She had trouble falling asleep.
Restlessness filled her. She told herself it was because the babies were moving around, making her uncomfortable. But it wasn’t just that. Her mind was restless for an entirely different reason.
And the reason had a name and a face.
Dennis Lincoln.
Every time Nicole closed her eyes, she saw his face and relived their kiss.
Body tensed, she stared up into the darkness. She was being adolescent. A pregnant woman shouldn’t feel this way. And she didn’t want to feel at all. Not anymore…
Marie Ferrarella earned a master’s degree in Shakespearean comedy, and, perhaps as a result, her writing is distinguished by humor and natural dialogue. This RITA® Award-winning author’s goal is to entertain and to make people laugh and feel good. She has written over one hundred books for Silhouette, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide and have been translated into Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Polish, Japanese and Korean.
MARIE FERRARELLA
Happy New Year-Baby!
To Sandy Lee, my almost daughter.
Love, Jessica’s mom.
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 1
When Dennis Lincoln opened the door, the shower stall exhaled a cloud of steam. The mist hovered about him as he stepped quickly out of the cocooning warmth of the shower onto the tile. He shivered. The rest of the bathroom felt cold.
The headache he’d had when he went to bed still throbbed lightly just outside his temples. Dennis carefully toweled the excess water out of his dark blond hair, then draped the damp towel over the silver rim of the shower stall.
He’d stayed up until past two in the morning, watching the miniature surveillance cameras he had set up. Neither the one in the carport area right outside her door, nor the two within her apartment had picked up any activity. Looked as if it had been a slow night for both of them, he thought. A slow night in a succession of slow nights.
Which was why it was now time for phase two of the operation.
Phase two had been set in motion yesterday with a simple purchase from Mike’s House of Affordable Electronics. Much more than fifty-two inches of sound and screen, the TV gave Dennis a way to meet his quarry. It gave him an excuse to strike up a conversation, get into her apartment with her permission, and subsequently into her life. Right now, it seemed the best way to find the answers.
Or, he thought with a wry smile as he glanced in the mirror, if she knew the questions.
Not exactly the way he’d envisioned his future ten years ago, clutching that hard-won law degree. But it suited him.
Even if it didn’t suit his face, Dennis mused as he pulled a comb through his wet hair. No one looking at his affable, guileless blue eyes and quirky half smile, complete with dimples, would have ever guessed what his true occupation was.
Which was exactly what made him the best candidate for the job. It allowed him to make contacts, form quick relationships and get to the heart of the matter where a more abrupt, blunter man would have struggled weeks for a toe-hold.
He’d been here, settled in at Sandcreek Apartments, for over a week now. That amounted to exactly eight days, and thousands of feet of frustration, if counted in video tape.
So far, the cameras and the tap on her phone had yielded nothing out of the ordinary. If she was involved with the Syndicate the way her late husband had been, the involvement was covert. They hadn’t attempted to make any contact with her.
Dennis couldn’t continue to sit on his hands and wait. Waiting always irritated him even though it was the hallmark of the job. He had to become friendly with her, to cull her favor and her trust.
It shouldn’t be too difficult, he judged as he passed the blow dryer over his damp hair with wide, even movements. Nicole Logan looked as if she needed someone to talk to and he intended to be the one she opened up to.
Blessed with a light beard, Dennis shaved quickly, then rinsed off his razor. His father’s razor, he thought absently, looking at the ancient, double-edged shaver. Just about the only thing, besides his hair color, that the old man had to pass on to him before he died.
A razor and an armload of responsibilities Dennis had been too young to understand at the time. Understanding and acceptance came much later.
Placing the razor into the medicine cabinet, Dennis walked into the bedroom and crossed to the rack where he had meticulously laid out his clothes the night before. Image was important. He had to look the part of an up-and-coming tax lawyer on the cusp of tax time.
Something he might have actually been, he thought, slipping on his trousers, had things turned out differently.
But they hadn’t, and he never looked back. Not once. This job had instantly given him what he had wanted. A way to take care of his mother and younger sister. His mother had died two years ago and Moira was on her own now, but he still remained with the Department. The money was decent. Having few needs of his own, he spent most of it on his sister.
Up until she had died, he’d used it to spoil his mother, to pay her back, at least in part, for past sacrifices. But that wasn’t the only reason he was here. He enjoyed the job. It satisfied his latent lust for adventure that had come to the fore in the last decade.
The same lust, he knew as he shrugged into his tapered mauve shirt, that had gnawed away at his father. Except that he knew how to channel it and Harry Lincoln had not. In the end, his father’s avarice and his yearning for more had led to his death. A casualty at the altar of the god of gambling.
Dennis buttoned his cuffs slowly, trying to shake off the thought. Lately, his line of work was taking a toll on him that it hadn’t before. It wasn’t quite as exciting, quite as interesting or as satisfying as it had once been.
But then, he was on the other side of thirty now, not twenty. Things changed.
What didn’t change, he reminded himself, stepping up his pace, was that Sherwood was waiting for results. And it was up to him to deliver them.
Dennis tucked the tails of his shirt into his tan slacks, getting his story straight in his head, should the woman in 176 ask questions. Any questions. Hesitation might raise suspicions and then all his work would be for nothing. Not that he’d invested a great deal of time into this particular phase of the operation, but there was over six months of groundwork that he had put in that he didn’t want to see go up in smoke.
Especially now, with the last bit of information Winston had given him. His partner had told him that Paul Trask was the key figure in the gambling syndicate the Justice Department was looking to place behind bars. Paul Trask. That made it personal.
Dennis forced his thoughts back to the moment at hand. He favored simplicity. That meant keeping his cover as close to his own life as possible. There were less mistakes that way. Less room for slipups.
He laughed to himself, though there was no sound. His own life, what was that? It seemed as if it had been an eternity since he had laid claim to having a life outside the Department. An eternity since he had shot hoops with his buddies at the gym or taken in a movie with Moira.
Right after this was wrapped up, he was going to apply for some vacation. God knew he had racked up enough time without using any of it.
Pressing the button on the tie rack his sister had given him as a joke, Dennis made a quick sele
ction. He hated ties, but they were required—a necessary evil for the image he was projecting. Measuring the ends against one another, he began forming a knot. What sort of a demented fool had conceived of tying a noose around a man’s neck and then compounded the insult by calling it a fashion statement?
No question about it. Right after this was over, he promised himself again, he was going to pick up the threads of his life and see about weaving them into some sort of a recognizable tapestry.
Adjusting the knot, Dennis grinned at the simile. Dimples sprang up to both cheeks. Moira would have been proud of him. A Contemporary Literature instructor at UCLA, she was the creative one in the family. He was the practical one.
He’d had to be.
Dressed, with his jacket on his arm, Dennis strode through the living room toward the front door. His goal was not the carport where his vintage Mustang was housed, but the apartment next door.
Her apartment.
She hadn’t left since she had come in around six last night. A silent alarm he had rigged beneath her doorsill would have instantly warned him if anyone had come or gone during the night.
Technology certainly made his job easier. But it still didn’t replace good old-fashioned legwork. Something he was about to implement.
He’d asked for the big-screen television to be delivered today. It was an extravagance he was paying for out of his own pocket instead of the Department’s. The set would eventually find a home within his sister’s house. His own studio apartment was hardly large enough for the bed and the table that were in it now. It was far too small to accommodate the set.
Besides, Moira had a fondness for old movies. The set would be his belated Christmas gift to her. After it did its work. Which was to wangle an instant introduction to the lady next door.
Otherwise known as his assignment.
Nicole Logan wrapped the blue-and-white-striped towel around her dripping dark brown hair. She arranged it into a turban as she walked out of the bathroom. The ends of her bathrobe hardly came together anymore, much less overlapped.
She was outgrowing everything at such a rapid rate that if she didn’t give birth soon, she was going to wind up wearing circus tents, she thought glumly.
The shower stall was beginning to make her feel claustrophobic. When she turned within it, it seemed as if her stomach was always brushing against the opaque sides. It took everything she had not to feel despondent. With every passing day, something else was either too small or too tight.
Nicole looked down at her protruding stomach. It certainly looked a great deal larger than her sister’s had been just before Marlene gave birth.
She sighed, shaking her head as she went to her closet to try to find something to wear that didn’t bind. The way she was going, this baby was going to be the biggest baby born on record.
Everything felt cramped.
And right now, it was also painted in shades of dark blue, like her mood.
Shedding her robe, Nicole got dressed quickly. She purposely avoided looking at herself in the mirrored wardrobe doors. That had gotten to be too much to bear. Though her face mercifully hadn’t gained any weight, the rest of her certainly had. The woman reflected there bore little resemblance to the one she had been a scant eight months ago.
Had she ever really worn a size six?
Nicole settled on a cream blouse and a kelly green corduroy jumper which still left her room for growth. The very thought made her shudder. Only when she was dressed did she finally look at herself. The festive color didn’t help lighten her mood.
Maybe it was because of the holiday less than a week away. From where she stood, Nicole could see the Christmas tree she’d put up in the living room. She supposed it was hopelessly sentimental of her, but Christmas meant something special. Or it should.
But here she was, twenty-six years old, facing Christmas widowed, pregnant and alone.
No, that wasn’t quite right and she knew it, Nicole amended, struggling to get hold of her emotions. She wasn’t alone. She had her sister Marlene and that meant quite a lot. Marlene was always there for her. She always had been.
As for being a widow, well, she hadn’t been married to Craig in the true sense of the word for some time before his death. Apart from an occasional stopover after he had started winning in a big way on the racing circuit, Craig had distanced himself from her and their life together.
Nicole went into the kitchen to fix herself a cup of tea. Maybe that would help. At least it couldn’t hurt. Measuring out a cup of water, she set the kettle on the burner. As the element began to glow red, she felt her eyes begin to smart.
She brushed a hot tear from her cheek. All she managed to do was clear the path for another to come rolling down in its wake. It sped faster because of the trail that had been forged.
Hormones, she thought. Just hormones making her feel sorry for herself. Right now, her emotions were stretched out like a giant rubber band and some unseen hand was mercilessly plucking at it, making it twang first one way, then the other.
The feeling was driving her crazy.
This just wasn’t like her. She wasn’t the type to sit around and wallow in self-pity like some indulgent, self-centered, pampered brat. She was the one who always fought back. The one who stood up for herself. The one who took risks in order to make her point. She had refused to allow her father to relegate her into a neat little niche the way he had tried to do with her sister. And when James Bailey had seemed to have gone out of his way to ignore Marlene and her after he had divorced their mother, Nicole hadn’t begged for his favor. Instead, she had dug in and stood up to him.
And gotten slapped down and then disowned for her trouble.
The kettle screeched, steam billowing out of two tiny holes like smoke emerging from a fire-breathing dragon. She poured water over the waiting tea bag, then dunked it mechanically, her mind skirting the past.
Her father hadn’t liked her spunk, he had been annoyed by it.
But Craig had admired it.
A bittersweet smile played on Nicole’s lips. Or, at least Craig had said he’d admired her spirit. She tossed away the tea bag, then picked up the mug, cradling it in both hands. The apartment felt cold. She husbanded the bit of warmth she was holding.
Nicole looked down at the dark liquid in her mug and thought of Craig’s eyes. They’d been brown like that. Brown and warm and heart melting. Set off by a sexy smile that had broken down all her defenses and clouded her judgment.
How could she have known that it had all been a big act just to get his way? That someone who she had thought was a freewheeling rebel was really just as self-serving as her father had been? Coming from completely opposite directions, Craig Logan and James Bailey managed somehow to walk down exactly the same road.
A road that ran right over her heart.
Needing to feel loved, craving it with every fiber of her being, she’d finally let her guard down and allowed herself to be vulnerable. Or maybe Craig had managed to seep through the walls she had set up around herself. However it had happened, she had fallen blindly in love with him. So blindly that she didn’t realize that Craig was in love with the idea of marrying a rich girl and not in love with Nicole.
The word blind seemed appropriate. He’d been a blind date, arranged by her roommate. She’d gone on the date reluctantly. Three dates later, Craig had deftly utilized her dissatisfaction with school to get her to drop out of college and run off with him.
A month after she’d met him, Nicole had become Mrs. Craig Logan, convinced that the rest of her life was going to be wonderful. Craig was exciting, a risk taker, someone who wasn’t afraid to live on the edge. He was everything her father was not, flamboyant, entertaining, attentive. Any way she looked at it, Craig Logan was just too good to be true.
That should have warned her from the start. But she had been too wrapped up in him and their life together to realize that.
Craig wanted to be a race car driver, setting his sights on becomi
ng the next king of the raceways. The inheritance she’d gotten from her paternal grandmother helped fuel that dream for Craig. It had paid the bills as well as bought the car that he needed to race. She’d been frugal with the money and there was still some left. It was part of what she was living on now.
At first, life with Craig on the road had been very exciting. They went from town to town, following the circuit, making love in dozens of different hotel rooms. It was exhilarating. And so different from the life she had led as James Bailey’s rebellious daughter.
Cynicism curved Nicole’s mouth as she sipped her tea. Yes, it had been exciting. For about three years. And then it started getting old. Very old. The excitement eventually petered out. The very things that had made it all seem so spontaneous, so glamorous, began to tarnish it. She never had a place to call her home. Never felt settled.
But she tried to tough it out and kept her feelings to herself because Craig seemed so happy. He thrived on the circuit and he was good at racing. If he gambled a little too much, well, that was just his way of letting off steam, he had said.
But one day, sitting alone in a hotel room in Nevada, Nicole took a good look at her life and realized that she didn’t have one. Not one of her own at any rate. She had Craig’s life and that wasn’t enough. She needed something to do besides cheering him on, besides watching the racing groupies bat adoring eyes at him.
When she talked Craig into putting down roots, at least part of the time, near her old home, she had hoped that they had hit upon the perfect compromise.
Fool, she mused now.
But at the time it seemed all right. While Craig continued on the racing circuit, she had remained behind and gone back to college to get the degree she had abandoned for him. She went to classes and attempted to ignore the rumors that returned to her with unsettling regularity. Rumors of Craig and his women.
Happy New Year--Baby! Page 1