A Vow, a Ring, a Baby Swing

Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication About the Author Letter to Reader Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Copyright

“I need a husband.”

Rosie sniffed. “But husbands don’t grow on trees.”

“No,” Steve agreed. “Not the last time I checked.”

Suddenly, her words sank in.

She needed a husband.

Then she could face her family and friends without shame. He owed her. He owed the family. There was a way to help them all. But it was a huge risk. He could lose the best friend he’d ever had, the only family he’d ever known.

But Rosie was part of that family. Shouldn’t he help her? Shouldn’t he do the honorable thing, the gentlemanly thing?

He wasn’t a member of the family, not by blood. More than once he had wished there was a way to change that. Now he could do something for Rosie that none of the rest of them could. He had a way to get her out of this jam.

“I could be a husband,” he said finally.

Dear Reader,

Happy Valentine’s Day! What better way to celebrate than with a Silhouette Romance novel? We’re sweeter than chocolate—and less damaging to the hips! This month is filled with special treats just for you. LOVING THE BOSS, our six-book series about office romances that lead to happily ever after, continues with The Night Before Baby by Karen Rose Smith. In this sparkling story, an unforgettable one-night stand—during the company Christmas party!—leads to an unexpected pregnancy and a mustread marriage of convenience.

Teresa Southwick crafts an emotional BUNDLES OF JOY title, in which the forbidden man of her dreams becomes a pregnant woman’s stand-in groom. Don’t miss A Vow, a Ring, a Baby Swing. When a devil-may-care bachelor discovers he’s a daddy, he offers the prim heroine a chance to hold a Baby in Her Arms, as Judy Christenberry’s LUCKY CHARM SISTERS trilogy resumes.

Award-winning author Marie Ferrarella proves it’s Never Too Late for Love as the bride’s mother and the groom’s widower father discover their children’s wedding was just the beginning in this charming continuation of LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER. Beloved author Arlene James lends a traditional touch to Silhouette Romance’s ongoing HE’S MY HERO promotion with Mr. Right Next Door. And FAMILY MATTERS spotlights new talent Elyssa Henry with her heartwarming debut, A Family for the sheriff.

Treat yourself to each and every offering this month. And in future months, look for more of the stories you love...and the authors you cherish.

Enjoy!

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor, Silhouette Romance

Please address questions and book requests to:

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Mike Boyle,

a fellow forgotten middle child.

You’re a hero in my book, bro.

TERESA SOUTHWICK

is a native Californian with ties to each coast, since she was conceived in the East and born in the West. Living with her husband of twenty-five years and two handsome sons, she is surrounded by heroes. Reading has been her passion since she was a girl. She couldn’t be more delighted that her dream of writing full-time has come true. Her favorite things include: holding a baby, the fragrance of jasmine, walks on the beach, the patter of rain on the roof, and, above all—happy endings.

Teresa also writes historical romance novels under the same name.

Dear Reader,

Since I was a little girl, my two favorite things in the world have been books and babies. Even now, I can’t help but peek into each stroller I pass. The power of a child to command the attention of every adult in a room amazes me. More extraordinary is the magic of a baby’s laugh. I challenge anyone to keep from smiling at that joyful sound.

I specifically remember being bitten by the writing bug in the fourth grade. That “Pike’s Peak or Bust” assignment I thought was completed wouldn’t let me alone until I added a few more pages. My teacher liked it. More incredible was how much I enjoyed (gasp!) homework.

Not a day goes by that I don’t give thanks for the gift of reading and the satisfaction and pleasure of writing—especially when I can include a baby in my story. So it’s an honor and privilege to have A Vow, a Ring, a Baby Swing included in Silhouette’s BUNDLES OF JOY promotion this month.

This book was a lot like that fourth-grade writing assignment. Creating Rosie Marchetti was great fun—not to mention her four attractive brothers and hunky hero! Every day I couldn’t wait to sit down at the computer and see what the meddling Marchettis would do next. Steve Schafer stole my heart as he was capturing Rosie’s. The only sight more endearing than a baby is a strong man holding that baby. Steve does that—and more.

I hope you enjoy reading Rosie and Steve’s story as much as I loved writing it.

Chapter One

No man had a right to look so good in a pair of worn blue jeans and a brown leather jacket that had seen much better days.

And no woman about to get married should notice, Rosie Marchetti told herself. She should especially not notice through the chapel window as she waited for her bridegroom.

What was he doing here?

Steve Schafer.

Her heart gave a medium-size lurch before she could stop it. How did he always do that to her? When would she learn not to let him?

She watched him look around the parking lot, then her hands began to shake when he headed her way. She wouldn’t have noticed him out there if he was just any man. But her luck wasn’t that good.

Steve Schafer stood six-feet-two-inches, one-hundred-and-ninety-pounds of swaggering sex appeal. Not just any man had his shade of sandy-blond hair, or mocking eyes that color of dark blue, or a jaw so square and hard it could have been chiseled from stone.

There was something about Steve. A masculinity that reached out to women—even ones about to get married—daring them to flaunt their femininity and force him to take notice. Rosie was no exception. It was her cross to bear. For as long as she could remember she had been searching for the antidote to his particular strain of seductive charm.

Every single time he hadn’t noticed her, she prayed for a cure that never came. She winced at the thought, angry at herself for still caring—even a little.

So what was her brother’s best friend doing here, at her secret wedding?

Then she knew. She’d been half expecting something; if not an act of God, or a natural disaster, at the very least some form of interference from the meddling Marchettis. She pressed a hand to her stomach as the bad feeling she’d been fighting while waiting for her overdue groom to show up got worse.

Just last night she’d phoned home in Los Angeles about her plan to marry Wayne. Her mother had asked her to postpone so that she and her father could give their only daughter a big church wedding. Rosie explained that she and Wayne were madly in love with each other and couldn’t wait. She was pleased that only half of that statement was a lie. Florence Evelyn Marchetti could spot a whopper a mile away. Rosie figured she’d had a fifty-fifty chance that her mother would buy the story. When they’d hung up, she’d thought her mother had accepted her plan to marry. If she’d thought right, it could mean that Steve was here with bad news that had nothing to do with the wedding.

Clutching her bridal bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath, she rushed toward the man now standing in the chapel vestibule staring at her.

“Oh, God, Steve. Is my mother all right? She didn’t have another heart attack did she?”

He removed his aviator sunglasses, but that didn’t help her to read his expression. “Your mom’s fine, Ro.”

“Thank God,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief.

She would never have forgiven herself if her announcement had brought on a relapse. Florence Marchetti’s heart attack three months earlier had traumatized the whole family. It was like seeing a crack in the Rock of Gibraltar and watching helplessly while the indestructible stone crumbled. The doctor had told them that she was extremely lucky, there was no damage to the heart muscle. She would recover nicely. It was a blessing in disguise, a wake-up call for a healthier life-style.

So if Steve wasn’t here about her mother, he was here because of the wedding. She shot him a suspicious look. “Mother sent you to talk me out of getting married.”

He didn’t deny it. He just glanced around the chapel with its abundance of plastic, the primary decorating motif. Plastic flowers exploded from plastic vases beside flimsy white plastic chairs that looked as if they wouldn’t hold the weight of a pixie. If his expression betrayed his feelings, she couldn’t tell. But she knew what he was thinking. She wasn’t crazy about the ambiance, either. But a girl had to do what a girl had to do.

“This isn’t your style.” His voice was hard as he echoed her thoughts. Worse, there was censure in his eyes.

How would he know what her style was? He’d never given her the time of day, not since she was a child. For Pete’s sake. Why did his indifference still bother her? She pushed that thought aside. She should be mad about why he was here. And she was.

Her parents had a right to disapprove of her decision. They didn’t have a right to interfere—or send a proxy to do it for them.

She knew they weren’t keen on Wayne. The Marchettis had made no secret of the fact that they thought their only daughter could do better. But they found something wrong with every man she brought home. Wayne wasn’t a doctor, a lawyer, or a teacher. In fact, she wasn’t exactly sure how he supported himself. But she liked him. Besides, he had one qualification they didn’t know about. If her luck wasn’t completely down the tubes, they never would.

“I’m getting married. There’s nothing you can say to change my mind,” she finally said, annoyed when the words came out defensively instead of in the cool, dismissive tone she’d been shooting for.

“You’re making a mistake.” He took her arm. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and we can discuss this.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She stared at his long, strong fingers curved around her upper arm. When she zinged him a look, he dropped his hand. “Wayne will be here any minute. He had some things to do. One of those errands was a surprise for me. He’s such a sweet, thoughtful man.” She wasn’t sure whether she was trying to convince Steve or herself.

“No comment.”

She’d certainly bowled him over with Wayne’s good P.R. “You’d better go, Steve. No one’s supposed to know about the wedding, and I’ve no idea how I’m going to explain your presence.” The truth was she just didn’t want him there when she took her vows.

“If you leave with me, you won’t have to explain anything to anyone.”

Her stomach clenched and she was instantly and forcefully reminded of why she was there. “I couldn’t do that.”

His eyes hardened with anger. “Wayne’s a creep, Rosie. You deserve better.”

“You sound like my parents.” Her fingers curled around her bouquet until her knuckles turned as white as the roses. “They don’t know Wayne the way I do. And neither do you.”

“You got that right.” Sarcasm dripped from every word.

No matter that just a few minutes before she had been having thoughts about Steve that no bride about to marry another man should have. Rosie felt obligated to defend her fiancé. She’d had a lifetime of family disapproval and the buttinskis had better get used to the fact that she was calling the shots. She was a grown woman; she knew exactly what she was doing. Steve Schafer had no right to stick his nose in and spoil everything.

“Wayne is not a creep. He’s a wonderful man. He’s thoughtful and kind and generous. And smart. And very good-looking. I’m going to marry him and you can’t talk me out of it,” she finished desperately.

“I was afraid you’d be stubborn.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

Even as she demanded to be told the truth, a bad feeling settled over her. Wayne was way overdue and getting later by the minute.

There was a weary, disgusted look in Steve’s eyes. Deep creases carved his face beside his nose and mouth. Something told her she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

“Wayne’s not coming.” His voice was flat.

She couldn’t have heard him right. “I—” She stopped and swallowed hard. Numb. That’s what she was. She couldn’t feel anything and there was a part of her desperately grateful for that. “I don’t believe you. H-he said he would meet me here at noon. It’s only a few minutes past—”

“It’s later than that.”

“He’ll be here.” Her hands started to shake. “He has to,” she whispered.

“What?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing.”

“You can wait if you want, I can’t stop you. But I’m doing my best to spare you, Rosie. Trust me. He’s not coming.” There was pity in his expression. It was that more than anything that made her eyes burn with unshed tears at the same time she wanted to deck him. How dare he pity her?

She blinked away the moisture. “What has Wayne ever done to give you such a low opinion of him?”

“Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you back to the hotel and buy you some lunch. We can talk—”

“I’m not leaving here until my groom shows up.”

“I just told you, that’s not going to happen.” He glanced at the watch on his wide wrist and nodded with satisfaction.

“How do you know that?”

“Because he’s a weasel.”

“That’s not true and it’s not an answer.” She shook her head as her eyes widened. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

“I wish I didn’t have to.” He met her gaze until she looked away. “Believe it or not, I’m not enjoying myself. Let’s get out of here, go someplace private so we can talk. We’ll get something to eat, then I’ll take you back to the hotel for your things.”

That was twice in two minutes that he’d offered her food. Apparently he thought the world-famous Marchetti method of eating one’s way out of a crisis would cure what ailed her. But he was so wrong.

She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re trying to break us up. You want to hustle me out of here before Wayne arrives and make him think I stood him up.”

“Your imagination is working overtime.”

“That’s what you’d like me to think. I’m just going to wait. And I don’t need company. Feel free to leave anytime.”

Behind her, the chapel door opened and a man, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a book in his hand, slipped inside. He walked down the carpeted aisle and stopped in front of them. “Finally. This is the tardy bridegroom?” he asked, staring questioningly at Steve’s worn leather bomber jacket, white cotton shirt, and faded jeans.

Rosie shook her head. “He was just leaving, Your Honor. Wayne will be here any minute.”

“Steve Schafer,” Steve said, holding out his hand to the justice of the peace.

“Charles Forbes.”

After they shook hands Steve said, “There’s been a change of plans. Miss Marchetti won’t be getting married today after all. We’re sorry to have inconvenienced you, Your Honor.”

“Not so fast, buster,” Rosie said. “I’m not sure what he’s trying to pull, Judge Forbes. But if you’ll be patient for just a few more minutes, my fiancé will be here.”

“He’s very late.” The judge gave her a look, puzzled, but definitely sympathetic, too. “We can wait until my next couple arrives. But I’ve a busy schedule this afternoon. I squeezed you in today, Miss Marchetti, remember?”

She winced at the “Miss.” It should have been “Mrs.” by now. “How could I forget? Just a little longer. Please. He’ll be here. I’m sure of it.”

Steve shook his head. “There’s no point in wasting the man’s time, Rosie. Wayne’s not coming.”

“How can you know that for sure?” she asked again. She was really afraid he would answer the question this time, and her desperation increased in direct proportion to her groom’s tardiness.

Steve glanced at the judge, then down at her. “Let’s go outside—”

“No. I’m not budging one step until you tell me, right here, right now, how you can be so sure Wayne’s not coining.”

Steve’s mouth thinned and he looked down for several seconds. Then he met her gaze squarely. “I know because I gave him a lot of money and a plane ticket as far away from you as he could get without a passport. Then I drove him to the airport and waited until his plane took off. Wayne’s not coming to marry you today or any other day, Rosie.”

Steve tipped the room service waiter and shut the door to Rosie’s hotel suite. She’d been in the bathroom ever since he’d brought her here from the chapel. It had been almost an hour and if she didn’t come out soon, he’d have to break the damn door down. One corner of his mouth lifted. You could take the kid out of the gutter, but apparently you couldn’t completely leave the gutter mentality behind.

He knocked softly. “Lunch is here, squirt.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I ordered a bottle of wine.”

“It’s not even close to happy hour,” she said. The door between them did nothing to muffle her sarcasm.

He knew he should be grateful she wasn’t in the same room with him. An angry Marchetti was a formidable sight. When her shock wore off, he would be in for it. Unless he could mellow her out with a glass of wine.

“It’s the kind you like. I figured it was the least I could do.”

“You figured wrong. And how would you know what I like?”

He knew. For years he’d covertly watched Rosie at family gatherings and carefully filed away every detail he’d observed about her. Oh, yeah, he knew damn well.

After a few moments she said through the door, “Just go away and leave me alone.”

Steve turned his back, trying to shake the feeling that he’d slam-dunked a kitten. He ran a hand through his short hair. He’d done the job he’d been sent here to do. He was the hatchet man, not Dear Abby. He didn’t have to stay; the cabin was waiting. The Marchettis had offered him the use of the family vacation home in the mountains. He hadn’t gotten away in years and, after today, he was looking forward to the isolation more than ever. There was a good chance of snow since it was the middle of January. Holidays were over. Tourists would be gone. He could hardly wait. But he couldn’t walk out on Rosie just yet. Not until he got her the hell out of that bathroom and home to her mother.

He looked around the hotel suite, taking in the elegant understated decor. Matching cherrywood furniture polished to a perfect shine decorated the bedroom, parlor and dining area. The sofa, love seat, and accent chairs in shades of blue, green and mauve striped and floral patterns had been expertly coordinated by an interior designer. Expensive Stiffel brass lamps held court on all the tables. Who’d have guessed that a guy like him could even get into a place like this? The years had smoothed away the rough edges of the skinny, dirty kid he’d once been.

A kid who’d never laid eyes on his father. A kid whose mother had dumped him at a downtown L.A. bus station never to be heard from again. He’d wound up in the county home with other kids just like himself, angry and bitter. The odds said he should have gone to hell.

He heard a faucet running in the bathroom. Rosemarie Teresa Christina. Marchetti. He smiled. He’d beat the odds when a twist of fate had crossed his path with her brother Nick’s. They’d become best friends and the Marchettis had taken Steve under their wing.

He heard her moving around and his smile turned grim. He wasn’t sure which was worse: her self-imposed quarantine, or facing her when she came out. He wasn’t looking forward to the angry third-degree he knew she would give him. There was only one thing worse than that

Seeing her cry.

She hadn’t yet. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t said much, either. That zombie-like calm was so unlike her it made him nervous. As much as he dreaded the inevitable storm, it would be preferable to the silent treatment. He hated waiting for the other shoe to fall—or in this case, the flood of tears he knew was coming. He had to get her the hell home—to someone who could hold her when she cried.

The door behind him opened. He braced himself.

“Steve?”

“What?” He turned.

Her hands twisted together as she stared accusingly at him. She had changed out of her beige silk suit and looked just as pretty, maybe more so, in a denim jumper with a white T-shirt underneath. Her dark curly hair had been done up on top of her head for the wedding and was tumbling down now. He couldn’t help thinking it made her look as if she’d just come from a man’s bed. That thought was followed by a white-hot flash of desire, which he quickly pushed away.

He had learned a long time ago that it was easier if he didn’t think about Rosie that way. Most of the time he succeeded. Then, out of the blue—bam!—those feelings zapped him like a lightning bolt.

Nick had never said the exact words, but he had still made it clear that Steve was to think of her as a kid sister. That made her “hands off.” He had taken his protective role to a new level today, he thought. After what he’d done, she wasn’t going to any man’s bed, including his.

Especially his.

“Why did you do it?” she asked. “You could have said no.”

“To your mother?”

“No. Xena, Warrior Princess. Of course, my mother. When she asked you to submarine me, you could have told her you wouldn’t stoop that low.”

She was right. But he couldn’t manage to summon the guilt he knew he should feel. He had absolutely no regrets. He’d built a booming business and had made a lot of money by giving his corporate clients all the information they needed to keep from making a mistake. He’d never taken as much satisfaction from a job well done as he did now.

Rosie was a one-in-a-million woman.

She didn’t know it now, but she was better off alone than she would have been married to that twotiming jerk. Confronting Wayne without laying a hand on him had been one of the hardest things Steve had ever done. He’d wanted to punch Wayne’s lights out, especially when he’d started spouting lies about Rosie.

“Look, squirt, you know why I couldn’t say no.”

“I don’t.” She shook her head. “It’s easy. You open your mouth. It’s one tiny syllable. ‘No.’ Simple.”

“I owe your parents more than I can repay in a lifetime.”

“You already paid off the college loan,” she said. “With interest.”

“It’s not about money.”

“Okay. It’s about how when you were a kid my father caught you stealing from his restaurant and instead of calling the cops, he made you work.”

“You got it.”

She put her hands on her hips. “That doesn’t make you my parents’ lackey.”

He couldn’t help smiling. “‘Lackey’? Rosie, you’ve been reading too many books in that store of yours.”

“I’m serious, Steve. Maybe you like the word ‘flunky’ better? My folks gave you a helping hand. You don’t owe them your life’s blood forever. Your success is the only reward they want.”