Twin Expectations

Twin Expectations Kara Lennox Meet the Mommies-To-Be… Liz Van Zandt My twin sis Bridget and I are so much alike—even our biological clocks are synchronized! As girls, we made a deal to start our families, regardless of our marital status, at age 30. Well, here we are at the big 3-0 and all I need is a fine male specimen to offer up his DNA. But how am I ever going to make my baby dreams come true when I keep finding myself lip-locked with the fabulously wealthy, utterly masculine Eric Statler? Hey… Bridget Van Zandt My sister Liz may have entered this world four minutes before me, but this time I got the jump on her. While she’s scrambling for a “suitable donor,” I’m basking in full-fledged pregnancy. Who needs modern man when you’ve got modern science! Still, one gorgeous guy has blipped across my husband-radar—black sheep bachelor Nick Raines. And one lightning-bolt kiss from Nick and I’m suddenly wishing I’d waited to make my little darling the old-fashioned way! Dear Reader, Harlequin American Romance is celebrating the holidays with four wonderful books for you to treasure all season long, starting with the latest installment in the RETURN TO TYLER series. Bestselling author Judy Christenberry charms us with her delightful story of a sought-after bachelor who finds himself falling for a single mother and longing to become part of her Patchwork Family. In Pamela Browning’s Baby Christmas, soon after a department store Santa urges a lovely woman to make a wish on Christmas Eve, she finds a baby on her doorstep and meets a handsome handyman. To win custody of her nephew, a loving aunt decides her only resource is to pretend to be engaged to a Daddy, M.D. Don’t miss this engaging story from Jacqueline Diamond. Rounding out the month is Harlequin American Romance’s innovative story, Twin Expectations by Kara Lennox. In this engaging volume, identical twin sisters pledge to become mothers—with or without husbands—by their thirtieth birthday. As the baby hunt heats up, the sisters unexpectedly find love with two gorgeous half brothers. I hope you enjoy all our romance novels this month. All of us at Harlequin Books wish you a wonderful holiday season! Melissa Jeglinski Associate Senior Editor Harlequin American Romance Twin Expectations Kara Lennox www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) ABOUT THE AUTHOR Texas native Kara Lennox has been an art director, typesetter, advertising copy writer, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and has conducted telephone surveys. She’s been an antiques dealer and briefly ran a clipping service. But no work has made her happier than writing romance novels. When Kara isn’t writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of weird hobbies, from rock-climbing to crystal digging. But her mind is never far from her stories. Just about anything can send her running to her computer to jot down a new idea for some future novel. Books by Kara Lennox HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE 840—VIRGIN PROMISE 856—TWIN EXPECTATIONS THE OFFICIAL BIOLOGICAL CLOCK PLEDGE We, Bridget Van Zandt and Elizabeth Van Zandt, being of sane, sound minds, want to someday raise families. However, families usually require husbands, which neither of us have—yet. Should we reach the age of thirty and still be unmarried, un-engaged and with no serious boyfriends, we hereby solemnly swear, pledge, promise and affirm that we will attempt to have babies anyway, using whatever means we feel is appropriate. Signed, Contents Prologue (#u9e9dc3b9-f503-5d63-98b5-cfac27125b05) Chapter One (#uc7c423ab-c004-56ea-a07c-742e23337985) Chapter Two (#u1943e93e-74ca-5dd4-9535-ecf8c7ea0f7e) Chapter Three (#u3a2bb6b9-70cc-51b4-b984-b95fe1f42e0d) Chapter Four (#ufa43580e-3686-5134-863f-b23e844bba21) 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) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue “So, do you feel any different?” Liz Van Zandt asked her twin sister, Bridget. They sat in the front seat of Liz’s shiny new Miata in the parking lot of the Statler Clinic. Bridget fidgeted with the hem of her denim skirt. “No. Do you think I should?” “How should I know?” Liz said. “I’ve never been pregnant. But it probably hasn’t happened yet. I’ve read that it can take hours, even days, for those little suckers to swim to the target.” Bridget felt light-headed. She placed a protective hand over her abdomen, knowing Liz was just trying to rattle her cage. Liz, older by four minutes, was all in favor of Bridget having a baby. She just didn’t entirely approve of Bridget’s methods. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you, Bridge?” Liz asked. “It’s a little late for those.” No, she wasn’t having second thoughts. She and Liz had always agreed that if they hit thirty and were unmarried, they would attempt motherhood anyway. Together. “Still, it’d be nice if there was a father in the picture.” Liz’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You might as well give up that notion. Men run from single moms as if they have leprosy.” “I don’t care,” Bridget said defiantly. “In twenty-one days, I’ll come back to the Statler Clinic and find out whether I’m pregnant.” Liz sagged against the leather seat. “I guess it’s my turn. I’d better get cracking.” “Oh, Liz, you aren’t really going to carry through with your harebrained plan, are you?” “It’s not harebrained. I want to know exactly what kind of genetic material my baby is getting.” “You can’t just tackle some man on the street and say, ‘Hey, could you give me some of your DNA?”’ “I plan to be a little more subtle. If I can even find a suitable…donor…” Liz’s eyes glazed over, and she stared at something in the distance. “Oo-la-la, there’s one now.” Bridget gasped as she realized the subject of her sister’s appraisal. “Is that who I think it is?” “It’s him, all right. He was on the cover of Inside Texas a couple of months ago. I recognize every blue-blood inch of him. And he’s even more gorgeous in person.” The man in question, J. Eric Statler III, had just come waltzing out of the clinic that bore his name. “What the heck is he doing here?” Liz asked. “He does own the clinic,” Bridget pointed out. “He owns half of Oaksboro,” Liz said, which was almost true. The Statler Clinic was only a tiny piece of the Statler empire, which included hospitals, oil companies, newspapers, restaurants and a tennis-shoe manufacturing plant. He had businesses scattered throughout north Texas. He even owned the ad agency where Liz worked. Liz sighed. “He’s rich and good-looking, but nice, too. In that magazine article, it says he donates a lot of money to several local charities.” “That doesn’t mean he’ll donate his DNA,” Bridget said. “And if he’s so perfect, then why hasn’t he ever married?” “Hasn’t found the right woman, so I hear.” Liz got a thoughtful look on her face. “Maybe he’s waiting for me.” “Dream on, sister.” “Now, wait a minute. I’m a successful account executive at Oaksboro’s biggest ad agency, I can eat fettuccini without making a mess, and I’m a darn nice person. Are you saying I wouldn’t be a good match for Eric Statler?” Uh-oh. Bridget recognized that gleam in Liz’s eye. “All right, maybe he wouldn’t marry me,” Liz continued, “but he’s good father material.” “Liz, you don’t even know him.” “I could meet him. It would be easy. I have contacts.” Bridget laughed. “You’re nuts.” But she could tell Liz was warming to this idea, another one of her crazy schemes. Suddenly Liz focused her sea-blue eyes on Bridget with the force of double laser beams. “Hey, Bridge, will you help me?” Bridget cringed. When Liz got that light of zeal in her eyes, nothing could stop her. “I have a few contacts I could tap, I suppose,” she agreed reluctantly. She decided she’d better keep an eye on her competitive sister. If Bridget’s artificial insemination worked and she ended up pregnant, Liz would be desperate to keep up. And no telling what she might do in her quest for, as she so elegantly put it, a “donor.” Chapter One Bridget sipped her club soda nervously as she surveyed the jewel-and tux-bedecked crowd around her. Normally she favored a little something with the soda. But now that she was pregnant… She paused in her thoughts, savoring the word. Pregnant. Today she’d had her official pregnancy test at the Statler Clinic. The results had only confirmed what she’d already known. At just three weeks from conception, her body was changing in some slight, indefinable way. In a few months she would start expanding like a dashboard airbag. The prospect was scary but kind of exciting, too. “See anyone we can mingle with?” asked Liz, standing beside her. They’d wangled invitations to the Oilman’s Ball from a dry-cleaning baroness, a family friend whose portrait Bridget had painted. The ball was Oaksboro’s social event of the season, and Eric Statler was guaranteed to be in attendance. But now that they’d arrived, the hard work began—finding someone who would provide Liz with a personal introduction to Statler. “I’ve never been that great at mingling,” Bridget replied. “Wait…over there. Are those Eric Statler’s parents?” She nodded toward a distinguished-looking couple who appeared to be holding court. “That’s them, all right,” Liz said. “Geraldine and Eric Statler, Jr. Everyone calls Mr. Statler ‘Two,’ you know. Because he didn’t like ‘Junior.”’ “And the son?” Bridget wanted to know. “Do they call him ‘Three?”’ “They call him just plain Eric,” Liz said, her eyes scanning the crowd. “How do you know so much about the Statlers?” “The Internet. Wait, I see one of our agency’s clients,” Liz said. “Let’s split up. We can cover more territory that way.” Bridget nodded, only too happy to step away from Liz. They’d foolishly forgotten to check with each other beforehand, and they’d worn nearly identical dresses. Even their shoulder-length blond hair was styled in a similar fashion. That was one of the hazards of being a psychically attuned twin. Liz winked at Bridget, then took off, leaving Bridget to find someone of her own to mingle with. Fortunately, she spotted Mrs. Hampton, the dry-cleaning baroness. “Bridget, I’m so pleased you could make it,” the stylish silver-haired matron said as Bridget approached. “There’s a lovely couple I want you to meet. I bet they’re in the market for a portrait.” Though she was booked through the summer, Bridget was always pleased at the prospect of new business. And, who could tell, maybe this couple knew Eric Statler. She’d thought this romantic goal of Liz’s was crazy at first. But the more she’d thought about it, the more she’d come to realize that Liz would make a good match for Statler. She had the social skills, the assertiveness, the self-confidence to keep up with someone who moved in his circles, whereas Bridget, while appreciating the man’s finer qualities, knew she would prefer a…quieter marriage. Mrs. Hampton trundled off, dragging Bridget gamely behind her. NICHOLAS RAINES drained his second gin-and-tonic and stifled a yawn. He despised these functions, but his mother had laid a guilt trip on him about attending. It was for charity, she’d said. It was a chance to see and be seen, make important business contacts, blah-blah-blah. She’d even hinted that he might meet a woman, as if he had time for a relationship. Still, if a mother couldn’t count on her own son to buy a ticket to a charity ball when she was on the committee, who could she count on? He hoped the charity—a women’s shelter—raked in a bundle. But he’d yet to meet anyone this evening with whom he had the slightest interest in doing business. As for running into an appealing woman, what a joke. Practically every woman here was either over sixty, married or both. He wondered how long he had to stay. Till the auction, he supposed. If he didn’t bid on something, he’d never hear the end of it from his mother. He was already in trouble because he hadn’t worn a tux. Maybe he could hide behind one of those big potted trees until the— His thoughts froze. Who was that? She was under sixty, that was for sure. Maybe even under thirty. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he noticed right away. And he’d never laid eyes on her before, because he would have remembered that face. So she wasn’t a regular among this crowd. They had that in common to start with. He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and approached the woman, noting with pleasure that she got even prettier the closer he came. She looked up, smiling boldly as he held out his offering to her. “Oh, champagne!” she said, her blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “Thank you. I’m Liz Van Zandt. And who might you…” Her voice trailed off, and her gaze focused on something faraway and over his left shoulder. He turned to look, then felt a momentary deflation when he saw what had snagged her attention. Eric. Why did his handsome, rich, and well-meaning little brother always intrude at the wrong time? Social situations, business, it didn’t matter. Didn’t he know how annoying perfection could be? “Is something wrong, Miss Van Zandt?” Now, what the hell was her first name? Faces stayed in his brain on permanent record, but he had an appalling memory when it came to names. “Huh? Oh, sorry.” The woman returned her attention to Nick. “I believe that’s Eric Statler, near the podium,” she said casually. “Yeah. That’s Eric, all right.” “You know him?” she asked hopefully. “Yeah.” “Really?” She continued to study Eric with undisguised hunger. “Is he as smart and hardworking as everyone says?” “He’s an okay guy,” Nick was forced to admit. It would be so much easier if he could hate Eric, but he couldn’t. His younger, half brother was pretty cool. The woman continued to wax enthusiastic. “I was just doing some reading about Eric Statler. This one article said he baled his black-sheep brother’s airline out of bankruptcy, took it over, then fired him. Or the brother quit, no one’s sure.” “The brother quit,” Nick confirmed, gritting his teeth. That wretched magazine story, back to haunt him again. Eric had bought up a majority share in Lone Star Air so that his half brother would be free to fund a new start-up. That was what Nick did best. Lone Star wasn’t, and never had been, near bankruptcy, but the press loved to twist things around, give commonplace events more drama. “Oh, so then you must know the real story,” she said. “Not that I’m into gossip, but I had a feeling the magazine account wasn’t accurate. Care to enlighten me?” “Why are you interested?” Nick wanted to know. “Because I want to discuss business with him. And I’d like to have the facts before I do.” Nick shook his head. He’d already spent far too much of his life apologizing for his position within the Statler family. He’d vowed not to do it again. He was over that, on to bigger and better things. “The matter’s confidential,” he said. “Hmm. Well, in that case, is there any chance you could introduce me to him?” Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea, Nick conceded. This woman was gorgeous, but in the last thirty seconds he’d decided she wasn’t his type. Too brassy, too forward. And she was spreading lies about him, to boot, although not intentionally. “I might be able to arrange an introduction.” Yeah, he’d like to watch his brother handle this hot potato. Women came at Eric by the dozens, with strategies both subtle and obvious. He was curious to see what this one would try. He held out his arm. “Come with me, Ms. Van Zandt. I’ll take you to meet my brother.” “Who?” “My brother. Eric Statler. You told me your name, but I neglected to tell you mine. It’s Nick Raines.” He enjoyed the look of discomfiture on the pretty blonde’s face. He could read her thoughts. She was torn. Should she apologize for that “black-sheep” business? Or should she recover her dignity as best she could and make her escape? LIZ WISHED she could sink right into the carpet. She’d stumbled into a golden opportunity—meeting Eric Statler’s half brother—and she’d bungled it. Foot-in-mouth disease was one of her shortcomings. She was bubbly, talkative, not at all shy like Bridget, and she was tops on the invitation list to just about any party, but she had a distinct problem when it came to tact. Sometimes words just came out of her mouth, bypassing her brain entirely. “I apologize for any hurtful remarks,” she finally said when she’d recovered her composure. “I hadn’t realized who you were, of course, or I might have been more discreet.” “Don’t worry, I’ve been insulted by worse than you,” Nick Raines said easily. “Invitation’s still good. Want to meet Eric?” Liz swallowed her embarrassment. “Sure, I’d like that.” She took Nick’s proffered arm and allowed him to lead her through the crowd. He was a nice-looking man, she conceded, but not her type at all. He had a solemnity to his personality, a shadow in his eyes, that wouldn’t mix well with her fun-loving attitude. She could see him more easily dating someone like Bridget, who could spend hours just reading poetry or studying the play of light and shadow in a tree. Maybe, once she made friends with Eric, she would get Nick and Bridget together. But right now, she had to focus on her own impending moment of truth. Nick was leading her unerringly toward her target, Oaksboro’s golden boy himself. Even from several feet away she could feel his charisma. He was undeniably handsome, yes, with his blond, suntanned, clean-cut good looks. Piercing blue eyes, square jaw, broad shoulders, commanding height—clearly no one could argue his physical appeal. But it was more than that. He carried himself with a certain arrogance, yet his smile was friendly, and she could tell that he listened attentively whenever anyone spoke to him. Her heart beat double time. What was she going to say to him? She’d better have one hell of an opening line or she wouldn’t stand a chance, not when so many of his admirers were attractive female types. Eric looked up as Nick and Liz approached. “There you are,” he said to Nick. “Mother’s been looking for you.” “Terrific.” Nick pulled Eric aside to where they could converse semiprivately. “Eric, I’d like you to meet Ms. Van Zandt.” Liz held out her hand, still trying to come up with that perfect bon mot that would catch and hold this magnificent man’s attention. “It’s Liz,” she said smoothly. And then the words just poured out of her mouth. “My sister is very grateful to you.” “And why is that?” Eric asked pleasantly, shaking her hand. His hand was strong, his grip firm. He listened to her with that same undivided attention she’d seen him devote to others, and it unnerved her. “Well, she’s pregnant, and in a way you’re responsible!” Eric’s smile froze. “Ms. Van Zandt, I don’t take accusations of that nature lightly—” “Oh, wait, that came out all wrong—” “One more word, and you’ll be talking to my lawyers, is that clear?” “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded—” “This conversation is over. I don’t wish to make a scene at a charity event, but I trust I won’t lay eyes on you again this evening.” He turned and strode away. Liz turned toward Nick, so she could at least explain to him what she’d meant, but the crowd had claimed him, also. “Foot-in-mouth disease strikes again,” Liz murmured. She skulked away, wondering how she was going to explain her utter, humiliating failure to Bridget. “TEHRE YOU ARE,” Mrs. Hampton said, limping arthritically toward Bridget, who was doing her best imitation of wallpaper. Again. She just wasn’t any good at parties. “My, such a crowd here. You are having a good time, aren’t you?” “Well, not as good as Liz,” Bridget couldn’t resist remarking. Her sister really knew how to work a party. She mingled, she chitchatted, she glowed. “Oh, you know how Liz is,” Mrs. Hampton said, patting Bridget’s hand as she pulled her along. “Come, now, there’s someone else I want you to meet. This one is in the art supply business. Now, promise me you won’t talk shop all night.” “Promise,” Bridget said. Lord, could this get any worse? She wished brazen Liz would just walk right up to Eric Statler and introduce herself. Then Bridget could consider the night a success and go home. “Here we are. Bridget Van Zandt, meet Fred Santoro.” “How do you do, Mr.—” The pudgy, fiftyish man shook her hand while his gaze focused firmly on her cleavage. “Nice to meet you, honey. Say, that’s some dress. Really displays the goods to perfection, know what I mean?” Yikes! She was afraid she did. She looked helplessly for Mrs. Hampton, who had immediately disappeared. “You married, little lady?” Oh, barfola. Little lady? “Um, well—” He upped the wattage of his leer. “Ah, I see. No ring. You must be one of these liberated gals, don’t want to be tied down with a kitchen and kids. Yeah, I understand.” He winked, then took her arm and tried to lead her away. At such close proximity, she could smell overindulgence on his breath. “Do you like Cadillacs?” Bridget dug in her heels. “Let me go.” “What’s the matter, honey?” he asked, genuinely befuddled. Maybe this approach usually worked for him, but she couldn’t imagine how. “Listen, Mr. Santoro, I’m not your honey and I’m not going anywhere with you.” He looked skeptical. Feeling panicked, she resorted to a lie. “There’s my husband, that’s him, right over there.” She pointed to a complete stranger who stood out from the crowd, and not just because of his clothing. He was tall. And gorgeous. And a bit out of place in this fancy gilt ballroom with his outdoorsy good looks. She could picture him riding a horse or chopping wood or paddling a kayak. He watched her, amused for some reason. Her mouth went dry. My, my, why hadn’t Mrs. Hampton introduced her to him? Mr. Santoro immediately released her. “Oh, um, sorry, there, now, didn’t mean to step on any toes.” He literally backed away, ducking his head, holding his hands out as if beseeching forgiveness before disappearing behind an ice sculpture. “I see you’ve made another conquest.” Bridget nearly jumped out of her high heels. The man—the fictitious husband—had materialized at her side, and he was looking at her through intriguing gray eyes with a mixture of amusement and disapproval. Surely he hadn’t been standing close enough a few moments ago to hear her fib to Mr. Santoro. “I, um, apologize for pointing at you,” she said, stumbling on every word. “But that man was…I told him you were my, er, husband just to get rid of him. I hope I didn’t embarrass you.” He shrugged. “As long as you don’t hold me to it.” She looked at him quizzically. “Well, of course not.” “Did you have a nice chat with my brother? Sorry I didn’t stick around after the introductions.” “Who?” Bridget asked, even more confused. And then it hit her. This man, this gorgeous man with the steely eyes and the rebellious wardrobe, thought she was Liz. Her social-butterfly sister must have already gotten to him. And, Bridget thought, judging from the way he’d been sparring with her, Liz had probably done something to provoke him. She was about to explain about her twin when he asked, “Exactly how many glasses of champagne have you had?” She drew herself up. “None. I can’t drink alcohol because I’m…well, I’m pregnant.” There, she’d admitted it. She wasn’t planning to keep it a secret, after all, and in another three months or so she wouldn’t be able to, anyway. His teasing smile fell away. “Congratulations. I guess that means I’ll have to stop flirting with you. If I don’t want your husband to deck me, that is.” “You don’t have to worry about that,” she said as matter-of-factly as she dared. “I’m not married.” “Well, the baby’s father, then,” he said, frowning. “I wouldn’t even know who that is. You see, I was art—” “No need for explanations.” The look he gave her was suddenly cold, uncompromising. And definitely disapproving. “But it’s not what you think. You see—” He actually backed away from her. “Really. Enough said.” “Will you let me finish?” He waited for her to go on, but his expression was so implacable she suddenly couldn’t imagine what possessed her to confide anything to him. “Oh, never mind,” she finally said in a much cooler tone. “I guess this isn’t the time or place to defend a lifestyle choice. But I might caution you not to make snap judgments. ‘Enough said’ is a convenient way of cutting off what you think you don’t want to hear.” She turned away, tears burning at the back of her eyes. “Wait. You never told me what you thought of my brother.” Bridget, longing to flee this train wreck of a conversation, paused. A sneaking suspicion occurred to her. “Your brother…?” “Eric,” he supplied, a tad impatiently. Bridget just nodded. If she tried to explain now about Liz, things would only get more confusing. “Nice guy,” she said, then made good her escape. NICE GUY? Nick watched her retreat with mixed feeling. Earlier he’d decided she wasn’t his type, only to reconsider a few moments ago. Just now she’d seemed funny and vulnerable and altogether his type, and he’d been questioning his sanity in dismissing her before. He’d been crazy to introduce her to Eric! Then she’d blithely announced she was pregnant, sans husband, and he’d had to revise his opinion yet again. Her announcement had truly surprised him. Didn’t anybody get married and have families in a normal way these days? He didn’t like to think of himself as a judgmental kind of person, but he supposed he was. Not about everything. But the irresponsible conception of children hit a nerve. His unmarried mother hadn’t meant to get pregnant with him, but she had. And he’d endured the consequences, both before and after her marriage to his stepfather, Eric Statler, Jr. If Ms. Van Zandt—he still couldn’t remember her first name—was so careless about bringing another life into the world, that was her choice. Still, part of him wished he hadn’t alienated her. Even now he felt a tremendous urge to scour the ballroom until he found her again and apologize—for what, he didn’t know. SO, BRIDGET THOUGHT when she was safely away from the self-superior lout, she’d been talking to Eric Statler’s brother and hadn’t even realized it. Apparently Liz hadn’t been as slow-witted. She’d finagled an introduction to Eric. Good for her! Mission accomplished. Now all Bridget wanted was to get out of this stuffy ballroom and kick off her heels. First, however, she had to locate Liz and find out how the meeting went. She looked all over but couldn’t find her twin. How was it that a woman as flamboyant and noticeable as Liz could manage to become invisible? She checked the ladies’ room. No Liz. Nor could she be found at the bar, or at the long tables where items for the upcoming auction were displayed. She trolled the ballroom one more time and suddenly found herself only a few feet from Eric Statler himself. She’d never been this close to him, and she found herself stopping and staring. He was quite a magnificent specimen of man, but not nearly as intriguing as his brother. Bridget found herself comparing the two men. Eric was handsome, but his face wasn’t as mature looking as Nicholas’s. There was more of a boyish quality there, though his eyes had a certain determined set to them. Yes, that combination would appeal to Liz. The crowd shifted, and Bridget stood mere inches away from the millionaire philanthropist. Suddenly Eric turned. He made eye contact with Bridget. Immediately his smile froze, his face reddened, and he darn near snarled. “I thought I told you not to come near me again.” Chapter Two Bridget’s mind worked furiously. What on earth had Liz done? “I think there must be some—” “Save your breath, Ms. Van Zandt. I don’t listen to money-grubbing little gold diggers. If you’d like to pursue a paternity suit, go ahead. But you’d better know you won’t win. I won’t pay off your sister just to get rid of the annoyance, and a DNA test will prove unequivocally that I am not the father of her baby.” As the great man spoke, he motioned to someone with his hand. In seconds, two security guards had Bridget by the elbows. “Escort Ms. Van Zandt out of the ballroom, please,” Eric instructed the guards. “And see that she doesn’t get back in.” Bridget looked around with the faint hope that someone would rescue her. Mrs. Hampton, maybe? But she saw nothing but the faces of strangers, some hostile, some amused. The guards led her away. The crowd parted. People stared. This was the worst moment of Bridget’s life, and she was going to kill Liz when she saw her again. NICK FELT a strange sense of loss as the security guards led the pretty blond woman away. He had to know what was going on. Normally his staid, oh-so-respectable brother did not make scenes. “What was that all about?” he asked as soon as he could get his half brother’s attention. Eric rolled his eyes. “Man, has she got some nerve. She thinks she’ll make a fast buck by naming me as the father of a baby I had nothing to do with. She obviously doesn’t know me very well.” Despite the brave talk, Eric looked a bit shaken, and Nick couldn’t blame him. Eric had been wary of women ever since a casual girlfriend in college had tried to decimate both his reputation and his bank account by pulling a similar stunt. Nick wasn’t quite sure how to phrase his next question. As an older brother, he’d often cautioned Eric about the wily ways of women and how to avoid the worst of the pitfalls. But he hadn’t had such a brotherly conversation in, oh, ten years. Still, he blundered forward. “Um, Eric, you don’t know that woman, do you?” “You mean know? As in the Biblical sense?” Eric laughed. “I never laid eyes on her till about ten minutes ago. Are you having a good time?” he asked, moving away from the knot of people he’d been conversing with so the brothers could have a rare, private conversation. “I’m surprised you’re here at all. You’ve always hated these things.” He gave a disapproving once-over to Nick’s attire, but said nothing about it. “Mom did a number on me,” Nick admitted without any real venom. “She brought up that Steuben vase again?” Nick nodded. When he’d shattered the vase with a badly aimed Frisbee twenty-five years ago, he’d never dreamed the incident would stay with him this long. “With me it’s the crumpled fender on her Lincoln,” Eric said ruefully. “Gets me every time. You staying for the auction?” “Yeah. I promised I’d buy something, though I can’t imagine there’s anything here I really need.” Eric flashed a wicked grin. “I know the perfect thing, and you’ll make Mother ecstatic. You know how she’s been after you for years to get your portrait done?” “Yeah…” Nick said cautiously. He’d been on the hot seat about this portrait thing ever since Eric had caved in and had his done—seated in the library, no less, looking a lot like his grandfather had in his prime. “A local artist donated an oil portrait. She’s supposed to be good. Bid on that. Kill two birds with one stone.” Sure, why not? Nick thought. It was for charity, after all. He and Eric caught up on a few business details having to do with the airline, then Nick wandered off. He thought about leaving the ballroom to check on the Van Zandt woman, then realized how misplaced his concern was. If she was ballsy enough to threaten Eric Statler with a paternity suit, she could take care of herself. And she certainly wasn’t anyone he needed to know better. BRIDGET SAT DOWNSTAIRS in the hotel lobby, her eyes trained on the elevators. Liz would have to come down sooner or later, and when she did, Bridget intended to take a strip off her sister’s hide. Not only would Liz never get a date with Eric Statler, no decent man would come near either of them because they’d be fearful of getting slapped with a paternity suit. What on earth had Liz said to Eric? Or to Nick, for that matter? They couldn’t have engineered a worse fiasco if they’d tried. No wonder they hadn’t found husbands. Bridget recognized several of the formally dressed people who exited the elevators. She kept her head ducked, praying they wouldn’t recognize her. She only hoped she didn’t have to move away from Oaksboro after this misadventure. Although the city had grown tremendously and was getting more cosmopolitan every day, it was still a small town. That small-town gossip grapevine was certainly alive and well. At last Liz appeared, looking worried. “There you are!” she exclaimed, striding over to where Bridget was seated. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing down here?” “I was kicked out of the ball,” Bridget said succinctly, glowering at her sister. “Because of something you said to Eric Statler.” Liz gasped. “Oh, no!” “Oh, yes. Mrs. Hampton will be scandalized. Mother will go into hiding. What on earth did you say to the man?” Liz flopped down defeatedly on the sofa across from Bridget. “It was supposed to be funny. You know, just a witticism to get his attention.” “What…did…you…say?” “Well, I said something about how grateful you were to him because you were pregnant. You know, because he owns the clinic and all…” “Oh, Liz! How could you?” “I had to say something to catch his attention. You saw how swamped he was with people wanting to talk to him.” “Never mind. I don’t want to hear any more.” Liz continued relentlessly. “Once I had his attention I was going to explain, and, well, my witticism was about as funny as a nuclear bomb.” “Yeah, no kidding.” “How was I to know the man is so sensitive?” She sighed when Bridget didn’t respond. “Wanting Eric Statler to father my child was the stupidest idea I’ve ever had.” “Amen. Let’s just get out of here. Then we can proceed with the business of moving to Las Vegas and changing our names.” “Aw, come on, Sis, it’s not that bad,” Liz said as she walked Bridget to her car. “I mean, if you look at it in a certain way, it’s funny. You should have seen Statler’s face. It turned the most interesting shade of—” “It’s not funny. It’ll never be funny,” Bridget snapped. She paused as she stuck the key into her car door, overcome by a sudden light-headedness. She steadied herself by grabbing Liz’s arm, then took a deep breath. The moment passed. “Bridge, are you okay?” Liz’s sudden and very real concern did a lot toward erasing Bridget’s anger. It was hard to stay mad at Liz, who always meant well. “Just a little dizzy moment,” she said. “Dr. Keller said not to be surprised if I felt light-headed from time to time.” Pregnant. She was pregnant, and the baby would be born some time around the end of February. She started to turn the key in the lock when she heard a noise beside her. It was Liz, and she was crying. “Liz?” “I w-want to have a dizzy spell,” she said. “I want to be pregnant, too. Now that I’ve blown it with Eric, I’ll have to start all over finding a donor.” Bridget put her arm around her twin’s shoulders. “It’ll happen, Liz. You’ve got plenty of time to find the right, um, donor.” “But we’ve always done everything together.” Bridget realized she’d done her share of fantasizing about her and Liz waddling down the street together, both of them big as houses. Pushing matching strollers to the park. Trading baby clothes. “I’m just being silly,” Liz finally said. “Being an aunt is cool, too.” She enveloped Bridget in a bear hug, and they both cried. SIX WEEKS LATER, at about 7:00 a.m., Bridget envied her unpregnant sister. She lay in bed, her eyes closed and reached blindly for the saltines on the nightstand. This was her mother’s surefire cure for morning sickness—nibble a few saltines before opening your eyes. After making sure her bed was good and full of crumbs, Bridget opened one eye experimentally. So far, so good. She opened the other eye. No nausea. This was amazing! She really did feel okay. She sat up slowly, then stood and put on her robe. Maybe she could even eat some cereal. She padded to the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea. September sun streamed cheerfully in through the window. Bridget opened the back door to get a little breeze. She inhaled deeply taking in the fresh morning air, then got a whiff of whatever her neighbors were cooking for breakfast. Bacon, she realized just as her stomach revolted. She made a mad dash for the bathroom, barely making it. Great. In a short time she had an appointment with the man who’d bought her portrait donation from the Oilman’s Ball charity auction. He’d paid an unheard of fifty-two hundred dollars for the painting. Bridget’s usual price would have been something closer to half that amount. She’d already rescheduled the appointment once. Since the man had paid so much, she didn’t feel right about canceling again. She would just have to get through it somehow. Her stomach settled as she headed for the address she’d been given, a few miles south of town. Once she had her bearings, she gave some thought to the portrait she was to paint. Usually her subjects had an idea of what they wanted, but if this man didn’t, she had to be prepared with some suggestions. It would help if she knew what he looked like, or at least what age he was. His name was Quinn, or something like that. She’d received only a card with the name scribbled in barely legible writing, and a phone number to contact. She’d never even spoken to him—only to his secretary. She made several false turns before she located the correct address, and then she wondered if she’d misread it. She found herself in a cluster of ramshackle buildings sorely in need of paint. A faded sign announced that this was “Peachy’s Air Freight Co.” The slogan underneath assured wary customers, “We fly anything, anywhere.” The nose of one rickety airplane, a World War II relic, was visible in a falling-down hangar. Egad, how could someone who worked here—or even someone who owned the place—afford over five thousand dollars for a portrait? She pulled in front of the most prominent building, hoping it was the main entrance, and got out of her car. Her low-heeled pumps crunched against sand and gravel as she made her way to the door. The office was a nightmare of shag carpeting and stale cigarette stench, calendar landscapes hung crookedly in plastic frames, and a fake plant so encrusted with dust it was gray instead of green. The young woman at the front desk, however, appeared pleasant. She offered a smile. “Are you the artist?” Bridget smiled back and handed the receptionist a card. “Yes. Bridget Van Zandt.” “Then you’ll be looking for my boss. He’s out working on the plane. I’d take you out there, but he’d kill me if I left the phone unmanned.” “I’ll find him,” Bridget said, anxious to escape the stale cigarette smell before it set her stomach off. “I saw where the hangar is.” She started to leave. “Don’t let him scare you,” the receptionist offered. “He’s not crazy about this portrait thing, but he’ll go through with it if you pester him enough.” “Uh-huh. Thanks for the advice.” Bridget successfully escaped the office this time, thinking there was no way she would “pester” Mr. Quinn. If he didn’t want his portrait painted, that was fine with her. She had plenty of other work to get done. Not that she minded doing a charity painting now and then, but now that she had the baby to think about, she took her income a little more seriously. She rounded the corner into the hangar and stopped. There before her was the most gorgeous set of male buns she’d ever seen. They were encased in snug, faded denim. The man they were attached to stood on a ladder, his head and shoulders buried in the engine of the beat-up twin-engine plane. “Mr. Quinn?” she called out once she caught her breath. Maybe she would change her mind about pestering him. Painting this man—his body, anyway—would be a pleasure. “Be with you in a minute,” he called back to her. His deep voice sounded distracted—and familiar. Where had she heard it, and why did it send a pleasurable shiver down her spine? Her memory snapped the lost piece into place just about the time he pulled out of the airplane and looked down at her. Oh, God, not him. But it was. Nick Raines, who looked every bit as rugged and dashing as he had the night of the Oilman’s Ball, despite the smudge of grease on his face and the two days’ growth of beard shadowing his cheek. “I’m looking for Mr. Quinn,” she said, trying to brazen it out. Maybe he wouldn’t remember her. “You’re that woman from the charity thing,” he said, his expression a mixture of fascination and horror. “The one who tried to rip off my brother.” “I did no such—” Bridget stopped herself as a wave of nausea washed over her. She would not get angry. Surely such a strongly negative emotion wouldn’t be good for the baby. “I’m looking for a Mr. Quinn,” she said primly, then peered at him hopefully through her lashes. “There’s no Mr. Quinn here.” Nick came down from the ladder. “Don’t tell me…you’re the portrait artist?” “Yes. It says right here on this card the auction people sent, M. Quinn.” She yanked the card from her purse and stared hard at it. Raines. If she squinted her eyes just right, the badly formed letters shaped themselves into “N. Raines.” “Then there must be a mistake,” he said brusquely, rummaging through a tool box. The tools, unlike everything else at Peachy Air Freight, were shiny and well cared for. “I’m afraid the mistake was mine,” she said miserably, then asked him point-blank, “Did you buy an oil portrait at that auction?” “Yeah, but…” He looked up, seeming to really see her for the first time. “You’re the artist, you said? You’re Moving Pictures, Inc.?” “Yes. And I understand completely if you’d like to forget the whole thing, given the rather unusual circumstances. Please believe me, I had no idea it was you who bought the portrait. I misread the name.” “I’d like nothing better than to forget it,” he said, pulling a rag from his back pocket and scrubbing his face, removing the oil mark. “But there’s the matter of five thousand and something dollars—” “Maybe you could sell it to someone else,” she suggested rather desperately. “Now who in their right mind is going to pay that kind of money for a picture?” She couldn’t help but take offense. “You did.” “And I’ve been regretting it ever since. Anyway, no one ever accused me of being in my right mind. You’re probably thinking no one in their right mind would buy this dump. Right?” Bridget had no reply to that, but she couldn’t help but wonder how the former CEO of Lone Star Airlines had landed here. Liz had told her something about Eric Statler bailing his half brother out of trouble with the airline, then squeezing him out of power. “Peachy’s looks better on paper,” he said, probably seeing the skepticism on her face. “Cash flow’s not so hot, but Old Man Peachy put his profits into planes—old ones that he always intended to fix and never did. Some of them have been sitting in hangars for twenty-five years, waiting for me to come along and restore them to their former glory.” He patted the shiny silver nose cone of his current project. Bridget could only stare at Nick. He was certainly passionate about his business, and he almost glowed with that passion—the way other men glowed when talking about a sexual conquest. She was fascinated. And not a little hot and bothered. That was how she wanted to paint him. And she did want to paint him, she realized. If only they could smooth over the circumstances of their first meeting. Maybe if she explained about Liz and her warped sense of humor. “Why am I telling you this?” he asked abruptly. “I don’t know. Look, Mr. Raines, this is an awkward situation, but we can make the best of it. You paid for the portrait, and I made a commitment to deliver it. I would like to keep that commitment.” “Can you paint?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning against a timber that supported the hangar. Bridget looked up nervously, afraid the timber would give way and the roof would crash down on them. “I brought my portfolio with me if you’d like to—” “Nah.” He sighed. “I guess there’s nothing to do but go ahead with it. What do you do, snap some instant pictures or something? I can get cleaned up.” Bridget was horrified at the thought. “I don’t work from photographs,” she said, “except as a supplement. Paintings done that way often turn out flat, and the people don’t look right because a camera catches a single moment that may or may not reflect the subject’s true essence.” “True essence, huh?” He took a couple of steps closer, until he invaded her personal space. “You think I have a true essence?” Bridget tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. Yes, he had an essence, all right, one that was all male. Standing this close, she could even catch a tantalizing hint of his scent, a combination of starch, soap and hard work. Everything in her that was female responded, reminding her just exactly what she’d been missing of late. Still, she stood her ground. “I paint with a live subject. A quality oil portrait requires a commitment of a great deal of time and energy from both artist and model.” She usually developed a unique intimacy with every subject she painted, too, but she decided not to elaborate to that degree with Nick Raines. “Look, ma’am—” “Bridget.” He’d obviously forgotten her name, though his had been branded into her memory. Someday when she was senile, his name would be the only thing she remembered. “Bridget Van Zandt.” “Look, Bridget, I really don’t have hours to spend posing for this picture. Isn’t there any other way?” “No.” On this she wouldn’t compromise. Her soul went into every painting she did. She had to do each portrait the best she knew how—especially one that might end up having high visibility. If she did a second-rate job on it, the negative publicity could ruin her business. “Hell. My mother already has a space cleared on her wall for this thing. Guess we’ll have to do it your way.” “It won’t be that bad,” she said, more eager than she ought to be. Hadn’t she, a few minutes ago, been hoping “Mr. Quinn” would elect not to do the portrait after all? “A couple of hours here and there. My schedule is flexible. We’ll work around yours.” He nodded. “Okay.” The hard lines of his face softened. “You’re being very reasonable about this, after what my brother did to you. You, um, aren’t actually planning to sue him, are you?” Anger rose up again. She consciously tamped it down and took two slow, deep breaths. “No, I’m not planning to sue anybody. The incident at the Oilman’s Ball was an unfortunate misunderstanding involving my identical twin sister. Please, can we forget about it?” He actually chuckled, but he didn’t agree to drop the subject forever. Then he sobered. “Um, by the way, how is the baby? You’re looking a little pale.” “Am I?” She wasn’t surprised. She’d had a terrible shock to her system. And having him speak so casually about a baby she’d scarcely mentioned to anyone… “You are pregnant, right? I mean, you didn’t make that part up too?” Chapter Three “Yes, I’m pregnant, and can we just drop it, please?” Bridget said. Judging from the warning flash in her eyes, Nick decided he’d better leave well enough alone. “Understood,” he finally said. “So, how do we proceed?” She relaxed a bit. “I’ll leave my portfolio in your office. Go through it at your leisure. Pick out the portraits you’re drawn to, the ones you really like. Be thinking of how you’d like to be portrayed—how you’d like to be remembered for posterity. I’ll call back in a few days and we’ll meet again, to mull over ideas. Is that satisfactory?” “Yes, that meets with my approval,” he said, matching her ultraprofessional, formal tone. Two could play at this game. Even as he tried to one-up her, he found himself fascinated with her, with the way she stood up for herself without being rude. He’d thought her too forward and brassy when he’d first met her, but in this case first impressions were wrong. She didn’t come off that way now. “You’ll hear from me.” She turned and walked away with a clipped, no-nonsense gate. He watched her, focusing on the sway of her slim hips. How would she look in a few months, when her pregnancy advanced? Would she waddle? Oddly, he found the mental picture pleasing when it shouldn’t have been. Since when did the thought of a pregnant woman get him excited? With a shrug he returned his attention to the engine of the old Dehavilland Comet he’d been working on when Bridget had appeared. Bridget. How had he ever forgotten such a cute name? It wouldn’t slip his mind again. A lot of other things slipped, though. Like his wrench. Suddenly he had fifty fingers, all of them coated with butter. He found himself looking up things in his repair manual that he should have known by heart. That infernal woman had ruined his concentration. After an hour he gave up and went back to the office to check up on Dinah, his new receptionist. She was punctual, pleasant and a hard worker, but she lacked something in the initiative department. If he didn’t specifically tell her to do it, it didn’t get done. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “Sure. Phone doesn’t ring much.” That was because most of Peachy’s customers retired along with him. “Oh, Mr. Raines? I don’t want to be a bother, but my chair is broken.” She pointed to a stack of kindling in the corner. “I’ve been using this stool, but my back—” “Good heavens, Dinah, order yourself a new office chair. A nice one.” Nick took a good look around the office and winced. This was what Bridget Van Zandt had seen. This was her first impression of his business. “While you’re at it, order yourself a new desk and a couple of customer chairs. Then call a carpet place. And a painter.” He sniffed the air. “And a No Smoking sign.” Dinah’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Really?” “Really. I’ll sign the purchase orders. Do it up nice.” “Yes, sir! Oh, Mr. Raines, did you see these pictures?” She pointed to an open photo album on her desk. He recognized it as Bridget’s portfolio. “They’re beautiful. I can’t wait to see what she does with you.” That statement planted all sorts of images in Nick’s fertile mind, none of them involving oil paints and canvas. “Let me see.” He leaned on a corner of Dinah’s desk and flipped through the album. It took only three or four flips for him to admit that he was impressed. The portraits were beautiful—so realistic the models could almost walk off the page. These people breathed with energy and personality. He almost felt as if he knew them, just by studying their portraits. He recognized the subject in one of the paintings, a local matron named Velma Hampton. The woman was not classically attractive, yet Bridget had managed to catch that spark of humor and openness that shone from within. “I like this one, don’t you?” Dinah said, pointing to a cowboy. He stood by a worn wooden fence, holding a coil of rope and gazing out at a field dotted with cattle. “I think you should do yours outside. Maybe with one of your planes.” “Now that is an excellent idea.” If he had to spend hour upon hour posing for this asinine portrait, at least he could do it outside, in comfortable clothes. And when it was done, his portrait would stand out among the coat-and-tie Statler men hanging in his mother’s library. “Call the Van Zandt woman and tell her I’ve decided what I want. Make arrangements for her to meet me at dawn at my house—you remember how to get there, right?” “Yes, but why don’t you call her yourself?” “That’s what I hired you for,” he quipped. The fact of the matter was, Bridget unsettled him. He would undoubtedly be spending a good deal of time with her, and he intended to keep their relationship cool and professional. He was sure that was how she wanted it, too. DAWN. Dawn! What had Bridget been thinking to blithely agree to such insanity? She couldn’t possibly be presentable by 7:00 a.m., not if she had to stick her head in the toilet every five minutes. Unfortunately she didn’t have Nick’s home phone number, so she couldn’t call and cancel. She would just have to pull herself together or stand him up, one of the two. Dripping from her shower, she glared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and her skin was pale. Makeup helped, but not much. She threw on the first clothes she could find, a pair of faded jeans and a white ribbed shirt. Then she remembered that Liz had said the shirt made her breasts look bigger. Forget that. She didn’t want Nick to think she was advertising. Initially she’d been intrigued by him—and still thought he was gorgeous—but since the Oilman’s Ball she’d put any thoughts about getting to know him better right out of her mind. She chose a red cotton blouse and a studded denim vest instead. By the time she’d dried her hair she felt almost presentable, though certainly far from her best. She tied her hair back with a red ribbon. What did it matter, anyway? she grumbled as she gathered her sketch pad and pencils, a Polaroid camera, some light-reflecting boards, and an industrial-size bottle of Tums. He didn’t have to look at her while she was painting him. And since he was the one who had specified this uncivilized hour, he could suffer the consequences. Over the past few weeks Bridget had scoped out all of Oaksboro for every gas station and convenience store with a decent bathroom. She plotted her route to Nick’s house so that several of these nausea-friendly pit stops were on the way. She stopped three times and still was only ten minutes late when she pulled into the driveway. His house was beautiful, she noted with some surprise. She’d been expecting to see something in the same state of disrepair as his business. But this charming, white frame house looked as if every square inch was lovingly cared for, right down to the marigolds and zinnias in the front flower beds. That was all the time she had to study Nick’s domicile. He burst out the front door as soon as her car pulled up, and all her attention became focused on him. “You’re late,” he said in lieu of a greeting as she got out of the car. He seemed more anxious than irritated, though. “I apologize,” she said in a carefully neutral tone, mindful of the negative impact anger could have on her body chemistry. She offered no explanation for her tardiness. For some reason the thought of Nick knowing she’d succumbed to something as weak and…female as morning sickness filled her with apprehension. She started toward her trunk, where her supplies were stored, but he grabbed her arm. “No time for that. I want you to see something before the light is ruined. Come on.” He more or less dragged her along the red brick path that went around the house. The path was uneven, making her glad she’d decided against hose and heels this morning. She was having enough trouble in her sneakers. From the backyard they climbed over a wooden fence. That’s when Bridget saw what he wanted her to see. Parked in the middle of a field was a brightly painted World War I biplane. Behind it the rising sun cast a pink glow over a grove of pecan trees. Dew soaked through Bridget’s canvas shoes as they made their way closer, through tall, pale-green grass. They stopped a few feet from the plane, and she simply stared, drinking it all in—the mists rising from the wet grass; the shiny, dew-dappled plane gleaming red, yellow and green; the pink and orange sky gradually giving way to blue. “What do you think?” She had no words to describe her awe. The scene he’d orchestrated was breathtaking, better than anything she could have imagined. All it lacked was him. “Go stand by the plane,” she said. “Oh, but I’m not really—” “Just do it.” “Okay.” He walked over and stood in front of the plane’s wing. Bridget held up the thumb and forefinger of both hands, forming a rectangle in the air. She came closer, until Nick filled the frame, then backed away slightly so that she could see enough of the plane to identify it, and a bit of trees and sky in the background. The light was the best part. That misty, early-morning light would make this portrait her masterpiece. That, and the subject himself. His had to be the most intensely interesting face she’d ever painted. So many facets to his personality. So many layers. As little time as she’d spent with him, she knew that about him. “So, what do you think?” he asked impatiently, as if he was eager for her to approve. She started to answer. Then she got a whiff of something—gasoline, motor oil. Her stomach roiled like an ocean during a hurricane. She held on to a brief hope that she could contain the nausea, then abandoned it. She was going to hurl. She looked around frantically for somewhere to hide herself, but there wasn’t a bush or tree within twenty yards. So she turned without explanation and fled toward the house, praying Nick wasn’t the kind of man who locked his doors whenever he stepped outside. Unfortunately she didn’t make it as far as the house. She slid behind a wisteria bush and retched. There was nothing in her stomach, but she convulsed violently. She heard Nick come up behind her and fervently wished the earth would swallow her up. “Bridget?” His voice sounded full of concern, and at that moment she both hated and appreciated him. Appreciated him for caring. Hated him for seeing her like this, crouching in the bushes sicker than a dog. How humiliating! “I’m fine, just give me a minute.” She took several deep breaths and promptly passed out. When she came to, probably only a few seconds later, she was being held in a pair of strong and utterly secure arms. She stifled the urge to insist that Nick put her down. For one thing she felt weak as a baby bunny, and she wasn’t completely sure she could stand unless someone staked her up. For another it felt good to lie back and just let him take charge. Nick was warm, and he smelled like the country and morning sunshine—the way her cotton clothes smelled if she dried them on a clothesline. She pressed her face against his shirt and closed her eyes again. He didn’t stop until he’d carried her all the way to his back porch, and then he paused only long enough to elbow the door open. Once inside, he set her down on a big, striped sofa as gently as if she were an armload of eggs. She opened her eyes and blinked at him. “Thank God. You’re awake. Are you okay? What am I saying, of course you’re not okay. You fainted.” He ran his hands through his thick, chestnut hair. Bridget thought irrelevantly that he was adorable when disconcerted. “We should take you to the hospital,” he announced. She quickly found her voice. “No, really, that’s not necessary. It’s just morning sickness. By ten o’clock I’ll be fine. Believe me.” “You fainted. I thought morning sickness was just nausea.” “I was light-headed. Maybe a little dehydrated.” “Eyes rolling into the back of your head is not ‘light-headed.’ You were unconscious.” “Just for a couple of seconds!” “I’m calling a doctor. I have a friend—” “No! As soon as I get something in my stomach, I’ll be fine. And I have an appointment with my obstetrician this afternoon. I’ll mention the morning sickness and see if he has any suggestions.” She sat up, though it cost her to do it without groaning. “See, I’m feeling better already.” He looked almost convinced. She decided she’d better distract him with a task, or she’d be paying some strange doctor for a house call. “Hot decaf tea with milk and honey usually helps. Do you have some tea?” “No. Coffee?” She shuddered. “’Fraid not.” “Orange juice?” The thought of OJ made her stomach twinge. “A glass of water and some dry toast or crackers?” she countered. “That I can do.” He practically knocked over furniture in his effort to get to the kitchen. She could hear him clattering around in there, searching through drawers, opening and shutting cabinets. Heavens, didn’t he know where things were in his own kitchen? It occurred to her, then, that he might not live alone. He’d been at the charity ball without a date, and there clearly wasn’t a woman in residence at the moment, or the panicked man would have dumped his ill guest on her. But maybe his wife traveled on business or something. For the first time she took stock of his living room. Peach-and-white-striped furniture and pastel woven rag rugs created a pleasant atmosphere. A wealth of houseplants, set in decorative Mexican pots, were apparently thriving, probably due to the abundant light spilling in through two generous skylights. Either Nick had good taste, he’d hired a decorator or some woman had staked her claim on his home. Then again, something about his house was uniquely male, even with the flowers out front and the pastel living room. It was…unpretentious, she supposed. Lived in. No fussy widgets on the coffee table or lace whats-its around the no-nonsense window blinds. He must be single, after all. Just as well he was unattached, she decided. More than once she’d been doing a portrait for a husband, and the wife got jealous over the amount of time Bridget spent with the man. She got up and took a closer look at the items on his fireplace mantel—a large quartz crystal rock, a pocket watch under a display glass and a model biplane very similar to the one in the garden. She nudged the tiny propeller on the plane, delighted to see it actually spun. “I thought you were sick.” Nick stood directly behind her, much too close for comfort. She whirled around, her heart racing for no good reason. “It…comes and goes,” she managed. “That’s the way this morning sickness thing is.” He held a glass of ice water in one hand and a plate of buttered toast—at least four pieces—in the other. He’d forgotten she wanted it dry. He set both down on the maple coffee table. “Sit down before you fall down. A good breeze could blow you over.” She followed orders, not wishing to be any more of a problem than she’d already been. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I do appreciate your concern.” She did, too, sort of. Nick sank onto the opposite end of the sofa and put his head in his hands. Goodness, her sudden illness really had taken a lot out of the man. “You’re not going to sue me, are you?” “Sue you? Good heavens, what for?” She nibbled on a corner of toast. “I’m an easy target. And you were talking about suing my brother—” “I never said I was going to sue your brother. I never even met your brother! That was my sister.” “She’s pregnant, too?” he asked, faintly amused. Bridget slumped back on the sofa. “No. She’s not pregnant. She was referring to me, but she was only making a joke. Not a very good one, I’m—” “A joke? I wouldn’t think an unplanned pregnancy is something to joke about.” Now he was getting personal. “You think I should hide myself away like I’ve done something shameful?” “Forgive me for saying so, but some people might think that sleeping with so many men that you don’t even know your child’s parentage is shameful. There, I’ve said it. I’m an old-fashioned, fossilized dinosaur. I know it. I can’t help it.” Bridget knew she should be furious by the assumptions he’d made about her. But there was something pretty funny about a studly guy like Nick Raines talking about family values like a blue-haired old lady. She folded her arms. “So, that’s what this hostility is all about. It’s not the baby that bothers you. It’s my sleeping habits.” “It’s both. I don’t understand how you, a seemingly intelligent, successful woman, could so thoughtlessly conceive a child.” Okay. It was time to put that particular misconception to rest. “For your information, Nick—not that it’s any of your business—I put a great deal of thought into conceiving this child. I love children. I want to raise a family more than anything in the world. I just don’t happen to have a husband.” “How would you have time for a husband?” he grumbled. What seemed humorous a moment ago suddenly didn’t. Bridget felt tears coming on—her raging hormones had turned her into an emotional wreck—but she ruthlessly swallowed back the lump in her throat. “I was artificially inseminated.” She almost enjoyed the look of consternation on his handsome face. Then she promptly burst into tears. “Oh…oh, here, now, stop that. There’s no need…” Nick waved his hands around helplessly. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” Bridget sniffed. “I’m just overemotional.” He held the glass of water out to her. “Here.” When she didn’t take it right away, he set it down, dashed out of the room, then back again with a box of tissues. “Here.” She took the tissue and dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose in a most unladylike fashion. After a few more sniffs, she had herself under control. “I’m really sorry,” he said again, though he looked relieved. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. But you have to admit, you did lead me to believe—” “I didn’t lead you anywhere. You assumed.” “I assumed the most likely scenario, given the limited information you gave me. I don’t think I’ve ever known or even heard of a single woman having herself artificially inseminated.” “But you’ve known lots of women who slept around and got pregnant.” That stumped him for a moment. “Well, no. A couple in college, maybe.” Bridget took a deep breath. The crisis was over, and with it all of her hostility. Maybe she had deliberately led him to the unfair assumption. She was willing to let bygones be bygones if he was. “So, let’s set up a schedule for our work together. Can you spare me an hour in the morning, three or four times a week for the next couple of weeks, then once a week thereafter?” “You still want to do the portrait?” “Yes, of course.” “That’s generous of you, considering I all but called you a slut.” He almost let himself smile, and Bridget was reminded of exactly how handsome a man Nicholas Raines was, particularly when he wasn’t showing off his sardonic wit at her expense. “Can we please put the misunderstanding behind us and start fresh?” “Okay. I think I can spare a few hours a week. I’ll even buy some tea and honey and soda crackers, just in case.” “Sounds like a plan.” She stood up, feeling vastly better. “I think I should go home now.” A couple of minutes later, as Nick opened Bridget’s driver’s door as if it were Cinderella’s coach, she felt optimistic about the coming portrait. She always enjoyed committing a client’s personality to canvas, but it had been a long time since a subject had so excited her creative juices. And maybe a few other types of juices as well. “Just one more question,” Nick said as he helped her into the car. “Sure.” “Don’t you think your kid ought to have a father?” Something in Bridget’s imagination snapped shut. “A bit judgmental today, are we?” “Just curious.” Since the question hadn’t been asked with the intention to antagonize, she decided to give him an honest answer. “I would dearly love for my child to have a father. But good husbands don’t grow on trees. I’ve had several dating relationships over the past few years, but most of those guys, once I really got to know them, I couldn’t picture as fathers. And the few ‘maybes’ flipped out if I even hinted at possible long-term goals.” “You mean they wigged when you said you wanted a baby.” “Something like that.” “Can you blame them? Most men aren’t like women when it comes to children. They have to get used to being husbands first. Then they gradually grow into the idea of having kids.” “You know all about this, huh?” “I know that if a lady I was dating suddenly started talking babies, I’d run as far and as fast as I could.” “You’ve just made my point for me.” Bridget gave him a steely-eyed look. “I’m thirty years old. The old biological clock thing isn’t just an old wives’ tale.” “It’s no fun growing up without a father,” he said, making his point in a different way. “What would you know about it? You were raised by Eric Statler, Jr.” “That’s not exactly correct. My mother, who had me out of wedlock, by the way, met and married Statler when I was five. But he was never, ever my father.” Bridget realized she’d struck a sore spot. Nick’s feelings on this subject ran much deeper than she would have guessed. She felt for him. But the way he was raised had nothing to do with how she would bring up her child. She wouldn’t allow any man into her life who didn’t accept her son or daughter 100 percent. “My sister and I were raised without a father, too,” she said quietly. “Ours died when we were two and my mother never remarried. She loved us more than enough to make up for it. And we turned out okay.” “So it seems.” “For that matter, though you might regret some elements of your childhood, you seem to have turned out okay, too.” He sighed deeply. “Some might argue with you there.” “No family is perfect. But if you raise a child with love, whether you’re one parent or two or ten, that has to be enough.” “I hope you’re right.” He was silent for a few moments, during which he seemed to close down. The bitter emotions flashing across his face faded until he could look at her impassively. “Tomorrow, same time?” “Yes. That will be fine.” Bridget couldn’t help thinking about their discussion during her drive home. There were lots of single mothers in the world. Some of them provided good homes for their kids; others didn’t. Most of them hadn’t chosen to raise kids by themselves, but somehow they coped, and the kids survived. Some thrived, like her and Liz. But what if she wasn’t as good a mother as her own mother had been? What if the child, despite her hopes, wasn’t good at coping with the stresses of a single-parent household? Was it selfish and unfair of her, wanting to bring this child into the world without a father? Nick Raines seemed to think so. Chapter Four “You are definitely showing,” Liz observed as Bridget examined herself critically in the dressing room mirror. Bridget sighed, plucking her loose-fitting denim dress away from her abdomen. “I was hoping this one would hide it a while longer, but I guess there’s no denying it. I look pregnant. Time to put away the jeans and invest in some tent dresses.” “Hey, this is what you wanted, remember?” Liz groused. If she were pregnant, darn it, she would be flaunting it, not trying to hide herself away. “Yeah, but the deal was, you and I were going to do it together. Look at you in those size six jeans. I wouldn’t be able to get my big toe in those.” “Just wait a few months. I haven’t given up,” Liz said, studying a ragged fingernail. She pulled a nail file from her purse and went to work, casually adding, “I have a date tomorrow night with Ted.” Bridget gasped. “Ted, the gas station attendant at the corner by Mom’s house?” “Yeah, anything wrong with that? He’s cute, and he worships the ground I walk on. You’re being an elitist.” Bridget unzipped the denim dress and stepped out of it, tossing it onto the “yes” pile. “I have nothing against a man who works with his hands for a living. However, I do think the father of your child should have an I.Q. a bit higher than an iguana’s.” Liz snorted. “Find me one.” “You never like the suggestions I make.” “That’s because your idea of a hot date involves poetry readings and sipping hot chocolate. Next time you set me up with a guy, would you at least check first to see if he has a pulse?” “Okay, so maybe setting you up with my accountant wasn’t such a hot idea.” Bridget stepped into her jeans, which she couldn’t snap, then pulled on a sweatshirt that hung almost to her knees. As she pulled on her sneakers, she paused and yawned. Twice. “You okay, Bridge?” Liz asked, concerned by the shadows under Bridget’s eyes. This pregnancy hadn’t been easy for her. She was finally past the morning sickness, but she still seemed extremely fragile. “Just tired, is all. I never realized how exhausting a baby could be before it’s even born. I don’t know how I’m going to make it to that party tonight.” Liz’s senses went on alert. “Who’s having a party that I didn’t get invited to?” “The costume party. I told you about it.” “That’s tonight?” Liz had been pure green with envy when her twin had told her about the society party she’d been invited to. “Yeah.” Bridget just sat there. “You don’t seem very excited about it.” “I’m not. You know, my priorities have really changed. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep. Besides, I’ll feel awkward. It was nice of Geraldine Statler to invite me, considering I’ve only met her once. She seems to have taken an inordinate amount of interest in the painting. But I doubt Nick wants me there.” “Oh, so it’s Nick now, is it?” Seeing that Bridget didn’t welcome any teasing, Liz backed off. “Funny, I could have sworn you liked him. You light up like a meteor shower every time you talk about him.” “Yeah, well, you’re wrong. He thinks I’m a terrible person for having a baby with no father. He’s cordial enough, but we’re very tense around each other.” “Tension can have a lot of sources,” Liz murmured. Abruptly Bridget sat up straighter. “Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you go to the party in my place?” “Bridget! We haven’t pulled a switcheroo like that since college! Besides, the minute anyone sees me, they’ll know I’m not you. I don’t look like I swallowed a cantaloupe.” Bridget looked more animated than she had all day. “I’m not implying we should perpetrate a hoax. Just go to the party, introduce yourself to Geraldine Statler, and explain that you’re my proxy. I guarantee she’ll welcome you with open arms. She’s very nice.” Bridget gathered up the clothes she’d tried on, shouldered her purse and headed for the cash register. “Uh-uh, no way. I’m not going near those Statler people ever again.” At the same time, Liz felt a little thrill at the idea of seeing Eric Statler up close once more. Ever since their ill-fated meeting at the Oilman’s Ball, she’d devoured every news story she could find. She’d even gone to the Statler Enterprises Web site to gawk over pictures of Eric like an infatuated teenager. “Chicken,” Bridget murmured under her breath as she paid for her purchases. “I am not. It’s just…what kind of costume do you have?” “I was planning to dig out my old Queen Elizabeth costume from when I was in that play in college, remember?” “Hey, that’s a great idea. All those yards of fabric will completely camouflage your stomach.” “Not my stomach,” Bridget said, giving Liz’s hair a playful tweak. “Yours.” Liz shook her head, even as she tried to picture herself decked out like a queen. “No way. I don’t want to have to explain to Nick Raines why I’m not you.” “Nick won’t come anywhere near you. He can hardly stand to be around me as it is.” Liz saw the hurt in Bridget’s eyes and felt a pang of pity for her sister. Bridget had never been able to hide her feelings very well, and it was obvious from the way she talked about Nick that she had a thing for him, despite her protestations. Unfortunately, the guy was apparently a closed-minded jerk. “I’ll try on the costume,” Liz finally said. “Just for fun, though. I’m not going to any party.” SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Liz found herself swathed in the most ridiculous brocade gown. The thing squashed her breasts so that they nearly spilled out of the stiff square neckline, and the skirt was so heavy she could barely walk. No wonder women were repressed back in the fifteenth century. They couldn’t move. Liz had been right about one thing. She could be ready to deliver a full-term baby under all that fabric and no one would know it. She’d put a red rinse on her hair for a touch of authenticity. Then she’d added some pale makeup and painted on heavily arched brows. Even people who knew her wouldn’t recognize her. “Remember, introduce yourself to Geraldine Statler first,” Bridget said, pressing the invitation into Liz’s hand. “You won’t have to do much more than say hi to her. She’ll be much too busy for a long gabfest. I heard Nick is going dressed as a highwayman, so you can steer clear of him.” “I don’t suppose you know what sort of costume Eric Statler will be wearing? He’s the one I need to avoid.” Bridget shrugged. “I didn’t ask.” “I can’t believe you talked me into this. If you hadn’t hit me with, ‘The baby needs to rest…”’ “You’ll have a blast. There are bound to be loads of eligible bachelors there. We’re talking about the future father of my niece or nephew. I want you to choose wisely, and a larger sample of men can’t hurt.” “Yeah, like I had a say in the father of your baby.” Bridget narrowed her eyes. “At least my baby’s father won’t be around to make my life miserable. What if Ted got you pregnant, then wanted to stick around? What if he wanted to marry you? Or, even worse, what if he sued you for custody?” Liz’s stomach took a sudden lurch. “Gee, I hadn’t thought of that. If Ted got me pregnant, I could never tell him.” Bridget started hyperventilating. “Elizabeth Ann Van Zandt, you cannot steal a man’s sperm without his consent. Whoever you pick as your ‘donor,’ you have to tell him about it. How would you like it if someone stole one of your eggs and made a baby without telling you? DNA is private property—” “Okay, okay, put a hold on the rant. I wasn’t really planning to get pregnant without telling the guy, whoever he might turn out to be. I just haven’t gotten that far. I have to find a good candidate first. Then I’ll come up with a strategy.” “This isn’t a game, Liz. These are lives we’re playing with. Don’t do it lightly. Please.” Liz was taken aback by her sister’s vehemence. Bridget had become much more emotional since her pregnancy, and Liz knew hormones were at least partly to blame. But something else was afoot. “Bridget,” she said, broaching the subject as cautiously as she knew how, “you’re not regretting your pregnancy, are you?” Bridget’s face went all soft. “No, of course not. I love this baby so much it hurts, and I can’t wait till I can hold him or her in my arms. But knowing that I’ve committed this kid to live without a father…I just want you to be fully aware of all the consequences, not just the good ones. Don’t lose sight of the big picture.” Liz gave Bridget a careful hug so as not to smear her makeup or ruin her hair. “Don’t worry—I won’t.” A horn tooted outside. Liz hadn’t wanted to drive wearing the costume, so she’d called a cab. “Wish me good hunting,” she said as she grabbed her tiny evening bag and whisked out the door. FOR ONCE IN HER LIFE, Liz felt completely out of place at a party. She didn’t know a soul here at this huge, gaudy mansion. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered her, but her ghastly performance at the Oilman’s Ball was still fresh on her mind. The last thing she wanted to do was something embarrassing that would reflect badly on Bridget, who had shown extraordinary confidence in her by allowing her to come here at all. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/kara-lennox/twin-expectations/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.