The Acquired Bride. Teresa Southwick
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“What do you say to an evening wedding? Tomorrow?” Quentin asked.
“All right,” Dana said.
Her head spun. How had this happened? Forty-eight hours ago she’d spilled coffee on him and vowed to find a way to clear the Hewitt name. Now she was marrying the guy and changing her name to McCormack. In the contrition department, that seemed excessive. She reminded herself that it was to their mutual advantage.
She almost believed that. This deal was mostly for her, but she was desperate. Somehow she would make it up to him. But she was going into this marriage with her eyes wide open. Her terms. She was in control. Yesiree.
But when Quentin turned the full power of his blue eyes on her, she couldn’t help thinking that control was such a tenuous thing….
The Acquired Bride
Teresa Southwick
TERESA SOUTHWICK
is a native Californian who has recently moved to Texas. Living with her husband of twenty-five years and two handsome sons, she is surrounded by heroes. Reading has been her passion since she was a girl. She couldn’t be more delighted that her dream of writing full-time has come true. Her favorite things include: holding a baby, the fragrance of jasmine, walks on the beach, the patter of rain on the roof and, above all, happy endings. Teresa also writes historical romance novels under the same name.
Storkville folks hardly remember the day the town bore another name—because the residents keep bearing bundles of joy! No longer known for its safe neighborhoods and idyllic landscape, Storkville is baby-bootie capital of the world! We even have a legend for the explosion of “uplets”—“When the stork visits, he bestows many bouncing bundles on those whose love is boundless!” Of course, some—Gertie Anderson—still insist a certain lemonade recipe, which is “guaranteed” to help along prospective mothers, is the real stork! But whether the little darlings come from the cabbage patch or the delivery room, Storkville folks never underestimate the beauty of holding a child—or the enchantment of first love and the wonder of second chance….
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter One
He’d been slimed!
Quentin McCormack looked down and watched cotton candy, Hawaiian punch and chocolate mix together and slide down his leg. The triple whammy.
Then he met the worried, gray-eyed gaze of the pint-sized linebacker who’d collided with him. Contrition was written all over his face and Quentin hadn’t the heart to reprimand the little guy, even though the trousers were new and expensive. He also hadn’t a clue how old the boy was, but he was definitely too little to be wandering around alone.
“You okay, buddy?” he asked.
The boy, who barely came up to Quentin’s knee, nodded tentatively.
“Where’s your mom and dad?”
His only response was a shrug. Quentin surveyed the lunchtime crowd. It was August and hot. Hannah Caldwell had just cut the ribbon to open her new day-care center. Most everyone in town was there for the ceremony because Storkville took its responsibility to children very seriously. Which made him wonder who would let their child wander unattended.
He glanced at shop windows up and down Main Street. “Do your parents work nearby?” he asked.
“Mommy works at bad nets and boots,” he said proudly.
Quentin frowned. Sounded like a sporting-goods store named by someone unclear on the concept. He must be missing something.
Just then he heard a female, panic-tinged voice calling, “Lukas!” He looked down at the child. “What’s your name?”
“Wookie,” he answered.
“Like the Star Wars character?” he asked. He wouldn’t be surprised. For all he knew the boy was speaking an alien language. Ditto, he thought when the child looked at him as if he had two heads.
The crowd parted and two feet from him, Quentin saw a frantic-looking woman holding the hands of two little girls with tear-streaked faces. His breath caught as he stared at her. Shoulder-length, chestnut brown curls framed a heart-shaped face with the biggest, most expressive gray eyes he’d ever seen. She wasn’t tall, maybe five foot two, but her slender body, with curves in all the right places, was his fantasy come to life.
Lightning.
A direct hit. He couldn’t have felt more zapped if he’d been standing in an electrical storm holding a kite string with a key attached.
Because of the crowd on blocked-off Main Street, she didn’t notice him or his new little friend. They were standing in front of the sprawling three-story Victorian house with wraparound porch and enclosed backyard containing play equipment that was now BabyCare. To get the woman’s attention, he held up his hand, then curled his fingers into his palm when he noticed it was shaking. She finally looked directly at him and he pointed down.
“Is he by any chance yours?”
Bingo, he thought when her shoulders drooped with relief. She was beside him in three strides and squatted down on a level with the child.
“Lukie, you scared me half to death,” she said in a voice that was three parts concern and one part anger. Then she pulled him into her arms for a viselike hug. “Don’t ever run off like that again, young man.”
“His name isn’t Wookie?” Quentin asked.
She stood and smiled, taking his breath away for the second time in two minutes. “His name is Lukas and articulating L’s is a challenge for a three-year-old.”
“Hewwo, Mommy,” the child said, his red-stained mouth turning up in a grin.
“Hi, Lukie.” She looked back at Quentin and shrugged. “See what I mean? His sisters have the same problem.”
“They’re all three?” he asked, surveying the children, who were about the same size. Stunned, he watched her nod. “You must be from Storkville,” he said, shaking his head.
“You mean because the stork who visits Storkville bestows many bouncing bundles on those whose love is boundless?” she asked, her gray eyes twinkling.
“That’s the legend,” he concurred.
“I think the stork had a navigational malfunction that day because he visited me in Omaha. And—” she glanced at the three children with infinite love “—I don’t know if he bestowed bouncing bundles as much as the triple whammy.”
“My exact thought,” he said, remembering his close encounter of the gooey kind. “But not about children. Cotton candy, red punch and chocolate is an awful lot of junk food for a little guy like this,” Quentin commented. “Not to mention the fact that he’s running around unsupervised, Mrs.—”
Her eyes suddenly reminded him of a sky on a stormy day and he braced himself for a zap of bad lightning.