Do You Take This Child?
“Look, I’m not taking no for an answer,” Slade said to hex. “I want to gives this baby a name.”
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Dedication
Also by
Also by
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Copyright
“Look, I’m not taking no for an answer,” Slade said to hex. “I want to gives this baby a name.”
“The baby will have one,” she said through clenched teeth. “Mine.”
“I want to marry you, Sheila. I want to marry you before the baby’s born.”
It was now or never!
Dear Reader,
What a month of wonderful reading Romance has for you! Our FABULOUS FATHERS title, Most Wanted Dad, continues Arlene James’s miniseries THIS SIDE OF HEAVEN. Single dad and police officer Evans Kincaid can’t quite handle his daughter’s wild makeup and hairdos. Luckily—or not so luckily—the pretty lady next door is full of advice....
Do You Take This Child? is the last book of Marie Ferrarella’s THE BABY OF THE MONTH CLUB miniseries—and our BUNDLES OF JOY title. Any-minute-morn-to-be Dr. Sheila Pollack expects to raise her baby all alone. But when the long-absent dad-to-be suddenly bursts into the delivery room, Sheila says “I do” between huffs and puffs!
In Reilly’s Bride by Patricia Thayer, Jenny Murdock moves to Last Hope, Wyoming, to escape becoming a bride. But the town’s crawling with eligible bachelors who want wives. So why isn’t she happy when she falls for the one man who doesn’t want to walk down the aisle?
Carla Cassidy continues THE BAKER BROOD miniseries with Mom in the Making. Single dad Russ Blackburn’s little son chases away every woman who comes near his dad. It just figures the boy would like Bonnie Baker—a woman without a shred of mother material in her!
And don’t miss the handsome drifter who becomes a woman’s birthday present in Lauryn Chandler’s Her Very Own Husband, or the two adorable kids who want their parents together in Robin Nicholas’s Wrangler’s Wedding.
Enjoy!
Melissa Senate,
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
DO YOU TAKE THIS CHILD?
MARIE FERRARELLA
To
Mary Theresa Hussey and Debra Robertson for wading through all this and keeping the sequence straight.
Thank you.
(Wasn’t it fun?)
Books by Marie Ferrarella
Silhouette Romance
The Gift #588
Five-Alarm Affair #613
Heart to Heart #632
Mother for Hire #686
Borrowed Baby #730
Her Special Angel #744
The Undoing of Justin Starbuck #766
Mall Trouble #815
TheTaming of the Teen #839
Father Goose #869
Babies on His Mind #920
The Right Man #932
In Her Own Backyard #947
Her Man Friday #959
Aunt Connie’s Wedding #984
*Caution: Baby Ahead #1007
*Mother on the Wing #1026
*Baby Times Two #1037
Father in the Making #1078
The Women in Joe Sullivan’s Life #1096
†Do You Take This Child? #1145
Silhouette Books
Silhouette Christmas Stories 1992
“The Night Santa Claus Returned”
Silhouette Special Edition
It Happened One Night #597
A Girl’s Best Friend #652
Blessing in Disguise #675
Someone To Talk To #703
World’s Greatest Dad #767
Family Matters #832
She Got Her Man #843
Baby in the Middle #892
Husband: Some Assembly
Required #931
Brooding Angel #963
†Baby’s First Christmas #997
Silhouette Intimate Moments
‡Holding Out for a Hero #496
‡Heros Great and Small #501
‡Christmas Every Day #538
Callaghan’s Way #601
‡Caitlin’s Guardian Angel #661
†Happy New Year—Baby! #686
Silhouette Desire
†Husband: Optional #988
Silhouette Yours Truly
†The 71b., 2oz. Valentine
*Baby’s Choice
†The Baby of the Month Club
‡Those Sinclairs
Books by Marie Ferrarella writing as Marie Nicole
Silhouette Romance
Man Undercover #373
Please Stand By #394
Mine by Write #411
Getting Physical #440
Silhouette Desire
Tried and True #112
Buyer Beware #142
Through Laughter and Tears #161
Grand Theft: Heart #182
A Woman of Integrity #197
Country Blue #224
Last Year’s Hunk #274
Foxy Lady #315
Chocolate Dreams #346
No Laughing Matter #382
MARIE FERRARELLA
lives in Southern California. She describes herself as the tired mother of two overenergetic children and the contented wife of one wonderful man. She is thrilled to be following her dream of writing full-time.
Chapter One
Slade Garrett stretched within the limited confines of his car and stared out at the tall glass-and-concrete medical building standing at the end of the parking lot. The numerous panes of the eight-story structure caught the afternoon sun, turning the rays to rainbows in flight.
He squinted as he stared, but he didn’t get out. And he didn’t leave.
Slade passed his hand over his face. It was the first time he’d shaved in more than two months. He kind of missed the beard. Grooming hadn’t seemed very important these last few months, not where he’d been. But he had stopped to shower and shave before boarding the transatlantic flight that had ultimately brought him here.
Damn fool idea, coming here.
But it had been an idea that had sustained him for the last—what? Nine months? At least. It had ridden shotgun with him like a silent partner, a specter unaffected by the atrocities that he had routinely recorded on his beat. A beat that included parts of the world that the readership of his newspaper would just as soon forget existed once their fascination with the horrific events ended.
At times he had felt as if he’d been trapped within the confines of a bad movie, except that it hadn’t ended in two hours and there was no one to yell “cut” and make it stop.
It was then that thinking about coming back, about seeing Sheila again, about running his hands along her cool, long limbs and breathing in the rare scent along her neck, had kept him going. It had kept him sane. She more than anything else had been urging him on to the end of the goal line.
A goal line that he himself had kept moving farther and farther along every time he extended his assignment, every time he agreed to be sent to somewhere else where people no longer had a bed to sleep in, or enough food to keep their bellies from rumbling and tightening by the end of the day.
It w
as his job and he’d loved it once, loved the excitement. But now he wasn’t so sure anymore. Wasn’t sure of anything except that he had to see her just one more time.
So now he was here. And he wasn’t moving. Not forward, not back.
Restless, edgy, Slade reached to his breast pocket, then muttered under his breath. Funny how even after five months, it still surprised him not to find anything there. Funnier still to pick the middle of a “conflict,” so named because it was too small to be called a war, to decide to give up cigarettes. Smoking had been a bear of a habit to kick.
But he had done it because he didn’t like being a slave to anything: habits, urges, or people. The only thing that Slade adhered to with any amount of faithfulness was his own code of ethics.
Beyond that, he wanted nothing to lay claim to him. When he found himself reaching for a cigarette before his eyes were focused, he knew it was time to stop. He refused to be imprisoned by a craving.
So what the hell was he doing here, sitting in a car, staring at a building where she was supposed to be, half an hour after he’d turned in his latest series of articles to his editor’s assistant?
Proving to himself that a dream didn’t have a hold on him, either.
Or so he hoped.
It wouldn’t have a hold on him, he argued, not once he saw that the dream was only that, just a dream. A mirage given mythical proportions because of time and distance. And circumstances.
If he’d seen her more than just for that one magnificent evening, if she had been part of his life on a regular basis, she’d be history now. Just like all the other women who had passed through his life were, instead of this vision he’d carried around inside his head.
A vision he wasn’t certain he really wanted to relinquish. And yet, to be who and what he was, he had to.
Slade rolled down his window and took a deep breath. Carefully manicured bushes at either sides of the lot released the fragrance of the white blossoms they briefly housed.
April in Southern California.
He’d forgotten what that felt like. The weather was more refined here, only on occasion interfering with little things, like picnics on the beach or camping trips. There was no life-and-death threat of monsoons that could wipe away a lifetime of scrambling in less than a blink of an eye.
Yes, he reminded himself, his mouth curving with a touch of cynicism, but we have earthquakes.
Somehow, it just wasn’t the same. It didn’t balance things out. The image of incredible, soul-wrenching poverty had been indelibly inscribed on his brain.
Slowly, the song on the radio penetrated his thoughts, refocusing them. Johnny Mathis was softly singing about a date never quite reached on the calendar. Slade’s smile softened.
The orchestra had been playing a Mathis melody the night he met her, Slade remembered. He closed his eyes, letting the song waft over him. He could almost see her now, standing there across the room, surrounded by a battalion of people, and yet, she might as well have been alone for all the difference the others made to him.
He saw only her....
She caught his eyes almost as soon as he walked in. The woman with the striking, classic profile was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, Slade thought as he observed her across the crowded banquet room.
He fingered the stem of his wineglass, no longer tasting his drink. Watching her, he almost forgot how much he hated wearing formal clothing that had been designed with mannequins in mind.
Watching her, he’d almost forgotten everything else, as well.
Leaning over, he’d asked the closest person to him, an older lady with the face of a pixie, “Who is that woman?” He raised his glass toward the woman in question. “That tall blonde with the circle of men around her.” A circle of men he intended to extricate her from.
The woman tilted her head as she appraised him, obviously attempting to ascertain who he was. Her manner indicated that he should have known the answer.
“That’s Dr. Sheila Pollack. She’s on staff with the hospital. Her parents are Doctors Susan and Theodore Pollack. They’re sponsoring the fund-raiser for Harris Memorial’s new obstetrics wing.”
She’d said something further to him, something about what was printed on his invitation. But it was lost in the sea of background noise as Slade forged his way over toward the tall, willowy blonde in the royal blue evening dress.
The dress sparkled almost as much as she did, and came down to somewhere along the middle of her thigh, resting comfortably in a place that he would have found infinitely stimulating were he in the same area.
He could feel his excitement growing as he approached her. It was the same exhilarating feeling he experienced whenever he found himself closing in on a story. He enjoyed the challenge of unraveling mysteries, and she had the air of a good page-turning thriller.
“Hi, I’m told that you’re involved with this fund-raiser.”
Sheila turned away from the man she was talking with to look at him. Her eyes were huge and blue, like cornflowers in the spring. Slade found that proximity did not diminish the impression she cast. It reinforced it.
“I’ll talk to you later,” the man mumbled, moving away from her. He melded into the crowd, disappearing before his absence was even noticed. An alley cat giving way to a lion.
Sheila slowly looked Slade over. He didn’t appear familiar. He couldn’t be one of her patients’ husbands. She would definitely have remembered someone who looked like him. Smiling, she asked, “Have we met?”
“No, but that’s easily remedied.”
Very efficiently, with a minimum of movement, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and cut her off from the circle she’d been in. Slade eased her over to the side. The terrace doors opened at their back, displaying an array of stars on a blanket of black velvet.
“We both know that lady in beige over there.” He nodded vaguely toward where he had been standing a few moments ago.
Sheila looked over to where he indicated. “You mean Martha?”
He nodded agreeably. She was wearing some kind of scent that fired his blood. He wondered if she was involved with someone and if that mattered to her. It didn’t to him. Not at this moment.
“Yes, Martha.”
It felt as if his eyes were touching her all over. Sheila felt herself growing warm. With effort, she retained the humor in her eyes. “And what if I told you that her name isn’t Martha? That it’s really Jane?”
“Then I’d say that you’d had a lapse of memory, as did I. It isn’t Martha, or Jane.” He studied Sheila’s eyes and knew he’d guessed correctly. A grin that was meant to disarm her flashed across his face. “Am I right?”
Sheila took an instant liking to him. Delighted by his answer, she laughed. “Yes, you’re right. It’s Sibyl. Her name,” she prompted in case he thought she was introducing herself. She put out her hand to him. “Sheila Pollack.”
Slade shifted his drink to his other hand. “Yes, I know. I’m with the Times.”
He saw her eyes take quick measure of him, as if she was accustomed to assessing people.
The only people from the Times were those who were writing this up in the society section. “You don’t look like the typical society columnist that the paper sends.”
Which was a relief, he thought. Not that he had anything against gossip. Like everything else, it had its place in the scheme of things and helped sell papers. But he didn’t place gossip columnists in the same league as real reporters. The underbelly of life that they dug up didn’t begin to compare with what he dealt with on a regular basis.
He also realized that it meant she was accustomed to attending these sorts of affairs. Or throwing them.
“Very astute.” He raised his glass in a mock salute. “I’m not. But Laura Moore became ill at the last minute, so here I am.”
He’d done it on a whim, as a personal favor to a woman he’d once been intimate with. Funny where a whim could lead you, he thought, savoring the sight of the regal w
oman beside him.
Slade took another sip of his drink. “Remind me to send her flowers.”
Intrigued, she asked, “Why?”
A waiter meandered by them, holding a half-empty tray aloft. Slade depleted it by one more as he took a glass of white wine and handed it to Sheila. She inclined her head in silent thanks as she accepted it.
“Because,” he explained, “if she hadn’t gotten sick, I never would have gotten to spend the evening with you.”
Sheila smiled above the rim of her glass, her eyes teasing his. The man moved slowly only compared to a Concorde jet. “You haven’t yet.”
No, but he would. He could feel it. His mouth quirked in a smile as he looked into her eyes. She was daring him to make it a reality.
“Oh, but we have Martha-Jane-Sibyl between us.” She began to turn away. He talked faster. “That makes us almost old friends.” Because it felt right, he slipped his free arm around her shoulders again, and this time he kept it there. “Wouldn’t you want to keep an old friend company on his last night in the States?”
She wondered how many stories he was capable of if put to the test. “Shipping out? What, are you a sailor as well?”
The word sailor created an instant fantasy in his mind. He was a pirate and she the noblewoman he’d kidnapped on the high seas. He wondered which of them would beg for mercy by the end of the night.
“No, but I really am a reporter, a foreign correspondent, and I’ve got an overseas assignment. I leave tomorrow morning.”
Sheila wondered if he was just spinning a story for her benefit, or if he was telling the truth. She could picture him as a foreign correspondent. There was something roughly exciting about him, despite the classy lines of his tuxedo.