender in velvety lavender top and slacks as coordinated as her rooms. A pendant with a large purple-and-green stone hung around her neck. She had short white hair that was moussed and spiked, and she wore more makeup than he thought she needed, but that wasn’t his call.