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Midnight Choices
Eileen Wilks
Injured, weary, Duncan McClain had come home to forget….To forget his last mission, to forget a friend had died. This should have been a time of healing for the haunted soldier, a time of peace. But then she walked in.She was Gwen Van Allen. A fragile, sophisticated beauty–who also happened to be the mother of his brother's secret son. She'd come to introduce little Zack to his father, but it was Duncan who was stricken with desire. Yet he had to do what was right; he had to stay away. But as his brother got to know the boy, Duncan spent time with Gwen. And soon forbidden passion began to rise. Dare he risk the love of his brother for the love of a woman?
If she says Ben has no claim on her, then he doesn’t.
The acid in Duncan’s stomach called him a liar. Suddenly he’d had enough pretending. His voice came out harsh. “I’m a mess, Gwen.”
“So am I.” She sounded surprised.
“As messes go, we aren’t even on the same scale. You’d be better off with Ben.”
“You’re probably right.”
Startled, he stole another quick glance. She was smiling at him rather shyly. In spite of everything, an answering smile tugged up one corner of his mouth. “Not going to argue with me, huh?”
“If you’re going to say stupid things, I can, too.”
His smile lingered until he pulled into the driveway. It died before the car came to a complete stop. The lights were off. All of them.
Ben wasn’t back yet. No one was. He and Gwen would be alone in the big old house.
Dear Reader,
“In like a lion, out like a lamb.” That’s what they say about March, right? Well, there are no meek and mild lambs among this month’s Intimate Moments heroines, that’s for sure! In Saving Dr. Ryan, Karen Templeton begins a new miniseries, THE MEN OF MAYES COUNTY, while telling the story of a roadside delivery—yes, the baby kind—that leads to an improbable romance. Maddie Kincaid starts out looking like the one who needs saving, but it’s really Dr. Ryan Logan who’s in need of rescue.
We continue our trio of FAMILY SECRETS prequels with The Phoenix Encounter by Linda Castillo. Follow the secret-agent hero deep under cover—and watch as he rediscovers a love he’d thought was dead. But where do they go from there? Nina Bruhns tells a story of repentance, forgiveness and passion in Sins of the Father, while Eileen Wilks offers up tangled family ties and a seemingly insoluble dilemmain Midnight Choices. For Wendy Rosnau’s heroine, there’s only One Way Out as she chooses between being her lover’s mistress—or his wife. Finally, Jenna Mills’ heroine becomes The Perfect Target. She meets the seemingly perfect man, then has to decide whether he represents safety—or danger.
The excitement never flags—and there will be more next month, too. So don’t miss a single Silhouette Intimate Moments title, because this is the line where you’ll find the best and most exciting romance reading around.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Midnight Choices
Eileen Wilks
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
EILEEN WILKS
is a fifth-generation Texan. Her great-great-grandmother came to Texas in a covered wagon shortly after the end of the Civil War—excuse us, the War Between the States. But she’s not a full-blooded Texan. Right after another war, her Texan father fell for a Yankee woman. This obviously mismatched pair proceeded to travel to nine cities in three countries in the first twenty years of their marriage, raising two kids and innumerable dogs and cats along the way. For the next twenty years they stayed put, back home in Texas again—and still together.
Eileen figures her professional career matches her nomadic upbringing, since she’s tried everything from drafting to a brief stint as a ranch hand—raising two children and any number of cats and dogs along the way. Not until she started writing did she “stay put,” because that’s when she knew she’d come home. Readers can write to her at P.O. Box 4612, Midland, TX 79704-4612.
This story is for those who have fought and won against breast cancer…and for those whose fight is over.
It’s for those of us who love them.
And it’s for my own beloved warriors:
Doris Elizabeth Hembree. Kia Cochrane.
Rosalie Whiteman.
Edie Duke. Day LeClaire.
Courage, like life, happens one step at a time.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 1
Highpoint, Colorado
Humidity fogged the kitchen window where Duncan stood, gathering in tiny droplets at the bottom of one pane. Spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove, layering the air with scent—oregano, basil, the sweetish bite of onion and the meaty aroma of the Italian sausage he liked to use instead of hamburger. The phone was ringing.
Probably his brother. If not, the caller would either give up soon or leave a message.
He wiped a circle clear of fog and left his hand on the glass. It was cold. According to the calendar, spring had arrived, but winter died slowly in the mountains. It was likely to hang on, snarling and snapping, for another few weeks.
He looked out at the line of cedars his father had planted along the back fence when he was three. They were nearly thirty feet tall now. He tilted his head and saw a gray sky sliced and diced by the bare black limbs of the oak that sheltered the rear of the house.
Three rings…
Duncan counted heartbeats in the silence between rings. His pulse was still elevated from his workout. A drop of sweat meandered down his neck. His arm throbbed like a mother, but that was to be expected. He’d learned to stop before throbbing turned to solid pain. Pushing for more than his body could give just slowed his recovery, and he couldn’t afford any setbacks. He’d maxed out his personal leave; added to medical leave, that gave him just over a month to get himself in shape.
In more ways than the obvious.
Four rings. Idly he rubbed the raised tissue of the new scar on his forearm. It was cold outside, but free of ice or snow. He could run.
With a click, the answering machine picked up. After a pause he heard his brother’s gravelly voice: “You’d better be in the shower or something, not out running in this weather. I’m in no mood to nurse you through pneumonia.” Another pause. “I’ll be a little late—a problem with a supplier.” Then the click as he disconnected.
Duncan shook his head. Habits died hard—especially with someone as thickheaded as his big brother. Did Ben think the army only let them go out to play when the weather was nice?
Still, he should pull on a dry sweatshirt. He headed for the stairs at the front of the old house.
The doorbell rang. He paused with one foot on the step, tempted to ignore it as he had the phone. But this intrusion had arrived in person and would have seen his Jeep out front. He or she would probably keep ringing for a while, and it was cold outside.
Reluctantly he moved to the front door, turned the dead bolt and pulled the door open.
The woman on his doorstep looked cold. Her hands were pushed into the pockets of a pale pink cardigan that zipped up the front; it was the exact shade of her creased trousers. Her sneakers were pink, too, with shiny silver shoelaces. The flat white purse slung over her shoulder had the soft look of expensive leather. Her hair was icy blond and very short, revealing complicated little knots of wire and gems that dangled from her ears, which were small and pink with cold. So was the tip of her slightly crooked nose. Otherwise she was pale. And tiny. If she were to step straight forward into his arms, the top of her head would fit easily under his chin.
His heartbeat picked up. His mind skittered for purchase.
She was too young, too skinny. Her hips were no wider than a boy’s, and the hand she pulled out of one pocket was long and narrow. He wasn’t attracted to tiny, fragile-looking women a decade younger than he was.
What color were her eyes? In the fading light he couldn’t tell.
Then those uncertain-colored eyes met his. And his thoughts spilled out, leaving his mind blank.
“Is Ben here?” she asked. “Benjamin McClain?” When he stared dumbly at her, her eyebrows pulled together.
Dear God.
“I have come to the right house, haven’t I?”
What is this? What just happened? He licked dry lips. “Ben will be home soon. I’m his brother, Duncan. Duncan McClain.” After a long moment it occurred to him to step aside. “Come in.”
Gwen stepped across the threshold. It was, thankfully, a good deal warmer inside. Somewhere spices were simmering in tomato sauce. It was a homey smell…a homey place, she thought, glancing around. The entry hall was large, with a door opening off it to the right—probably a coat closet—and a staircase diagonally across from the front door. An open arch on the left led to the living room. The wooden floor was clean enough, but dull, as if it had been a very long time since it had received more than perfunctory care.
There was a coatrack next to the door. It held a black ski cap and two jackets—a dark green parka with a hood and a denim jacket. Both obviously belonged to large men—to Ben and this man, she supposed. Duncan McClain, Ben’s brother.
Her hands were balled into fists in her pockets. She’d known Ben wasn’t married or living with a woman. If he had been, she would have approached him differently. But she hadn’t asked the detective to find out if he was living with anyone else—like a brother. This was a complication she hadn’t allowed for.
When in doubt, fall back on manners. That was one lesson her mother had taught her that Gwen often found useful. “I’m Gwendolyn Van Allen.”
He nodded without speaking. Obviously the name meant nothing to him. What odd eyes he had—very pale gray, rather striking with the dark hair and those straight, slashing eyebrows. Something about his eyes made her uneasy and she looked away.
A pair of muddy boots sat next to the coatrack—work boots, the brown leather much scuffed and discolored. They were huge. She glanced from them to the running shoes on Duncan McClain’s feet. The boots were bigger. They must belong to Ben.
“May I take your sweater?” Ben’s brother asked.
“No, thanks. I’m a little chilly.” Training enabled her to find a social smile and a topic, but her cheeks felt stiff. “I thought I was prepared for the weather here, but I’m a Florida girl. Your version of spring isn’t what I’m used to.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look much like Ben—at least, not like the photograph the detective had enclosed with his report. For a long time Gwen hadn’t wanted to remember Zach’s other parent, and she’d succeeded all too well at forgetting. Now she couldn’t summon a clear image of Ben’s face. Other things, yes, but not his face.
A flash of shame slid the smile from her face. “You did say you expected Ben soon?”
“Yes.”
That was it—just yes, no elaboration. And he was looking at her so intently… Nervously she sought for a topic that might drag more than a monosyllable from him. “I hadn’t thought he’d be working late at this time of year. Construction work is seasonal, surely?”
“Some of it is. You don’t want to pour concrete when it’s below freezing, for example, but if we waited for good weather to put up a building, Highpoint would be a very small town.”
“Do you work with your brother, then?”
“No. Your eyes are green, aren’t they?” He turned and started for the arched opening to the left. “You can wait for Ben in the living room.”
What an odd, abrupt man, she thought. Perhaps he was shy. He moved smoothly, though, like a man who was at home in his body and knew he could depend on it. He was taller than she was—well, almost everyone was taller than she was—but not as tall as his brother. Or as brawny. She did remember that much. Ben was an outdoors type. He’d seemed to bring a breath of mountains and open spaces into the trendy little club in Florida where they’d met.
The living room was large and old-fashioned, with moldings framing the ceiling and a carved wooden mantel that looked older than the house itself. The floor was wooden here, too, but mostly covered by a large gold area rug with brown borders. Two armchairs upholstered in a nubby beige fabric flanked a chocolate brown couch. Throw pillows in flame colors littered the long couch and one of the chairs; an orange pillow sat on the floor next to the other chair. The coffee table and end tables were cluttered and didn’t match, but the effect was comfortable rather than careless.
He turned on a lamp beside the couch. Though it was only five o’clock, it was dreary outside, dim inside. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
She shook her head and sat, though she would rather have paced. Her insides felt jittery, as if she’d had too much caffeine. He sat in the chair at right angles to the couch, his long body loose and apparently at ease. Then he just looked at her, those curious eyes intent, as if she posed a puzzle he meant to solve before he spoke again. She curled her toes up inside her sneakers, resenting him. “Do I have a piece of broccoli between my teeth or something?”
He smiled slightly. “Am I staring? Sorry. You must be used to it, though.”
“No,” she said, startled, then she flushed. “That didn’t come out right. I wasn’t angling for compliments.”
“Of course not. Why would you?” He crossed his legs, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. He was wearing baggy carpenter pants and a black sweatshirt. “How old are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. I take it your business with Ben is personal.”
“Yes.” She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them and hoping to distract herself from the urge to jump up and pace. “I can’t explain. I’m sorry.” This man is Zach’s uncle. She was talking to her son’s uncle and he didn’t know it, and she couldn’t tell him. Not until she’d told Ben.
