Brannigan's Baby

“You’re such a love,” Whitney murmured Welcome to DADDY BOOM! Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“You’re such a love,” Whitney murmured

She ran her fingertips lightly over baby Troy’s crown, breathing in the wonderful baby scent. “How come someone so sweet can have such a bad-tempered man for a father!”

Troy chuckled, as if he could understand her.

“Your papa,” she continued, “is rude, arrogant...and when he was a teenager he had every girl in the valley chasing after him—except me! Luke Brannigan is a heartbreaker of the worst kind. You think I’m being too hard on him? Well, tell you what, if I can ever find something good to say about him, you’ll be the first to know. But don’t hold your breath!”

Welcome to DADDY BOOM!

Just look who’s holding the baby now! Following on from our highly popular BABY BOOM series, Harlequin Romance® is proud to introduce a brand-new series, DADDY BOOM, full of babies, bachelors and happy-ever-afters Meet six irresistible heroes who are about to discover that there’s a first time for everything—even fatherhood!

First in our series is Brannigan’s Baby by Grace Green We’ll be bringing you one deliciously cute DADDY BOOM title every other month

Look out in April for Daddy and Daughters by

Barbara McMahon

Who says bachelors and bables don’t mix?

Brannigan’s Baby

Grace Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

FOR MIKE HANNAY

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN WORD GOT AROUND that Luke Brannigan was back in town, business at Hetty’s Beauty Salon picked up within the hour.

‘Dixie Mae saw him get off the Greyhound bus, didn’t you, Dix?’ Beth Armour wriggled excitedly in her seat as Hetty worked styling mousse into her hair.

‘Sure did.’ Seated next to her, Dixie kept her eyes fixed admiringly on her own reflection in the mirror. “Course, I just saw him from the distance, but that sexy swagger...’

She shrugged. Unmistakable.

‘Where was he going then?’ somebody asked. ‘Home?’

‘Looked that way. He hiked off along the side road that winds up through the vineyards to Brannigan House.’

‘He must’ve heard his grandmother passed away.’ Patsy Smith’s voice came from under one of the dryers. ‘But if he got off that bus, he’d be too late for the funeral. He’ll be rich now,’ she went on dreamily. ‘And he’ll have every female in the valley chasin’ after him, just like before—’

‘Every female ’cept for Whitney McKenzie.‘

Dixie’s declaration was met with a moment of silence.

Then Beth said, quietly, ‘That’s right. There was no love lost between those two. And now he’s back, he’ll send her packing! Well, you can’t blame him, considering...’

Patsy sighed. ‘Cressida Brannigan made one huge mistake taking that girl into her home. Hadn’t been for her, Luke woulda never gone and taken off the way he did. He and his gran were close...real close... before...’

Begonia Bright poked her head out from under the end dryer. ‘I’d give most anything—’ her beady eyes glittered ‘—to be a fly on the wall when those two meet again.’

And though none of the others really liked Begonia, they all, without exception, felt exactly the same way.

Whitney McKenzie eased her aching feet out of her high-heeled black pumps and shifted wearily in the leather wing chair. Cressida’s funeral had been emotionally draining, as had been the long year leading up to it. She needed time alone, peace to start grieving...

And a chance to catch up on lost sleep.

Swallowing back an incipient yawn, she tried to look alert as Edmund Maxwell—senior partner of Maxwell and Maxwell, the only law firm in the nearby Okanagan town of Emerald, B.C.—extricated a document from his briefcase. He set the case on top of Cressida’s intricately carved Chinese desk, and moved his stooped figure across to the hearth.

Somberly his gaze passed over the trio seated before him in the Brannigan House library: Whitney, Alice the cook and Myrna the housemaid.

‘It is no longer the custom,’ he began, ‘for lawyers to read out wills; however, as I’m sure you all know, the late Cressida Brannigan cared not one jot for custom. So, in accordance with her declared wishes, I shall now read out to you her Last Will and—’

The door behind Whitney clicked open.

Edmund Maxwell lifted his head, and over the top of his half glasses frowned at the intruder.

Slumping back in her seat, Whitney closed her eyes. She felt exhaustion seep into her very bones—

‘What the hell’s going on here?’ A male voice, aggressive and vaguely familiar, rasped into the quiet room.

Whitney’s eyes flew open.

‘And where the devil,’ the voice challenged as it continued, ‘is my grandmother?’

Whitney shot bolt upright. Grandmother?

Aghast, she peered around the wing of her armchair—and when she saw the man standing in the doorway, her heart slammed against her ribs with such force it knocked every particle of breath from her lungs.

He was back.

Luke was back.

Her shocked gaze darted over him jerkily, snapping him, in a series of flashes, like a camera...

The straw blond hair that curled to his collar—snap!

The lean, tanned face, with its high-slashed cheekbones, electric blue eyes and thin sensual lips—snap!

The wide shoulders—snap!

The narrow hips—snap!

The long, powerful legs—snap!

At seventeen, Luke had been tall; now he was well over six feet, but the cockiness that had been his trademark as a teenager had been replaced by something more dangerous—

‘Lucas!’ The lawyer’s voice wobbled. ‘Oh, dear. I tried to contact you—I wanted to let you know—’

‘Let me know what?’

Something infinitely more dangerous. Whitney winced as she saw the steely menace in his eyes. Maturity had brought hard arrogance to the man and an aura of intensity that crackled. He’d have turned heads anywhere. Not that he was any advertisement for GQ—he most definitely was not! His jaw was stubbled, his shirt sweatstained, his blue jeans ragged, and worn almost white at the knees. But still—

A flash of movement over one of his shoulders caught her attention. Her gaze sliced up...and her mind reeled.

A baby?

He’d brought home a baby?

Oh, yes—she fought to retain her grip on reality—Luke Brannigan had indeed brought home a baby.

She could see a small fisted hand waving ferociously over Luke’s shoulder—the infant must be in some kind of a backpack; she could also now see a blue hat, rakishly askew, and beneath its floppy brim part of a small face.

‘I said—’ Luke’s tone was grim ‘—let me know what?’

He still hadn’t noticed her; hadn’t for a second removed his searing gaze from the lawyer. She swiveled around to stare at Edmund Maxwell, waiting for his reply...

Only to be met with a look of mute appeal... and a pointed nod in her direction. Dismayed, she pressed a fist to her breast. Me? she mouthed back.

He nodded.

Whitney swallowed. She wanted to shrink back in her seat; wanted never to have Luke Brannigan’s eyes find her...

But there was no way out; she was, after all, in charge here—at least until after the reading of the will, when the new owner of the estate was named. Which would, of course, be Luke. He was a Brannigan and—as far as Cressida had been aware—the last of the line; so, despite their estrangement, she’d never have left the estate to anyone but him.

Whitney wriggled her feet back into her pumps, dragged her palms down her black linen skirt and stood up.

She turned to face her old enemy. His eyes had never looked bluer; against his tan, they dazzled like sapphires. Sapphires that had been dipped in ice water.

He blinked. Looked at her blankly. And blinked again.

Whitney knew the exact second he recognized her...and knew, by the sneer that swiftly curled his upper lip, that nothing had changed.

Between them, nothing had changed.

She took in a deep breath.

‘Your grandmother,’ she said, ‘died three days ago. The funeral was earlier this afternoon. And now Mr. Maxwell is going to read Cressida’s will, so if you’ll find yourself a seat, we can continue—’

‘Dead?’ Luke’s face had paled. ‘You mean, I’m too late to—’

‘Yes, yes.’ The papers in Edmund Maxwell’s hands shook. ‘Yes, too late, I’m afraid. And now...the will. If we are all ready, shall we get on with it?’

Luke seemed too stunned to answer.

Whitney nodded and sat down. She twined her fingers together in her lap, and desperately tried to ignore the man behind her, and focus her attention on Edmund Maxwell.

The lawyer began by reading out details of bequests to Cook and Myrna, both in their early seventies. Then he read out a list of smaller bequests—to several old friends; to her church; to the Emerald Valley Elementary School.

‘And to Whitney McKenzie—’

Whitney swallowed to relieve the aching lump that had risen in her throat. Whatever bequest she received would never make up for the loss of this woman she’d loved so dearly. She blinked back threatening tears...

‘—to my beloved Whitney, I leave Brannigan House, the Emerald Valley Vineyards and the remainder of my estate.’

Her mind went blank...other than one single question that rocketed about, back and forth, in her brain, making her dizzier and dizzier by the moment: Why not Luke?

The lawyer continued to talk, but she assimilated nothing. Her mind was in overload, unable to cope with the enormity of what had just happened—

‘Miss McKenzie?’

She came to with a jump, and realized Edmund Maxwell must have finished. He was standing leaning over her.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘if you would see me to the door, I should like to talk with you...privately... before I leave.’

Somehow Whitney managed to rouse herself, even managed a weak smile as the staff murmured words of congratulation. Distantly she was aware Luke was no longer in the room. Had he taken off, as soon as he’d discovered there was nothing for him here? Oh, God, she prayed, let it be so.

She said her final goodbyes to Cook and Myrna, who had a taxi waiting and were about to leave Brannigan House for good. Once they had departed, Whitney escorted the lawyer through the front hall and out to the heavy oak door.

He stood on the stoop, his frail body bowed, his coat collar turned up against the brisk spring breeze.

‘It’s a burden,’ he said, ‘and of course Cressida herself was to blame. She’s kept the house up these past years, but as for the vineyards... well, she didn’t move with the times. There was little money coming in latterly, and I’m afraid she used up all her capital. Her death, to be blunt, was timely. After honoring the bequests she specified, there won’t be one red cent left in her account.’

‘I had no idea.’ Whitney shivered as the wind cut through her black silk blouse. ‘She was always so lackadaisical about money...I assumed she had plenty of it!’

‘At one time she did.’ He tucked his briefcase under his arm while he pulled on a pair of worn black leather gloves. ‘You must think over your options very carefully, my dear. Best to sell, but Lucas’s turning up right now ... well, that is a complication. You’ll have to talk things over with him. And let me know what you decide.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘of course.’

But even as she spoke, relief trembled through her. Edmund Maxwell had obviously not noticed that his own car was the only vehicle left in the forecourt. He’d been wrong in thinking Luke’s arrival presented a complication.

The man—thank the Lord!—had already gone.

The funeral reception had been held in the drawing room.

Whitney had replenished the fire there earlier, before going with the lawyer and the servants to the library. Now, lost in her troubled thoughts, she made her way back there. She closed the door behind her, and with a sigh, crossed to the hearth, seeking warmth and comfort from the flames.

With her arms clasped around her waist, she stared down unhappily into the leaping orange and yellow tongues.

‘Oh, Cressida,’ she murmured, ‘what have you done?’

‘What indeed!’ drawled a cynical voice from behind.

Feeling as if her body had jumped clean out of its skin, she swirled around with a loud gasp.

Luke Brannigan was getting up from a high-backed sofa, where he’d deposited his sleeping child. Tilted against the sofa was a huge, dirty-white canvas duffel bag, a jarring note, she decided abstractedly, in this elegant room.

He walked toward her, his tall frame moving between her and the doorway, blocking her means of escape—

Now why should she think she might need to escape? Oh, she knew why! His bold gaze was roaming over her with blatant male appreciation...lingeringly... as if he just couldn’t wait to get his hands where his eyes already were.

She stiffened.

‘Yes, what indeed,’ he repeated, and this time his tone was mocking. ‘But thank the Lord for codicils.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

His brows tugged together, as if she’d taken him aback... and then he gave a short derisive laugh.

‘You didn’t hear, did you! You were so wrapped up in delight at your own good fortune that you didn’t bother listening as Maxwell read out the finer points of the will.’

‘The finer points.’

‘The codicil. I guess Cressida still had a soft spot for me, despite our long estrangement—’

‘This codicil...’ Whitney’s cool tone revealed nothing of her rising sense of alarm. ‘What did it say?’

‘Pour me a drink and I’ll tell you.’

Whitney hesitated, briefly, and then with her lips compressed into a thin line, she crossed to the small buffet that served as a liquor cabinet.

‘What’ll you have?’ she asked curtly.

‘Scotch. Neat.’

She poured his drink but as she made to lift the glass, he said, ‘Are you going to make me drink alone?’

A drink might help steady her nerves, which were prickling; warning her of some danger ahead. She poured herself a rye, added a splash of ginger ale.

She placed his glass on the mantelpiece, and walked to the window. Then turned, so her back was to the light.

‘So.’ She took a sip of her drink, felt the fire of it race through her blood. ‘Tell me—’

‘Know something? I didn’t recognize you at first. The last time I saw you, you were still a scrawny twelve-year-old, with legs like twigs and pigtails the color of new carrots. But now—’

‘Yes?’ Whitney tilted her chin. She knew perfectly well what she looked like now, but it would be some sort of small revenge to have him admit how she’d changed.

How she’d...improved.

‘You’re a knockout,’ he said softly. ‘Even in that drab black outfit, you’re a knockout. Your figure, those green eyes and creamy skin, that fantastic flame red hair—lady, you’re drop-dead gorgeous...and you obviously know it. Just as you must know—’ his voice had become icy ‘—that you are the image of your late and unlamented mother.’

Whitney felt as winded as if he’d thrown her down a flight of stairs. ‘Yes.’ Somehow she managed to keep her voice steady. ‘I do look like my mother.’

‘Krystal would’ve been proud of you.’ His tone chilled her. ‘You’ve succeeded where she failed. You now own Brannigan House and the Emerald Valley Vineyards—and unlike your beautiful mother, who broke up a marriage in her unsuccessful attempt to achieve her goal, you had it handed to you on a platter. So tell me...’ He swallowed his Scotch in one gulp and rolled the empty glass between his hands. ‘What bargain did you make with the Devil, in order that you might inherit this paradise on earth?’

Because of her red hair, Whitney knew people expected her to have a temper. Which she did. But usually she managed to control it...and she was certainly not about to let this man know he was getting under her skin!

‘As you say, this house is now mine...and I’m not prepared to be insulted in it!’ She ignored an unexpected stab of compunction. Even if Luke had more right to the estate than she, she was honor-bound to respect the terms of the will. ‘I’m going up to change,’ she added cuttingly, ‘and when I come down, please be gone. If you’re not—’

His hand on her shoulder was rough, the unexpectedness of his move making her cry out as he spun her around.

‘You’re forgetting one thing,’ he said, with soft menace.

‘What?’

He smiled, and when she saw the triumph in his eyes, apprehension quivered through her.

‘The codicil,’ he said. ‘The terms of the codicil—’

‘I’m sure they don’t concern me!’

‘Ah, but they do. Grandmother’s codicil states—’

‘Edmund Maxwell left a copy of the will in the library.’ Whitney wrenched herself free. ‘I’ll read it for myself!’

The library was empty, and she hurried across to the desk. Snatching up the will, she flipped to the last page.

When she read the words typed there, she felt as if she’d stepped onto quicksand. She put a hand on the desktop to steady herself—

‘So you see—’ Luke had come up behind her ’—I’m to be living here, at Brannigan House, with you. And as long as I want to stay here, you may never sell the estate.’

‘It says,’ Whitney struggled to contain a feeling of panic, ‘that if you show up here on the day of the funeral, penniless and seeking shelter, I may not turn you away...and under those circumstances alone, I may not sell.’ She fixed him with a scathing gaze. ‘You’re now twenty-nine-’

‘Thirty.’ His eyes taunted her. ‘Just turned.’

‘You don’t expect me to believe you’ve come back after thirteen years with nothing but the shirt on your back—’

‘Not only that,’ he murmured, ‘but with a nine-month-old son to support. Cressida, bless her heart, must have known that one day I’d—’

‘Must have known you’d never amount to anything, Luke Brannigan!’ She glared at him. ‘Thank heavens your grandmother didn’t live to see this day!’

‘Now that’s where I beg to differ,’ he said mildly. ‘But right now I don’t have the strength to argue—I’ve been on the road since yesterday and I’m beat. If you’ll show me where we’re to be quartered...’ He moved across to the sofa, where he scooped up the baby, before easily swinging up his enormous bulging duffel bag. ‘I’d like to get settled in.’

Whitney put a hand to her brow, and felt her fingers tremble. Was she really stuck with this man? Was selling the estate not an option? If that was the case, how was she going to cope! Edmund Maxwell had said that Cressida had run out of money; she, Whitney, had a couple of thousand dollars in her own bank account...but that kind of money was peanuts, compared to what would be needed to make the Emerald Valley Vineyard a profitable entity again.

‘Why don’t you just take over your father’s suite.’ With a distracted gesture, she shoved back her hair.

‘I’d prefer not to use my father’s rooms.’ His jaw tightened. ‘How about the one looking down on the pool?’

‘No,’ Whitney said stiffly. ‘That’s mine.’

‘Then I’ll take the one next door.’ He raised his brows. ‘Any problem with that?’

Yes, she wanted to say. A big problem. The last thing she wanted was to have him sleeping in the next room to hers. ‘That’ll be fine. For now.’

The baby shifted, muttered and snuggled his face against Luke’s shirt. And Luke dropped an absent kiss on top of the child’s head, on the crown of the blue hat.

Something about the picture tugged Whitney’s heart; and as Luke turned on his heel and strode off, she stared after him, wondering why she felt so emotionally affected. Was it because Luke was so hard and invulnerable, while his child was trusting and helpless? Was it the tenderness of his gesture that had touched her heart? She didn’t want to think of Luke as tender; she wanted to keep believing him to be horrid and arrogant...and impossible.

Only then would she feel justified in using every trick she could come up with in order to get rid of him. Where was the mother of his child? Was she alive? Were they married? Divorced? Had they indeed ever been married? Was she still in his life?

One question she didn’t need to ask herself, because she already knew the answer. Luke still hated her...just as he’d hated her thirteen years before, when Cressida Brannigan had brought her to live at Brannigan House.

Looking at it now, from an adult point of view, she didn’t find Luke’s attitude toward her so surprising. After all, she had been the cause of all the quarrels between him and his grandmother, in particular that last ugly quarrel that had led to Cressida’s giving Luke the ultimatum that had resulted in Luke’s leaving the family home.

Whitney had always felt burdened by guilt over that, because Luke had disappeared, never to be heard from again.

Till today.

On learning of his grandmother’s death, he’d appeared shocked. Had he been? Or was he just a very good actor?

It was possible that word of Maxwell’s attempts to contact him had reached him. It was also equally possible that his arrival at Brannigan House, on this particular day, had been sheer coincidence. After all, it was a well-known fact that truth was stranger than fiction. And it didn’t really matter, did it! The bottom line was that he had turned up, like the proverbial bad penny...

Whitney frowned. He’d said he had no money. If indeed he was penniless, then he was entitled to move into this house and make it his home.

But she was not about to take his claim at face value. She had a responsibility to Cressida, to make sure the terms of her will were carried out to the letter.

She’d get Edmund Maxwell onto it immediately, have him make some investigations...and ferret out the truth.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WELL, I am impressed...’

Whitney hadn’t heard Luke come into the kitchen. His voice startled her, and she took a moment to calm herself before turning around.

‘Impressed? By what?’

He glanced at the stacks of clean dishes, and the dozens of crystal glasses, which Whitney had carefully handwashed and then polished with a linen tea towel till they sparkled. ‘By your efforts to impress.’

She put her shoulder to him, and hefted up a pile of plates. ‘Excuse me. I need to get into that cupboard.’

He stepped aside, and opened the cupboard door. ‘You don’t have to prove anything to me,’ he said softly. ‘I know exactly where you’re coming from. Relax, honey...go pour yourself another drink and let the housekeeper finish up here.’

Keeping a tight rein on her anger, Whitney crossed to collect a second pile of plates. Pretending he didn’t exist, she busied herself putting the rest of the dishes away. Then she started on the glasses, arranging as many as she could do on a large wooden tray, before carrying them out into the hall and across to the living room.

Resentfully she became aware that Luke was right behind her; a burr couldn’t have stuck much closer.

He made no attempt to help as she set the glasses in the buffet.

‘So.’ His tone was dripping with sarcasm. ‘Here we are, darlin’. Home alone.’

‘I’m not in the mood for jokes—’

‘Oh, it’s no joke. Whoever would have thought, when you arrived here as a saucer-eyed orphan, that one day we’d be setting up house together.’