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This Child Of Mine
Darlene Graham
He'd chosen to keep his childShe'd given her baby awayKitt Stevens has never really believed the old adage–opposites attract. But she has to admit she finds Mark Masters very attractive, even if he disagrees with her on almost every topic they discuss. He's irritating, arrogant, humorous, intelligent–and makes Kitt feel alive for the first time in years.Then Kitt learns that Mark is raising his young daughter on his own. What's more, he'd paid the child's mother to go through with the pregnancy. Suddenly the differences between Kitt and Mark threaten to pull them apart….Until she learns to accept that the choice she made four years ago was the right choice for her and her baby. And the choice Mark made was the right one for him and his daughter. Now they need to make the right choice for themselves.
It simply could not be
Kitt looked down at the four-year-old girl beside her. With fresh eyes, she noted the child’s dark hair lying in a familiar pattern. The perfect little nose with its faint sprinkle of freckles. The full mouth…
No! Kitt pushed the idea away. Mark would surely have told her if he had a daughter, for heaven’s sake. He was the most honest man Kitt knew. So what if this child’s father was also a reporter for the Dallas Morning News? Mark surely wasn’t the only journalist here to cover the Fourth of July celebration on the Mall.
“I want my daddy now,” the child said to her aunt, the young woman standing on her other side.
“I know you do, sweetheart.” The woman bent to kiss her niece, then looked up at Kitt. “I’ve paged my brother twice. Mark should be here soon.”
Mark!
Dear Reader,
When I visited Washington, D.C. (and nearby Alexandria, Virginia) I was enchanted by the magical mix of permanence and dynamic change that I found there. I loved the museums! The art! The historic buildings! But most of all I loved the people. There is something enthralling, electrifying, about a place where movers and shakers converge to shape a nation’s destiny. It seemed the perfect setting for characters as bold and confident as Kitt Stevens and Mark Masters.
But even the boldest and most confident among us occasionally experience the feeling of not measuring up, of being “not good enough.” We all have days when we think we’re not pretty enough, or smart enough, or strong enough. Maybe we disappoint an employer, a friend or a loved one.
But the worst form of unworthiness is the feeling that we’ve failed ourselves.
You hold in your hands the story of one woman’s triumph over that form of unworthiness. Kitt Stevens had to make a hard choice that left her disappointed in herself. And because of that choice, Kitt doesn’t believe in love anymore. She doesn’t think she deserves love. She even believes she’s unworthy to mother a child. But through the steadfast devotion of a very special man named Mark Masters, Kitt learns to believe again—not only in herself, but also in the power of true love. I hope you enjoy Kitt’s journey.
Darlene Graham
Your kind comments about my books are always appreciated. Visit my Web site at http://www.superauthors.com or write to me at P.O. Box 720224, Norman OK 73070.
This Child of Mine
Darlene Graham
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Because this is the story that first brought us together,
this book is dedicated with deep appreciation
to my very fine literary agent, Karen Solem.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#ub30668ac-74a8-57ed-aa45-dcaba60057dc)
CHAPTER TWO (#ud2dbce1f-e119-52f6-ad55-7a650ce0b735)
CHAPTER THREE (#u0c1b4f22-0d27-5e94-b3db-a364a257dcc0)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u4a2b9e90-c964-5928-a5e9-d92aa08a4724)
CHAPTER FIVE (#uff434902-ae14-58c5-91cc-2cf846359d84)
CHAPTER SIX (#u2e6fa731-b620-5162-81dc-46375d9edbf7)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
KITT STEVENS was looking for a man.
But that wasn’t what brought her up short, thinking, Who is that? as she stood in the enormous Corinthian-style doorway, where she had been halted by an uncharacteristic twinge of self-doubt.
The man who’d caught her eye—handsome, young, virile looking—was definitely not the man she was searching for. For a whole lot of reasons. And as soon as that thought flitted across her mind, the memory of the worst day of her life flashed up right along with it. It always happened like that: handsome man; worst day. Like some Pavlovian response or something.
Kitt reminded herself that she needed to stay focused. Her fiercest opponent was prowling around this room, probably at this very moment undermining all that she had worked toward in the past six months. Even so, her eyes strayed back to the good-looking man hovering around the food tables. He was still watching her.
But the nervousness she felt now wasn’t the result of the intense gaze of an incredibly handsome man—Kitt got looks like that all the time, and dealt with them—and her unease wasn’t because she still felt out of place at these stuffy congressional receptions, even after a year in Washington. It was Marcus Masters—a man she’d never met—who daunted her. His power. His wealth. His influence.
She tossed her silky reddish-blond bangs aside, cranked her confidence up a notch and stubbornly reminded herself that even if she didn’t have the advantages Marcus Masters had, she was a good lawyer, and a good fighter, too. And, furthermore, she reminded herself, the cause she was fighting for was a critical one. Marcus Masters, powerful or not, would simply have to be neutralized.
She stepped inside. People in impeccable business attire, squawking like geese, milled about among the heavy Federalist furniture and plush Oriental rugs. Classical music tinkled down from speakers in the high ceiling, melting into the heated conversation below.
To Kitt’s right, heavy drapes were drawn back from ten-foot-high windows, revealing the Washington Monument in the distance, shrouded by a haze of summer heat and lit to a Titian glow by the sinking sun. The stunning view gave the country girl in Kitt a tiny thrill.
To her left, tables overflowed with exotic hors d’oeuvres, while waiters swooped around the room with trays of drinks. Lauren had outdone herself.
“Kitt! You’re finally here!” Lauren rushed up and caught Kitt’s elbow. “Jeff predicted you’d do your workaholic act and miss all the fun.”
Fun? Lauren, honey, Kitt wanted to say, if standing around eating the same old finger foods, talking to the same old politicos, is your idea of fun, then you really must acquire a life. Lauren Holmes, a devoted congressional staffer who spent her days—and often her nights—charging around the bowels of the Capitol in sensible shoes, was a fine one to lecture Kitt about workaholism.
Maybe Kitt had been in Washington too long—the polished lobbyist side of her emerged too easily: “I wouldn’t miss your little do for anything.” She jerked her head toward the extravagant spread, but didn’t permit herself another glance at the handsome man. “I thought this was supposed to be a simple ice-cream social for the congressman’s new interns.”
Lauren shrugged. “Hey. If the broadcasters’ association lobbyists want to pay Ridgeways to cater this deal, Wilkens isn’t gonna say no. Like I keep telling you, this is Washington, not Oklahoma.”
Ain’t it the truth, Kitt thought. One thing she had quickly learned, in Washington words did not carry the same meanings as they did back home. In this town, simple ice-cream social meant elaborate cocktail party.
“You know the ethics rule.” Lauren made quote marks with her fingers. “As long as the lawmakers are standing—”
“They can feed at the trough all they want,” Kitt injected. She heaved a theatrical sigh, mostly to relieve her tension. “So ridiculous.”
“You’re just jealous because your organization can’t afford to feed the hogs. Be grateful I got you in here.”
Kitt smiled at her. Lauren and her friend, Paige Phillips, were the two best roommates on the face of the earth, and Lauren also happened to be the closest connection to Congressman Wilkens. “I am extremely grateful. And I’m grateful to Jeff for letting me know that the enemy’s inside the perimeter. All I want is a chance to take one peck at each congressman or senator.” Kitt pointed her slender index finger. “One tiny sentence, one word before Marcus Masters completely corrupts them with his buckets of money.”
Lauren squeezed Kitt’s arm. “So behave. And look!” She signaled a waiter. “There is actually some token ice cream.” Then Lauren turned away to greet someone else.
The waiter lowered a hammered-silver tray bearing tiny waffle cones filled with every imaginable flavor. Kitt declined with a raised palm. Not that “Kitt the stick,” as her brothers called her, needed to watch her weight. Ice cream was just too messy to permit the kind of maneuvering she needed to do.
She hailed a different waiter and lifted a stem glass of French limewater instead—alcohol was also inadvisable—then scrutinized the crowd again.
There were a few lawmakers, all from Wilkens’s committee. A few exhausted-looking staffers. Some eager-looking interns. But mostly, there were sharp-eyed lobbyists like herself, including, of course, those who’d bankrolled this bash.
And, of course, the handful of beauty queens. One in particular was surrounded by a little cluster of power-suited men, all jockeying around the couch where the leggy young woman sat holding an ice-cream cone. Kitt sighed. Washington.
“How’d she get invited?” Kitt mumbled when Lauren turned back to her.
Lauren rolled her eyes. “Marcus Masters brought her.”
Kitt’s radar zoomed up. “Figures. Which one is Masters, by the way?”
“I have no idea what the old man looks like. Maybe he’s one of the multitude worshipping at the Shrine o’ Trisha. Look at her,” Lauren’s voice lowered, “perched on that divan like Scarlet O’Hara at Twelve Oaks. How does one woman, just sitting there eating ice cream, summon that much male attention?”
Kitt gave her friend a sarcastic smirk. “Could it have something to do with that teeny skirt, those mile-long legs and those five-inch heels? Just a wild guess.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. Short and full-figured, Lauren had to fight the battle of the bulge every day and she would look absurd in five-inch heels.
Kitt jammed one hand into the pocket of her tailored slacks and congratulated herself because she’d abandoned such feminine tricks long ago. Ever since—why did she always think about that time of her life at highly charged moments like this? She reminded herself that, though it had cost her dearly, her mistake had at least expunged Danny from her life.
“Even the men not in her immediate orbit,” Lauren mumbled, “are glancing at her from across the room. Trisha Pounds. Irk. Even good old Jeff and Eric look—”
“Struck stupid.” Kitt watched her two friends as they craned their necks to hear Miss Trisha’s comments.
Kitt aimed the rim of her glass at the cute guy by the food tables. “Well, at least there’s one man who seems unimpressed.”
Someone had grabbed Lauren’s arm, diverting her attention again.
The man by the tables was, Kitt decided, handsome enough to have any woman he wanted. In fact, Kitt noticed that Trisha kept glancing at him. Kitt smiled. The way he piled hors d’oeuvres on his plate reminded her of something her brothers would pull.
“That one looks more interested in the shrimp,” Kitt muttered when Lauren turned back to her.
“Men and their prime directives,” Lauren conceded. “Sex and food.” Lauren squinted toward Trisha. “I kinda wish I could carry off the short skirts and spiked heels—” she dropped her voice below the din of conversation “—’cause I’m sure not having any luck finding Mr. Right. I mean, not that twenty-five’s over the hill—but an occasional date would be nice.” She sighed. “All the guys I meet are so…geeky.”
Kitt listened to Lauren’s familiar lament with one ear while she searched for Masters. Her eyes trailed back to the young man at the food tables. Too young, of course. And what a stupid tie—Mickey Mouse? Probably an intern. His jaws worked like a chipmunk’s, bulging as he stuffed in shrimp. As if instinctively aware of being observed, he stopped mid-chew and shot Kitt a look with deep-set eyes that seemed to penetrate like lasers. His thick black eyebrows formed a sharp chevron for a millisecond, then he looked away and resumed chewing.
Lauren saw the exchange and elbowed Kitt. “Would you like to meet him?”
Kitt groaned. Lauren’s relentless pursuit of Mr. Right—one for each of them—was wearisome. “No.”
But Kitt felt herself blushing and took a quick sip of limewater to cool down, because the truth was, a bolt of electricity had coursed through her in that instant of eye contact. She sidled another look his way—he was assaulting the shish kebab this time—then she looked down into her glass again.
Definitely male-model material: neatly trimmed coal-black hair, square jaw, smooth tan skin. Tall. Built. And those eyes…
“Not only is he cute, that one is rich,” Lauren was saying. “Boy, is he ever rich—”
Another staffer broke in and distracted Lauren with some crisis or other, and Kitt’s gaze strayed once more.
This time he was studying her. Don’t ever stare at men. That was one of Lauren’s goofy rules for snagging Mr. Right. So, Kitt stared back.
When he didn’t look away, Kitt felt forced to, frowning and brushing the lapel of her expensive silk jacket with the backs of freshly manicured finger-nails. You do not have time for pretty boys with challenging eyes, she reminded herself. Locate Masters.
“Listen, I’ve gotta check on something,” Lauren said. “Be good.”
“I’ll try.” Kitt sighed as Lauren rushed off. She brushed her bangs back, and braced one fist on her hip as she concentrated on the task at hand.
Congressman Jim Wilkens, the ostensible host and the one with the power over her precious media bill, was still hovering near the beauty queen. Kitt studied Wilkens over the rim of her glass. He was a tough one to figure. So far, Kitt and her contingent had convinced the congressman that a bill designed to protect children from unsuitable media influences would receive popular support. Wilkens, closely flanked by his aides, Eric Davis and Jeff Smith, didn’t notice her, but Jeff mouthed “Hi,” and Kitt gave him a little wave.
None of the unidentified men in the room looked the way Kitt pictured Marcus Masters—the obscenely rich, absolutely powerful California media mogul. She wished she’d had time to pull up a file photo before she left her office.
She sipped the limewater, and her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch again, so she made her way toward the crowd around the food tables.
Unfortunately, the feeding frenzy at the sumptuous layout showed no sign of abating. Kitt had to squeeze into the only available space—near the fresh-fruit section of the buffet.
As she picked up an enormous strawberry, she felt, rather than actually saw, the man—the one who’d locked eyes with her—right beside her. Just as she lifted the strawberry, a tanned, muscular hand reached forward and their arms collided. The strawberry plopped into a dish of whipped cream, splashing a dollop onto Kitt’s sleeve.
“Oh…I’m so sorry,” he said, and grabbed her above the elbow. He snatched up a wad of paper napkins and started swiping at the sleeve.
