Men In Uniform: Burning For The Fireman: Firefighter's Doorstep Baby / Surrogate and Wife / Lying in Your Arms

Men in Uniform: Burning for the Fireman

Firefighter’s Doorstep Baby

Barbara McMahon

Surrogate and Wife

Emily McKay

Lying in Your Arms

Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Firefighter’s Doorstep Baby

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Surrogate and Wife

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Lying in Your Arms

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Copyright

BARBARA McMAHON was born and raised in the south USA, but settled in California after spending a year flying around the world for an international airline. After settling down to raise a family and work for a computer firm, she began writing when her children started school. Now, feeling fortunate in being able to realize a long-held dream of quitting her ‘day job’ and writing full time, she and her husband have moved to the Sierra Nevada mountains of California, where she finds her desire to write is stronger than ever. With the beauty of the mountains visible from her windows, and the pace of life slower than the hectic San Francisco Bay Area where they previously resided, she finds more time than ever to think up stories and characters and share them with others through writing. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at PO Box 977, Pioneer, CA 95666-0977, USA. Readers can also contact Barbara at her website: www.barbaramcmahon.com

To First Responders everywhere—thanks for all you do to serve and protectevery day. FDNY, we will never forget.

MARIELLA HOLMES stood on the small stone patio and gazed at the lake. Some daredevil was racing the wind on a Jet Ski. A spume of water arced behind it. The soft rumble of its engine faded as it sped across the surface of the water. She glanced into the cottage. Dante was still sleeping. She looked back at the reckless idiot on the Jet Ski; if the noise had woken the baby she’d have been more than annoyed. It had taken her longer than usual to get him to sleep.

What was the maniac doing anyway? If he fell in the water he’d be frozen in no time. Late October was so not lake weather. Yet even as she watched, she felt a spark of envy. He looked carefree skimming along at warp speed. If he was on vacation, he was certainly making the most of his time.

She gazed around the tree-covered hills that rose behind the lake. This would be lovely in the summer. She could picture children swimming in the water, canoes or rowboats dotting the surface. Imagine even more daredevils testing their skills with the Jet Skis; chasing the excitement, exploring the limits of their skills. Her gaze drawn back to the man, she continued to watch as she hoped this one wouldn’t crash. There was beauty in the arc of water spewing from behind him, in the soft wake that radiated from the path of the Jet Ski. Sunshine sparkled on the water, causing a misty rainbow when he turned.

She pulled her sweater closer and drank in the clean mountain air. Beautiful and peaceful. She had never visited this area before. She hadn’t known what to expect. Forested hills, quiet lakes, small villages. It was enchanting. She wished she could explore everything, but they wouldn’t be here that long. Whichever way things went, it would be a relatively short visit. She’d had a lull in work and so had acted on the spur of the moment when she’d decided to come see where Dante’s father was from.

A loud smack of the Jet Ski on the water as it bounced over its own wake had her drawn again to the man. At this distance she could only see the dark hair and broad shoulders as he sat astride the machine. He seemed fearless as the engine roared louder and he went even faster. She could imagine herself flying along, the wind blowing all cares away.

Shivering, she stepped back inside the cottage. This would have been a perfect chance to call Ariana, tell her how much she was enjoying Lake Clarissa, and that she’d seen a man who fired her imagination. She still couldn’t believe her best friend would never call her up again to talk a mile a minute about life. Would never get to hold her son or watch him learn to walk or start school. Mariella brushed the sudden tears from her cheeks. Ariana had been there for her when her own parents had died, but she was not here now. It was Mariella’s turn to step up to the plate.

Time healed all hurts, Mariella knew that. She had gotten over the worst of her grief after her parents’ untimely death when she’d been in New York during her first year at university. Her grief over Ariana’s death would gradually ease too. She knew in her mind she’d remember her friend with love as the years went on. But sometimes she felt raw, burning pain. Ariana had only been twenty-two. Her life should have stretched out until they were both old ladies. Instead, it had ended far too soon.

Shaking her head to dislodge depressing thoughts, Mariella focused on the future. She had Dante. She had a job. She had a quest. One day at a time. It had worked so far. So what if she felt overwhelmed some days? Caring for an unexpected baby wasn’t easy. At least they were both healthy, well fed and comfortable. And she was getting the hang of being a mother. She hoped Dante would never remember her inept first attempts.

Crossing the small living room, she checked on the infant sleeping in the baby carrier still locked in the stroller. Checking the time, she knew he’d awaken soon for a bottle. She had a few minutes to unpack the groceries she’d brought and prepare his next meal before the first stirring.

She’d booked the room for a week, thinking that would be enough time to wander around and get a feel for the place and see if anyone here recognized the picture she had of Ariana. If not, they’d move on to Monta Correnti. She had no firm clues, no certainty she was even in the right place. She only knew this was the place Ariana had spoken about. The only clue she had given about Dante’s father.

Ariana had been so sick and afraid those last weeks. Mariella wished her friend had called upon her earlier, but she had waited until graduation and Mariella’s return to Rome before sharing the prognosis for the disease that ravaged her body. And, despite all Mariella’s pleading, she had not revealed Dante’s father’s name. Only the bare fact that he came from this area, and they’d spent a wonderful weekend at Lake Clarissa.

The only child of older parents, Mariella was now alone in the world—and the guardian of an infant to boot. She’d always wished for brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins galore. She wished that for Dante as well. Maybe she could find his father, tell him of his son and discover he came from a large loving family who would take the baby into their hearts.

She glanced over to him again, her heart twisting. She loved this child. But it was so hard to be suddenly a mom. If she found his father, would she be able to give the baby up? Would a big family be best for him? She was still uncertain. At least she didn’t have to make any decisions today. First she had to see if she could even locate his father. She’d decide then what course of action to take.

Cristiano opened the throttle full blast as the Jet Ski skimmed across the waves. The air was chilled, causing his blood to pump harder to keep him warm. The thrill of speed, the challenge of control, the sun glittering on the water all made him feel more alive than he had in months. All other thoughts and worries and memories evaporated. If the Jet Ski could go even faster, he would have relished the exhilaration, however short-lived. He pushed the machine to the max.

The injured ankle had healed. He’d been unable to use the Jet Ski during the warm summer weeks, but now, in the waning days of fall, he had the lake to himself. Power roared beneath him as he bounced over the small waves. The shore blurred by as he pushed the throttle surging to that last bit of power. He felt invincible. He’d cheated death once this year. He would not be taken today.

Drawing near the shore, he slowly banked toward the right, not sharp enough to capsize, but enough to swerve away from the rocky land that was fast approaching. He could ease back on the throttle, but what challenge was in that?

The Jet Ski bumped over its own wake and he stood up to cushion the smacks as it slammed down on the water. Now his ankle ached a bit, reminding him he was not yet totally fit. Another circle and he’d return to the dock. It was cold enough that his toes were going numb. But there were few enough sunny days at this time of year. He’d take all he could get to enjoy being on the lake.

A few moments later, he slowed the ski and made a figure eight, then angled near the shore to make a big sweep that would take him back to the dock. Lake Clarissa was empty, the beach deserted. He was the only person in sight. The summer tourists had long left and the few people who came in the winter had not yet shown up. He had the place to himself.

As he skied past the row of cottages the Bertatalis rented, he noticed the far one was occupied. Lake Clarissa didn’t offer the nightlife that Monta Correnti did. Most people weren’t foolish enough to venture into the cold lake at this time of year. They had more sense than he did. It was probably some older couple who wanted to watch birds or see the leaves change. It wasn’t that far to Monta Correnti they couldn’t still drive over for some nighttime entertainment.

He pulled the Jet Ski up to the dock and in only moments secured it in the small floating ramp in the berth he rented. He tied it down and headed back to land. His wet feet left footprints on the wooden dock as he walked to his motorcycle. Drying himself, he quickly donned the jeans and boots he’d left across the seat, and pulled on a heavy sweater. It felt good to get warm. Donning the helmet, he mounted the bike and kick-started it. The rumble was not unlike the Jet Ski. Did power equate noise? He laughed at that idea and pulled onto the street. The small amount of traffic still surprised him after his time in Rome. Vacations in Lake Clarissa had always been fleeting, too much work waiting at home when he’d been a child. Once grown, he’d preferred his exciting life travelling the world with his job, or the challenges of extreme sports, to spending much time in this little sleepy lakeside village.

Until the bombing had altered everything.

Shortly after one Cristiano got off his motorcycle on the side street by Pietro’s Bistro. Lunch here would beat cooking for himself. His father would be horrified his own son didn’t like cooking. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it precisely, it just didn’t seem worth the effort for only one.

There was a wide patio for dining, empty this time of year. It wasn’t that cool, yet the breezes blowing down from the higher elevation carried a chill. He entered the warm restaurant and paused a moment while his eyes got used to the dimmer light. Pietro’s smelled like home. The restaurant he’d worked in most of his childhood, that his father still owned, was even of a similar rustic theme. Bella Rosa had more patrons and more bustle than Pietro’s, but Pietro’s was free of the ties to Cristiano’s past he was trying to flee.

There were couples and groups eating at various tables—it was more crowded than he’d expected. Some people he recognized and nodded to when they looked up and waved. When Emeliano appeared from the kitchen, white apron tied neatly around his waist, heavy tray balanced on one hand, Cristiano watched. His arms almost ached at the remembered tiredness he’d felt after a long day at Rosa. He hadn’t worked there in years, but some memories didn’t fade. Even when he wished they would.

“Cristiano, sit anywhere. I’ll be there soon,” Emeliano called out as he deftly transferred the tray from his hand to the stand beside the table he was serving.

Cristiano walked toward his favorite table, near the big window overlooking the town square. It was occupied.

He walked past and sat at the next one, then looked at the woman who had taken the table he liked best.

She had blonde hair with copper highlights. She was cooing to a small baby and seemed oblivious to the rest of the restaurant. He didn’t recognize her. Probably another tourist. Even keeping to himself, he still kept tapped into the local rumor mill—enough to know if someone local had a new baby visiting. Italian families loved new babies.

The woman looked up and caught his gaze. She smiled then looked away.

He stared at her feeling that smile like a punch to the gut. From that quick glimpse he noted her eyes were silver, her cheeks brushed with pink—from the sun or the warmth of the restaurant? Glancing around, he wondered idly where her husband was.

“Rigatoni?” Emeliano asked when he stopped by Cristiano’s table, distracting Cristiano from his speculation about the woman.

“Sure.” He ordered it almost every time he ate here.

“Not as good as what you get at Rosa,” Emeliano said, jotting it on a pad.

“I’m not at Rosa,” Cristiano said easily. He could have quickly covered the distance between Lake Clarissa and Monta Correnti for lunch, but he wasn’t ready to see his family yet. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever be ready to go back home.

“Saw you on the lake. You could get killed.”

He and Emeliano had played together as kids, challenging each other to swim races, exploring the hills with his brother Valentino. Cristiano grinned up at him. “Could have but didn’t.” Didn’t Emeliano know he felt invincible?

“You need to think of the future, Cristiano. You and Valentino, why not go into business with your father? If Pietro didn’t already have three boys, I’d see if he’d take me on as partner,” Emeliano said.

“Go to Rome, find a place and work up,” Cristiano suggested, conscious of the attention from the woman at the next table. He didn’t care if she eavesdropped. He had no secrets.

Except one.

“And my mother, what of her? You have it great, Cristiano.”

He smiled, all for show. If only Emeliano knew the truth—all the truth—he’d look away in disgust. “How is your mother?”

“Ailing. Arthritis is a terrible thing.” Emeliano flexed his hands. “I hope I never get it.”

“Me, too.”

Cristiano met the woman’s gaze again when Emeliano left and didn’t look away. She flushed slightly and looked at the baby, smiling at his babbling and arm waving. Covering one small fist with her hand, she leaned over to kiss him. Just then she glanced up again.

“I saw you on the Jet Ski,” she said.

He nodded.

“You fell in the water.”

“But I didn’t fall.”

She shrugged, glancing at the infant. Then looked shyly at him again. “It looked like great fun.”

“It is. How old is your baby?” He looked at the child, trying to gauge if it were smaller than the one from last May. He wasn’t often around infants and couldn’t guess his age.

She smiled again, her eyes going all silvery. Nice combination of coloring. He wondered again who she was and why she was at Lake Clarissa.

“He’s almost five months.”

A boy. His father had two boys and a girl. Wait, make that four boys and a girl. He still couldn’t get used to the startling fact his sister shared a few months ago—about two older half-brothers who were Americans. Too surreal. Another reason to keep away from his family. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his father keeping that secret all his life.

The infant had dark hair and dark eyes. His chubby cheeks held no clue as to what he’d look like as an adult, but his coloring didn’t match hers at all.

“Does he look like his father?”

“I have no idea. But his mother had dark eyes and hair. Maybe when he’s older, I’ll see some resemblance to the man who fathered him. Right now to me he looks like his mom.” She reached out and brushed the baby’s head in a light caress.

“He’s not yours?”

She shook her head.

“A nanny?” So maybe there was no man in the picture. Was she watching the baby for a family? She seemed devoted to the child.

She shook her head again. “I’m his guardian. His mother died.” She blinked back tears and Cristiano again felt that discomforting shift in his mid section. He hoped she wasn’t going to cry. He never knew how to handle a woman in tears. He wanted to slay dragons or race away. Unfortunately he all too often had to comfort women—and men sometimes—in tears at their loss. He always did his best. Always felt it fell short.

Emeliano arrived with a tray laden with rigatoni, big salad and hot garlic bread. He glanced at the woman, then Cristiano. “Want to sit together?”

“No,” Cristiano said.

At the same time she replied, “That would be fine, if he doesn’t mind.”

“Oops,” she said immediately. “I guess you do mind.” She put on a bright smile. “I’ll be going soon.”

He felt like a jerk. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her. “Come, sit with me. I could use the company while I eat.” He tried to make up for the faux pas, but she just gave a polite smile and said, “No, thanks anyway, I have to be going. This guy likes to ride in the stroller to see the sights.” She fumbled for her wallet and began pulling out the euros to pay her bill.

Emeliano served Cristiano, gave him a wry look and hurried away to look after another customer.

By the high color in her cheeks, he knew she was embarrassed. They’d been talking; it seemed churlish to refuse when his friend made the suggestion. Now he wished he had waited a second, thought before he spoke.

She rose and gathered her purse and a diaper bag and quickly carried the baby to the front of the restaurant without looking at him again. There he saw the stroller he’d missed when he first entered. In a heartbeat, they were gone.

His sister would have scolded him for his bad manners. His father would have looked at him with sadness. Of course his father seemed perpetually sad since their mother had died so long ago. He’d never found another woman to share his life with.

Cristiano began to eat. The food was good, not excellent, but good. What did it matter? Seeing the baby reminded him of his friend Stephano’s young daughter. Too young to have lost her father. Cristiano still couldn’t believe his best friend had perished in the instant the second bomb had exploded. Many days he could almost believe he was on leave and would go back to work to find Stephano and the others on his squad ready to fight whatever fires came their way.

But his friend was gone. Forever.

Cristiano ate slowly, regretting his hasty refusal of sitting with the woman with the baby. Learning more about her would have kept his mind off his friend and his other worries.

Mariella bundled Dante up and placed him in the stroller. She couldn’t get out of the restaurant fast enough. She felt the wave of embarrassment wash over her as she remembered offering to have the man sit at her table. He had definitely been annoyed. He probably had women falling over themselves to gain his attention with those dark compelling eyes and the tanned skin. He looked as if he brought the outdoors inside with him. He towered over the waiter. When he’d sat at the table next to hers she’d been impressed with his trim physique, wide shoulders and masculine air. He had such vitality around him.

She’d also been too flustered to ask the waiter if he’d ever seen Ariana in the restaurant. She’d even brought the picture of her friend to show around.

A moment later the thought popped into her head that the man talking to the waiter could even have been Dante’s father. He had the dark eyes and hair for it.

“So who’s your daddy, sweetie? Did he live around here or only bring your mother for a visit?” she asked the baby as they moved along the worn sidewalk. Shops enticed, but it was difficult to maneuver the stroller through the narrow aisles of the small stores. She needed a better plan to try to find Dante’s father than simply showing Ariana’s photograph to every man she saw and asking if he’d known her. Why ever would anyone admit to it if there’d been a problem with their relationship?

Stopping near the church, she sat on one of the wooden benches facing the town square. It was peaceful here. Dressed warmly, she was comfortable on this sunny afternoon despite the cooler temperatures. Checking on Dante, she was pleased he was warm and animated, looking around at the different buildings, up at the leaves on the tree partially shading the bench.

“Tree,” she said. She knew Dante probably couldn’t care less what that was called as long as she fed him on time and kept him dry and warm.

She still felt stressed dealing with the baby and hoped this trip would not only help her find out more about his father, but bring them closer together, too. She’d read every book she could get her hands on about newborns, had enlisted the help of a couple of friends who had children. But nothing had prepared her for the task of being an instant mom twenty-four-seven. At least most mothers had months to get used to the idea. Plans and dreams—usually with a partner—centered on the new life arriving. Psyching themselves up for the challenges.

Instead, Dante had been Mariella’s instant baby. She had known about him for less than a month before she became his mother. No warning, no preparation, and definitely no partner to share the task.

Dante was dozing when Mariella thought about returning to the cottage she’d rented. He’d sleep better in the crib she’d had set up for him. And she could finish unpacking and settle in. They’d be here a week so she needed to get organized, then she could decide how to go on.

“I didn’t mean to run you off.” She looked to her left and saw the man from the restaurant. He paused beside her. The sun glinted on his dark hair. His dark eyes looked straight into hers and caused her heart to bump up in rhythm. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She felt a flare of attraction sweep through her. It made her almost giddy. Certainly not the way a mother should react. She hadn’t expected to see him again—especially so soon after the restaurant.