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A Baby For Christmas
Anne McAllister
THIS TIME, FOREVEROnce, he accused her of trading sex for a wedding ring… . Carly knew Piran wasn't her Mr. Right. He'd rejected her innocent infatuation years ago, and he certainly didn't see himself as a doting husband and father! Now they had joint custody of a baby!But now Piran needed Carly's help: a baby had been abandoned on his doorstep. He fiercely denied he was a father… . So whose child was it? Piran was determined to find out but, meanwhile, he was left holding the baby.And his paternal instincts were a little rusty! Forced into being a surrogate family with Piran, Carly began to wonder if Christmas had not only turned him into perfect father material - but an ideal husband, as well.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#uf384b13e-29e1-52b4-8de5-8a18c9be1d46)
Excerpt (#u5bf491e3-4381-5a27-8ea2-7ef5a5e77496)
About the Author (#ua0b23e0f-f69c-5c81-b85b-82aacf38ce25)
Title Page (#udbf4b35e-cef9-5537-a4e8-309d01b14ed1)
CHAPTER ONE (#ud6aa57b8-968c-56de-b9bd-11b51bb32a8f)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua36a3254-b839-57ce-9674-652f32c6f31e)
CHAPTER THREE (#ua9a1af91-c1f9-5981-969d-b6f6a2b5f549)
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)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I’m not its daddy!”
Carly reached into the basket and scooped the baby up into her arms. “He has your nose.”
“He does not!”
“And his eyes are exactly the same blue as yours.”
“And hundreds of thousands of other people’s…”
“But he’s on your veranda.” Carly looked down at the baby. “Oh, dear. What if whoever left him doesn’t come back?” “I’m not keeping him!” “But he’s—”
“No, he’s not!” Piran insisted, as if, by repeating it often enough, he could convince himself that it was true. What in God’s name was he going to do with a baby?
ANNE MCALLISTER
was born in California. She spent long lazy summers daydreaming on local beaches and studying surfers, swimmers and volleyball players in an effort to find the perfect hero. She finally did, not on the beach, but in a university library where she was working. She, her husband and their four children have since moved to the Midwest. She taught, copyedited, capped deodorant bottles, and ghostwrote sermons before turning to her first love: writing romance fiction.
A Baby for Christmas
Anne McAllister
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_8a92d8ab-39c6-5b4f-b289-65130cf30e4b)
IT DIDN’T even begin to look a lot like Christmas.
In fact as far as Carly could see, when the outboard power boat which served as Conch Cay’s only ferry approached the boat dock, Christmas might as well not exist on the tiny palm-studded island with its haphazard rows of pastel-colored houses climbing the hills that made up the one small town on it.
There were no Christmas trees for sale on every corner as there were back in New York City. There was no tinsel garland strung along the eaves of the custom house the way there was in the Korean grocery where Carly stopped every night to buy food for supper. There wasn’t even any Salvation Army bell-ringer calling out, ‘Mer-r-r-y Christmas,’ the way he did every morning right outside the publishing house where she worked so that she felt like Scrooge whenever she passed him. It might as easily have been June.
And thank heavens for that, Carly thought. Actually it was exactly what she’d hoped for, the one—the onlygood thing that coming to Conch Cay was going to accomplish in her life: helping her forget Christmas this year.
Most years she started December with fervent hopes for the holiday season. Most years she was a great believer in the seasonal joys espoused by popular songs, even if she’d rarely experienced them in her lifetime.
But this year she didn’t want to think about them. Only three months after her mother’s death, she didn’t want to face Christmas with her stepfather and step-sisters out in Colorado, even though they’d invited her. She didn’t want visual reminders of how wonderful last year had been.
Maybe in time she would be able to look back on that year without the bittersweet knowledge that her mother’s recent marriage to Roland had made her happy again, but that her happiness had been so shortlived. Maybe in time she could go see Roland and the girls without thinking about what might have been.
Not now.
‘Come home with me,’ John, her sort-of-boyfriend, had suggested when she’d tried to explain her feelings to him.
But she hadn’t wanted to do that either.
John was far more serious about their relationship than she was. He wanted marriage.
Carly had nothing against marriage. She wanted it too, someday. But she wanted love first. She didn’t love John yet. She wasn’t sure she ever would. And she certainly didn’t want to increase his expectations about her feelings for him by letting him take her home to Buffalo for Christmas.
She didn’t want to be in Conch Cay either.
But at the moment it seemed like the least of several evils. And, if her boss was to be believed, the one that would at least help her keep food on the table when the holidays were over.
All she had to do, Diana had said simply, was ‘help Piran St Just finish his book’.
The notion still had the power to stun her.
She hadn’t believed it last week when Piran’s younger brother Desmond had showed up in the office. He hadn’t believed it when he’d found out that his ex-stepsister had turned out to be the assistant editor who’d done the line-editing on their last book.
But it had taken him barely two minutes to turn the circumstances to his advantage.
‘Fate,’ Des had proclaimed, looping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a hug. Then he’d turned to Diana, the editorial director. ‘Don’t you think so? After all, who better than Carly to go to Conch Cay and work with Piran in my place? Our sister—’
‘Stepsister,’ Carly had corrected him quickly. ‘Exstepsister,’ she’d added.
‘Not really,’ Des said. ‘They didn’t get divorced. Dad died.’
‘That doesn’t make us related,’ Carly argued, not wanting Diana to misunderstand her relationship to the St Just brothers.
But Diana hadn’t been listening to her. She’d been listening to Desmond. He, after all, was part of Bixby Grissom’s bestselling duo; Carly was merely an assistant editor.
‘She’ll do a lot better job than I would,’ Des had said. ‘And you know how much you’d like a book set in Fiji next.’
Diana had let herself be convinced.
Carly hadn’t. Not at first. She didn’t want to go to Conch Cay. She didn’t want to presume on her past relationship with the St Just brothers. Though she and Des had been quite happy with their sort-of-sibling relationship while their parents had been married, after his father’s death, she hadn’t seen Des. And she would happily have gone to her own grave without ever having to face his older brother again!
Once, when she was barely more than a girl and her mother had been married to his father, Carly’s starry-eyed fantasies had caused her to believe that Piran St Just was her one true love. The mere mention of his name had sent shivers of anticipation right down her spine.
Now the shivers were of an entirely different kind.
‘Come on, Carly, be a sport,’ Des had cajoled.
But ultimately it wasn’t Des she did it for. It was because she loved her job and wanted to keep it.
‘You do like working here, don’t you?’ Diana had said casually, but there was nothing casual about what she’d meant.
‘I’ll go,’ Carly had said at last.
And here she was. About to come face to face with Piran after nine long years. She wondered what he’d thought when Des had told him. He couldn’t be looking forward to it any more than she was.
But they would manage because they were adults now. That thought was the only one that gave her solace. In fact it gave her a small amount of perverse pleasure. She wanted Piran to know that she was no longer the foolish, innocent child she’d been at eighteen.
‘You sure he expectin’ you?’ Sam, the ferryman, asked her now as he cut the engine and the boat snugged neatly against the rubber tires edging the sides of the dock. No one was there waiting, except two men sitting in the shade thwacking dominoes on to a table with considerable vigor.
‘Absolutely,’ Carly said. Of course he was expecting her. Hadn’t Des arranged it? ‘I’m sure Mr St Just phoned.’
‘Mr St Just don’t got a phone,’ Sam said.
‘Not that Mr St Just,’ Carly said. ‘Desmond.’
‘Ah.’ Sam’s dark head bobbed and he grinned widely. ‘Mr Desmond. What a rascal that man is. Where he be?’
‘In Fiji by now, I should think,’ Carly said. She shifted her duffel bag from one hand to the other. ‘But he said he’d call and tell you. To tell his brother, that is.’
Sam clambered out of the boat, took the duffel from her, then held out a hand and hauled her up on to the dock beside him before turning to the two men. ‘You, Ben. Mr Desmond, he call you?’
The man called Ben looked up and shook his head, a sympathetic smile on his face. ‘Nope. Didn’ phone me. He phone you, Walter?’
The other man shook his head too. ‘Nope. Ain’t never talked to Mr Desmond. But it don’ matter,’ he said to Carly. ‘You here to see Mr St Just—no problem. We drive you out to the house.’
‘Yes, but—’
It wasn’t a matter of being driven. It was a matter of arriving unannounced. Carly hadn’t expected Piran to pick her up. That bit of courtesy would certainly be beyond him. But she had at least expected him to know she was coming!
If no one else did, chances were he didn’t either.
Carly felt an increasing sense of unease. She hadn’t been unassailed by second thoughts ever since she’d knuckled under to Desmond’s pleas and her boss’s not so subtle blackmail.
But now those thoughts were multiplying like bunnies.
She licked her lips. ‘No one told you I was coming?’ ‘No, missy, not a soul. We been ‘spectin’ Mr Desmond all right. Mr St Just, he been yellin’ where he is for a week now.’ Ben chuckled and shook his head.
‘He be in Fiji,’ Sam said. ‘Imagine that. Don’t that beat all? Ain’t Mr St Just gonna be surprised?’
Wasn’t he just? Carly thought grimly. Which was exactly what she was afraid of.
But there was nothing else to do—except go home. And even if Des weren’t half a world away, and even if her job didn’t depend on her bringing back the book, she couldn’t go home. She had nowhere to go home to.
She’d told Lenny, her downstairs neighbor, that he could put his divorced sister from Cleveland and her three children up in her apartment over the holidays. And since Lenny’s family celebrated both Hanukkah and Christmas she was going to be homeless for quite some time.
Carly shut her eyes and wondered if maybe Christmas in Buffalo or in Colorado might not have been a better alternative after all.
‘So, you want to go now?’ Ben asked her, getting up and moving slowly toward a psychedelic van with the word ‘TAXI’ painted on it.
Did she? No, she didn’t. Did she have a choice? No, again. Though what Piran was going to say when he saw her was not something she wanted to contemplate.
‘Let’s go,’ she said to Ben with more enthusiasm than she felt.
As little as she had been looking forward to the trip and seeing Piran again, she had been looking forward to seeing Conch Cay. And now, as Ben drove her up the hill through the narrow bumpy streets, she looked around, enchanted, taking it all in. It was every bit as lovely as she remembered it. When Arthur had first brought them here she’d thought it the closest thing to an island Garden of Eden she’d ever seen. Nine years later she had no reason to change her mind.
In a few minutes they left the small town where most of the islanders lived and drove up into the lush tropical vegetation that banked the narrow asphalt road that wound back up the hill toward the windward side. Every so often Carly caught a glimpse of a house through the trees and shrubs. In the distance, as they approached the ocean side of the island, she could hear the sound of the surf crashing against the sand.
She watched with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation for the turn-off on to the gravel that would bring them at last to Blue Moon Cottage, the St Justs’ home.
‘Mr St Just goin’ to be that surprised,’ Ben said as he finally turned into the rutted gravel track leading up to the house. ‘Course I don’ ‘spect he’ll be too mad. You a sight prettier than Mr Desmond.’
Which might have been a recommendation for another woman, but had never been for her, Carly thought.
She still winced inwardly every time she recalled her last painful encounter with Piran St Just. But now, as she got her first glimpse of the ice-blue house among the trees, she turned her back on that memory and drew herself together, mustering her strength, her determination, her maturity.
Good thing, too, for at the sound of the van the back door to the cottage opened and a man appeared on the broad screened-in veranda.
Carly hadn’t seen Piran except on television and in photographs for nine years. It didn’t matter; she would have known him anywhere.
He was tall, dark and unshaven. His hair was as black as night and wanted cutting, just as it always had. His jaw was hard and firm, and she saw it tighten when he noticed that the person Ben was bringing wasn’t Desmond. His scowl deepened, but he didn’t look angry. Yet.
Carly took a deep breath and pasted on what she hoped would pass for a cool, professional smile. Then she stepped out of the van, lifted her gaze to meet his eyes, and was chagrined to realize she was glad she was wearing sunglasses so that he couldn’t see how much the mere sight of him still affected her after all these years.
‘Piran,’ she said, grateful that her voice didn’t betray her agitation. ‘Long time, no see.’
His eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed. The hard jaw got even harder. ‘Carlota?’
