Coming Home To Wed. Renee Roszel

died. And Jake? Well, he’d suffered the tortures of the damned for years and years over his lost Tatiana before Susan came along—Jake’s “little freckle-faced angel” as he lovingly called his wife of two years.

      Yes, Marc wanted a wife. He’d come home to find one. But not Mimi Baptiste. Not the hot-headed vagabond who would sooner be backpacking through a jungle with strangers and setting her own broken bones than making a home in some fixed location. Get your mind off her, Merit, and go to sleep!

      Another long, rasping wheeze from Foo Foo’s basket broke the quiet. Frustrated and annoyed with himself for his stubborn preoccupation with such an inappropriate little spitfire, he rolled out of bed and padded to the door. Stepping into the hallway, he slammed bodily into someone.

      The skulking night prowler mashed against him wasn’t very tall, and in certain strategic areas, felt shockingly soft. Marc hoped like hell it was a burglar.