Daddy By Accident

Daddy By Accident
Paula Detmer Riggs

MOTHER-TO-BEDespite the screech of tires and the shattered glass, pregnant Stacy Patterson was aware that sexy Boyd Macauley had gotten her out of her car accident alive. But she had no money, no place to go, and too much pride to ask for help - until Boyd came to her rescue again.FATHER-BY-PROXYBoyd had vowed never to let another person get too close, yet fragile Stacy needed a place to stay. By day they prepared for the birth of her child, and by night they gave in to their overwhelming passions. He'd vowed that it was strictly temporary - but was he only fooling himself?MATERNITY ROW: The street where little miracles are born!

“Don’t Look At Me Like That, Stacy. (#u2027faa0-500d-5388-976e-cfb0a6ffd025)Letter to Reader (#u58dfdb86-2224-5d33-947d-18b0c992050a)Title Page (#u57e6c9f3-985b-5d45-b00d-6b90ead0e7e5)About the Author (#u044e9706-dc50-59a9-9499-fd98687efa83)Dedication (#u0b362769-eba9-5a6a-8419-0a2a98de9e07)Chapter One (#u57345b49-0726-5ecf-b157-07eb689fee8a)Chapter Two (#u04d0ecbb-1aa7-5c49-b8fc-df4936e0b5e2)Chapter Three (#u9aa54644-f837-570a-90ad-e2f29ac89820)Chapter Four (#uafebfcfe-c081-532f-afe5-eb2d395eba54)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)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“Don’t Look At Me Like That, Stacy.

“I’m trying to do the right thing here. The decent thing. You’ve just been through a hell of a bad time. You’re scared, and you’re vulnerable.”

“And you felt sorry for me.” Her chin came up, and she smiled. “That is what you’re trying to say, isn’t it?”

“That’s just it, Stacy, I don’t feel. It’s the way I like it. The way it has to be.”

“I think you feel very deeply. Too deeply. And I think you felt something just now when you kissed me.”

He felt the heat climbing up his neck. He was immune to nearly every wile a woman possessed—everything but the unguarded look of longing in the eyes of a woman who believed in him....

Dear Reader,

There’s something for everyone this month! Brides, babies and cowboys...but also humor, sensuality...and delicious love stories (some without a baby in sight!).

There’s nothing as wonderful as a new book from Barbara Boswell, and this month we have a MAN OF THE MONTH written by this talented author. Who’s the Boss? is a very sexy, delightfully funny love story. As always, Barbara not only creates a masterful hero and smart-as-a-whip heroine, she also makes her secondary characters come alive!

When a pregnant woman gets stuck in a traffic jam she does the only thing she can do—talks a handsome hunk into giving her a ride to the hospital on his motorcycle in Leanne Banks’s latest, The Troublemaker Bride.

Have you ever wanted to many a millionaire? Well, heroine Irish Ellison plans on finding a man with money in One Ticket to Texas by Jan Hudson. A single mom-to-be gets a new life in Paula Detmer Riggs’s emotional and heartwarming Daddy by Accident. And a woman with a “bad reputation” finds unexpected romance in Barbara MeMahon’s Boss Lady and the Hired Hand.

Going to your high-school reunion is bad enough. But what if you were voted “Most likely to succeed”...but your success at love has been fleeting? Well, that’s just what happens in Susan Connell’s How To Succeed at Love.

So read...and enjoy!

Lucia Macro

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo. NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3

Daddy by Accident

Paula Detmer Riggs

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

PAULA DETMER RIGGS discovers material for her writing in her varied life experiences. During her first five years of marriage to a naval officer, she lived in nineteen different locations on the West Coast, gaining familiarity with places as diverse as San Diego and Seattle. While working at a historical site in San Diego she wrote, directed and narrated fashion shows and became fascinated with the early history of California.

She writes romances because “I think we all need an escape from the high-tech pressures that face us every day, and I believe in happy endings. Isn’t that why we keep trying, in spite of all the roadblocks and disappointments along the way?”

For Catherine Anderson, who has a great talent, a

generous heart and an astonishing wisdom.

Thanks for being my friend.

One

Stacy Patterson gripped the edge of her seat belt and watched the houses whiz by at sixty mph. “Len, please, you have to slow down!” she shouted desperately over the roar of the souped-up engine. “This is a school zone.”

Behind the wheel of the lethal black Trans Am, her ex-husband seemed oblivious to all but the inner voices raging at him. Beneath the bill of the dark blue SWAT team cap he was no longer entitled to wear, his once-handsome face was grotesquely contorted. The mask of madness, one of his psychiatrists had termed it.

“I told you I’d find you, bitch, and I’m not letting you leave me again!” he shouted before baring his teeth in a manic smile. As if to emphasize his sick triumph, he deliberately accelerated, rocketing the sports coupe around a curve so fast the tires screeched. Flung hard against the belt, Stacy felt the rear of the Trans Am fishtailing violently and screamed a warning.

Len sliced off an obscenity and jerked the wheel. For an instant she thought he had regained control, only to catch sight of a towering pine tree looming directly ahead. Too terrified to scream. she curled forward against the belt’s restraint in a desperate attempt to protect the fragile life in her belly.

The impact threw her violently forward against the dash before the belt drew her back. Like a hot poker, pain stabbed through her head. Her last thought before the blackness closed in was of the child she carried.

High on the scaffolding that encircled the three-story Victorian remodel’s elaborate turret, Boyd MacAuley was methodically installing a new stained-glass window when he heard the earsplitting din of a violent collision. He knew even before he turned toward the sound that another unsuspecting driver had missed the notorious Astoria Street corkscrew turn and smashed headlong into the already scarred Douglas fir across the street.

With the sound of crunching metal still reverberating in his ears, he vaulted onto the ladder and headed down fast, leaping the last four feet to the ground just as the door to the small cottage next door slammed open.

“Call 911!” he shouted to the skinny nine-year-old girl who emerged. Without a word, Heidi Lanier made an abrupt about-face and disappeared inside.

As he sprinted across the grass toward the automobile, Boyd took quick stock of the situation. The vintage Trans Am that had collided with the massive fir was far too dated a model to have air bags. And if the occupants weren’t wearing their belts... Hoping for the best, he prepared himself for the worst.

The car had hit head-on, and the front end had jammed into the massive trunk with such force it had compressed the hood like a flimsy soda can. On impact, the driver had obviously gone through the windshield and lay sprawled facedown amidst shattered glass on the slanted hood. Bigger than most men, the driver appeared to be in his mid-thirties and, from the angle of the neck, not destined to get any older.

Even before Boyd skidded to a stop next to the wreck, he was tugging off one grimy leather work glove. Gasping for air, yet forcing himself to remain calm, he touched two fingers to the man’s carotid artery and prayed to feel even a faint pulse. Just as he’d suspected, the driver was dead or so close to it he doubted that even a fully equipped trauma team could save him.

Cursing the man’s folly at not wearing his seat belt, Boyd peered through the shattered windshield at the female passenger who was slumped forward against the seat belt, masses of curly brown hair obscuring her facial features.

A small woman with slender shoulders, she was dressed in a sloppy man’s shirt and shorts, and from what he could see, she appeared to be in her late twenties. There was a smear of blood on her head and blood on the dash, and she wasn’t moving.

Damn, he thought as he hurried around the rear of the car and reached for the door handle on the passenger side. The shiny chrome was blistering hot against his palm, and the door refused to budge, no matter how hard he jerked. Either the blasted thing was locked or the car’s frame had been sprung in the collision. He was about to make a dash for his truck and the pry bar in the rear tool compartment when he saw the woman in the passenger’s seat stirring.

“Ma‘am? Can you hear me?” he shouted through the glass. “Ma’am?”

Was someone calling her? Stacy turned her head and struggled to see through a haze of throbbing pain. It seemed an effort to blink, more of an effort to breathe. Ahead of her was a wall of greenery from the tree they’d hit.

Fighting off waves of sickness, she slowly swiveled her head back toward the driver’s seat, then wished she hadn’t. From a distance she heard buzzing in her head and felt her skin grow clammy. She’d fainted once during the early days of her pregnancy and recognized the warning signs.

“Ma’am? Listen to me.”

The voice seemed to come from very far away. Stacy blinked, turned back toward the window. For a moment she’d forgotten the man on the other side of the glass. With great effort she managed to bring the man’s form into sharper focus.