The Miracle Twins

He was so absorbed in studying the twins that he couldn’t even remember how he’d come to be holding the photograph. “Where did you get this?”

“The children—the twins—have been placed in my care.”

His forehead creased. The twins were dark as the finest chocolate. Wisps of black fluff dusted the tops of their heads and eyes bright as new coins stared curiously in the direction of the camera’s lens. Judging by the clarity of the shot and the haunting quality of the image, the photo had probably been taken by Lucy. During her undergraduate studies, she’d made a name for herself with her stark portrait photography—a sideline job that had helped Lucy pay her way through college.

With a wave of shame, Nick realized that Lucy had been honest in insisting that she’d come to him for medical reasons rather than personal ones. He could only imagine how much it had cost her pride to approach him.

Nevertheless, as he traced a thumb over the photograph, a part of Nick urged him to say no once again and send Lucy on her way. He’d be a fool to put himself into a position of working closely with her. But even as he considered refusing, he knew the children’s plight couldn’t be ignored.

“Where were they born?”

“In Zaire, in a village along the Congo River. They were left in an orphanage after their mother died in childbirth.”

“How old are they?”

“Nearly three months.”

“They’re awfully small for three months.”

“They are underweight for their age. When their mother died, the hospital had a hard time obtaining breast milk. The children have had some difficulties adjusting to formula. A good portion of their food has to be administered through a feeding tube.”

Bit by bit, the significance of Lucy’s visit began to sink in. Nick knew instinctively that Lucy hadn’t come to him merely for advice. She wanted more than that. Much more.

“You’re here to see if they can be separated.”

It wasn’t a question, but Lucy nodded.

He took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can help.”

“Don’t say no. Please. I trust you. I trust your skills as a surgeon. You have to examine them at least. I’ve already made arrangements for their travel. They’ll be arriving by chartered plane tomorrow evening.”

His eyes narrowed, moving from the picture to Lucy’s anxious face. “You took a lot for granted.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I don’t want just anyone to operate on them. I want the best. Someone I can trust.”

Nick fought the warmth that followed her statements. He found it incredible that after everything that had happened between them, she still felt she could trust him.

Yet she hadn’t trusted him enough to marry him.

“Please say you’ll consider my request, Nick. That’s all I ask.”

Nick knew in his gut that he should refer her to another surgeon altogether, but he held back. There was only a handful of pediatric specialists in the country who might be willing to take on an assignment like this.

But as he confronted the hope shining in her eyes, he admitted that his reasons for resisting weren’t entirely professional.

Nodding his head, Nick reluctantly agreed. “I’ll do a cursory evaluation when they get here, but I can’t make any promises about surgery. Not until I’ve seen them.”

Relief flooded her eyes, darkening them to a rich mossy shade. It was those eyes—which changed from icy sage to rich green with her emotions—that had first drawn Nick’s attention so long ago. Lucy had once told him she’d never been any good at lying because she couldn’t keep her gaze from revealing her true state of mind. Nick was glad to see that moving from one hot spot in the world to another hadn’t changed that.

Unable to keep back the words, he murmured, “It is good to see you, Lucy.”

She suddenly became aware of the palm she’d laid on his forearm. When she would have backed away, he cupped his hand beneath her chin, holding her face up to the light.

“Are you happy?”

He didn’t know what had made him ask, but he waited tensely, half dreading her answer. For all he knew, she might reveal that leaving him had been the best thing she’d ever done.

Ignoring his question, she released herself and said, “I’ll let you know as soon as I have the twins’ exact arrival time.”

“Fine.”

Knowing Lucy meant to leave, Nick held the picture out of her reach. The expression on her face was so similar to the one she’d worn seconds before she’d darted out of the courthouse five years ago that he experienced a rush of déjà vu.

“Don’t go yet. I need to know some specifics on the children so I can check into things at the hospital.”

She frowned. Obviously, she dreaded the thought that he might delve into their past relationship. In an attempt to reassure her, he pointed toward his office. “We can talk in there.”

She preceded him slowly into the room. As he followed her, Nick wondered why he’d been so insistent on making her stay.

Because you’re a fool, that’s why.

IT WAS CLOSE TO ten o’clock when Lucy shut the hotel room door behind her, then sagged against the panels.

In her career as a foreign correspondent, she had interviewed kings, potentates and dictators. She’d grilled criminals and mercenaries. But never, ever, had she endured a more uncomfortable two hours.

Summoning what little strength she had left after days of traveling by jeep, bus and airplane—all the while preparing for her upcoming confrontation with Nick—she peeled off her jacket, kicked off her shoes and fell onto the bed face-first.

Sleep. She needed sleep. Perhaps then, she wouldn’t cringe when she thought of her embarrassing reaction to the man. It was a testament to her mental weariness that she hadn’t been able to control her body’s wayward response.

Heaven only knew there was no reason for her to have behaved in such an adolescent fashion. At thirty-six she was too old to grow weak in the knees at the sight of a man with whom she’d once been intimately involved. She should have left as soon as he’d agreed to look at the girls. But something had caused her to linger.

As if she’d been waiting…

For what? For the conversation to become more personal? For a familiar glance? A touch?

Groaning, she pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. Perhaps the most surprising moment of the evening had come when Nick offered her the use of his guest room. Naturally, she’d refused. Staying at his home would have been too…unsettling. Too dangerous.

Sleep. She needed sleep. A few hours of uninterrupted sleep should be enough to shake off her strange reaction to an old relationship.

Lucy pushed herself up, dragged her suitcase to the foot of the bed and located an oversize T-shirt. Minutes later, she had taken the fastest shower on record and climbed between the sheets.

But the moment her head touched the pillow, her mind began replaying the evening’s events. Even more disturbing, her body ached with an unmistakable sensual awareness—one she’d sworn she wouldn’t feel again.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Lucy made herself remember all the reasons she’d ended her relationship with Nick years ago.

At the time, Lucy had still been a struggling graduate student intent on becoming a reporter. She’d known that making it to the top of her field would require constant travel, unyielding stress and overt danger. Such a lifestyle would never mesh with Nick’s. His profession as a surgeon would entail remaining in one place and leading a life dominated by his own challenging schedule.

But even as she’d insisted that this was why she couldn’t marry him, she’d been aware that there were deeper reasons. Reasons she hadn’t fully understood herself, let alone been able to explain to Nick. It had taken her years to understand that part of her motivation for remaining alone and working so hard had been to escape all vestiges of her childhood.

When Lucy was asked how she could tolerate living in a war zone, she was often tempted to tell people that she’d grown up in one. For as long as she could remember, Lucy had felt as if she were a hostage in her own home. She was an only child caught in the battleground of her parents’ loveless marriage.

George Devon had been a stern, critical man for whom nothing was ever good enough. He’d ruled his wife and his daughter with an iron hand, dictating what they would wear, what they would eat, how many pennies they would be allotted for their personal needs. He’d demanded immediate and complete obedience.

But George wasn’t the only person at fault. Although he’d ordained himself taskmaster of her parents’ relationship, her mother had become the self-appointed martyr.

Lucy grimaced. Not one day had gone by without Lucy being reminded of her mother’s unhappiness. Lillian had constantly spoken of her woes. She’d complained about the way she’d denied herself any possibility of following her own dreams in order to keep the marriage from falling apart. Yet in her zeal to retain their conventional family unit, she’d been blind to the fact that her own unhappiness had been as ravaging as George Devon’s anger. Year by year, Lucy had watched her mother wither away. Where once she’d been a joyful, loving woman, she’d soon become a sad, embittered ghost of herself. And as she’d descended into despair, she’d brought her daughter along for the ride.

When Lucy had agreed to marry Nick, it hadn’t been without misgivings. Her greatest fear had been that she wasn’t capable of sustaining a loving relationship. After all, she’d had no role models as a child. She wasn’t even sure if she believed in true love. But Nick’s exuberance had allowed Lucy to push her own concerns aside.

Lucy groaned, remembering those horrible few weeks leading up to the wedding. With each day that had passed, her worries had increased, not diminished. She’d become paralyzed with fear, certain that she’d fail to measure up to Nick’s expectations.

Finally, when she’d been sure she was about to shatter into a million pieces from the stress of it all, Lucy had realized she couldn’t be the person Nick wanted her to be. Marriage had felt like an impending prison sentence, personally and professionally. In being totally honest with herself, she’d acknowledged that her drive to succeed was as necessary as breathing. She couldn’t live without the thrill of hunting down a story. And she wouldn’t subject her loved ones to the pressures her job demanded.

And nothing had changed since then. Nothing at all.

Rolling onto her side, she pounded her pillow into shape with more force than was necessary.

Enough. She wouldn’t think about Nick or the past. She had more important concerns to occupy her thoughts—such as two little girls who’d been entrusted to her care.

Tomorrow, the twins would arrive. The nuns from the orphanage had christened them Faith and Hope, and the names fit. Not quite three months old, they had overcome enormous obstacles just to survive. So much was riding on whether or not they could be separated. They deserved the very best medical attention Lucy could provide. She couldn’t allow herself to forget that.

THE NEXT EVENING, Nick stood with his palms braced on the shower wall, the hot spray beating down on the cramped muscles of his shoulders.

There had been a time when he could complete a full day of surgery, then play a game or two of basketball at a local gym afterward. But he was beginning to discover that—try as he might to ward off the effects of turning forty with diet and exercise—his stamina wasn’t what it used to be.

Granted, the morning hadn’t started out well. He’d had his whole day booked before he even stepped through the doors of Primary Children’s Medical Center. A six-car pileup on I-15 had resulted in two youngsters being air-lifted to the hospital before dawn. At six, Nick had been in one of the operating theaters, and he hadn’t left until after seven that night.

Which meant he was tired. Bone tired.

Normally, after a punishing day Nick treated himself to a quiet evening. He’d turn on some jazz or watch a game on television. But tonight…

Tonight, he felt edgy and anxious. His house was too quiet.

Grimacing at the melancholy turn of his own thoughts, Nick squeezed shampoo into his palm and vigorously scrubbed his scalp. If he was willing to indulge in self-pity, he was getting old. Now wasn’t the time to—

A muffled noise filtered into his musings. Frowning, Nick stepped away from the spray and bent his head in the direction of the bathroom door, sure that he was mistaken. But the muted sound of the doorbell left him in no doubt that someone had chosen this inopportune moment to visit.

Cursing, he rinsed the soap out of his hair, shut off the water and grabbed a towel. Max Garcia still hadn’t dropped off the case study, and it was possible that Nick’s colleague was waiting on the stoop, but Nick doubted it. Instinctively, he knew the identity of his visitor. Grabbing a pair of jeans from the dresser, he pulled them over his hips, zipped and fastened them and pulled on a button-down shirt, all while making his way down the stairs to the front door where someone was now pounding away on the other side. Grasping the knob, he threw open the door.

Lucy stood with her arm raised, poised to resume her knocking. The light spilled around her, playing up the copper highlights in her hair.

“Hello, Lucy,” Nick murmured.

“Nick.”

He couldn’t account for the pleasure her visit inspired. It was as if he’d been waiting all day for this moment.

Lucy said, “I need to talk to you again.”

“I can see that.” He worked on fastening his buttons, needing to finish at least that much before he let her inside.

“I have a telephone, you know,” Nick said, hoping for a halfhearted apology at the very least. But he was doomed to be disappointed.

“I hate talking on the phone.”

He looked at her questioningly. “Doesn’t that prove difficult as a reporter?”

Irritation flashed deep in Lucy’s eyes and she proudly tilted her chin. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

Nick briefly debated the merits of telling her to go away, but dismissed the idea just as quickly. If there was one thing he’d learned about Lucy, it was that she was tenacious. It was a quality that made her a top-notch reporter. Unfortunately, it didn’t go well with the weary throbbing of his head.

“Fine. Come in.”

Nick turned and strode into the kitchen. He had no doubt that she’d follow him.

The bang of the front door being slammed made his lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile, but he immediately wiped the humor from his expression.

“How long have you been skulking in my bushes?” He continued his lighthearted baiting as he flipped on the kitchen light.

“I have not been skulking in your bushes.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Frankly, I’ve got better things to do than spy on you. I just arrived.”

“Uh-huh.”

He opened the refrigerator, then scowled. Other than an inch of milk left in the jug, a whole shelf of condiments and a single slice of bologna, he was out of food.

“Listen, Nick, I’d like to have you—”

“Are you hungry?” he interrupted.

Lucy gaped at him, clearly nonplussed at his inability to sense her urgency. “I haven’t come to you to talk about—”

“Are you hungry?” he cut in again. “It’s a simple question.” Closing the refrigerator door, Nick allowed his gaze to slide down her frame, then back up again. “Because, frankly, you look like a bag of bones.”

Her face froze in response. “Don’t be rude,” she said when she recovered from the initial shock of his words.

“I wasn’t being rude. As I said the other day, you look like hell.”

A glint of temper appeared in her green eyes. “I’d forgotten how ill mannered you can be.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I had some vegetable—”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not talking about rabbit food. I’m talking about a hot, fill-up-your-stomach meal.”

Her lips pressed together in a tight line, answering that question well enough.

Nick turned away to search through the pantry closet, hoping he might find something that could be pulled together into the semblance of a meal. But it’d been so long since he’d gone to the grocery store, he knew that nothing short of a miracle could help him now.

“I didn’t come here to eat.” Lucy said, her tone conveying her impatience. “I came to talk to you more in-depth about the twins.”

“A hotshot reporter like you can’t talk and eat at the same time?”

She folded her arms tightly beneath her breasts—and for a moment, Nick was distracted.

“I don’t want to eat.”

Knowing now wasn’t the time to be distracted, Nick dragged his eyes away from Lucy’s chest. “Are you hungry or not?”

She opened her mouth and hesitated, so he took it upon himself to answer for her. “Hell, yes, you’re hungry.”

He brushed past her on his way to the staircase. “Wait here while I get my wallet.”

“But I don’t want—”

“If you want me to talk with you, you’ve got to eat. That’s the deal.”

He was midway up the stairs when he glanced down at her. From this height she looked especially thin and vulnerable.

“Agreed?”

She clenched her jaw stubbornly then finally acquiesced. “Agreed.”

Chapter Three

Lucy had expected Nick to take her to an eating establishment where the menu was bolted to the wall. When they’d dated, he’d had a penchant for mom-and-pop hamburger joints, old-fashioned drive-ins and diners.

He surprised her by driving to a secluded Italian restaurant in the heart of the city. It was located in a renovated warehouse on a block populated by up-scale boutiques and legal offices.

Inside, the atmosphere was quiet and sophisticated. Tables laid with heavy linen cloths were situated in intimate niches lined with potted plants. Muted murals adorned the walls and waiters wearing crisply starched shirts, black vests and ties circulated around the room.

As they stepped through the door, Lucy hung back, feeling decidedly grubby in her timeworn jeans and white button-down shirt.

“What’s the matter?” Nick inquired.

“I’m not dressed for this place,” she whispered.

“You look like you have plenty on to me.”

“But I’m not…fancy enough.”

Nick took her hand and pulled her toward the maître d’. “You’re fine.”

It was obvious that Nick was a regular customer. The maître d’ greeted him effusively and ushered them to a table near the window. Outside, a courtyard garden had been strung with fairy lights and strategically arranged spotlights.

Lucy was entranced. She’d nearly forgotten that there were places like this in the world. Places where people could feel as if they’d stepped into a fantasy.

“Will this be all right?” the maître d’ asked. Nick glanced at Lucy and she nodded.

“Yes, thank you,” he said.

When the man moved toward Lucy, Nick intercepted him to pull out Lucy’s chair. Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on the receiving end of such gentlemanly courtesy.

“Thanks,” she murmured, sinking onto the cushioned seat and allowing him to push her closer to the table.

Nick’s hand touched her shoulder, his fingers brushing against her hair as he went to his own chair.

Her mood softened even more at the gesture. When Lucy was on assignment, she made sure her gender wasn’t an issue. She carried her own equipment and stoically put up with rough conditions and the lack of privacy. Nevertheless, she couldn’t deny that Nick’s attentions made her feel special.

Feminine.

Alive.

As Nick settled into his place, she grabbed her menu and held it up in front of her, praying he wouldn’t see the moisture that had suddenly gathered in her eyes.

Dear sweet heaven, what was wrong with her? She’d spent most of the day sleeping, so she couldn’t blame her sensitivity on jet lag.

Telling herself she was just feeling stressed, she fastened her attention on the list of appetizers. Even so, she couldn’t seem to control the letters that swam before her eyes.

“Everything here is good,” Nick said, oblivious to her distress. “But if you order a salad, I’ll personally sic the chef on you.”

His comment made her snap out of her thoughts, but she couldn’t afford to speak just yet. Not when her voice might emerge as a croak.

Was it a coincidence that Nick had brought her here? Or had he remembered that Italian food was one of her weaknesses? She loved everything about it—the intoxicating aromas, the combination of spices, the rich sauces, the fresh meats and cheeses.

“Well, what do you think?”

Quickly blinking the last vestiges of tears from her eyes, Lucy focused on her menu. After reading only the first few items, she expelled a sigh of pleasure. “I have died and gone to heaven,” she said under her breath. At that moment, she vowed to stop worrying about the man who sat across from her, the appropriateness of her attire, or her unusual sensitivity. Her only concern would be which delectable concoction she’d taste first.

“If you look near the bottom of the menu, you’ll see they have a sampler of some of the most popular dishes.”

Lucy’s stomach growled in anticipation.

“There’s also soup, a side salad with a house dressing, bread sticks…. Just make sure you leave room for dessert.”

“Dessert?” she breathed, her eyes already scanning the list on the back cover.

“They have a raspberry lemon cheesecake that will make you weep.”

As if you aren’t on the verge of tears already.

By the time the waiter returned to take their orders, Lucy had managed to whittle her choices down to a somewhat manageable size. In the end, she chose a sampler of lasagna with red-pepper noodles, spinach and walnut ravioli in a white sauce and chicken picatta.

Once the waiter settled a tureen of minestrone soup and a basket of fresh bread in front of them, Lucy eagerly began filling their bowls.

“So when was the last time you had a decent sit-down meal?” Nick asked as she began smoothing herb butter on her bread.

Lucy shrugged. “It depends on your definition of ‘sit-down.’ It’s been at least a year since I’ve had Italian.”

“A lifetime, then, considering your love of Italian food.”

So he had remembered.

“Tell me about the twins.”

To her shame, Lucy realized that she had momentarily forgotten about the babies who were en route to Salt Lake City.

Wrenching her brain away from the way the subtle lighting seemed to caress the angular lines of Nick’s features and bring back to her responsibilities, she asked, “What would you like to know?”

“I suppose you’d better start at the beginning. How did you become their guardian?”

She took her time answering, swallowing a spoonful of soup before saying, “I was reporting on the humanitarian conditions in the war-torn regions of the Congo in Zaire, and I did a series on the orphanages in the area. I’d only been there a week when an orphanage run by a group of Franciscan nuns contacted me. At the time, the twins were just a few days old. Their mother had died in childbirth and the nuns feared that their own meager medical facilities were inadequate for the situation. They were hoping that, with my connections, I could help arrange for the girls’ care in the United States.”

“Yet it’s taken weeks to get them here. What kind of attention have they had in the meantime?”

Her forehead creased as familiar concerns pushed to the fore. “They were transferred immediately to a larger hospital, but it’s taken that long to process the reams of paperwork. I have copies of their medical files for you, but other than simple X rays, they haven’t had any tests to determine if they can be separated. The hospital was more worried about getting the children stabilized. The twins were losing weight and having trouble maintaining their temperature. At one point, Hope, the smaller girl, caught an infection, which set them back a bit.”