скачать книгу бесплатно
Baby, You're Mine
Lindsay Longford
Bundles of JoyAND BABY MAKES FOUR…?When pretty, pregnant and penniless Phoebe McAllister showed up on his doorstep, Murphy Jones didn't think twice about taking in the expectant mom and her adorable daughter. But the single-minded bachelor was opening up his home, not his heart….Once, Phoebe had dreamed of a blissful future with Murphy. But when the overprotective loner insisted she deserved better, she'd fled, vowing to forget him–somehow. Now she'd returned older and wiser, but still powerless to resist the gruff man who touched her soul. This was her last chance to win Murphy, and Phoebe vowed to do anything to make him hers–forever!Sometimes small packages can lead to the biggest surprises!
“Ready or not, here I comes!” (#u93126cf0-73a8-514a-b1a0-cd3fc833653a)Letter to Reader (#u8122601f-6537-5396-b621-a903cf914790)Title Page (#u0ffacac0-7ad0-5489-9c5a-d964c635ef5a)Dedication (#u17ea60f2-e79a-5fe2-880d-e3afed731a71)About the Author (#u0e7e37ba-4c32-55e5-90f2-83fd5f47c4d3)Letter to Reader (#u37dbb380-c1f0-5e3f-bc36-1342fe6d4f83)Chapter One (#u4383ff3b-9443-5584-b6b9-f7cd8581e546)Chapter Two (#ueb311a55-666d-59a4-b574-17514a8d636c)Chapter Three (#u1197b8ed-439c-5b8b-acac-7e240e199bbb)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Ready or not, here I comes!”
Bird swooshed down the banister into Murphy’s waiting arms. She hugged him and gave his cheek a damp kiss.
As his eyes met Phoebe’s, Murphy felt a tightness in his chest. He’d seen her protectiveness with her child. But Phoebe trusted him with her daughter.
He didn’t know why that mattered—but it did.
Bird gazed up at him adoringly. “I don’t got a daddy, but you can be my Murphy.”
He grasped her hand, and a curious tickling in his throat made him cough. “I’d be honored to be your...Murphy.”
“Well, of course. Because everybody’s got to have somebody. Now you belong to me.” She closed her fist around his thumb. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he said. The feel of her small hand clinging to his turned his heart over. And nothing could describe the rush of emotions swirling through him as Phoebe’s daughter looked at him steadily with her trusting, innocent eyes....
Dear Reader.
Silhouette Romance blends classic themes and the challenges of romance in today’s world into a reassuring, fulfilling novel. And this month’s offering undeniably deliver on that promise!
In Baby, You’re Mine, part of BUNDLES OF JOY, RITA Award-winning author Lindsay Longford tells of a pregnant, penniless widow who finds sanctuary with a sought-after bachelor who’d never thought himself the marrying kind...until now. Duty and passion collide in Sally Carleen’s The Prince’s Heir, when the prince dispatched to claim his nephew falls for the heir’s beautiful, adoptive mother. When a single mom desperate to keep her daughter weds an ornery rancher intent on saving his spread, she discovers that McKenna’s Bartered Bride is what she wants to be...forever. Don’t miss this next delightful installment of Sandra Steffen’s BACHELOR GULCH series.
Donna Clayton delivers an emotional story about the bond of sisterhood...and how a career-driven woman learns a valuable lesson about love from the man who’s Her Dream Come True. Carla Cassidy’s MUSTANG, MONTANA, Intimate Moments series crosses into Romance with a classic boss/secretary story that starts with the proposition Wife for a Week, but ends...well, you’ll have to read it to find out! And in Pamela Ingrahm’s debut Romance novel, a millionaire CEO realizes that his temporary assistant—and her adorable toddler—have him yearning to leave his Bachelor Boss days behind.
Enjoy this month’s tides—and keep coming back to Romance, a series guaranteed to touch every woman’s heart.
Mary-Theresa Hussey
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
Baby, You’re Mine
Lindsay Longford
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my sisters-in-law Barbara Cross, Marty Cross,
Bonnie Kasowski and Lois Vangundy
LINDSAY LONGFORD,
like most writers, is a reader. She even reads toothpaste labels in desperation! A former high school English teacher with an M.A. in literature, she began writing romances because she wanted to create stories that touched readers’ emotions by transporting them to a world where good things happened to good people and happily-ever-after is possible with a little work.
Her first book, Jake’s Child, was nominated for Best New Series Author, Best Silhouette Romance, and received a Special Achievement Award for Best First Series Book from Romantic Times Magazine. It was also a finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award for Best First Book. Her Silhouette Romance novel Annie and the Wise Men won the RITA for Best Traditional Romance of 1993.
Dear Reader,
Bundles. That’s what babies are. Each one is a wrapped-up surprise package, a bundle of hopes and tenors.
Our failures cease to exist in their love. They love us unconditionally, and we see ourselves through their eyes. We become that all-powerful. good person who knows everything, who can solve any crisis, who fills our child’s heart with joy. Their love makes us do anything, brave everything, to keep them safe. For those few moments in time we are perfect for at least one person in this world. Well, at least until they turn into those equally fascinating creatures known as teenagers!
For our children we reach out to the world and look at it differently. For me, my son became a small vessel I could fill with all the fairy tales and myths I’d loved. He gave me a chance to again read books that I’d grown too old for. And, night after night, I told him stories, always with a brown-eyed boy as the hero. Sometimes he would tap me on the shoulder as I drifted asleep and beg. “Don’t stop. Keep telling the story.” And, captive to his delight, I would continue.
Children teach us to view the people in our lives in a new way. My love for my husband deepened after I saw how our infant son reached in and with one powerful, baby grip grabbed and held on to my husband’s heart for the rest of his life, enriching it and giving it meaning, changing him.
Reminding us of life’s fragility, our babies teach us to fill each moment with love, to make every moment count. They are a gift, these babies, our bundles of incredible joy.
With affection and joy,
Chapter One
Fanning herself with the folded Manatee Creek News she’d found on the stoop, Phoebe huddled in the porch swing, suitcases piled beside the front door.
Sooner or later Murphy would come home. He had to.
Because she’d just bet her last dime that he would be here. No, not her actual last dime. After buying the plane tickets and paying the taxi from the airport, she had fifty dollars left. Heck, by some folks’ standards, she reckoned she should count herself a wealthy woman.
The swing creaked, rusty chain rubbing against wicker and metal, the sound loud in the hot afternoon silence.
Her daughter’s sticky body was plastered tight against Phoebe as the little girl kicked the swing back and forth with both sneakered feet. Her small, pointed face was peony-pink from the heat.
“Nice breeze.” Lightly tapping the end of Frances Bird’s button nose, Phoebe lifted a hank of sweat-damp hair away from her own neck. “Thanks, baby. Every little breath of air helps.”
In the heat and humidity, Phoebe’s fine, curly hair stuck to her cheek, frizzed. Her lipstick had worn off hours earlier, and the makeup she’d applied so carefully in the fresh morning air of Wisconsin had long ago melted off her face. If she could muster the energy, she supposed she ought to slather on a bright red lipstick, show Murphy a happy face. And she would, too, once she found an ounce of get-up-and-go. Giving credit where credit was due, though, she had gotten up and gone. But now she was here.
And here she’d stay.
Until she talked with Murphy.
The swing wobbled, tilted, as Frances Bird shifted. “I’m thirsty, Mama. I want a cool drink, and I need it now.”
“Patience, Bind.” She tugged her not-quite-a-baby to her. The warm, little-girl scent rose to Phoebe, and she rested her cheek against her daughter’s sweaty forehead and inhaled.
Terrifying, the weight of all this love.
With a wiggle, Frances Bird braced her heels against the wooden porch boards and shoved, sending the swing careening to one side. “Don’t have any patience left. I am parched,” she said, all reasonableness as she stuck her face close to Phoebe’s. “And I would very much like a soda pop. With ice.”
At the moment, Phoebe would have settled for ice. A bucket full. She’d dump ice down the neck of her T-shht, slick the coolness over her neck.
“Maybe there’s a water spigot on the side of the house.” Standing up, Phoebe took Bird’s hand. “That’s the best I can do right now, dumpling.”
“If it has to be, it has to be,” Frances Bird said on a long sigh, straight-as-a-stick brown hair flopping into her eyes.
Watching her daughter’s woebegone expression, Phoebe decided the McAllister women were into sighing altogether too much. Sighing could become a real unattractive habit if she didn’t watch herself. She allowed her voice to take on an edge of tartness. “Come on, Frances Bird. Don’t mope. It’ll be an adventure.”
“Won’t be.” Frances Bird stood and clumped down the stoop with Phoebe, sneakers smacking each step.
They found the spigot at the back of Murphy’s house. “What a mess.” Frowning, Phoebe yanked at the weeds and woody vines screening the lumpy hose lying on the sandy ground. She wrapped the hem of her T-shirt around the hot metal faucet and twisted. Sun-heated, the hose bucked and heaved in her hands, spewing brown water into her eyes and down her arms. “Whoa!”
“Yuck.” Frances Bird leaped backward and wrinkled her nose at the murky brown water splashing onto her legs. “Hot!”
“Water’s water, sugar-dumpling. Let it run. It’ll cool in a second. And when it does,” Phoebe smiled teasingly and waggled the hose at her, “you’re going to be all wet, my darling girl”
“No!” Frances Bird darted behind Phoebe. “You. Not me.” She wrestled for the hose, and Phoebe let the soft plastic uncoil into Frances Bird’s hands. Soaking them, water sprayed and splashed in spar ling drops that clung to Frances Bird’s hair like a rainbow halo.
“It’s as cool as it’s going to be.” Phoebe held the hose steady while her daughter drank. “Well, dumpling, good thing you’re not all dressed up. You have as much water outside you as in.”
Frances Bird shook her head. Water arched, then silvered down to the ground. Looking up, she smiled. “Yes. Water,” she said blissfully and jumped feet first into the mud, happy for the first time that day.
Phoebe let her play. There was no rush. They weren’t going anywhere.
Squashing down her anxiety, she chased Frances Bird. Bird chased her back until they were both breathless, their bare feet covered in pale mud. “Enough, enough,” Phoebe finally panted as she shook sopping strands of hair out of her eyes.
With one final spray of the hose for each of them, she turned off the spigot, leaving the hose neatly coiled underneath. When they returned to the front of the house and its empty driveway, anxiety twisted the knots in her stomach tighter.
Still no Murphy. What would they do if he didn’t come home until after midnight? What if he’d gone out of town? She should have called, she knew she should have. Oh, what a fool she’d been not to call.
But she hadn’t. Couldn’t.
Every woman had her limits. She’d hit hers.
Hiding her apprehension, she plopped down on the step beside Frances Bird, gasping, but finally, blessedly cool.
The sun was edging the tip of the thick, moss-draped branches of the live oaks at the front of Murphy’s house when she heard the rumble of an engine.
She didn’t have time to catch her breath. He was just there, climbing slowly out of his cobalt-blue pickup, ambling right up to the foot of the stairs, his big, dark shadow falling over her. Murphy never moved fast. Like glaciers, he took his own sweet time.
“Hey, Murphy,” she said and stayed seated. Lord knew her knees would buckle if she stood up. Water still dripped from the ends of her hair, down the back of her T-shirt. “Long time, and all that.” She couldn’t seem to get a good breath. She rested one palm lightly on Frances Bird’s head. With her other, she gestured to the stash of cans and sawhorses in the back of his truck. “Busy?”
Strings hung from the armholes of his sleeveless, washed-to-cobwebs shirt By the grace of God and a miracle of thread, one button clung to the placket of his shirt. Sweat-plastered to his ribs, the shirt hung open, revealing a narrow streak of hair bleached to sunshine gold. Glowing in the bright light, that tapered line drew her gaze unwillingly down the taut muscles of his chest to the waistband of paint-kaleidoscoped jeans, jeans so worn on the seat that it was a wonder his ever-loving Jockey shorts weren’t on display. Or maybe Murphy wore boxers these days. Maybe Murphy Jones had turned trendy and wore designer thongs. Like lottery balls popping into the air, wild, unpredictable, her thoughts slammed into each other.
He rested one plaster-dotted work shoe on the step below her and leaned forward. “Well, bless my soul. Look what the cat dragged in. And on a scorching June day. What brought you to this neck of the woods, Phoebe?” He nudged her bare knee with a long, callused finger, blinked, stepped back and crossed his arms.
“Hospitable as ever, I see.” Laying her arm across Bird’s shoulders, Phoebe smiled brightly up at him and wished desperately she’d found time for that red lipstick and that her feet weren’t caked with dried mud. Fetching dimples would be a plus, too. “No how-do-you-do? No how’s life been treating you in the last, oh, how many years has it been? Eight?”
He paused as if he were counting them up. “Yep. Eight sounds about right.” The tip of his work boot nudged her bare toe. “Come for a visit, did you?”
From beneath the red and blue bandanna he’d tied over the top of his head and knotted at the back, damp, dark brown hair curled down his neck. A shine of sweat darkened his hair and skin, slipped down his temples to his jaw.
His glance slid to her daughter. The tiny bead of sweat vanished into the rumpled collar of his shirt. “Hey, kid,” he said, nodding.
Frances Bird beamed at him, tilted her head and batted her eyelashes. Her rosebud mouth curled with happiness. “Hey, Mr. Man.”
Phoebe almost sighed again, and stopped herself before she became a wind machine. Frances Bird had been born flirting. The result of an absentee father? Phoebe’s own failure? Or simply southern genes asserting themselves in spite of an aggressively midwest upbringing? Phoebe tried not to overanalyze her daughter’s lightning-bug sparkle around males. Tapping her daughter’s shoulder, she said, “Frances Bird, meet my—what are you and I to each other, Murphy?” She lifted her chin, giving him a little attitude, but she couldn’t manage the smile this time. “Not brother and sister.”
“Not by a damn slight” Murphy held her gaze.
“Family, anyway,” she said through a tight throat. “Family. That counts for something, even after eight years. Right?”
He didn’t say a word.
“Hey,” four-year-old Frances Bird said, her flushed cheeks dimpling with delight. “Me and my mom are going to live with you.”
“Oh?” Murphy didn’t move an inch. The pleasantly interested question would have fooled anyone who hadn’t grown up with him.
But his poker-faced acknowledgment didn’t fool Phoebe for an instant. She heard the dismay behind his affable drawl, and her anxiety increased, threatened to blaze out of control.
Avoiding his coolly distant perusal, she slicked Frances Bird’s wet bangs off her face. “Well, sugar, that hasn’t been decided.” The worst he could do would be to send them packing. And if he did? She’d handle that, too. She had no choice. “We’re here for an afternoon’s visit. To catch up on old times. That’s all. Don’t panic, Murphy.”
Bird’s mouth puckered up with stubbornness. “You said—”
“I know what I said, Frances Bird.” This time Phoebe couldn’t stop the sigh that came rolling up from her toes.
“And what did you say, Phoebe?” A breeze lifted the corner of Murphy’s shirt, brushed it back from his chest, died away in the stillness. “About coming to live with me?”
Frances Bird patted Phoebe’s knees comfortingly. “Tell him, Mama, what you decided.”
When Phoebe didn’t speak, Frances Bird leaned forward confidingly and rested her elbows on her skinny knees as she looked up through her eyelashes at Murphy. “We are bums on the street. So we’re going to live with you now ’cause we got no place else to go. And Mama said, home by damn—”
“Don’t swear, Frances Bird.”
“—is where when you go, they got to take you in. And that’s that, she said.”
“Yeah?”
With her hair swinging about her face, Bird nodded vigorously. Water dotted the faded blue of Murphy’s jeans. “And, Mama,” she said earnestly, “you say the damn word all the time.”
Stifling the groan that battled with yet another sigh, Phoebe lifted Frances Bird onto her lap. “Shh, baby. The grownups have to talk now.”
“That’s for damn sure.” He reached up and tugged at his bandanna, shadowing his eyes.
At Murphy’s use of the forbidden word, Frances Bird poked Phoebe’s face and rolled her eyes.
He studied them for a moment, a long moment that had Phoebe’s bare toes curling and heat flooding through her again before he said softly, “Bums on the street, huh?”
