Everything but a Husband. Karen Templeton
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It was by far the most intimate experience she’d ever had.
This man, this…stranger, with a few words, had opened himself up to her more than any other human being Galen had ever known.
“Sorry,” she heard Del whisper, his voice gruff.
She lifted her eyes again, meeting his, her heart pounding. “For what?”
She saw him suck in a fast, deep breath, shake his head. “Nothing.” Another breath, a ghost of a smile. “Nothing. Forget it.”
And when she let herself, for the dozenth time, drift in those incredibly honest eyes, she thanked God she wasn’t going to be around for more than a few days. Because she knew, on some level so deep and so pure that the knowledge fairly hummed inside her, she could lose herself in those eyes.
Dear Reader,
The year is ending, and as a special holiday gift to you, we’re starting off with a 3-in-1 volume that will have you on the edge of your seat. Special Report, by Merline Lovelace, Debra Cowan and Maggie Price, features three connected stories about a plane hijacking and the three couples who find love in such decidedly unusual circumstances. Read it—you won’t be sorry.
A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY continues with Carla Cassidy’s Strangers When We Married, a reunion romance with an irresistible baby and a couple who, I know you’ll agree, truly do belong together. Then spend 36 HOURS with Doreen Roberts and A Very…Pregnant New Year’s. This is one family feud that’s about to end…at the altar!
Virginia Kantra’s back with Mad Dog and Annie, a book that’s every bit as fascinating as its title—which just happens to be one of my all-time favorite titles. I guarantee you’ll enjoy reading about this perfect (though they don’t know it yet) pair. Linda Randall Wisdom is back with Mirror, Mirror, a good twin/bad twin story with some truly unexpected twists—and a fabulous hero. Finally, read about a woman who has Everything But a Husband in Karen Templeton’s newest—and keep the tissue box nearby, because your emotions will really be engaged.
And, of course, be sure to come back next month for six more of the most exciting romances around—right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Everything But a Husband
Karen Templeton
This book is dedicated to all those parents who daily face,
and meet, with grace, courage and a never-ending sense of
humor the challenge of raising “special” children;
and to Jack, who has, for more than twenty years,
tirelessly supported my quest to be everything I want to be.
KAREN TEMPLETON
is the mother of five sons and living proof that romance and dirty diapers are not mutually exclusive. Her first book for Silhouette appeared in 1998; just two years later, she was thrilled to see her work make the Waldenbooks series bestseller list. A transplanted Easterner in serious denial, she spends far too much time coaxing her Albuquerque, New Mexico, garden to yield roses and something resembling a lawn, all the while fantasizing about a weekend alone with her husband. Or at least an uninterrupted conversation.
She loves to hear from her readers, who may reach her by writing c/o Silhouette Books, 300 E. 42nd St., New York, NY 10017.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Chapter 1
“Because you had a choice.”
Brow knotted, Galen dropped onto the rush-seated ladder-back chair in front of Gran’s desk. That’s all it said, the note wrapped around the large brown envelope, one of those old-fashioned kinds that tied in the back. That, and her name, marching across the front in her grandmother’s distinctive angular scrawl.
She’d had to pry it out of the top right-hand drawer of the desk, wedged as it was behind a cache of loose change and old receipts, a wad of tangled gumbands and at least two dozen long since dead pens. The old woman had refused to let her touch any of her personal stuff. Just because she couldn’t walk so good anymore—or see, or hear, Galen had silently added—didn’t mean her mind was gone, she’d said. Long as she was still breathing, she could handle her own damn finances. Except “damn” came out “dumb” in her thick Slovak accent.
Well, Gran had stopped breathing a week ago, twelve days short of her ninety-first birthday, leaving Galen to sort everything out. And find things, too. Like long brown envelopes with her name printed on them.
The phone—an antique of sorts, left over from the late forties—jangled on the back of the desk. Galen answered it, tucking a stray hank of hair back behind her ear as she distractedly informed the hyper telemarketer that she seriously doubted her grandmother needed another charge card.
She rattled the receiver into its cradle, stared again at the envelope.
“Because you had a choice.”
Now what on earth d’you suppose she meant by that? Well. There was only one way to find out, wasn’t there? Yet…a perverseness not unlike Gran’s stilled her fingers, kept her from untwisting the thin string, opening the envelope.
Or maybe it was more than perverseness?
Galen sighed, squinting out the naked paned window at the flanneled November sky, absently worrying a loose thread dangling from the hem of her sweatshirt. Never could convince her grandmother to splurge on curtains in her bedroom, the old woman insisting the vinyl roller shade was perfectly adequate. Odd how they’d always done that to each other, her grandmother and her. Goaded each other. Driven each other batty. Peculiar way of showing they cared, when she thought about it. Still, all they’d had was each other, for the last three years, a pair of widows keeping each other company in the tiny South Side Pittsburgh house her grandmother had lived in her entire married life.
Now Galen didn’t even have that.
A small, tight knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach.
She dropped the envelope, pushed herself up from the desk. Her hands lifted to the back of her neck, where she released her thick, straight hair from its tortoiseshell barrette, only to immediately finger-comb it back, reclip it. Her gaze lit on the sagging double bed in the center of the room, still shrouded in its yellowing chenille bedspread. Tears pricked behind her eyelids.
Maybe she’d returned to the house where she’d spent so much of her childhood because it seemed she had no choice. Because, after Vinnie died, his medical bills had eaten up whatever there might have been, leaving her flat broke. And without the opportunity she’d naively assumed would be hers. But she’d stayed because she’d wanted to. Somehow, Gran had mellowed in Galen’s absence, allowing a gentleness and sense of humor to rise to