Booties And The Beast

“I’d like to know how you can be a virgin and have a baby.”

The embers of her passion died, leaving her drained. Why hadn’t she stopped him before he found out the truth? The answer was as blinding as the joy he had made her feel. Until he knew everything, she had no chance of a future with him. Against all reason, she yearned for one.

“Joel isn’t my baby.”

His cold tone sliced to her heart. “Obviously not. So who does he belong to?”

She took a deep breath to subdue the anguish threatening to consume her. “You,” she said softly. “You’re Joel’s father, Sam.”

Dear Reader,

As senior editor for the Silhouette Romance line, I’m lucky enough to get first peek at the stories we offer you each month. Each editor searches for stories with an emotional impact, that make us laugh or cry or feel tenderness and hope for a loving future. And we do this with you, the reader, in mind. We hope you continue to enjoy the variety each month as we take you from first love to forever….

Susan Meier’s wonderful story of a hardworking single mom and the man who sweeps her off her feet is Cinderella and the CEO. In The Boss’s Baby Mistake, Raye Morgan tells of a heroine who accidentally gets inseminated with her new boss’s child! The fantasy stays alive with Carol Grace’s Fit for a Sheik as a wedding planner’s new client is more than she bargained for….

Valerie Parv always creates a strong alpha hero. In Booties and the Beast, Sam’s the strong yet tender man. Julianna Morris’s lighthearted yet emotional story Meeting Megan Again reunites two people who only seem mismatched. And finally Carolyn Greene’s An Eligible Bachelor has a very special secondary character—along with a delightful hero and heroine!

Happy reading!

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor

Booties and the Beast

Valerie Parv

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my sisters Maureen and Leigh, with love

Books by Valerie Parv

Silhouette Romance

The Leopard Tree #507

The Billionaire’s Baby Chase #1270

Baby Wishes and Bachelor Kisses #1313

*The Monarch’s Son #1459

*The Prince’s Bride-To-Be #1465

*The Princess’s Proposal #1471

Booties and the Beast #1501

VALERIE PARV

lives and breathes romance and has even written a guide to being romantic, crediting her cartoonist husband of nearly thirty years as her inspiration. As a former buffalo and crocodile hunter in Australia’s Northern Territory, he’s ready-made hero material, she says.

When not writing her novels and nonfiction books, or speaking about romance on Australian radio and television, Valerie enjoys dollhouses, being a Star Trek fan and playing with food (in cooking, that is). Valerie agrees with actor Nichelle Nichols, who said, “The difference between fantasy and fact is that fantasy simply hasn’t happened yet.”

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Chapter One

Now that Haley Glen was actually standing at the gates of Sam Winton’s mansion she wasn’t sure she could go through with her plan. Everything in her wanted to grab him by the throat and not let go until he admitted that he was the father of her sister’s baby boy.

Joel was six months old now and Ellen had been gone for five of those months, but this was Haley’s first chance to get near the man. She hadn’t anticipated being gripped by a wave of last-minute nerves that threatened to paralyze her.

She reminded herself that it had taken all her powers of persuasion to get her friend, Miranda Holt, to send her to this interview. If she chickened out now, she would be letting her friend down as well as Ellen and the baby, so she had no choice but to see it through.

If it killed her.

On a heavy sigh, she reached for the intercom button and took out some of her frustration by punching it savagely and holding it down longer than was polite. From somewhere in the grounds of the mansion, she heard the howl of what sounded like a very large dog.

Moments later an angry voice boomed through the speaker, “No need to ram it through the fence. State your name and business.”

She bit back a suggestion of her own about where he could ram the intercom and said as sweetly as she could, “I’m Haley Glen from the HomeBody Agency to see Sam Winton about your house sitter.” She was gambling that the voice belonged to Sam himself but something in his tone made her think she was right.

She was. “I’m Winton. What’s wrong with Miranda?”

Miranda was the owner of the HomeBody Agency. Normally she would see a client as important as Sam herself and Winton was obviously well aware of it. “She’s tied up with…” As her annoyance grew, Haley swallowed the rest of her apology for Miranda’s absence. “Do you think we could discuss this face-to-face, Mr. Winton? Or would you rather conduct the entire meeting by intercom?”

A buzz like a swarm of angry bees drowned out his reply as the tall, iron gates swung gracefully inward. Haley got back into her car and drove through. As soon as she had cleared the gates they closed behind her. Common sense told her they were triggered by some kind of sensor mechanism, but she felt an uncomfortable sensation of prison doors clanging shut.

She pulled up outside the imposing Federation-style house and got out but was stopped by a blur of movement she caught out of the corner of her eye. The owner of the Baskerville howl came tearing around the side of the house, churning gravel under its floor mop feet. Haley barely had time to scramble back into the car and pull the door shut, before a dog the size of a small pony threw itself at the window. Her heart pounded as she stared down a throat rimmed by teeth that would have done a shark proud.

“Down, Dougal. Heel.”

The command was given with all the authority of a major general, so Haley wasn’t surprised when the dog bolted away from her car window as if shot. Had the command been directed at her, she would probably have obeyed it, too. She shivered and wondered if it was from reaction to the sudden appearance of the dog—or its master.

Haley was relieved when the dog settled itself meekly at the heels of the man waiting at the foot of the front steps. It was Sam Winton himself, she saw, recognizing him from the photograph on his books. Except that her first sight of him in the flesh destroyed most of her preconceptions in one go.

She didn’t know what she had expected the children’s writer to look like, but it wasn’t this vibrant man who exuded energy the way high-voltage wires hum with power. His skin was burnished with healthy color, and his hair was as black as baby Joel’s only a lot thicker. It curled almost to his collar, it was in a style that reminded her of medieval knights in old movies, though instead of armor this knight was poised in an ivory polo shirt and chinos as black as his hair.

She was used to thinking of him as The Beast, her sister’s nickname for him, but he didn’t look in the least beastly. He was taller than she had imagined, perhaps half a head taller than Haley herself. He was also well built, but not with the showy musculature of an athlete as much as someone who simply took care of himself.

Right now, the most beastly thing about him was the deep vee of a frown that cut a swathe between two of the bluest eyes she had ever seen. His frown deepened as she looked warily at the dog. “You can get out now. He won’t hurt you.”

When she did so, the man reached for her hand and a jolt like electricity surged along her arm, affirming the high-voltage impression she’d already formed. She tried to pull away but his grip was like steel. Alarm shrilled through her. “What are you…”

He offered her hand to Dougal, who sniffed it, making her wonder if the dog’s next move would be to swallow her hand up to the wrist. He looked more than capable of it. But Sam said, “Friend, Dougal. Friend.”

At first the dog’s tail moved listlessly then waved like a banner in a stiff breeze and he gave her hand in Sam’s a mighty lick. Relief coursed through her and she rubbed the dog’s shaggy chest with her free hand. His wiry coat teased her palm and he lowered his great head and butted her gently. She smiled, wondering how she could have been afraid of the shaggy animal for a minute. “Good dog.”

Sam nodded approvingly, obviously noting that she hadn’t made the elementary mistake of trying to pat the dog on the head. “You know dogs?”

“I love them. When I was a child, I had an Australian kelpie called Buddy.” The feel of her hand in his distracted her, making it hard to think straight.

He didn’t seem to notice her discomfort, keeping his fingers threaded through hers as he straightened. “You bolted as soon as Dougal appeared.”

Naturally, he’d seen her undignified scramble back into the car. It put her at a further disadvantage and she drew herself up defensively. “For all I knew, he was a guard dog, trained to eat intruders.” She didn’t add, “like his owner,” but it must have been in her voice.

When he released her hand, she chased away a surprising sensation of disappointment. “Dougal is supposed to be a guard dog, but he’s more likely to lick an intruder to death in his joy at having company.”

A feeling not shared by his owner, she thought, not sure where the certainty came from. “Do you get many intruders?”

“Not with Dougal around. Off you go. Finish your bone.” At the magic word, the dog’s ears twitched and he loped back the way he’d come. Sam gestured toward the steps. “Shall we go inside?”

His sudden switch to a businesslike tone chilled the atmosphere as effectively as a stiff breeze shredding a mist. For a moment she wondered if he could possibly know who she was, then realized that his anger was in response to hers. This would never do if she was to get to know him better. “I’m sorry if I sounded rude down the intercom when I arrived,” she said, biting back any hint of self-justification by reminding herself that Miranda trusted her to behave herself.

“You did,” he agreed, “But you also had a point.”

His response told her it was as close to an apology as she was going to get so she followed him into the rambling old house. He led the way down a wide arched hallway past a double living room furnished with wonderful antique furniture, past the partially open door of a bedroom that looked recently vacated. Had he been sleeping in the middle of the afternoon? she wondered. But then he was a writer. He probably worked unconventional hours.

He pulled the bedroom door shut before she could do more than glimpse a vast four-poster bed covered in rumpled bedclothes that suggested he was either the world’s most restless sleeper or did some of his entertaining in bed.

The thought troubled her, making her wonder why it was harder to think of him as a beast, lonely and unloved, than as a sexual athlete for whom her sister had been one of many conquests. Both images took her into territory she resisted exploring. His personal life had nothing to do with her reason for wanting to meet him.

He opened another door on a vast library with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books. Many of them were reference books on a wide variety of subjects, she saw when she scanned them with instinctive curiosity. Off the library, another door led to what looked like an office, judging by the computers, printers and other paraphernalia visible through the opening. His work space looked chaotic. Surprising, she thought, since he appeared to be the kind of man who liked his life run with military precision.

“Take a seat.” He gestured to a leather-covered couch. Iron-gray hairs scattered over the soft leather suggested that Dougal often kept him company while he worked. The thought almost made her melt until she resolutely drove it away. So he allowed his dog to sleep on an obviously expensive piece of furniture. So what? It didn’t make Sam any less The Beast than before.

“Coffee?” Sam asked as she perched on the edge of the sofa. He probably thought she feared getting dog hair on her clothes. If he knew the real reason why she was so on edge, he’d probably command his dog to see her on her way.

“Thank you,” she said. Socializing with Sam Winton wasn’t part of her plan, but the liquid might help to ease the dryness in her throat. “I like it black with no sugar.”

“Sensible woman,” he muttered. When she frowned, he said, “It’s the only way to drink decent coffee. I have mine flown in from the Kona Coast in Hawaii.”

“How nice for you,” she said under her breath, mentally contrasting his freedom to order coffee from halfway across the Pacific with her own need to watch every penny to provide for baby Joel and herself. Most of her savings had been spent easing Ellen’s last months, as well as paying the many medical bills that hadn’t been covered by her sister’s insurance, so being broke was a way of life for her these days.

As a computer consultant, usually she was well paid, but since Ellen’s death, the hours she could work had been restricted by the need to care for Joel. It was one reason why she had jumped at helping Miranda for a couple of weeks. Not only could she take the baby to the office with her, but the salary was helping to cover some of the endless stream of bills.

Haley’s mother and stepfather, Greg, had helped as much as they could, but they were both hopeless with money so most of the burden fell on Haley herself. She hadn’t grudged her sister anything that had eased her final months, but she didn’t appreciate the reminder that Sam Winton could have helped if he’d wanted to.

“I didn’t catch that,” he said, drawing her back to the present. “Don’t you like Hawaiian coffee?”

“I…uh…said it’s very nice,” she improvised. All of a sudden she felt a pressing need to get out of there before she threw something at Sam. What had possessed her to think any good would come of meeting Sam face-to-face? When Ellen had told him she was expecting his baby, he hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms. The opposite, in fact. According to Ellen, he had told her in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t possibly be the father of her child and had all but thrown her out of his house.

It tore at Haley to recall that Ellen’s tumor had been in remission for a whole year when she’d started working with Sam as an illustrator for one of his books. They would never know whether the remission would have gone on if not for Ellen falling pregnant—and after seeing him, Haley didn’t doubt that Joel was Sam’s baby—but the strain of pregnancy hadn’t helped. Ellen’s life had ended one short month after giving birth to Joel. Only seeing the joy the baby had given her sister, eased Haley’s grief. She knew that Ellen wouldn’t have wanted anything to be different.

Except Sam’s reaction. Her sister had been devastated by his rejection. After all her medical treatments, Ellen had been so sure she couldn’t become pregnant that she hadn’t taken any precautions. Ellen hadn’t gone into details, but Haley assumed that Sam hadn’t taken any, either. Despite the obvious fact they’d slept together, he couldn’t know Ellen very well if he thought she was the type to have any doubts about who had fathered her child.

He probably thought she had picked on Sam because of his fame and obvious wealth. Only Haley knew that Ellen had given herself to Sam out of a moment of acute loneliness and fear. She had been awaiting the results of her latest checkup.

Haley had heard the whole story late one night, several months after they’d learned that Ellen’s illness was back, when her pain made sleep impossible. Hearing her toss and turn, Haley had gone in to see if she could help, not that there was much she or anyone could do, but talking was one way she could take Ellen’s mind off her suffering for a little while.

After Ellen had been working with Sam for some time, she told Haley, she had arrived to find Sam methodically tearing to shreds the divorce papers he’d received in the mail that morning.

In turmoil herself as she waited for her doctor to call with the results of the checkup, she had been as averse to working as Sam and they had taken comfort in each other’s company. He hadn’t known why Ellen was so distressed but he’d sensed that she’d needed his arms as much as he’d needed hers. Joel had been the result.

Knowing what hell her half sister had gone through before she went into remission, Haley couldn’t blame Ellen for taking what pleasure she could in the moment. She also knew her sister’s instinct would have been to try to help Sam. She had always been a giving person.

Haley didn’t blame The Beast for seeking comfort after receiving the cold, hard proof that his marriage was over. Haley knew only too well how it felt when a relationship blew apart. She had been seeing Richard Cross, a business associate, for a few months, and had thought they were becoming close, when he told her bluntly to choose between him and her sister’s baby. She had felt as if her world had come to an end. There had been no real choice. She didn’t regret choosing the baby. But it still hurt.

She couldn’t do anything to hold Richard, even supposing she wanted to after his cruel ultimatum. But she could and did blame Sam for his coldhearted refusal to accept his share of responsibility for Ellen’s baby. The thought gave Haley the strength to do the job Miranda had trusted her to do. Haley opened her brief case and took out a file. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather skip coffee and get on with the purpose of this meeting.”

Sam gave a suit-yourself shrug. “I hope you don’t mind if I have some. I’ve been working since five this morning.” Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared into his office. Her anger notched higher as she heard the hiss of an espresso machine followed by the chink of a spoon against porcelain. Sam definitely didn’t stint himself.

Apart from the luxury of an espresso machine in his office, the room around her screamed affluence from the Cedric Emmanuel etchings on the walls to the designer furnishings. Thinking of Joel back at the office with Miranda, Haley began to seethe. How dare Sam spoil himself while his son had so little?

When Sam returned, cup in hand, the rich aroma of the coffee teased at her nostrils. She wished she hadn’t been so hasty in refusing some. Depriving herself wasn’t going to bring Sam into line, and her prickly behavior just might make him suspicious of her real motives.

“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” he asked, setting his cup down on a side table.

“No, thank you,” she said, astonished that she could actually speak through clenched teeth. She had known that meeting Sam wouldn’t be a picnic, but she had never expected it to be this much of an ordeal. Nor that it would bring back so much of the past tragic year, when she’d nursed Ellen through her pregnancy, knowing that her illness had recurred.

She had had to put her grief at losing her sister aside to take care of the baby. She had come to look upon Joel as her own child. Her anger at Sam was precisely because she now thought of Joel as her baby, she realized. There was no way she could be as objective as she wanted to be—as Miranda needed her to be—so they’d better get this over with before she said something she would regret. “I’d like to get down to business.”

He prowled to the couch and sat beside her, so close, their thighs were within a whisper of touching. “Not until you tell me why you’re so angry with me,” he insisted. The invasion of her personal space was the last straw.

Yet anger was the last thing she felt when he was practically touching her, she found to her astonishment. What she felt was insanely, vibrantly aroused, and it was not how she wanted to feel around him.

“What makes you think I’m angry?” she asked, managing to keep her voice steady with an effort that made her teeth ache.

“A writer’s instinct for reading people,” he said. “My guess is, you can barely restrain yourself from throwing something at me, and I’d like to know why. It can’t be because I growled at you over the intercom. I was still in midscene and when I’m writing, I can be a real bear. Miranda must have warned you about me.”

She shook her head, taking refuge in the truth. “I got the impression you’re one of her favorite clients.”

He smiled and the change was dramatic. She felt as if someone had turned on a sunlamp in the room, and actually found herself leaning toward him as if to the source of the energy. She pulled back with an effort. “Mine is a personal problem.”

The word “personal” would have been enough to deter most men. But Sam looked interested. “Personal as in a man?”

Without meaning to, she had hooked the writer in him, she saw. She would have to be more careful. “I really don’t think—”

“My point exactly,” he cut in. “You can’t think straight when you’re preoccupied with another matter. Do I remind you of this man who’s on your mind?”

If he only knew. She tried to keep her face impassive. Sam was too intuitive to accept an outright denial. “Perhaps.”

“It would explain the displaced antagonism,” he said as if to himself. “Sorry, analyzing people is a hobby of mine, as it is with most writers.”

“But you’re a children’s writer.”

He looked affronted. “My readers still expect believable characters with convincing motivation. The only difference is that my stories are written at an appropriate level of vocabulary.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest anything else.”

His shoulders lifted. “I’m used to it. Demeaning children’s literature is a spectator sport for some people. Do you have children of your own, Haley?”

“I hardly see—”

“That it’s any of my business?” he finished for her. “You’re probably right, but if we’re to be on the same wavelength, I need to know more about you.”

If it was a line, it was as smooth as silk, Haley thought. No wonder Ellen had found him so easy to fall for. Luckily she wasn’t going to make the same mistake. “All you need to know about me is that Miranda sent me to take care of your staffing needs.”

“Precisely,” he concluded. “So, do you have children?”

He was impossible. “Yes,” she snapped. Anything to get the discussion back on track.

“Boys? Girls?”

How old did he think she was? “Boy, singular. I’m only twenty-three myself. Joel is six months old, so you won’t find him standing in line for your autograph.”

Sam seemed unruffled. “He’s a bit young for my books,” he agreed, “Although hopefully they’ll still be around when he starts reading.”

This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She made herself remember Miranda’s script. “I’m sure they will,” she said in what was supposed to be a flattering tone.

He saw right through it. “This man you’re so mad at, is he Joel’s father?”

This, at least, she could answer truthfully. “Yes, he is.”

She felt his gaze settle on the third finger of her left hand. “You’re not married to him?”

Cursing herself for not thinking to wear a ring as camouflage, she snapped, “I should hope not.”

Her vehemence intrigued him, she saw. “You have a child by him but you don’t want him in your life. Interesting.”