Major Daddy. Cara Colter

up one little bit, until Number Seven appeared, two full days into the siege.

      There was still no power and no phone. The main road was not open. Cole would not, in good conscience, leave an aging, injured grandmother alone to cope with these challenges, never mind the five rambunctious children.

      And now Number Seven had arrived. And it didn’t appear that she was a housekeeper with a nice, fresh supply of diapers, either.

      “What kind of nut has five kids?” The voice was gravel-edged and deep, and the man who regarded Brooke Callan from the doorway of her employer’s house made her heart drop like an elevator rushing down a shaft.

      The man was glorious and having spent the last five years in and around the film industry in Los Angeles as actress Shauna Carrier’s personal assistant, Brooke was now something of an expert on glorious men.

      And their black hearts.

      To her discerning eye, this one looked more black-hearted than most of them. He stood at least six feet tall, handsome as a pirate captain. He had the faintly disheveled look of a man so certain of his charms he could be careless about his appearance.

      His denim shirt was unbuttoned and untucked, and the white undershirt underneath molded perfect pecs, a wide powerful chest, a flat, washboard stomach. His jeans, worn through on both knees, were so soft with age and wear that they clung to the large muscles of sculpted thighs.

      The man had dark whiskers roughing his perfectly planed cheeks and his clefted chin. His hair, black and curling wildly, had not been groomed, a fact that just underscored his faintly brutal untamed charm.

      In startling contrast to the darkness of his hair and whiskers, and to the olive tone of his skin, were eyes as blue and startling as sapphires. There was a certain light of strong command in them that Brooke did not see in actors, though, not even when they were trying their hardest to look menacing.

      The man before her gave off an air no actor could ever imitate. His eyes held the shadows of things not spoken about in polite circles, and something in the chiseled and forbidding lines of his face warned her this was a man who had been on intimate terms with danger.

      The look in those sapphire-blue eyes was impenetrable, guarded and assessing at the same time. The lines around the firm curve of sinfully sensuous lips was stern and unyielding. He did not look like a man who would laugh easily or often.

      The man exuded power and control.

      Only one thing stopped the picture of menace, of almost overpowering male strength, from being complete.

      Shauna’s baby, Lexandra, was stuffed under one of his arms like a football, her large padded rump and ruffled diaper cover pointed at Brooke. Chubby pink legs churned the air happily.

      Nestled in the crook of the other strong, masculine arm was two-and-half-year-old Kolina, her head resting trustingly against that broad chest, her thumb in her mouth. The child’s face was dirty, but other than that she was a picture of contentment. She popped out her thumb briefly and gave Brooke a radiant grin reminiscent of her famous mother’s.

      “Hawo, Addie Bwookie.”

      “Hello, sweetheart.” Brooke tried to keep her voice calm. Who was this menacing man? What was he doing looking so at home in Shauna’s house and so comfortable with Shauna’s children when Shauna herself was in California making a film?

      Brooke knew if she had ever met him before she would never have forgotten him. He was not an acquaintance of Shauna’s. The other possibilities made her quail in her shoes. Was he a criminal? A kidnapper? An obsessive fan who had somehow found out about this secret hideaway?

      How often had she tried to tell Shauna she needed more staff? Full-time guards, not just the housekeeper and nanny who came during the day to help her poor mother. But Shauna had this thing about her children being raised “normally,” not surrounded by live-in helpers and armed guards.

      Realizing now was a poor time for I-told-you-so, Brooke drew a deep breath, tried to swallow her fears and gather authority. It felt like a futile effort given the unflinching gaze that rested on her with such unsettling intensity. She knew she looked a wreck, her clothing rumpled, her shoe broken, her hair a hopeless damp tangle after her nightmarish journey here.

      Still, she had to conduct herself with dignity and courage. The safety of Shauna’s children might depend upon it.

      “What are you doing in Shauna Carrier’s house?” she demanded.

      “Who’s Shauna Carrier?” he asked with only the mildest of interest.

      Brooke eyed him narrowly, trying to sniff out subterfuge. Surely every man in the Western world, and perhaps beyond, knew who Shauna was.

      At least every man Brooke had the misfortune to date. They knew and had no scruples about using the personal assistant to try to get closer to Shauna.

      The fact the actress had been happily married for the last twelve years seemed to make no difference to the myriad men who wanted to make her acquaintance.

      But Brooke decided the man before her looked capable of many things—not all of them kind—but subterfuge? Nothing in the stubborn strength of his features suggested he would see any need for it.

      “Shauna Carrier,” Brooke explained. “She owns the house you are ensconced in. She’s the mother to those children you are holding.”

      “Well, that answers my question about who would be nutty enough to have five children. She’s a movie star, or something, right?”

      “She’s not a movie star. She’s an actress.” Of course, it was the wrong time entirely for a debate on semantics.

      “Whatever.”

      His lack of being impressed was completely unfeigned, but it seemed to Brooke this unexpected visitor to the estate was not being particularly forthcoming.

      “Who are you?” she demanded, sliding the zipper open on her purse as a first step toward getting at the Mace she kept secreted in her handbag.

      For this whole long trek, she had been cursing Shauna for her overly active imagination when it came to her kids.

      The phone, Shauna had reported to Brooke yesterday, almost in tears, was not working at Heartbreak Bay. Shauna was a devoted parent, and she spoke to her children every day when she had to be away.

      The actress had fallen in love with the wild Kootenay region of Canada several years ago. She had purchased lakeside property and built a home there, declaring the remote location the perfect place to raise her family, away from life in L.A. and the prying of the press.

      To Brooke, it seemed if Shauna was determined to have a retreat in the Canadian wilderness she had to factor in minor inconveniences like bears and mosquitoes and unreliable phone and power service. Even cell phones—essentials of modern communication—were inoperable in the area because the house stood in the shadow of mountains that soared to dizzying heights.

      Yesterday, Brooke’s calls on Shauna’s behalf had determined the phones were out because of a severe windstorm.

      Shauna had only been slightly mollified by the news that her difficulties in contacting her children were being caused by technical problems. She had that feeling.

      Brooke heartily hated that feeling, which Shauna had also had about each of the men who had dated Brooke since Brooke had joined her employ. And, in each case, it had been entirely, heartbreakingly correct.

      And so, Brooke had been dispatched to check on things in Canada. The trip was nightmarish, as always. The final indignity had been a huge tree across the highway just miles from Shauna’s lakeside estate.

      “Ma’am, we’re going to be a while cleaning up this mess,” a road-crew member had informed her helpfully. “You might want to think about getting a room in Creston and trying later in the week. Or if you’re en route to Nelson, you can go the other way.”

      But she was not en route to Nelson,