Babies By The Busload

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

The Invitation

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Copyright

“If Babies Bother You, Just Knock And I’ll See What I Can Do. But I Can’t Make Any Promises.”

J.J. blinked at Jack, feeling like a batter with too many balls being pitched at once. “Babies? What babies?”

“My babies. I’ve got three of them.”

Jack Remington with babies. What a concept. Poor little things. “You have babies?” she echoed incredulously.

He nodded, his eyes smiling. “It’s pretty standard. Lots of people have little ones. It’s an accepted practice, even in these modern times.”

“Not everyone does it,” she said, realizing her tone was defensive and regretting it.

“No, of course not.” His eyes narrowed, as though something in her voice piqued his interest. “Nice meeting you, Miss Jensen.” Grinning, he waved and went on his way.

Jack Remington. Of all the people to run into. And he hadn’t even remembered her.

Dear Reader,

Established stars and exciting new names.that’s what’s in store for you this month from Silhouette Desire. Let’s begin with Cait London’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Tallchief’s Bride—it’s also the latest in her wonderful series, THE TALLCHIEFS.

The fun continues with Babies by the Busload, the next book in Raye Morgan’s THE BABY SHOWER series, and Michael’s Baby, the first installment of Cathie Linz’s delightful series, THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIFT.

So many of you have indicated how much you love the work of Peggy Moreland, so I know you’ll all be excited about her latest sensuous romp, A Willful Marriage. And Anne Eames, who made her debut earlier in the year in Silhouette Desire’s Celebration 1000, gives us more pleasure with You’re What?! And if you enjoy a little melodrama with your romance, take a peek at Metsy Hingle’s enthralling new book, Backfire.

As always, each and every Silhouette Desire is sensuous, emotional and sure to leave you feeling good at the end of the day!

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

Babies by the Busload

Raye Morgan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RAYE MORGAN

favors settings in the West, which is where she has spent most of her life. She admits to a penchant for Western heroes, believing that whether he’s a rugged outdoorsman or a smooth city sophisticate, he tends to have a streak of wildness that the romantic heroine can’t resist taming. She’s been married to one of those Western men for twenty years and is busy raising four more in her Southern California home.

The Invitation

This is your last chance, J.J.

Mike’s voice echoed in her mind again and again until she was sick to death of it.

This is your last chance, J. J.

Closing her eyes, she lay back in the water of the outdoor deck hot tub and tried to block the voice out of her head. Remembering it certainly wasn’t doing anything for her self-esteem and she was going to need all her confidence if she was going to parlay this temporary job at a local television station into a step up that slippery ladder she’d been trying to climb for the past ten years.

Today had been a pretty pathetic attempt. Despite everything, she had to laugh when she thought about it. During the course of the morning, she’d spilled coffee down the front of her only good suit, eaten the last doughnut just before the station manager came looking for it, and called the mayor of the city by his rival’s name on camera.

She had to go back tonight for the evening news, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. Maybe, she thought ruefully, she should fill up on food before she went. If she could just stay away from snacks this evening, maybe things would go better.

“No,” she said sadly, shaking her head at a bird who was hovering close and considering her with a glint in its eyes. “The station manager hates me. The next three weeks are going to be murder, whether I eat or not.”

The bird flew off and she laughed softly, enjoying this outdoor retreat, enjoying the clouds scudding past, the wind in the pines over her head, glad she was going to get to stay here for the next five weeks.

Five weeks. That was what they’d said when they asked her to come in as a replacement anchor for a local woman who was going to be out with surgery. She’d jumped at the chance for a change. Her contract was up at the station in Sacramento, where she’d been for four years, and she knew the only way she was going to get back on track toward New York and the networks was to move around, get noticed. So here she was in St. Johns, Utah, staying in a condo the station had obtained for her, and hoping for great things.

Closing her eyes again, she turned on the jets with her toes and let herself drift in the lovely bubbles, trying to forget her agent’s voice, trying to relax. The jets made just enough noise so that she didn’t hear her visitor until he was standing at the edge of her deck, clearing his throat.

Her eyes flew open and so did her mouth. “Aaaah!” she shrieked, and she lost her bearings in the spa, slipping off the seat and down under the water with a thunk.

She’d barely had time to register the fact that there was a man in her yard. Fighting her way back to the surface of the water, she hoped against hope it had been a mirage.

But no. The man still stood there, smiling casually, his hands in his pockets. He was tall, his rakishly combed dark hair touched with silver at the temples, and he was wearing an Irish fisherman’s sweater and slacks with wet spots on the legs. It seemed she’d created something of a splash going down.

“Sorry to startle you,” he said mildly, amusement glinting in his blue eyes. “I brought you your mail.”

J.J. stared out through a curtain of wet hair, blowing bubbles off her lips so that she could speak.

“Who are you?” she croaked, thanking her lucky stars that she’d had the presence of mind to put on a swimsuit instead of bathing in the buff, as had been her first inclination.

“Oh, that’s right. We haven’t met.” He stepped up onto the redwood deck, leaned toward her and stuck his hand out quite pleasantly. “I’m Jack. I live next door.”

She was beet red and she knew it. Ignoring his offered hand, she glared at him. “You shouldn’t creep up on people like that,” she protested.

Withdrawing his hand, he smiled as though to reassure her that there would be no hard feelings over her rudeness. “I didn’t creep, exactly. There’s a well-used gate between our yards. And I thought I heard voices, so I came on over.”

He shook his head as though it were just the most natural thing in the world.

“The previous tenant and I had. a sort of arrangement,” he explained carelessly, glancing toward the sliding glass doors that led into the house. “I guess I got used to being a little too free with her living space. Sorry.” He glanced at her again and gave her another utterly charming smile.

“So you’re the latest,” he said softly, looking her over.

She blinked at him. “The latest what?”

He shrugged. “The latest neighbor,” he said smoothly, but she knew very well that wasn’t what he’d begun to say. What was special about her staying in this condo? She frowned. She was going to have to look into that.

“Lovely view, isn’t it?” he added, making a sweeping motion with his arm.

She nodded, glancing at the stately pines and the vista of the red rock mountains behind the condos. The afternoon air was cool at this time of year in southern Utah, but the sun was shining and the water was scalding, and she could make believe she was in a mountain spring, absorbing nature with every pore. She loved it. But she hadn’t counted on visitors sharing the experience with her.

And there was something else. She stared up at him. That voice. There was something about this man.

“Anyway, as I said, I brought your mail.” He pulled a pink envelope out of his pocket. “The postman put it in my box. I’m afraid I opened it before I realized it wasn’t for me.”

He’d said his name was Jack. Jack. Yes, it rang a bell. She was certain she’d seen him before, perhaps a younger version.

He was waving the envelope at her. “You seem to be invited to a baby shower,” he told her helpfully, leaning back against the wall with one leg bent casually over the other as he studied the paper in his hand. “Some old friend. Let’s see, her name was. ah, here it is. Sara.” He looked at her questioningly, one dark eyebrow cocked provocatively. “Anyone you know?”

“Hey,” she said, suddenly realizing what he was doing. “That’s my mail you’re reading.”

His glance was laced with amusement. “Yes, I thought I’d said that. It is the whole point of my stopping by, after all.”

She frowned at him, still too stunned by his behavior to get herself into the proper mode to repel his unwelcome visit. “I can read my own mail.”

“Not while you’re wet,” he said sensibly. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

There was something about this man, something.

Jack Remington.

Oh my God, her inner child cried as the name flashed into her mind. No, not Jack Remington!

“The postmark says Denver,” he said. “What a coincidence. I’m going to Denver myself soon.”

“How nice,” she said crisply, finally reasserting herself and applying a quick hand to her dark hair, pushing it back off her face. “Thank you for dropping by my mail. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like some privacy.”

“Of course.” He straightened. “Well, nice meeting you, Miss.” He glanced at the name on the envelope before he set it down on the deck. “Miss J. J. Jensen. I guess I’ve worn out my welcome.”

She didn’t contradict him. Jack Remington. Now that she’d realized who he was, she didn’t know how she could have hesitated. Talk about a blast from the past. This was a major blow.

He stopped just inside the gate to the next yard, turning back. “By the way,” he noted. “If the babies bother you, just knock on the wall and I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t make any promises.”

She blinked, frowning, feeling like a batter with too many balls being pitched at once. “Babies? What babies?”

“My babies. I’ve got three of them.”

Jack Remington with babies. What a concept. The poor little things. “You have babies?” she echoed incredulously.

He nodded, his eyes smiling. “It’s a pretty standard thing to do. People get married, have little ones. It’s an accepted practice, even in these modern times.”

Maybe for some. “Not everyone does it,” she said, realizing her tone was defensive and regretting it, but it was only natural. She was so sick of people asking when she was going to “settle down.”

“No, of course not.” His eyes narrowed as though something in her voice had piqued his interest. “Nice meeting you, Miss Jensen.” Grinning, he waved and went on his way.

She held her breath until she heard a sound that could be his gate closing, and then she stepped tentatively out of the tub, reaching quickly for her towel. Jack Remington. Of all people to run into. And he hadn’t recognized her, even when he’d seen her name. That just showed how little he’d ever noticed.

Hugging the towel in close around her, she felt that old hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, as though her world were crashing down around her. Things were changing so quickly, and lately everything new that happened seemed to be a bad thing. This was a time in her life when she should be moving forward, not stumbling backward. This just wasn’t right.

And now she’d been accosted in her hot tub by the only man who had ever fired her.

So far, anyway. She made a face at her reflection in the mirror. The way things were going, who knew? A picture of the station manager’s furious face when he’d found out his doughnut was missing swam into her mind. So far.

But that was not the overriding issue of the moment. Picking up the invitation, she pulled it out of the envelope and looked at it, feeling a bittersweet smile coming on. Sara’s baby shower. All her old roommates from college would be there and they were all doing so well. Cami was publishing a scientific journal of some sort. Hailey was a buyer for a major department store and selling a few paintings on the side. Sara was married to the perfect man and no doubt having the perfect baby.

And here was J.J., still searching for success. How was she going to keep a smile on her face and pretend she was just as happy as the others? She wanted to see her friends again, but something deep inside resisted. If only she could go without feeling like a failure. If only.

Still, she would go if she could get the time off. She had to.

A sound from next door swung her head around. A baby was crying, then a voice, then a child’s laugh. Jack Remington, playboy and man-about-town with babies? And what sort of wife, she wondered? It was going to be interesting finding out.

One

Jack Remington was floating just on the edge of sleep. Light was coming in through the slats in the blinds. Morning. Time for the madness to begin again. He listened, but the only sound came from the black cat curled at the foot of his bed, purring like a small and very loud generator.

Slowly he forced his eyes to open and listened a little harder. Nope, no sign of the babies. They were either still asleep, which was highly unusual, or they’d knotted together sheets and escaped out their window in the dead of night. Since they were only eleven months old, it seemed a long shot.

“And yet, one can always hope,” he muttered to himself groggily, but he grimaced as he said the words, knowing he didn’t mean them.

His dark gaze traveled around the room and lingered for a reluctant moment on the picture sitting atop the chest of drawers across the room and he frowned, repressing the twinge of pain that always cut deep when he remembered his wife. Every time it happened, he vowed to put that picture away in a drawer somewhere. But somehow he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

For some reason that made him think of his new neighbor. Quite a contrast to his elegant Phoebe was Miss J. J. Jensen, with her neon string bikini and her hair plastered over her face. He grinned, thinking of the way she’d splashed about in the hot tub the day before. He had to admit she’d been a fetching sight. Nice breasts, from what he could see amid all that splashing—the sort of body that made a man think twice about this celibacy kick he’d been on for so long.

“Daddy?”

Annie was in the bedroom doorway that he always left open so as to hear every sound from the babies’ room. She peered at her father around two small fists that were rubbing the sand from her eyes.

“Daddy, the babies are still sleeping,” she whispered in a tone that could have jerked Rip van Winkle out of a sound sleep.

Propping up on one elbow, he put a finger to his lips to quiet her and then gave her a daddy-sized grin. She was the best antidote he knew of for stray thoughts about attractive women. When in doubt, he could always count on his little Annie to bring him back down to earth and remind him of what was important in his life.

“What do we always say, Annie-kins?” he asked.

She furled her young brow and thought hard. “Let sleeping babies lie?” she guessed correctly, her brown eyes huge.

He nodded, pleased with her, as always. Five years old and going on middle age, she had a natural wisdom that often stunned him.

“Come here and give me my morning bear hug, you little rascal,” he demanded tenderly, and she flew across the hardwood floor, her white nightgown billowing around her, her blond curls bouncing, and threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard and giving him a pretend growl.

He laughed as she let go, giggling. “Best bear hug yet, Annie,” he told her. “You nearly took my head off.”

She smiled happily and turned to dash off again, but not before stopping to shake her finger at the dozing cat.

“Gregor, you are making a very big noise,” she whispered loudly to the startled animal. “Shh, you’ll wake up the babies.”

Gregor stretched out his front legs and yawned, and Annie went on her way. Jack chuckled, enjoying the sunny domestic scene, but his smile faded as his thoughts grew darker. This situation wasn’t really fair to Annie, and he was going to have to think about ways to remedy it. They were an odd little family, he and the triplets and five-year-old Annie. And then there was Marguerite.

Annie’s little feet made a pattern on the hallway floor as she returned, her eyes wider than ever. “Daddy, Marguerite is already up,” she announced breathlessly. “She’s cooking something.”

“Uh-oh.” Jack groaned. “What is it? Could you tell?”

Annie made a face. “I think it’s pancakes.”

“Oh.” He brightened. “Great. Her pancakes aren’t halfbad.”

Annie frowned, looking worried. “But Daddy…what if she puts those little blue balls in?”

He blinked at her. “Blueberries? They’re great.”

Her lip curled dramatically. “They’re yucky.”

He laughed shortly. “Don’t you tell her that. Remember, we love Marguerite’s cooking, no matter what. You got it?”

She nodded reluctantly. “I got it,” she echoed, her voice as sad as her eyes.

He sighed and lay back against the pillow for one last moment, his arms behind his head. Marguerite was in the kitchen. Now he was going to have to get up. What did you call it when the hired help made almost as many problems as she solved? A dilemma, at the very least.

He glanced down at his daughter. “Okay, I’m getting up. You go get dressed and we’ll meet in the kitchen, okay? And whatever it is that Marguerite’s cooking, we’re going to love it. Right?”

Annie made a face, her teeth on edge, and dashed off toward her own room to change. Jack willed his body to rise, and surprisingly, it did as he asked, but it creaked along the way.

“Getting to be an old man at thirty-five,” be muttered as he made his way to the shower. “Raising babies saps the strength right out of you.”

As if on cue, the first sounds from the babies’ room came wafting in through the doorway, and he hesitated, then opted for a quick shower before going to them. And quick it was. He barely lasted long enough for the drops to hit his skin before he was back out, toweling down and hurrying to reach the babies. For just a moment he had fleeting thoughts of the old days when he’d luxuriated in a warm shower, letting the stinging drops hit him for minutes at a time. Those days were gone. Now it was slapdash and make it faster. The babies called.

For just a moment, the image of his new neighbor spun into view again. She’d seemed to have plenty of time to wallow in her hot tub. He remembered when he’d been young like that, with every possible path still in front of him, and for a brief moment, he envied her.

But he quickly shoved the thought away. He couldn’t let stray impulses cloud his horizon. He’d made a commitment to these kids and he was going to keep it, even if everyone on earth seemed to think he was nuts.

“Give a couple of them up for adoption,” someone had actually suggested. “You can’t possibly take care of all four at once by yourself.”

“Send them home to your mother” was another refrain he often heard.

“Don’t they have child-care professionals who can come in and take over running the house and raising the kids so you won’t have to?” said another helpful soul.

He’d reacted to every such comment with good-natured humor on the outside, and outraged horror on the inside. These were his kids. They’d already lost a mother. There was no way they were going to have to be raised without a father—a one hundred percent, there-for-you-whenever-youneed-him father.

So, despite the attractions living right next door, there would be no lusting after beautiful neighbors. Indulging himself in that sort of thing would bring disaster, and he wasn’t going to do it, not even for a moment.

But the time for thought evaporated as his day began at its usual frantic pace. Marguerite’s voice was calling him, and so were the voices from the next room.

“Mister? Mister?” Marguerite shouted from the kitchen. “I got you food ready. It gonna get cold!”

He hopped on one foot as he wrestled with his slacks. “You’ll have to keep it warm for me, Marguerite,” he called. “The babies are awake.”

The banging of pans was her only answer, and he winced, but he went in to see his little ones. Three cribs lined one wall, three mobiles hung over them and three little children were each standing up and leaning on the railings, little fingers curled around the edge.

Three. It always gave him a beat of panic when he saw them like this, their sweet round faces gazing at him eagerly. They wanted so much, needed so much. How could anyone possibly minister to three at once? It was impossible. But somehow, he had to try.

He got to work quickly, swinging up the first baby and heading for the changing table. Annie arrived, dressed in jeans and a little red shirt, and pitched in as she always did. Jack spoke softly to each baby as he cleaned and changed and dressed him or her. Luckily they were usually good-natured in the morning, cooing and laughing while Annie amused them. Still, it was half an hour later before they were through. He hurried out to the kitchen with one baby under each arm, while Annie lugged the third one.

All seemed quiet on the cooking front. Marguerite was nowhere to be seen, but two plates of cold pancakes sat at nicely set places at the table, and three dishes of congealed oatmeal sat on the counter. Jack took in the situation at a glance and, knowing his hired help, plunked his two babies down in walkers and motioned for Annie to do the same with hers. He knew the babies were hungry, but they would have to wait. There were times when a man had to do what a man had to do.

“Sit down, quick,” he whispered to Annie. “We’ll eat and then feed the little ones.”

The babies had no problem with the order of things. They were gurgling with laughter and careening together in their walkers like little round bumper cars. Meanwhile, Jack poured syrup over his pancakes and said very loudly, “Wow, these are really good. Marguerite sure knows how to fix a good breakfast, doesn’t she, Annie?”

Annie sat on the edge of her chair and stared down at the plate before her. There were blueberries in the pancakes.

Jack saw her look and gave her an encouraging smile. “All together now,” he urged under his breath. “We love it!” he said aloud. “Don’t we, Annie?”

Annie mouthed the words but her heart wasn’t in it and rebellion brewed in her brown eyes. Still she managed to put a bite into her mouth by the time Marguerite reappeared, looking at them suspiciously, her green eyes darting a glance from one plate to another. Her blond hair was a little wild this morning and her thick, shapeless body was rendered even more lumplike by the plain housedress she wore. A woman of middle years, she had seemingly lost all interest in looking attractive.