Baby In A Basket Read online

  HOW TO GET THE SEXY SINGLE DAD NEXT DOOR TO FINALLY NOTICE YOU!

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Books by Helen R. Myers

  About the Author

  Meet The Soon-To-Be Moms of New Hope, Texas!

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  MARRIED ... WITH TWINS!

  Copyright

  HOW TO GET THE SEXY SINGLE DAD NEXT DOOR TO FINALLY NOTICE YOU!

  by Jenny Stevens

  1. Offer to take care of his baby. This should prove no hardship as you simply love children, plus it shows off your terrific maternal instincts.

  2. Give him every opportunity to see your domestic side: you boil a mean bottle and can crochet a bootie in seconds flat.

  3. Be sure to change out of your baby-food-splattered sweatsuit when he arrives late to pick up his baby. A pretty nightgown can work wonders after midnight.

  4. Once you convince him to stay for dinner, don’t let him leave until his ring is on your finger!

  Dear Reader,

  What makes a man a SUPER FABULOUS FATHER? In bestselling author Lindsay Longford’s Undercover Daddy, detective Walker Ford promises to protect a little boy with his life. Even though that means an undercover marriage to the child’s mother—the woman he’d always loved but could never have...until now.

  Book 2 of Silhouette’s cross-line continuity miniseries, DADDY KNOWS LAST, continues with Baby in a Basket by award-winning author Helen R. Myers. A confirmed bachelor finds a baby on his doorstep—with a note claiming the baby is his!

  In Carolyn Zane’s Marriage in a Bottle, a woman is granted seven wishes by a very mysterious, very sexy stranger. And her greatest wish is to make him her husband....

  How is a woman to win over a bachelor cowboy and his three protective little cowpokes? With lots of love—in Cowboy at the Wedding by Karen Rose Smith, book one of her new miniseries, THE BEST MEN.

  Why does Laurel suddenly want to say “I do” to the insufferable—irresistible—man who broke her heart long ago? It’s all in The Honeymoon Quest by Dana Lindsey. All Tip wants is to be with single dad Rob Winfield and his baby daughter, but will her past catch up with her? Don’t miss Mommy for the Moment by Lisa Kaye Laurel.

  From classic love stories to romantic comedies to emotional heart tuggers, Silhouette Romance brings you six irresistible novels this month—and every month—by six talented authors. I hope you treasure each and every one.

  Regards,

  Melissa Senate

  Senior Editor

  * * *

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  * * *

  HELLEN R. MYERS

  Baby in a Basket

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Helen R. Myers

  for her contribution to the Daddy Knows Last series.

  Books by Helen R. Myers

  Silhouette Romance

  Donovan’s Mermaid #557

  Someone To Watch Over Me #643

  Confidentially Yours #677

  Invitation to a Wedding #737

  A Fine Arrangement #776

  Through My Eyes #814

  Three Little Chaperones #861

  Forbidden Passion #908

  A Father’s Promise #1002

  To Wed at Christmas #1049

  The Merry Matchmakers #1121

  *Baby in a Basket #1169

  Silhouette Books

  Silhouette Shadows Collection 1992 “Seawitch”

  Montana Mavericks

  “The Law Is No Lady”

  *Daddy Knows Last

  Silhouette Desire

  Partners for Life #370

  Smooth Operator #454

  That Fontaine Woman! #471

  The Pirate O’Keefe #506

  Kiss Me Kate #570

  After You #599

  When Gabriel Called #650

  Navarrone #738

  Jake #797

  Once Upon a Full Moon #857

  The Rebel and the Hero #941

  Just a Memory Away #990

  Silhouette Shadows

  Night Mist #6

  Whispers in the Woods #23

  Watching for Willa #49

  HELEN R. MYERS

  satisfies her preference for a reclusive life-style by living deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas with her husband, Robert, and—because they were there first— the various species of four-legged and winged creatures that wander throughout their ranch. To write has been her lifelong dream, and to bring a slightly different flavor to each book is an ongoing ambition.

  Admittedly restless, she says that it helps her writing, explaining, “It makes me reach for new territory and experiment with old boundaries.” In 1993, the Romance Writers of America awarded Navarrone the prestigious RITA for Best Short Contemporary Novel of the Year.

  Meet The Soon-To-Be Moms of New Hope, Texas!

  “I’ll do anything to have a baby—even if it means going to the sperm bank. Unless sexy cowboy Jake Spencer is willing to be a daddy... the natural way.”

  —Priscilla Barrington, hopeful soon-to-be. THE BABY NOTION by Dixie Browning (Desire 7/96)

  “I’m more than willing to help Mitch McCord take care of the baby he found on his doorstep. After all, I’ve been in love with that confirmed bachelor for years.”

  —Jenny Stevens, maternal girl-next-door. BABY IN A BASKET by Helen R. Myers (Romance 8/96)

  “My soon-to-be ex-husband and I are soon-to-be parents! Can our new arrivals also bless us with a second chance at marriage?”

  —Valerie Kincaid, married new mom. MARRIED...WITH TWINS! by Jennifer Mikels (Special Edition 9/96)

  “I have vowed to be married by the time I turn thirty. But the only man who interests me is single dad Travis Donovan—and he doesn’t know I’m alive...yet!”

  —Wendy Wilcox, biological-clock-counting bachelorette. HOW TO HOOK A HUSBAND (AND A BABY) by Carolyn Zane (Yours Truly 10/96)

  “Everybody wants me to name the father of my baby. But I can’t tell anyone—even the expectant daddy!” —Faith Harper, prim, proper—and very pregnant.

  DISCOVERED: DADDY by Marilyn Pappano (Intimate Moments 11/96)

  Chapter One

  “What a difference a day makes, eh, folks? It’s Monday, August 17. Yesterday we were trying to figure out a way around our water rationing problems, and today the National Weather Service is putting us under a severe storm warning. Ooonly in the heat and heart of Texas! Stay right here at KDYL for breaking news about the approaching line of thunder—”

  Mitch McCord shut off the radio a second before killing the 450SL’s engine. He didn’t need to hear anything about the weather. A different, more catastrophic storm had already exploded right over his head, and the National Weather Service would be of no use to him whatsoever. But disc jockey Ron Rowlett had said one thing worth noting: twenty-four hours could make an incredible difference in a person’s life.

  Amazing. Yesterday at this very moment he’d been climbing to thirty thousand feet on his way to California. Today he should be doing that again, since it was day two of his four-on, three-off flying schedule with Gulf-West Airlines. But instead of being in his 737, he was sitting here on his driveway, trying to summon the courage to go next door and face his future.

  If he thought it would wake him up and p
ut things back in sane order, he would hit his head against the steering wheel a few dozen times. Unfortunately this wasn’t a dream; he was wide-awake, and the mess he found himself in didn’t look like it would be going away anytime soon.

  “This is your life, Captain Mitchell Sean McCord. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Just get your butt out of this ego machine, and watch what the bluebird of happiness bequeaths you.”

  To think he used to believe being grounded was the worst thing that could ever happen to him. Short of utter disaster in the sky, that is—but he worked hard not to dwell on such a thing. He was a man who stayed in control; the guy who made things happen. A participant, not an observer. Well, apparently he’d participated one time too many. Where was his infamous power of positive thinking now?

  Hang gliding in the Twilight Zone.

  Too true. And it did no good to sit and mope. It certainly wouldn’t resolve his dilemma. Ready or not, he had to go knock at Jenny Stevens’s door and say, “Hey, Jen. Guess I’d better take the kid now.”

  Jeez ... he couldn’t even phrase himself correctly, couldn’t bring himself to think my kid or my daughter. The mere suggestion had him breaking out in a cold sweat. If he had to say the words, he would probably have a coronary. Hell, this was a fine end for someone his cohorts at the airline had dubbed “the last man with a pulse likely to marry.” He sure fooled them. He’d passed the wedding ceremony entirely and gone straight into fatherhood. Man, oh, man, he wished it was Friday so he could have a drink.

  A movement out of the corner of his eye had him looking toward the right where Jenny peered out at him from the lacy-curtained frame that was her kitchen window. Ever-observant Jenny. Heaven only knew what she must think of him at this point. There was a time when he’d carefully, consciously refused to let himself care what she thought. Not a nice thing to admit, but true, because she was all wrong for a guy like him. Now he needed her good heart—as badly as he needed air to breathe.

  With a heavy sigh, he shoved open the door and climbed out of the sports car. There was no putting this off. If he didn’t go in, she would come out. The smartest thing would be to meet her on her turf, pronounce the verdict, and beg for help. More help, since she’d already been wonderful this morning. Of course, he already knew what she was going to say. After living next to her for nearly half his life, he doubted Saint Jenny could surprise him much.

  She would be supportive, sweetly reassuring, and generous to a suffocating fault. Agony. Nevertheless, he needed that right now—at least until he could figure out what to do about this mess.

  He crossed from his property to hers, and approached the small house constructed of pink and gray granite. Red Blaze roses bloomed up the northeast wall in bubbly profusion. Red and white gladioli and pink impatiens filled the flower beds, and lace curtains framed every window. The whole place looked like something out of a fairy tale, including the white curlicue sign out front noting Jams By Jenny. The house literally oozed confectioneries and tradition. Mitch fought the urge to tug his tie loose and unbutton the collar of his shirt to keep from hyperventilating. As a rule, he avoided getting this close to Jenny’s place. And it definitely went against the grain to do it twice in one day. It would be a miracle if he didn’t break out in hives.

  Just remember to keep the ball in your court, pal. Tell her the bad news, make your serve, and get the hell out—regardless of the outcome. All you’re looking for is a temporary business arrangement.

  That’s it. He had to think like a professional. Every day he flew hundreds of people in a multiton jet across half a continent, then back again. Surely he could converse with one harmless female for a few minutes and come away with what he wanted.

  He almost had himself convinced. Then she opened the door and laughed at him.

  “Well, for pity’s sake, McCord. You look like the verdict’s death by hanging.”

  Apparently nothing was going to go as expected today. Mitch shot her a sour look. “It might as well be.”

  Jenny’s dark eyes went wide and she clasped her hands together. “She’s yours, then? I mean, of course she’s yours. Anyone who looks at that baby would know it in a heartbeat. But... there’s been no missing persons bulletin filed? No call by a bereft mother? What did they say at the police station? Did you stop by the hospital, as I suggested?”

  Since when did the woman prattle like a teenager with her first telephone? “Let me know when it’s my turn to say something.”

  He knew he sounded like a grump, but he simply couldn’t help himself. Who needed all that bubbly chatter? And that barrage of evocative scents that attacked him as she stepped aside and he entered her kitchen! He groaned inwardly and wondered how the woman stayed so trim. Heck, even dressed in a loose print jumper, she wasn’t much bigger around than the braid resting on her shoulder. Working in an environment like this, she ought to be the size of a 747!

  Mitch tried not to pay too much attention to the fruit compote simmering on the stove or the just-baked muffins and breads wrapped and stacked on the counter. Jenny was almost as well-known for her baked goods as she was for her condiments. It was, however, the fresh-perked coffee that got to him the worst. At this moment he figured he could use about a potful of the stuff.

  No sound came from across the room where the baby lay. This triggered Mitch’s curiosity, as well as a smattering of hope. If the kid wasn’t hungry at this point, Mitch told himself, he had a chance left yet, because no kid of his could be around aromas like this without ending up with a growling stomach. Just last Saturday while Mitch had been mowing the lawn, he about OD’d on some kind of butterscotch smell emanating from Jenny’s place. But the only way he had survived was by wishing Jenny Stevens cellulite and saddlebags. The woman sure made it tough to keep to the same size uniform from season to season, let alone year after year. Heaven knows that for that thought alone, every few months he considered moving.

  Suddenly a pitiful wail erupted from the woven hamper on the kitchen table. Mitch hung his head. So there it was, the final knockout punch—as if he needed one at this point.

  “There, there, buttercup, we’re about set.”

  Belatedly, Mitch noted Jenny’s grandmother at the stove. She finished pouring what looked to be milk from a steaming saucepan into a glass bottle, and screwed on the nipple cap.

  “What’s that?” he asked as Fiona Stevens began vigorously shaking the bottle.

  “A Scud missile. What’s it look like?” With a roll of her big dark eyes, Fiona continued. “This is one of Jen’s baby bottles—which just goes to show that you never know what’s worth keeping. And inside is my own brew of sweetened milk. It’s what I gave Jenny when she was a baby herself, because her mother, poor love, wasn’t able to nurse her for very long.” The elderly woman, who was as short and plump as Jenny was tall and slender, looked particularly proud of the job she’d done.

  “Naturally.” Jenny gave him a benign look. “You know we’d never serve anything canned or artificial. They don’t call us The From Scratch Stevenses for nothing.”

  Ignoring Jenny’s comment because he didn’t have a clue as to how to reply, Mitch frowned. “Are you sure it’s safe? The folks at the hospital gave me a few cans of stuff they say is the only thing I should be feeding it—I mean, her.”

  Fiona grunted in a way that left little doubt of her opinion of those so-called experts. “Just look at that sour face, too,” she muttered to Jenny. “A walking testament to poor eating habits if I’ve ever seen one. I’ll bet you my Julio Iglesias tape that he never tasted a drop of his own mother’s breast milk in his life. Small wonder he buys into the first bit of fiddle-faddle tossed his way.”

  “Gran’s not much into store-bought anything, unless it comes from the Baby Boutique—” Jenny interpreted with an amused look “—or carries her label.”

  Mitch decided he could care less about Fiona’s buying habits. it was bad enough that the cackling old hen had little good to say to him under normal
circumstances, now she was going to criticize something out of his control. Sometimes he didn’t know which of the two women was worse, Jenny with her eternally sunny disposition and her eagerness to please, or Fiona, who was as blunt as a bullet.

  “Could we cut the discussion of intimate body parts and try to remember there’s a child present?” he told the scowling woman.

  “Now he worries about his image.” Fiona had to tilt her head way back to succeed in looking down her nose at Mitch. “Don’t worry, Mr. Friendly Skies, you won’t hear another word out of me. All I was saying is that this baby will know what it’s like to get at least one good meal in her life.”

  Mitch looked from her to the basket to Jenny before rubbing his aching head. “Could we talk?” he asked Jenny. “Alone.”

  She bit her lower lip a moment before extending her hand to the other woman whose permed and dyed hair almost matched the exterior color of the house. Her grandmother glared back with mutinous eyes the same color as her granddaughter’s before slapping the bottle into Jenny’s palm.

  “Fine. I have to get back to my knitting machine anyway. Besides, it’s almost time for my soaps.”

  Fiona stormed off, leaving a pained-looking Jenny, who sighed and carried the bottle to the sink, where she ran cool water over it. Not knowing what else to do, Mitch stood there and waited. He was grateful that at least the baby had stopped crying for the moment.

  “She doesn’t mean to be abrasive, Mitch. It’s just that despite the baby epidemic that seems to be going around New Hope, you showing up at our door with a child in your arms did come as the surprise of the centry.”