Luke's Daughters

Luke's Daughters
Lynnette Kent

The Brennan BrothersHis family belong to his brother now…Luke Brennan met Sarah Randolph on the worst day of his life. His brother's wedding day. The bride was Luke's ex-wife; the flower girls, Luke's daughters. Six years ago when Matt Brennan was reported missing in action and presumed dead, Luke had married Matt's heartbroken fiancée to give her unborn child a name. Gradually the marriage of convenience grew into something more…and a second baby was born.Then Matt returned to claim his family.Now only Sarah knows how much effort it takes for Luke to step away from his life–and his daughters. Only she knows how much he hurts. And only she can begin to fill the emptiness in his heart. If he'll let her…

“You’re divorced…because of your brother?”

Sarah stared at him as she asked the question.

“Yeah.” Luke’s answer was soft. Then he added, “But for the record, it’s not as tabloid as it sounds. She was engaged to Matt first. He went missing on a classified army assignment and they told us he was dead. We got married, Erin and Jen were born. Then after five years he came back.”

“Five years!”

“He was a POW the whole time. Kristin hadn’t ever stopped loving him, and…and it was tearing her apart, being with me when he was around. That’s the whole story.”

“You’re very honorable to set her free.”

“A regular white knight.”

“Do your daughters live with you?”

Luke ran out of brittle comments. “Not full-time. We’ve been sharing custody since I moved out a year ago. But now that they’re married…” Luke couldn’t bear to think about the changes in his life.

How could one translate anguish into words?

Dear Reader,

I remember being awakened at midnight, when I was six or seven years old, so my brother and I could climb into the back of our big station wagon and fall asleep again while my father drove straight through the night, heading east.

Sometime the next afternoon, we would park on the deck of a ferryboat that took us to the isolated Outer Banks of North Carolina. We camped just behind the dunes in a canvas tent and cooked on a gas Coleman stove. Showers were optional—we spent most of the day in the ocean. Cape Hatteras Island became a dear friend we looked forward to visiting each summer. I still find my greatest sense of peace and freedom when I can sit and watch the sea.

So I’ve written a book set at the beach. Police officer Luke Brennan and photographer Sarah Randolph have lost the people they care about, the people who cared for them. The joining of these two solitary souls requires courage, determination and, of course, deep and abiding love. I hope you enjoy your time with Luke and Sarah as much as I have. They are very special people.

As are all the Superromance readers. Please feel free to write me at: P.O. Box 17195, Fayetteville, NC 28314. Thanks for reading!

All the best,

Lynnette Kent

Luke’s Daughters

Lynnette Kent

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

For my mom,

who showed me the wonders of the beach,

the glory of the mountains,

and all I know of love.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE (#u47558654-64b5-5ab8-ad99-105c27f6e090)

CHAPTER TWO (#u9e53a006-32c2-5d28-a0de-bbe900f85ffd)

CHAPTER THREE (#u2db350f7-acdb-585b-9865-e2304d81c80f)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u27f952f6-7104-5ad6-924a-5b7cac58a783)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

SARAH HEARD his voice first.

Not the words, not even the sense of what he was saying, just a warm, smooth rumble counterpointed against the never-ending crash of the waves. The timbre of that voice resonated inside her, making her push back her hat and open her eyes.

She couldn’t have designed such a picture in a thousand years. The owner of the voice wore a starched white shirt, a black bow tie and vest, and the satin-seamed trousers of formal dress, rolled halfway up his calves. He’d left his sleeves buttoned; they shivered crisply over his arms in the afternoon wind blowing off the ocean.