Daddy By Design? & Her Perfect Wife
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Duets™
Two brand-new stories in every volume…twice a month!
Duets Vol. #69
Popular Barbara Daly serves up a delightful Double Duets this month featuring the smart, sexy, sassy Sumner sisters, Faith and Charity. The Telegraph Herald says this about Barbara’s books. Look for “…a delicious blend of humor, seduction and romance as refreshing as a day in New England.”
Duets Vol. #70
Cheryl Anne Porter returns with the second book in her humorous miniseries A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE DELIVERY ROOM. This talented writer always delivers “a funny ride—a roller coaster of fun and adventure.” Joining her is Silhouette author Kate Thomas with a neat premise. What does an overburdened working woman need these days? A stay-at-home “wife!”—in the form of the sexy, ever helpful hero!
Be sure to pick up both Duets volumes today!
Daddy By Design?
CHERYL ANNE PORTER
Her Perfect Wife
KATE THOMAS
Contents
Daddy By Design?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Her Perfect Wife
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Daddy By Design?
CHERYL ANNE PORTER
The elevator stopped with a sick, grinding crunch.
“This is not happening.” Trey turned toward the panel of buttons, pushing every one. Nothing happened. He muttered beneath his breath then started beating on the door with a fist. “Hey, out there! We need help. There’s a woman in labor in here—and a man about to have a heart attack. Can anybody hear me?”
Apparently nobody could. Trey turned to Cinda, eyeing her as if he’d known all along that she’d be trouble. “So, how are you feeling right now?” he asked.
“Fine.” Trey gave her a doubting stare and Cinda caved. “Okay, so I could explode any minute here. I’m not any happier about this than you are.” She bit down on her bottom lip. “Oh, God. A labor pain. I don’t think I can hold on. You have to do something.”
His eyes widened. “Got any suggestions?”
Was she not busy enough already? Did she have to do everything? Cinda breathed through her physical pain and pointed to the emergency phone behind its glass case. “Try calling someone, Mr. Cooper. Because if my labor progresses much further, the two of us are quickly going to become the three of us….”
Dear Reader,
I always love writing books set in the South, because the stories seem to take on a life of their own. The sultry climate and the slow pace of living offer great potential for plot, character and conflict. And with all that in place, all I have to do is write what I know! See, I’m a Southern girl myself, born in Savannah, Georgia. So when I was thinking about writing my second book in the A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE DELIVERY ROOM miniseries, how could I set it anywhere else?
All I had to come up with was a fictitious small town, a couple of transplanted Yankees, a stuck elevator, a cute baby…and, well, you can read for yourself! I hope you have as much fun reading this story as I did creating it.
Enjoy!
Cheryl Anne Porter
Books by Cheryl Anne Porter
HARLEQUIN DUETS
12—PUPPY LOVE
21—DRIVE-BY DADDY
35—SITTING PRETTY
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
818—HER ONLY CHANCE
To my sweet baby girl, MacKenzie.
Love you, “Macaroon.”
And to all my relatives in Georgia
(about half the state at last count),
but most especially to my cousin Joyce Colbaugh
for her unflagging efforts to promote my books
in her neck of the woods!
1
IT WAS JANUARY 2. A gray and sleety New York City day, full of traffic gridlock, honking car horns, and short tempers. A day of overworked people in a hurry to get home. What a time for Cinda Cavanaugh to be waiting for the cranky elevator outside her obstetrician’s office. She’d just been given the news that she was about to become a mother—soon. Not that she didn’t know that. She was, after all, more or less nine months pregnant, the key words being “more or less.”
It turned out it was going to be “more.” Her routine appointment had suddenly become anything but. In her mind, Cinda could still hear Dr. Butler confirming that Cinda, after many false alarms, was now truly in the early stages of real labor. Only the baby was still in a breach position. So the doctor had promptly sent Cinda on her way to the hospital, promising to follow her as soon as she rearranged her other appointments.
“Ha,” Cinda muttered, standing there alone in the long hallway, “I should have taken a rolled-up magazine to those other women and chased them away myself.”
Though Cinda felt a little bad about her self-centered, mean-spirited thoughts, she reminded herself that she wasn’t always this testy. It was just today. She’d heard that women in labor had a different set of rules. She squeezed her eyes shut and put a hand to her forehead. “So, what made me think I could do this alone?” She opened her eyes, grimacing. “Better yet, what made Dr. Butler think I really needed to be enlightened as to what actually goes on during a Caesarean-section delivery? God, just do it. Don’t tell me about it. Ick.”
Cinda caressed her swollen abdomen, now directing her conversation to the perfectly formed little girl whose image she’d just seen on the ultrasound screen. You know what, my little princess? You could really help out. Go ahead—turn. Don’t give your mother such a hard time. Mother? Cinda thought about that. “Oh, God, I’m the mother.”
She pushed the down button again and suddenly caught her own reflection staring back at her from the polished-metal elevator doors. “Oh, surely not.” But, yes, that carnival fun-house reflection was indeed her own. “Are you telling me that I left the house looking like this?”
Obviously she had, because polished metal didn’t lie. What she saw was a pale-blond head with angst-widened golden eyes above a swollen body covered by a black-wool winter coat, cream-colored slacks, and black boots. Well, great. I look like a sheep ready for shearing. Cinda pursed her lips, transferring her disgust to the elevator. “Come on, what’s the problem here? As you can plainly see, I need to get to the hospital. Preferably today.”
She pushed the down button firmly again. And then ten more times after that before she caught herself. Get a grip, Cinda. She put her fingers to her temples and pressed lightly. “I can do this. I have to do this. The nursery’s ready. I’m ready. My baby is apparently ready.” Cinda put a hand to her swollen belly. “We can do this, baby girl.”
Just then, an irritatingly pleasant ding alerted Cinda that the contrary elevator car had deigned to arrive. She exhaled her relief. “Oh, thank God.”
The doors opened without incident, presenting an empty elevator car. Swallowing back a sudden and uncustomary sense of impending doom, Cinda stepped inside and forced herself to push the button for the lobby. Anticipating the closing of the doors and the pull of gravity on her ride downward, she anchored herself by hanging on to the handrail that girded three sides of the rickety car. Not the least bit reassured, she studied her boxlike surroundings. Had this elevator really been t
his old and wobbly when she’d used it just an hour ago?
The doors closed. “Oh, calm down. You’re getting yourself all worked up,” she fussed, breathing in and out, in and out, as she watched the little lights blaze on and then off, indicating the incredibly slow, passage of each floor going by. Fourteen. No thirteen. Twelve. Eleven.
“There. See? It’s working fine. You’re just being silly.” Cinda spoke to herself as if she were her own best friend who needed reassuring. “That whole ‘woman in labor stuck inside an elevator’ thing is just some silly Hollywood scenario. Or maybe a book. You’d think writers would have more of an imagination these days.”
The elevator jerked to a stop. Cinda’s heart nearly burst, but the dinging bell alerted her that all was well. Her hands shaking, she clutched at the opening of her woolly black coat as if it could ward off disaster. This is not a bad thing. It’s just somebody on the tenth floor waiting to be picked up. No problem.
Confirming her conclusion, the doors opened to reveal a prospective passenger…who just happened to be an outrageously and ruggedly handsome man. Cinda’s eyes widened with heart-stopping appreciation. Oh…my…God.
The man saw her and stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes widened. Clearly, he was just as affected by the sight of her as she was by him. No doubt, for differing reasons. After all, here she was nine months pregnant, and there he was…well, there he was. He belonged on a billboard where he’d be engaged in something really macho that required him to show a bunch of muscles—and not wear a lot of clothes, if there was an advertising god.
Those blue eyes and that sandy-brown hair. The broad and capable shoulders. Movie-star looks. Not the pretty-boy kind. The serious romantic-lead kind. The chiseled jaw. And the raised eyebrows, the look of, yes, dismay as he eyed her. Cinda didn’t blame him a bit. After all, her size rivaled that of a balloon float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Thinking to put the gorgeous guy at ease, she offered him a tentative smile.
He grinned back but shook his head. “No thank you, ma’am, I’ve seen this movie, and it ends badly.” His accent dripped with knee-weakening, molasses-thick Southern charm. “I’ll just wait for the next car.” He stepped back and waved. “Y’all have a nice day.”
She could not let him go. That was all she knew. Cinda held down the door open button. “Wait. You might as well get in. Trust me, a teenager could qualify for Medicare before it comes back to this floor again.”
He eyed her, the elevator, and then the hallway to either side of him. Cinda waited with the proverbial bated breath. She tried to tell herself that she just didn’t want to be alone in the elevator, should it do something heinous like stick between floors. But even she wasn’t buying that. The truth was that there was something about this man that affected her, even on today of all days. And she plainly just wanted him in this elevator with her.
And he plainly didn’t want to be in here with her. Grimacing with good-natured humor, he eyed Cinda’s girth. She would have held her stomach in, but there weren’t enough muscles in the human body to make that feat possible.
“I’m pregnant, not contagious,” she tried helpfully.
That embarrassed him. His color heightened, but he laughed. “Okay, you win, pretty lady. I may as well chance it.” With a confident gait that exuded masculine sensuality, he walked into the car, hitting the buttons labeled Lobby and then Door Close.
Nothing happened. Not for several heart-stopping seconds. Cinda froze. The good-looking guy froze. Then, exhibiting a flair for drama, the doors belatedly shut. The elevator, coughing and wheezing like an asthmatic locomotive, begrudgingly set them on a slow-motion downward journey. Cinda clutched at the iron handrails and tried not to look afraid—or like she’d been flattered by the handsome man’s calling her a pretty lady. She’d needed that. For a very long time…she had needed that.
Just then her fellow passenger turned to her. With a disarming smile that confirmed his Southern upbringing, he said, “If you don’t mind me asking, when’s your blessed event due? And don’t say yesterday.”
“Okay. My due date is a week from today.” That was all she meant to say, but his smiling sigh of relief had her conscience railing at her to tell the man the whole truth. “However, I’m in labor right now, so I’m on my way to the hospital.”
His expression fell. He looked so disappointed in her. “And we were getting along so well.”
“I know. Trust me, it wasn’t my idea. Sorry.”
“That may be, but I feel it only fair to warn you that, as a pit crew mechanic on the Jude Barrett stock car racing team, I can take an entire car apart and reassemble it in five minutes. But nowhere on my resume does it say anything about delivering babies. So unless you need an oil change and your tires rotated, you just stand over there and behave yourself, you hear?”
Now he’d made her laugh. “You poor man. I’ll try to hold on.” Now more at ease with the stranger, Cinda heard herself asking him a personal question. “You’re Southern, aren’t you?”
He sent her an arch expression. “What gave me away?”
Cinda pointed to him. “That package of grits sticking out of your coat pocket.”
He actually patted down his pocket as humor sparked in his blue eyes. “Damn. I meant to take that out.” Then he stuck a hand out for her to shake. “I’m from Atlanta. Well, actually a little town just west of there that nobody’s ever heard of called Southwood. My name is George Winston Cooper the Third, but my friends call me Trey. And you are…?”
“Not from Atlanta.” Cinda clasped his hand. His flesh was warm, his palm slightly callused. While his grip was firm, he didn’t squeeze too hard, and her swollen fingers appreciated that. “I’m Cinda Cavanaugh of Canandaigua, New York. It’s just outside of Rochester. But I live here in Manhattan now.” He nodded, but didn’t let go of her hand. Cinda melted…and added, stupidly, “But I have a house in Atlanta.”
As if fate had been waiting only for her to admit that, the diabolically evil elevator stopped dead between floors with a sick grinding crunch of something metallic and a prolonged twanging of cables that just didn’t bode well at all. The ensuing lack of movement taunted its passengers. Cinda gasped, clutching harder at the man’s hand. “Oh, no.”
Trey Cooper voiced her fears. “This is not happening.” He untangled his hand from hers and turned to the panel of buttons, every one of which he proceeded to push. And still nothing happened. He glanced bale-fully at her and then tried to wedge the double doors open. But despite his evident strength and his concerted effort, they wouldn’t budge. He muttered beneath his breath and changed tactics, now beating on the doors with a fist. “Hey, out there! We need help. We’re stuck. There’s a woman in here in labor—and a man about to have a heart attack. Hello! Can anyone hear me?”
Apparently no one could. Trey Cooper turned to her, eyeing her as if he’d known all along that she carried some mutant strain of virus that threatened humankind. Cinda stared soberly back at him. His eyes pleaded for her to reassure him. “So, Mrs. Cavanaugh, how are you feeling right about now?”
Scared, her heart pounding—and her abdomen cramping—Cinda lied. “Fine.” The man gave her a doubting stare. She caved. “Okay, so I could explode any minute here. Trust me, I am not any happier about this than you are, Mr. Cooper. We’re in real trouble.”
“Beyond the obvious, you mean?”
“Way beyond the obvious. My baby is in a breach position, which means I can’t deliver her in the normal…well, on my own. I will need help.”
His frown deepened. “And me without my toolbox. Darn.”
Cinda’s fear and pain turned to testiness. “Oh, like you’re the one scheduled for a C-section delivery in a nice, safe hospital surrounded by people who know what they’re doing…only you can’t get there.”
“No one wants you to get there more than me, Mrs. Cavanaugh. So you just stand there and keep your baby where it is.”
Cinda’s retort was on her lips, but then a twi
nge of building discomfort made her grimace. She bit down on her bottom lip. “Oh, God. A labor pain. I don’t think I can hold on. Please. You need to do something—and do it now.”
His eyes widened. “Got any suggestions?”
Was she not busy enough already? Did she have to do everything? Cinda clutched reflexively at her abdomen. “You said you know something about cars. This is an elevator car. So do something.”
“Ma’am, my expertise is with the four-wheeled variety that tear around racetracks for huge amounts of money.”
Suffering a pang of doubt about this heroic-looking man’s ability to cope in this situation, Cinda breathed through her physical pain and pointed to the emergency phone behind its glass case. “Try calling someone, Mr. Cooper.” She took a few more puffing breaths. “Because if my labor progresses much further, the two of us are quickly going to become the three of us.”
He blanched. “Then you have got to stop doing that whole labor pains thing.”
Cinda tried not to double over. “I would if I could, trust me. My baby’s early. We didn’t expect this. So do something—and do it before I have to name this child Otis.”
“Otis?”
“After the man who invented the elevator. Now, do something.”
“Good idea.” Trey Cooper whipped around, opened the case, and lifted the telephone receiver. But before he put it to his ear, he treated her to a surly “why-me” expression. “So where’s your husband? I’m of a mind to throttle him but good for not being the one here with you right now.”
Cinda’s labor pain receded. She inhaled deeply, relaxed, leaned against the wall behind her, and said, very matter-of-factly, “It wouldn’t do much good. Richard is dead.”
Instant dismay and sympathy radiated from Trey Cooper’s blue eyes. “Oh, hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’re just so young. I never thought you’d be a widow.”
She held his gaze. “Neither did I.”