Daddy, He Wrote

The baby grinned at him.

Ian heard Trish coming down the hall and jumped back from the crib.

“I didn’t hear her cry.” She frowned at the baby monitor, then looked back up at him worriedly. “I’m so sorry if she disturbed you from your writing.”

“Not at all. I came down for coffee and she was awake.” He couldn’t tell if he had offended Trish by checking on the baby. “Do you mind if I talk to her?”

A surprised expression flashed across Trish’s beautiful, flushed face. “Oh, not at all,” she said in a rush. “I just don’t want you to be bothered, Mr. Miller.”

Ian shrugged, secretly flattered that she, so protective of her child, trusted him. “Trish, she’s no bother. In fact, when you have to go outside, let me know. That way you don’t have to worry about her.”

He amazed himself as he heard the words coming out of his mouth. Ian Miller, confirmed bachelor, had just offered to baby-sit. If anyone had told him he’d be doing that a month ago, he’d have laughed out loud.

Next thing he knew, he’d be writing a baby into his story!

Dear Reader,

Let this month’s collection of Silhouette Romance books sweep you into the poetry of love!

Roses are red,

or white in the case of these Nighttime Sweethearts (SR #1754) by Cara Colter. Scarred both physically and emotionally, this cynical architect will only woo his long-lost love under the protection of night. Can a bright beauty tame this dark beast? Find out in the fourth title of Silhouette Romance’s exquisite IN A FAIRY TALE WORLD… miniseries.

Violets are blue,

like the eyes of the ladies’ man in Myrna Mackenzie’s latest, Instant Marriage, Just Add Groom (SR #1755). All business, even in his relationships, this hardened hero would never father a child without the protection of marriage—but he didn’t count on falling for the prim bookseller next door!

Cupid’s at play,

and he’s got the use of more than arrows for matchmaking! Even a blinding blizzard can bring two reluctant people together. Watch the steam rise when a gruff, reclusive writer is stranded with a single mom and her adorable baby in Daddy, He Wrote (SR #1756) by Jill Limber.

And magic, too!

With only six days left to break her curse, Cat knew she couldn’t count on finding true love. Until she happened upon a dark, reticent veterinarian with a penchant for rescuing animals—and damsels—in distress! You’re sure to be enchanted by Shirley Jump’s SOULMATES story, Kissed by Cat (SR #1757).

May love find you this Valentine’s Day!

Mavis C. Allen

Associate Senior Editor

Daddy, He Wrote

Jill Limber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Teresa, the best kind of friend.

No matter what, I know I can count on you!

Books by Jill Limber

Silhouette Romance

The 15 lb. Matchmaker #1593

Captivating a Cowboy #1664

Daddy, He Wrote #1756

Silhouette Intimate Moments

Secrets of an Old Flame #1226

JILL LIMBER

lives in San Diego with her husband. Now that her children are grown, their two dogs keep her company while she sits at her computer writing stories. A native Californian, she enjoys the beach, loves to swim in the ocean and for relaxation she daydreams and reads romances. You can learn more about Jill by visiting her Web site at www.JillLimber.com.

Blacksmith Farm To Do List:

1) Make Mr. Miller breakfast

2) Wash Emma’s bibs and blankets

3) Stop thinking about sexy new boss!

4) Feed the horses, the cat and the dog

5) Wash kitchen floor

6) Stop thinking about sexy new boss!!

7) Buy groceries

8) Stop thinking about sexy new boss!!!

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 Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

Trish dropped the box of books she’d just begun to unpack and grabbed the telephone before the ringing could wake three-month-old Emma. If the baby hadn’t been in the room, she’d let the machine pick up. She’d been dodging phone calls for three months.

Heart pounding, she said, “Hello, Blacksmith Farm.”

“Is this the housekeeper?” an arrogant-sounding female voice asked.

Trish answered, knowing this could be the call that ended her job. If that happened, she and Emma would be homeless. “Yes. This is Trish—”

The impatient caller cut her off. “This is Joyce Sommers. I’m Mr. Miller’s business manager.”

Mr. Miller was the new owner of Blacksmith Farm. Trish waited through the woman’s dramatic pause, wanting to make a sarcastic comment but knowing that would not be the wisest step, considering her circumstances.

“I have a list of things that need to be done before Mr. Miller arrives.”

Trish sat down at the desk, fearing her shaky legs might not support her. If she was getting instructions she still had the job. On a giddy wave of relief she started scribbling furiously to get down everything Ms. Sommers wanted accomplished in the next two days.

She assured Ms. Sommers that everything would be done before Mr. Miller visited, then the woman hung up without even a goodbye.

With a shaking hand, Trish replaced the receiver and stared at the telephone. Relief spread through her, and she felt the knot of tension between her shoulder blades ease a bit.

Despite her worry, Trish supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. The caretaker came with the property, just like the furnishings and the animals. The old owners had sold everything, lock, stock and barrel, literally.

If she was lucky, the new owner would spend as little time here as the old owner had.

She glanced over at Emma, sound asleep on her back in a wash basket lined with a quilt, her tiny hands curled into fists and her mouth making little sucking motions.

Trish’s heart swelled with love every time she looked at her daughter.

In their short marriage, Billy had been a miserable husband and an indifferent father, but he’d given her Emma. Part of Trish would thank him forever for that.

Through the window of the study, just past the barn, she could see the cracked shingles of the old stone farmhouse that went with the caretaker’s job. It had no heat except the fireplace; the electrical wiring was ancient and undependable; and the water pump didn’t work when the power was out. She loved every square leaky, drafty inch of it. It was hers, the first place she had ever been able to call home.

Trish emptied the box she’d been working to unpack before Ms. Sommers’s call, and realized all the books were multiple copies of the ones written by the new owner.

She looked at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases on the west wall, trying to decide where to put one of each of Mr. Miller’s books. He’d be proud of his work and want them at eye level, she decided, where people would see them when they came in the room.

She carried an armload to the shelves. This was her favorite room in the house. She loved to read.

She shelved a copy of each volume and ran her fingers down the spines to make sure they were aligned. The rest she stored in a cupboard.

What would it be like to be rich and live in a house like this and have enough time to read every day? In her dreams she pictured Emma and herself in a big, safe, cozy house like this. She’d have a housekeeper and a gardener. She’d have time to play with Emma whenever she wanted, and after she tucked Emma into bed at night, she’d curl up in the big flowered chair in the front room and read until bedtime.

Trish sighed at her own foolishness as she dusted the shelves. He must be very smart to write these books. She’d read all of them. Ian Miller was one of the most popular authors today. He hit the New York Times best-seller list with each new book.

She pulled out a volume of his latest release and studied the black-and-white picture of him on the dust jacket. Incredibly handsome, he looked more like a movie star than a writer. He was dressed in a tux and had a glass of champagne in his hand.

Trish smiled. He wouldn’t spend much time here. She loved the farm and this wonderful old restored house, but it was way out in the middle of the Pennsylvania countryside, miles from his home in Philadelphia and the glittering New York life someone like Ian Miller would be used to.

He’d be like the previous owner. He and his wife said they wanted a retreat from the stressful life in Manhattan, but they rarely used the farm.

They’d stocked the place with horses and a cow, then they’d split their time between a flat in London and a penthouse apartment in New York.

Trish would never understand how rich people’s minds worked.

She traced her finger over the picture of the elegant-looking man and smiled.

No, he wouldn’t spend time here.

She and Emma would have their little stone house.

Ian Miller considered heaving the telephone against the wall in frustration. “Joyce, I thought I made it clear I wasn’t doing any more publicity appearances or book signings for a while.”

Her cool, steady voice, a sound that he was starting to hate, made a falsely sympathetic murmur. “I know, Ian, but you agreed to this tour before the holidays. Before you made that ultimatum.”

Her tone told him just what she thought of his warning.

Ian hadn’t remembered agreeing to any such thing, but when he was on deadline he knew he sometimes said what Joyce wanted to hear just to get her off the telephone. “When do I leave?”

“A car will pick you up tomorrow morning at seven.”

He groaned. He’d planned to work all day tomorrow, even though he knew what he’d been writing lately was worthless and would never end up in a book. He’d been promoted as a “boy wonder” with his first book, had phenomenal success with all his subsequent releases and now was in danger of burning out before he turned thirty.

He’d never hit such a slump in his writing career. It was driving him crazy. He felt a compulsion to write a different kind of book, but the effort was going nowhere and frustrating the hell out of him.

He turned his attention back to Joyce, who was droning away about some party she’d attended. Some party where he should have been, to meet people.

He cut her off. “How long will I be gone?” He really needed to fire her, then he wouldn’t have to do tours and book signings.

He probably would have let her go by now if they hadn’t had a history. The affair was over, but he felt guilty about firing her. He didn’t want her to think that because he was no longer having sex with her he had no further need of her.

“Ian?”

Obviously, he hadn’t been paying attention. “What?”

“I did schedule in a stop at the farm.” He could hear the disdain in her voice. Joyce thought the farm was a bad idea and had been very vocal about it.

That almost made the trip sound good. He rubbed at the tension headache building up between his eyes.

“Okay. I’ll be ready at seven.”

He hung up and stared out his penthouse window at the streets. The trees had all lost their leaves, and he could see people, hundreds of them, bundled against the cold, walking their dogs, their children and each other.

Ian had no use for other people. He’d discovered early on that a fair number of his fellow city dwellers bordered on crazy.

A month ago he’d been followed home from a lunch with his editor by two middle-aged women who had barged into his building behind him, sidestepped the doorman and insisted they wanted to see his apartment.

Just last week he’d found a young woman sitting on the hood of his car in the secured underground parking garage in his building, holding a copy of his latest book. Wearing a very short skirt and top that showed her navel, complete with a diamond stud, she’d made it very clear she was interested in more than an autograph.

Ian cursed the day Joyce had talked him into letting his publisher put his picture on the dust jacket of his book. They’d just started their affair and she’d been very persuasive. Now he supposed removing the picture from future covers would be like closing the barn door after the horse had escaped, but he craved anonymity.

He wanted so badly to be out of the city where he’d grown up. Aside from insane fans, he was tired of the social whirl and the constant interruptions. He wanted to be alone, at the farm he’d just bought. He was sure that in the solitude of the Pennsylvania country-side he would rediscover his creativity.

He’d spent a total of an hour there, inspecting the property. It had felt so right to him, he’d bought it on the spot. He loved everything about it. The quiet, the isolation, the fact that aside from an old stone farmhouse where the caretakers lived, you couldn’t even see another house.

The main house, a restored plank house, was plenty big, with its warm, inviting and comfortable interior.

The whole place was obviously well cared for. He hadn’t met the people who worked there, but if they stayed out of Ian’s way and did their jobs, Ian didn’t care if he ever met them.

He’d always needed complete quiet and solitude to write. Philadelphia was becoming impossible. Not only did fans hound him, but his parents demanded he be a part of their busy society circle, as if he were some kind of trophy they’d acquired.

He’d considered moving to New York to be closer to his publisher and editor, but that was as bad as Philadelphia. He was tired of being pressured to show up at the important parties, invited because of his fame. No one wanted to know him, they just wanted to be seen with him.

The more he declined what Joyce described as the “significant invitations,” the more popular he became.

The business end of his life was no better. He’d hired an army of people to take care of things. Joyce, his agent, a property manager, an accountant, and they just seemed to complicate his life instead of freeing him up.

He wanted to be able to write in peace and quiet, live an uncomplicated life with no interruptions. He wanted what Thoreau had sought, his own Walden Pond.

No entanglements.

Maybe then he could get his old spark back and write a decent book to give to his publisher. He had a deadline looming, and nothing he was willing to show anyone, especially his editor.

He closed the program on his laptop and went to pack, his spirits lifting at the thought he would at least get to stop at the farm.

When he returned home he’d have the rest of the things he wanted to take with him packed and shipped. If the place turned out to be as conducive to work as he hoped, he’d think about putting his apartment up for sale.

Chapter Two

Trish was working in the barn when she heard the car coming up the driveway that led only to the farm.

It couldn’t be him, not yet, she thought frantically, looking down at her filthy clothes.

He wasn’t scheduled to arrive for three hours. Thank goodness she’d finished getting the house ready this morning.

She dumped her shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow and yanked off her gloves. Wiping her hands on the rag stuffed in her pocket, she walked over to glance into the basket on the workbench where Emma had just fallen asleep. She tucked the warm blanket securely around her daughter and kissed her forehead with a brush of her lips.

“Finish your nap, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Mama will be just outside.”

Emma always slept for at least an hour this time of the day, but Trish hated to leave her alone, even though she’d be only a short distance away.

She grabbed Tollie’s collar and shut him in the goat pen. The old blind mutt didn’t have the sense to stay out from under the wheels of the car.

Running her fingers through her short hair, she wished she’d had time to shower and change before she met the famous Ian Miller.

When she stepped out into the thin winter sunshine, the limousine was making a turn in the area between the barn and the main house. The car’s windows were tinted with such dark glass she couldn’t see the occupants of the car.

The car pulled to a stop about twenty feet from her, and a middle-aged driver in a rumpled suit jumped out and opened the rear door.

Ian Miller stepped out, his attention on the house. Her breath caught in her throat. The man was devastatingly handsome, much more than his photograph had shown.

He paid no attention to her. Either he hadn’t seen her or he was as rude as his business manager.

She pushed aside a feeling of disappointment. It didn’t matter, she told herself. The less he noticed her the better if she was going to be able to pull off her plan to keep both jobs.

His inattention gave her a chance to collect herself and study him. He was tall, over six feet, with thick, well-cut black hair.

His clothes were beautiful. He wore a gray-and-navy tweed jacket over broad shoulders, a navy turtleneck sweater and gray wool slacks, perfectly tailored to fit to his slim hips. His leather shoes looked costly and new.

Even from where she stood she could see he had strong square hands with clean, well-tended fingernails and an expensive-looking gold wristwatch.

The man was elegant. She’d never met a man who looked as classy as Ian Miller.

Self-consciously Trish smoothed the front of the flannel shirt that hung to her knees, wishing her boots weren’t caked with manure. She wore Billy’s clothes when she was working, to save wear and tear on what little wardrobe she had.

The limousine driver spotted her and tipped his hat. He cleared his throat, and Mr. Miller turned to him, one eyebrow quirked in question.

Then he looked past the driver and saw her. He went very still, his face etched with a brief flash of surprise, then his expression went blank as he looked her up and down. She noticed he had gorgeous blue eyes. The shade of blue the sky turned at twilight, deep and rich.

Trish sucked in a breath. This was it. She needed to appear competent to keep her job. She was good at bluffing. When you grew up the way she had, it was a necessary survival skill.

She plastered a smile on her face and took a step toward him. She didn’t miss the flash of suspicion that crossed his handsome face.

“Mr. Miller?”

He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, as if he’d been caught by someone he didn’t care to see. She didn’t have time to wonder at his curious reaction to her.

Nervously she smiled again, wondering if he could see how strained the expression felt on her face. She stopped about ten feet from the car and him. “I’m Trish Ryan.”

“You’re the housekeeper?” His expression relaxed a little but remained guarded as he nodded. “Ms. Ryan, I’m pleased to meet you.” His voice was deep, mellow and had a faint upper-class sound to it.

Trish didn’t think he looked pleased at all, but she had the sense not to mention it. “Welcome to Blacksmith Farm.”

“Thank you,” he replied politely.

His apparent lack of interest in her helped to put her at ease. “Can I show you the house?” she asked, hoping the answer would be no.

She wouldn’t leave Emma alone in the barn, and if he said yes she’d have to go and get her daughter. She’d rather he didn’t know about Emma. Her gut told her Emma was a complication she should avoid explaining on their first meeting.

He looked down at her boots and shook his head. Trish felt a spurt of relief. If she were him she wouldn’t want her boots in the house, either.

Then he looked beyond her with a scowl. She turned and saw he was looking at the paddock beside the barn where two of the three horses were placidly grazing. Max stood with his head hanging over the fence, watching her. He was more like a dog than a horse, following her with his curious three-legged gait whenever she worked around the barn or paddock.

“Didn’t Ms. Sommers tell you to get rid of the animals?” he asked curtly.

Trish nodded. “Yes. The cow has already been sold to the neighbors. The dealer who’s taking the horses is coming tomorrow morning.”

She never could figure out why the former owner had wanted a cow. They never even drank milk the few times they stayed at the farm. Rich people baffled her with their lack of sense.

Mr. Miller nodded and turned his attention back to the house. He had a marvelous profile, very strong and masculine.

Trish stood there, impatiently waiting for him to say something. She needed to get back to Emma. And to work.

A horse whinnied loudly from the paddock. She recognized Max’s voice. He was a big baby, but she really would miss him.

Trish pushed the sentimental thought away. What did she need with a three-legged horse?

She was exhausted caring for her daughter, the house, the animals and the property. It would make her life easier if she didn’t have to maintain the animals, especially now that cold winter weather had set in.

She wouldn’t miss milking the cow twice a day, but she already regretted not having fresh milk. She’d learned to make butter and had been going to try to make cheese. Having the cow had saved on groceries and reduced the hassle of taking the bus to the supermarket as often.

A cold breeze raised goose bumps on her arms, and she glanced at the barn. Even though Emma was all bundled up and snug in her basket, it was still chilly.

She couldn’t figure out how to speed up his visit without being too obvious, so she decided to get a business detail out of the way.

She cleared her throat, and he turned away from his perusal of the house. “I assume you want the money from the sale of the animals deposited in the household account?”

Mr. Miller shrugged. “I suppose. Do you keep the accounts?”

Trish nodded. She kept painfully detailed records of all the money she deposited and spent out of the Blacksmith Farm account.

She had to buy more fuel oil soon and pay the men who were working in the orchard this week.

“Fine. If you need more operating money, I’ll give you the name of my accountant. He’ll check your records and see you get what you need.”

The horses should bring a great deal of money at auction, so she wouldn’t have to ask for quite a while.

She was glad to hear him say he was turning the financial dealings over to an accountant. That was what someone who didn’t plan to spend much time here would do.

He turned back to the house, staring at the exterior. She suppressed a shiver and wondered what he was doing, just standing out here in the cold, looking. “Are you sure I can’t show you around?”

He seemed to come out of his trance. “No. I’ll go in by myself. Is the house locked?” Absently he fished around in his pocket as if he could come up with a key. She wondered if he had one.

“No. Both the front and back are open.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized her mistake. She braced herself for a rebuke for leaving his property unlocked.

Way out here in the country it seemed perfectly reasonable to her to leave the doors open during the day.

He smiled, as if it amused him. “Unlocked,” he muttered. “Good.”