Max had been buying up Norton Industries stock. Ford broke into a wider grin, and Devin knew he couldn’t ask for a more inventive partner than his brilliant brother. But Devin didn’t say a word, feeling silly in an attempt to carry on a conversation from her position in Ford’s arms.
“Hope you forgive me for horning in on Ford’s success,” Max said to Devin.
“Why should I mind? He’ll probably put you to work. But I’ll consider us even if you can convince him I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
Brooke chuckled. “The men in this family adore any excuse to sweep women off their feet.”
“Ford, please put me down. I’ve never fainted in my life, and I’m not going to start just because I’m pregnant.”
Oops.
She’d meant to tell him in private, not in the middle of a family gathering, but the words had just slipped out. She realized with Ford’s loving support, social gatherings no longer intimidated her, and she felt happy and at ease.
At the news, Max clapped Ford on the back. Brooke sent her an approving smile. Red danced Eva off in an exaggerated jitterbug.
To his credit, Ford didn’t drop her. He didn’t put her down, either. “The doctor told me I couldn’t have children,” he said.
Devin arched her eyebrow. “The doctor lied. I suspect it was just one more way for the Kine clinic to get back at you. Only this deception turned out rather sweet.”
“I’m going to be a father?” His voice trembled in wonder, his eyes soft and dreamy.
She snuggled against his chest. “A father and a husband, although I’d prefer the order was reversed.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, once my mother goes into action, she’ll have us married quickly.”
Her eyes rounded. “How quickly?”
“The sooner the better, but she’ll probably insist on a gigantic society wedding.”
She peered at him hopefully. “We could always elope.”
“And spoil my mother’s fun?” His arms tightened around her, and he laughed all the way into a kiss. “This is one wedding I don’t want to be kidnapped from.”
The End
(Please continue reading for more information about the author)
The Braddacks by Susan Kearney
The Story Continues in Born in Mystery
by Susan Kearney
Only from Bell Bridge Books
(Excerpt)
OF ALL THE mornings for some idiot to roar up his driveway.
Craig Braddack had been awake thirty-six hours straight, and he’d anticipated a good ten hours of sleep. Undisturbed. Negotiating the last kinks out of the Taiwan-Singapore contracts vital to keeping his company profitable had used up the last of his energy and patience. Yet from the sound of the revving motor below, he now had to deal with some motorcycle maniac lost in his driveway.
Welcome back to LA. Apparently, living in the suburbs no longer guaranteed a peaceful morning.
Tossing off the tangled sheet, he yanked on a pair of jeans. Without bothering with shirt or shoes, he charged downstairs and flung open the double-wide front door. Whatever invective he’d been about to hurl died in his throat.
He’d expected a punk kid skidding doughnuts on his manicured lawn, not a fantasy woman in black leather, climbing off a motorcycle. But she was real—no fantasy conjured up from a mind lacking sleep. From her booted heels, trim ankles and legs that angled all the way up to curvy hips, she was dressed to drive a man wild. Although she wore a helmet, there could be no doubt of her gender, not with the leather clinging seductively to her lithe curves. Nothing lithe about her chest, though. Her breasts were high and firm, swelling out of a low-scooped neckline.
She removed her helmet, and a lion’s mane of waist-length curly red hair tumbled down her back and sprang around her face, framing bright green eyes, a pert nose and hot red lips. At any moment, he expected her to break into song and dance and a striptease.
Only it wasn’t his birthday.
She smiled at him, a smooth, sexy smile that tied his stomach in knots and reminded him it had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Of course, hot-blooded redheads in black leather weren’t his type, no matter how seductive. His preference ran to blondes, short, sophisticated blondes who had graduated from Radcliffe or Stanford and who never reminded him of his wife. Linda had been a redhead.
He threaded his fingers through his hair, in no mood for adolescent pranks or for memories that caused so much pain. “What do you want?”
He’d used a tone that quelled his employees, but she advanced like a stalking lioness, never breaking stride. She didn’t stop until she stood so close he caught a whiff of vanilla. The delicate scent seemed so at odds with the rest of her that he studied her more closely. If he hadn’t seen uncertainty flicker across her face before she straightened her spine, planted her fists on trim hips and stared him squarely in the eye, he’d have thought her invulnerable. “Answer me, woman. What do you want?”
“Is that any way to greet your wife?” she asked, her voice a throaty purr.
He cocked a brow. “Wife? My wife is dead.”
She ignored his quizzical expression. “Do I look dead? I’m wife number two.”
A shudder ripped through him, and he fought the strong urge to run like hell. If she was his wife—the one he’d wed by proxy—she was the last person he wanted to see.
His fingers tightened on the doorjamb while he dredged the specifics of their bargain from his memory. Their contract was straightforward. Strictly business. He paid expenses. If she delivered, he’d honor the balance. Although he couldn’t recall the small print, her showing up on his doorstep damned sure wasn’t part of their agreement.
Their arrangement, if successful, wouldn’t end for another eight months. Still, he preferred to forget their marriage. When he thought of the woman at all, he pictured her as faceless, colorless, shapeless. Imagining her seductive curves hugged by sexy black leather or envisioning her brilliant green eyes meeting his with a sassy expression had never crossed his mind.
He scowled. Better keep to business.
To deal with her, he’d have to find out if she really was his wife. He studied her vivid features, telling himself to tread warily. Purposely, he let his gaze drift over her. The slight shifting of her weight indicated she wasn’t as cool and calm as she first appeared, but with a determined look she kept her chin high.
What was she up to? How had she found him? She must already want more money.
He had opened his mouth to tell her to leave when she leaned closer, her breasts inches from his chest, the scent of leather enticing him. “I am your wife, and I’m feeling fine, thank you. And very much alive.”
Indulging in a look at the enticing shadow of a deep cleft between her breasts, he cleared his throat. “I can see that”
He hadn’t expected her to blush. She hadn’t seemed the type. Nor did he expect to find the blush so attractive. He was bleary-eyed tired, but he’d have to be dead not to respond to her combination of overt sensuality and blushing naiveté. But something was wrong. Her innocent demeanor contrasted too vividly with her bold and sexy outfit.
“Stay right there,” he ordered, backing away but leaving the door open to keep an eye on her. Fleeing as much to search for the file on his “wife” as to hide his all-too-obvious physical reaction to her, he strode into the den. Still groggy but with morose foreboding, he recalled a picture somewhere.
Dean, Atherson, and Jackson were nothing if not thorough. His attorneys had checked the woman’s background before he’d consented to the proxy marriage. Craig had a picture of his wife in the file, and he didn’t remember a red bombshell but a dull brunette. With a muttered curse, he stalked into his home office, jerked open the door that hid his storage cabinet and seized a handful of folders.
&nbs
p; He flung aside the superfluous files in search of the one he wanted. Smith, Temple, Warren . . .
Got it.
As he returned, he reached into the folder then scowled at a fuzzy photo of a, sure enough, mousy brunette. He squinted in frustration as he compared the blurred features to the vibrant woman who’d entered his foyer with the boldness of a vamp.
She carried a duffel slung over her shoulder and headed blithely toward the den, her hips swaying seductively in tight black leather. Where was she going? Seething with mounting irritation at his limited options, he approached her, glancing at the picture he held and then back to her. She did resemble the woman he’d married.
“Just a minute.” He wasn’t president and sole owner of an up-and-coming international corporation for nothing. He might not have seen his family in a while, but as a Braddack, he knew how to make executive questions sound like a threat. Gritting his teeth, he pointed, his finger stopping just short of the recess between her heaving breasts. “Just what in hell do you think you’re doing?”
She started at the leashed violence in his tone then cocked her chin at a jaunty angle. “I’m moving in.”
“What!”
Then again, his twin brothers Max and Ford had often teased him he wasn’t cut of executive material.
“Don’t yell at me.”
She glared at him as if she had every right to live with him. If he hadn’t been so annoyed, he might have admired her for standing up to him like one of the Braddack brothers. Because no one else did, not his vice presidents, nor his salesmen. Certainly not a slip of a female.
Yet, instead of retreating, she stretched to her full height, squared her shoulders and advanced to stand toe-to-toe with him. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not healthy to upset a pregnant woman?”
“Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not healthy for a pregnant woman to ride a motorcycle?” he countered, his gut gripping tight at the unnecessary risks she’d taken. “Especially when you’re carrying my children.”
“I may be carrying your babies, but that doesn’t mean you can run my life.”
That did it. Fury rose up to choke him. Even worse, he could no longer deny she was his wife. He would have cheerfully sold a chunk of his soul to avoid having had to use a surrogate. Having a choice wasn’t one of his options.
Ever since he’d decided to hire a surrogate, he’d worried over his lack of control during the pregnancy. If the surrogate chose to drink herself into a stupor, take up skydiving or experiment with drugs while carrying his children, he had no right to stop her. So he’d had his attorney select the best candidate and done his damnedest not to think about the dangers. And he hadn’t breathed one word of his decision to his family—because he hadn’t wanted to hear their arguments. He didn’t want to see their pity. He didn’t want drama.
He’d wanted peace.
Now she had the nerve to show up here and throw the fact that he couldn’t protect his babies in his face.
Every muscle coiled into a tight spring of tension. “If you don’t like my tone, I suggest you leave before I do something worse.”
“Like what?” A defiant challenge angled across full lips that he found all too inviting.
His mouth watered, and he suddenly recognized the baffling cauldron of emotion bubbling inside him wasn’t just anger. Sure, he was vexed, annoyed and outraged by her audacity—but he was also turned on.
He ought to kiss her senseless. Unbidden images of tasting her lush lips taunted him, tantalized him almost enough to make him pursue her. Almost.
The fantasy couldn’t quite quell his need to shake some sense into her. Instead, he clenched his fists in an effort to override his masculine reaction to her stirring old memories better left alone.
At the uncomfortable feeling in his gut, the sudden need to send her away almost overwhelmed him. Grasping the duffel, he tossed it from the foyer onto the front porch. “You aren’t moving in. That wasn’t part of our agreement.”
With a new wariness in her eyes, she planted her hand on one hip and edged toward the kitchen. “Our agreement is going to change.”
What game was she playing? Her apprehension was genuine enough even if she was careful to conceal it behind a thick layer of outward composure. The contradiction between her sassy words and the troubled look in her eyes made him wonder if she had something to hide.
He sensed reminding her of their legally binding contract would make no difference in her demented decision to live with him. She obviously wasn’t a businesswoman and probably didn’t understand the agreement she’d signed. Driven by frustration and forced to shift position to block her from gaining farther access into his home, he didn’t bother to mask his irritation. “Why is that?”
“Since I’ve agreed to serve as a surrogate mother and bear your twins, I’ve done a lot of research.”
He caught the tension and a hint of desperation in her tone and momentarily regretted his unwillingness to at least listen to her story. “What kind of research?”
“How to make babies.”
At her saucy suggestiveness, he whistled and allowed his features to soften for a moment. “Most girls learn that before their teens.”
He might not like the fact he’d gone from angry to interested in the space of a heartbeat, but now that he’d recognized his own response to her, he could deal with it—even if he was enjoying their confrontation too damn much. But would his plan work? He grinned, hoping blatant sexual suggestions would scare her into running right out the door and leaving him in peace.
Deliberately, he lowered his voice to a murmur. “If you’re not sure how babies are made, I’d be willing to instruct you.”
Her eyes widened, and her soft intake of air revealed she wasn’t as sophisticated as she appeared. She looked down and studied her hands for a moment, then replied as if she’d never hesitated. “I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about pregnancy. Did you know a fetus recognizes its parents’ voices while still in the womb?”
She was one stubborn woman. He ought to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder and carry her out the front door. Yet the idea of running his hands along her curves was all too appealing.
Inadvertently, he stepped back. His mouth tightened in a grim line. “The point being?”
As if knowing the farther she advanced, the harder it would be for him to kick her out, she stepped closer to the kitchen. “I can’t grow the twins for you like peas in a pod and then just hand them over.”
Her frosty words doused his seduction attempts as effectively as an icy shower. A warning shiver prickled down his spine, chilling him to the bone. “If you think for one moment you can change our contract and keep my kids, you have a shock coming. That’s why I insisted on marrying my surrogate. Those babies are mine, genetically and legally.”
“You misunderstand.”
“Explain yourself.”
“You have to bond with your babies.”
“Lady—”
“My name is Bianca.”
“I don’t think—”
“Just talk to your babies. The softer you make your tone, the better.” She cocked her head at a saucy angle while the underlying sincerity of her expression captivated him and threw him off balance at the same time. “Perhaps you can sing?”
He couldn’t have heard her right. Confusion filtered through his wariness, and he gulped. “Sing?”
“Since I’m moving in here, you’ll be close enough for your children to become accustomed to your voice. If you sing to them, you can bond while they’re still in the womb.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know it’s early in the pregnancy. But the babies will sense your tone. They feel vibrations.” Without warning, she took his hand and placed it over her womb.
He went completely still.
The warmth of the life inside her radiated through the leather into his palm, filling him with unexpected wonder and banishing the chill. His babies were there. His children.
He’d never thought of the surrogate in terms of living, warm flesh. Her surprise move had robbed him of his emotional detachment, and he could no longer keep his accustomed and comfortable distance. He wanted to hate feeling this way. He didn’t want to feel at all. It had been a long time since he’d allowed anyone to penetrate the echoes of the past and the wall he’d built around himself. But these were his babies. She was the woman who would bear his children.
Reeling with the knowledge that she wasn’t simply a womb for hire but an individual with needs and desires and thoughts that could affect him and his children in the most profound ways, he fought down surging panic. By coming here, she’d personalized a service that was supposed to have been anonymous. She’d shattered his illusion of control. Suddenly, he felt as if he’d been caught in a nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken.
He strode into the kitchen, aimed for the sink and turned on the faucet. With a springy bounce, she followed and stood watching. Ignoring her, he waited for the water to turn colder.
Leaning against the far counter, she wore a look of faint bemusement. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer. When the spray numbed his fingers, he splashed his face, praying he’d awaken his sluggish mind to deal with her abrupt invasion into his life. He’d hoped he’d never have to meet her. He hadn’t wanted to see her face, hear her voice, or worse, breathe her enticing scent. He sure as hell didn’t want to touch her stomach, know details about her pregnancy, or consider if it would be hard for her to give up the babies.
He’d intended to remain aloof. In his mind, this was just one more business deal. Now she wanted them to live together. She wanted him to sing, damn her.
She chuckled, the low contralto pleasant to his ears. “You’ll get used to me.”
“That remains to be seen.” Thoughts racing, he splashed his face with icy water then dried with a clean dish towel. He didn’t want her here in Linda’s house. He didn’t want to get used to her. Yet she carried his and Linda’s children in her womb, and he couldn’t shake the certainty that his wishes were now irrelevant. Why couldn’t this Bianca Warren surrogate go back to wherever she’d come from and let him retreat to his comfortable bubble of isolation?
Born in Danger Page 21