Baby, I'm Yours. Karen Templeton

      

      “How can you be mad as hell at me one minute and look like you want me to kiss you the next?”

      Her head jerked back. “What makes you think – ?”

      The question ended in a shudder when he palmed her jaw, dragged his thumb across her lower lip. “You want a minute to think about your answer?”

      “Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes as their lips met. But she was pretty sure a grin flashed across his mouth an instant before touchdown, even though she was equally sure – if not more so – that he hadn’t said all that simply to manipulate the moment. Not Kevin, who was –

      His free hand cradled the back of her head as his mouth – warm, firm, insistent – moved over hers before shifting to place little kisses at the corners of her lips, her cheeks, that spot behind her ear.

      – completely guileless.

      Incredibly good at this, but guileless.

      Stupid, Julianne thought, in sync with his heartbeat, so strong and sure underneath her hand. Wrong. Pointless. Crazy.

       KAREN TEMPLETON

      A bestselling author and RITA^® Award nominee, Karen Templeton is the mother of five sons and living proof that romance and dirty nappies are not mutually exclusive terms. An easterner transplanted to Albuquerque, New Mexico, she spends far too much time trying to coax her garden to yield roses and produce something resembling a lawn, all the while fantasising about a weekend alone with her husband. Or at least an uninterrupted conversation.

      Baby, I’m Yours

      Karen Templeton

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To Jack

      who really is the World’s Greatest Dad.

      (And a pretty good husband, to boot.)

      Chapter One

      Kevin Vaccaro slouched behind the wheel of the rented compact, his left arm sizzling in the early-June sun. His stomach felt like that poor kid’s must’ve on the last leg of his flight, right before the twerp hurled into the barf bag.

      It’s not too late to turn back.

      He shifted out of the searing sun, watching the house. Ignoring the voice. On the surface, he was ready. He’d ditched the ragged jeans and baggy, wrinkled T-shirt he’d traveled in for a striped polo and khakis he’d borrowed from one of his brothers. He was combed and shaved and generally as presentable as he was gonna get without help from those gay dudes on that makeover show.

      Inside, however, was something else again.

      The house sat there, inscrutable. Aloof. Two stories. Yellow stucco. Recently painted white trim. A Spanish Territorial jewel, sparkling against a sky so bright it hurt to look at it, one gem among many in Albuquerque’s casually upscale Country Club area near the river. Kevin had only seen it once before, when Robyn had taken him by to see where she’d grown up. It had been Halloween; they’d sat across the street for more than an hour, watching her father open the door over and over to dozens of trick-or-treaters—mostly kids minivanned in from other, poorer neighborhoods, she’d said—handing out full-size Butterfingers and Snickers and Twix instead of those wussy bite-size things.

      He remembered the almost wistful envy in her voice. Weird, he’d thought at the time, through the haze of assorted controlled substances. Still weird, he thought, now stone-cold sober.

      Whether Victor Booth was there now, he had no idea. The man wasn’t exactly listed in the phone book. In fact, despite his regular appearances on one of the morning talk shows a few years back, even though you could hardly go into Costco and not see his face plastered on a stack of hardbacks, it was next to impossible to find out anything about “Dr. Vic.” Apparently the paparazzi had bigger, blonder, boozier fish to fry.

      A breeze nudged aside the heat clinging to Kevin’s skin, rustled the cottonwood leaves, shimmering coins in the clear midmorning light. He sucked in a breath. Then another. Two thousand miles was a long way to come to possibly run into a dead end. But he had to find Robyn, to apologize for running, even if at the time he’d felt he had no choice. Then maybe he could finally get on with something resembling a real life. How he was supposed to go about that…not a clue. But for sure his Peter Pan days were over.

      A grinning golden retriever edged into his peripheral vision, a toned matron in a sleeveless shirt and cargo shorts marching smartly behind. The woman glanced at the parked car, curiosity buzzing from behind bumble-bee-eye sunglasses. A second later, she flipped open her cell phone, tossing another furtive glance over her shoulder as she soldiered on. On a weary sigh, Kevin unfolded himself from the car, giving the woman—clearly keeping an eye on him—a little wave and smile.

      She jumped, nearly tripping over the dog as she scurried away.

      Feeling moderately cheered, Kevin hauled in another steadying breath and started across the street, thinking it was a shame Hertz didn’t provide barf bags as part of the rental fee.

      “What on earth are you watching so hard, Julie-bird?”

      Ignoring her father’s much-loathed pet name for her, Julianne McCabe shifted slightly at the living room window. All the better to see the tall, lanky male—the last vestiges of boyhood clinging to his loose-limbed gait—heading toward the house.

      “See for yourself,” she said, removing her glasses to clean the lenses on the hem of her sleeveless blouse. Pointlessly, as it happened, since her father, in his usual summer uniform of loose linen shirt and Dockers, had already hobbled across the room to peer over her shoulder. Smelling of aftershave and peppermints, like all good daddies should, Victor Booth was supposed to be in his office, working or resting the pulled muscle in his back or something. Not here, hovering. Being “there” for her.

      Julianne pushed her glasses back on, wincing slightly when the corners of the steel frames caught in her too-long bangs. When had she last worn her contacts? Or makeup? Had the energy, or inclination, to fix herself up?

      “Who the hell is that?” her father muttered a moment before the young man vanished behind the massive, obscenely blossomed Spanish broom blocking their view of the front entry. A second later, the doorbell rang.

      And wasn’t it a sad commentary on what she’d let her life become, that a stranger at the door should produce something almost like a thrill? Over the ripple of self-disgust, she said, “Guess we’re about to find out.”

      “Don’t bother. It’s probably just somebody trying to either sell us something or save our souls.”

      Too late on that last thing, Julianne thought as she shook her head, aiming an indulgently patient look in her father’s direction. The sort of look adoring and/or grateful daughters were supposed to give doting fathers. Especially fathers with the confidence-inspiring visage that sold books and filled auditoriums—the thick, tweedy hair and crinkly blue eyes, the precisely clipped hedgerow of also-tweedy whiskers edging a Dudley Do-Right jaw.

      “Since he’s empty-handed, I think we’re safe,” she said, heading toward the door, amazed to find herself almost awake. “And besides, he’s been sitting in his car watching the house for ten minutes.”

      A cane shot out in front of her. “Stay here.”

      Julianne crept into the tiled entryway behind her father, who was shuffling toward the door as fast as his pulled back muscle would let him. Although what she hoped to see, she had no idea, since his Mack-truck build easily blocked the doorway. Gus, their older-than-dirt chocolate Lab, dozed on the warm, unevenly textured clay tiles in a blurred pool of sunlight from the clerestory over the doorway. Wouldn’t mind spending my days like that, she thought, her arms folded over