Husbands, Husbands...Everywhere!

“Why didn’t we stay together?”

She should have expected it. In a way, it was surprising that he hadn’t asked before. “I don’t see any need to go into it,” she said, folding her arms. She saw no need to open old wounds—mostly hers.

His jaw set in a stubborn line. “It was because of my job, wasn’t it?”

Abby drew in a breath, and let it out slowly. “Whatever happened back then, those days are over, Ryan.”

“And what about the nights?” With that quiet question he stepped forward to close the gap between them. “Did I leave you alone then, too?”

He’d moved too close to let her feign indifference. Close enough to have certain memories flaring to life. Much too close for her comfort. She saw the challenge in his eyes. “Do you mean to tell me that if I kissed you right this minute, you wouldn’t feel anything?”

“You’re not kissing me,” she informed him in no uncertain terms.

And then he was.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harlequin American Romance, where you’re guaranteed heartwarming, emotional and deeply romantic stories set in the backyards, big cities and wide-open spaces of America. Kick starting the month is Cathy Gillen Thacker’s Her Bachelor Challenge, which launches her brand-new family-connected miniseries THE DEVERAUX LEGACY. In this wonderful story, a night of passion between old acquaintances has a sought-after playboy businessman questioning his bachelor status.

Next, Mollie Molay premieres her new GROOMS IN UNIFORM miniseries. In The Duchess & Her Bodyguard, protecting a royal beauty was easy for a by-the-book bodyguard, but falling in love wasn’t part of the plan! Don’t miss Husbands, Husbands…Everywhere! by Sharon Swan, in which a lovely B & B owner’s ex-husband shows up on her doorstep with amnesia, giving her the chance to rediscover the man he’d once been. This poignant reunion romance story is the latest installment in the WELCOME TO HARMONY miniseries. Laura Marie Altom makes her Harlequin American Romance debut with Blind Luck Bride, which pairs a jilted groom with a pregnant heroine in a marriage meant to satisfy the terms of a bet.

Best,

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin American Romance

Husbands, Husbands…Everywhere!

Sharon Swan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For all my great friends in Illinois

Born and raised in Chicago, Sharon Swan once dreamed of dancing for a living. Instead, she surrendered to life’s more practical aspects, settled for an office job, concentrated on typing and being a Chicago Bears fan. Sharon never seriously considered writing a career until she moved to the Phoenix area and met Pierce Brosnan at a local shopping mall. It was a chance meeting that changed her life, because she found herself thinking, what if? What if two fictional characters had met the same way? That formed the basis for her next novel, and she’s now cheerfully addicted to writing contemporary romance and playing what if?

Books by Sharon Swan

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

912—COWBOYS AND CRADLES

928—HOME-GROWN HUSBAND*

939—HUSBAND, HUSBANDS…EVERYWHERE!*

Contents

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 One

A man who once had sworn he would never forget her looked her straight in the eye with a blank expression, as if he’d never seen her before in his life.

Abby couldn’t help but stare herself, thinking that unless Ryan Larabee had an identical twin with the same brilliantly blue gaze, it had to be him. And since she recalled quite well that his only sibling was an older sister, it was definitely Ryan.

She knew that. She was just having trouble convincing her vocal cords to say something to him, which was understandable. After all, it wasn’t every day that a woman met a dangerously attractive male from her past, one she’d never expected to see again, even if she hadn’t managed to block out all thoughts of him. To find that very male calmly standing on the doorstep, looking at her as though she were a complete stranger, was a startling experience, enough to leave anyone’s throat frozen.

And Abby could only produce one hard swallow.

It was the tall and lanky man facing her who finally broke the silence. “Are you, ah, by any chance Aunt Abigail?” he asked in a deep voice tinged with a Western drawl that she remembered all too well. His halting tone seemed to indicate he’d been anticipating someone older.

“No, I’m not,” she got out at last after another swallow.

He reached up and thumbed his black Stetson back from his forehead, revealing short, thick strands of dark brown hair. “I called earlier about a room. Someone said there were plenty available.”

She cleared her still-tight throat. “That would have been one of my godmother’s friends who helps out here. My godmother, who’s out of town at the moment, owns this house and runs Aunt Abigail’s Bed and Breakfast. As it happens,” she added very deliberately, “I was named after her.”

“I see,” was his reply.

She didn’t doubt he would have more to say shortly, when total recall hit, which was bound to occur after she told him what she was about to tell him. Her appearance had changed over the years, she had to concede. Certainly she was no longer a starry-eyed twenty-three. But despite the fact that she now wore her hair in a neat chin-length style rather than down past her shoulders, and favored tailored blouses and slacks over more casual tops and jeans, this had to jar his memory in a big way.

Bracing herself, she said, “I’m Abby Prentice.”

All he did was continue to gaze down at her blandly. “I’m Ryan Larabee. If there does happen to be a room available, do you suppose I could come in?”

For a stark second she still couldn’t move, and then she stepped back carefully, opening the front door wide. He entered, holding the sturdy handle of a large black suitcase in one long-fingered hand. The lightly scuffed leather matched his stack-heeled boots, while the rest of him was clad in faded denim.

Still trying to get her bearings, Abby closed the rust-colored door behind him. She would have liked to lean against it, at least long enough to shut her eyes for an instant and draw in a steadying breath. Instead, she squared her shoulders, knowing full well that she had to deal with her visitor—good Lord, he was about to become a guest!—and her nerves would have to wait. Ready or not, it was time to assume her hostess duties, and she could only hope this particular visit would be short.

“Welcome to Harmony, Arizona,” she said, calling up the most politely offhand tone she could muster.

“Thanks.” He left it at that before he followed her toward a makeshift front desk to one side of the center oak staircase. No trivial conversation, she couldn’t help but note. No easy chuckles, either. Not the barest hint of the breezy charm that had seemed almost second nature to the man she’d known.

Abby groped to take in those facts and found herself frowning as the smarts she usually put to good use finally kicked in. Although she remained more than a little at sea after the shock she’d just been treated to, it was becoming increasingly clear, at least to her way of reasoning, that no one could appear so entirely indifferent to another person they had shared so much with.

It wasn’t normal. And neither, she was more than beginning to suspect, was this situation.

Abby’s frown deepened with each step forward. The man who had just arrived, the same one currently following hard on her heels, wasn’t putting on an act and pretending not to recognize her. She was all but positive of that now, mainly because there wasn’t the slightest reason to believe otherwise. In any case, it would have taken a world-class actor to pull it off. And since there was also no way she could have slipped his mind, surely not after their joint and hardly casual history, she was left to come to one conclusion.

Ryan Larabee honestly and truly didn’t have a clue as to who she was. As far as he was concerned, she was a stranger. Which could only mean that something was wrong, Abby told herself as she made her way around the small butterscotch-colored desk standing on thin, gracefully curved legs.

Yes, something had to be very wrong.

RYAN GLANCED AROUND HIM as his hostess completed the necessary paperwork to check him in, wondering if he’d ever been in a place like this before. A gingerbread house—that had been his first impression as he’d stood on a narrow sidewalk backed by a tree-lined street and viewed the large, frame home painted a bright cinnamon with rusty-red trim around gleaming windows. Strange, he knew what a gingerbread house was, could even picture a layer of white frosting decorating a pitched roof, but whether he had ever taken a bite out of one was a total mystery.

He could only damn well hope that situation would change, and soon.

“Your room is at the top of the stairs to the right, first door on the left.”

Ryan nodded in response to the soft yet briskly issued statement. He had to admit he’d expected at least a slightly warmer and less strictly business-like welcome than he’d gotten so far at Aunt Abigail’s. He’d been told that Harmony, set in a valley rimmed by low, pine-dotted mountains northeast of Phoenix and offering plenty of crisp sunshine, wasn’t just a great spot to visit location-wise, it was also a place that prided itself on its friendliness.

Friendly? For a minute there, waiting on the threshold, he’d discovered himself questioning whether the woman answering the merry doorbell would let him in at all.

Not that it had been a hardship to watch her do a decent job of staring him down with a smoky-green gaze. She was easy on the eyes, no doubt about it. If a man were partial to redheads of the tall and willowy variety, not precisely beautiful yet with skin that looked as smooth as cream, she’d fit the bill.

Something told him he was that kind of man, and it wasn’t his brain talking. No, it was his body that was letting him know in no uncertain terms exactly what sort of woman attracted him.

“A buffet breakfast is available between seven and nine-thirty, and the front door is locked for the night at ten o’clock. If you plan to be out later than that—”

“Why, of course, he plans to be out later, at least on occasion,” another soft voice, this one bubbling with good cheer, offered just then. The well-rounded woman it belonged to, one currently bustling her way down the hall from the rear of the house, might have had Everyone’s Favorite Grandmother stitched across the ruffled top of her pearly white apron. Silvery hair caught up in a high bun and sparkling gray eyes only enhanced the image.

“If this is Mr. Larabee,” she added, “which I assume it is, he’ll be here for a while. Too long for a young man to go to bed with the birds every night, I’m sure.”

His hostess hesitated a second before countering that statement with her own, one issued in a tone more blunt than cheerful. “You only wrote tonight’s date down in the register.”

“With a little dash after it, dear.” Standing at one side of the desk, the older woman pointed with a short and what seemed to be flour-dusted finger. “That means this particular guest wasn’t certain about the length of his visit.”

“Hmm.”

She wasn’t overjoyed at that news, Ryan noted. But if the redhead’s companion noticed it as well, she ignored the evidence and fixed him with a sunny smile. “I’m Ethel Freeman, and I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here, Mr. Larabee.”

“I answer to Ryan,” he said, dredging up a smile of his own. He doubted it was half as effective as hers, but he hadn’t had much practice smiling lately.

“Yes, of course,” she continued, barely missing a beat. “Please call me Ethel. I’m sure Abby will want to be on a first-name basis, too. It’s always so much more comfortable.”

Comfortable was the last thing the woman with the deep russet hair appeared to be at the moment, but Ryan decided to do some ignoring himself. Could be that something about him bothered her, or maybe it was just men in general. Either way, hanging around right now probably wouldn’t win him any points.

He took a quick step back from the desk, grateful that his muscles readily responded even though a tight group stretching down one of his thighs was starting to give him hell. “I’ll take up my bag,” he said, “and get settled in. Can you recommend a place for dinner tonight?”

Abby, as he guessed he should call her, opened her mouth, only to snap it shut again when Ethel wasted no time in saying, “Since it’s your first night here and you’re the only guest, weekdays in spring usually being a slower time, why don’t you have dinner with us? I’m making one of my favorites—chicken and dumplings.”

He had no idea if he shared a fondness for that dish, but it sounded good. And, although he was well aware that Abby hadn’t hurried to second the invitation, not by any means, he was tired enough to give in without hesitation. “Sounds terrific. What time do we eat?”

“Six o’clock,” Ethel promptly informed him. “The dining room is off the hall toward the back of the house, on the left.”

“I’ll be there.” And with that he picked up his luggage and started toward the stairs, doing his damnedest not to limp, not while an audience was around. A man had his pride, after all, and he didn’t care what the doctors said about mustering some patience for the healing process.

At least certain other parts of him appeared to be in full working order. Ryan smiled again, this time to himself. He’d been worried on that score, he had to admit. But not any longer. All it had taken was the sight of one particular long-legged, green-eyed, smooth-skinned female to have him dead sure that he was in top-notch shape in one very important area. No matter what, he was still a red-blooded male.

From a short distance below him, the woman in his thoughts watched him climb the steps. She didn’t miss the way he seemed to favor one leg over the other, but probably only because her currently heightened senses were so attuned to his every move. Whatever the case, there was no denying the strength of the arm carrying the hefty suitcase with ease. She might well have had to use both her arms and all her resources to accomplish the same feat.

But then, he had always been strong. Although the faded blue sleeves of his waist-high jacket hid them from view at the moment, she had no trouble recalling the sight of solidly muscled, hair-darkened forearms. Lean and powerful.

“He seems to be the quiet sort,” Ethel remarked, still at Abby’s side.

Not hardly, was the first thought to surface. Then again, Abby told herself, maybe that was true now. Maybe partying well into the night no longer occupied a prominent place on his list of favorite things to do. Maybe.

One thing was for sure, as much as he’d once enjoyed a good party, how he earned his living had always been so high on his personal list that it regularly trounced everything else competing for his time and attention. It was difficult—almost impossible—to believe that would ever change, no matter what had happened to him since they’d parted ways.

As for the immediate future, Abby knew there was little she could do about the fact that they would be seeing each other frequently. She’d committed to remaining here until the end of May, which was still weeks away, and commitments were important enough to her to have her vowing to see this one through, regardless of how long a certain guest chose to stay.

“Such a nice name,” Ethel said. “Ryan Larabee.”

“I suppose so.” Abby’s tone was staunchly neutral.

Ethel sighed softly. “Has a romantic ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” She’d once thought exactly that, Abby silently admitted. But that was before she’d firmly set romance aside, leaving it to those who were still starry-eyed. She valued other things in a relationship now, like mutual interests and comfortable companionship. Both of which she felt she’d found with—

Another sigh broke into that reflection, this one long and heartfelt. “Oh, if only I were forty years younger and fifty pounds lighter.”

Abby had to grin. “Oh, if only I could cook like you. I wouldn’t even mind gaining some weight in the effort.”

Ethel beamed. “Thank you, dear. Even though they’re mostly grown, my grandchildren still seem to favor my baking when I visit them in California. And speaking of children, what time is the little darling due up from her nap?”

Abby glanced at her thin gold wristwatch, a gift from her parents on her last birthday. It was elegant enough to win notice, yet in the best of conservative taste—much like the couple who had produced her. “The little dickens,” she said, “should be up soon enough that I’d better check on her. Yesterday afternoon, she was standing at the side of the crib, holding on to the railing for all she was worth and getting ready to let everyone within yelling distance know she was awake.”

This time, Ethel’s smile was fond. “You’re doing a good job in the mothering department, I have to say.”

“I’m going to give it everything I’ve got,” Abby replied, and fully meant it. Although the role had been thrust on her after the heartbreaking loss of two dear friends, she was determined to fill it to the best of her ability.

Years earlier she had very much wanted children. Then, when her life had been turned upside down while she was still in her early twenties, she had concentrated on building a career in Arizona’s flourishing resort industry. Now she was, in every sense other than having given birth, a mother. And motherhood, she’d already discovered, was as challenging as anything she’d tackled on the business front.

Abby tucked her ivory silk blouse more firmly into the waistband of her beige slacks and started for the stairs. She didn’t want to think about the man who had climbed them only moments ago, didn’t doubt for an instant that it would be far easier, and definitely more satisfying, to consider the child about to wake up, the one who had won a big chunk of her heart.

Then, too, she reflected, there was someone else who deserved consideration, a great deal of it. After all, not every woman had an attractive doctor in her life. She’d never expected to have one, either, until recently. Her parents had been heartily pleased by that development, her godmother unfortunately less so. But he was there, nonetheless.

Abby nodded. Yes, she had a lot to consider besides the one person in her past she’d be light years better off not wasting another thought on. Reason told her that, and being the sensible, practical woman she’d made of herself since they’d last seen each other, she fully agreed.

Trouble was, she still couldn’t block him out, not entirely. Especially when a niggling voice in the back of her mind kept repeating a silent question.

What in the world was wrong with him?

“THERE’S NOTHING WRONG with you, Larabee,” Ryan muttered to himself as he made his way down a long hall wallpapered in narrow raspberry-and-cream stripes. His booted feet made little noise on the chocolate-brown carpet.

Thankfully, he was moving more smoothly and with less effort after he’d judged the cozy bed in his room to be too tempting and had settled for an overstuffed chair as a good spot to rest his leg for a couple of hours. Even if he hadn’t managed to completely disguise a limp earlier, nobody in the gingerbread house knew his recent injuries went beyond a bum leg, and he planned to keep it that way.

The last thing he wanted was any more people aiming concerned looks his way and asking how he felt. He’d had enough of that to last him a long while. Maybe forever.

So, as far as the residents of Aunt Abigail’s were concerned, there was nothing wrong with him. Not a blasted thing. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

Ryan reached an arched doorway, one he immediately took for his destination from the smells wafting toward him and tempting his appetite. He was hungry, and still tired from the drive that morning, he had to admit. He stepped into the room, thinking that it wouldn’t be much of a problem to make small talk during dinner and excuse himself as soon as courtesy allowed.

What he found waiting for him, though, had him coming to a halt long before he reached the round oak table covered with a lacy cloth and holding center stage under an antique brass chandelier.

“Pap!”

A baby, not a newborn but probably not more than a year old, either, as far as Ryan could judge—and a girl, he decided, based on the frilly pink headband restraining a riot of dusky curls—stared straight at him with wide dark eyes. “Pap!” she shouted again from her seat in a high chair painted snowy-white, holding her short, chubby arms out in greeting.

Obviously, Ryan thought, he was Pap. At least she figured he was. And how did he handle that?

The grandmotherly Ethel came to his rescue. “No, Cara,” she said gently from her chair set at one side of the baby’s place. “This is Mr. Larabee, but we’ve already agreed that he’ll be Ryan.” She leaned in and nudged back a tiny stuffed horse in grave danger of falling off the high chair’s tray. “Can you say Ryan?”

“Pap!” the small, sturdily built person named Cara didn’t hesitate to repeat, eyes still locked on him.

“I think she means Pops,” his flame-haired hostess remarked from the baby’s other side. “The woman who sometimes takes care of her has two young children of her own, and that’s what they call their grandfather. Pops.”

“Great. Just what I need,” Ryan mumbled under his breath. “Thirty-four years old and taken for somebody’s granddaddy.”

“I’m sorry. She’s just started talking enough to make out real words,” the redhead said, “and sometimes the strangest things come out.” Rather than look at him while offering that apology, she kept her gaze on the baby.

Her baby? He had to wonder. He might have easily assumed that was the case, except their coloring was so different.

And what about a husband? She wore no ring on the relevant finger; he’d already checked that out while she was checking him in.

Whatever the case, it was hardly his place to ask, and no further information was offered on either question. Instead, with the baby’s attention on the task of tearing a dinner roll apart, the conversation took a different turn altogether.

He’d taken a seat and a large china plate filled to the brim was set in front of him, when Ethel inquired politely, “What part of the country do you come from, Ryan? That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”

He didn’t mind. This was part of the small talk he’d anticipated, and that he could handle. Stick to the basics, Larabee, he told himself, and you’ll be okay.

“Wyoming, originally,” he replied, grateful to be sure on that score. Studying a copy of his personnel file while he was still laid up in the hospital had provided some essential information. “More recently, I’ve been living in southern Arizona.”

Ethel’s mouth curved up at the tips. “Why am I getting the feeling that you’re a cowboy?”

A cowboy? On the outside, maybe. The clothes in his closet said he favored the trappings. But in practice? He knew the answer to that one.