“It’s time to make a deal.” About the Author Books by Kathleen O’Brien 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
“It’s time to make a deal.”
Taylor continued. “An alliance, a partnership for the purpose of forming a family. Neither one of us can live with a joint-custody arrangement. Still, Justin must have a father and a mother.... So I’m suggesting that we take on the job together.”
“Do you mean....” Brooke opened her mouth, but nothing more would come out.
“Yes, this is a prenuptial agreement. I’m asking you to marry me.”
“I don’t know. I—I guess I always thought I would marry for love.”
His gaze was dark, hooded. “Well, isn’t that what we would be doing? We both love Justin, don’t we?”
FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them, all will make it—whether they like it, or not!
KATHLEEN O’BRIEN, who lives in Florida, started out as a newspaper feature writer, but after marriage and motherhood, she traded that in to work on a novel. She writes with intensity and emotional depth, and we know you’ll be gripped by her latest book, The Daddy Deal—it will make you laugh, make you cry, and you won’t want it to end!
Books by Kathleen O’Brien
HARLEQUIN PRESENTS
1267—DREAMS ON FIRE
1355—BARGAIN WITH THE WIND
1515—BETWEEN MIST AND MIDNIGHT
1600—WHEN DRAGONS DREAM
1642—A FORGOTTEN MAGIC
1698—MICHAEL’S SILENCE
1853—MISTLETOE MAN
Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo. NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The Daddy Deal
Kathleen O'Brien
To Celie.
Thanks for the wings of your laughter, the ballast of your wisdom. And, most of all, for the friendship of a lifetime.
CHAPTER ONE
TAYLOR PRYCE cursed under his breath as he watched the freckled kid on the swing. Didn’t public playgrounds have any supervision? If that kid didn’t slow down, he was going to crack his head open like a watermelon.
Hooking his hands through the openings on the chainlink fence, Taylor fought the urge to yell at the boy, who was about five years old and, if he didn’t stop trying to turn himself upside down on that swing, probably wouldn’t live to be six.
But Taylor managed to control himself. It wasn’t his problem. The kid’s mother was sitting just ten feet away, placidly gossiping with the other moms. She clearly wasn’t worried about how centrifugal force worked, or about concussions and busted skulls. Taylor turned around, unable to bear the gut-twisting suspense of watching the swing lurch higher and higher. It wasn’t, he repeated to himself, his problem.
He adjusted the knot on his tie uncomfortably. God, it was going to be a hot day. Checking his watch, he cast a scowling gaze around the park, which was already crowded on this steamy June morning. Kids everywhere. Mothers and infants, fathers and sons, balls and Frisbees and jump ropes. Didn’t anyone have to work on a midweek morning anymore? Was everyone in Florida a tourist? And where the devil was McAllister?
The kids on the playground behind him were really turning up the volume, squealing and hollering at one another like wild animals. Again he controlled the urge to turn around and check on the preschool daredevil. It was ridiculous. When had Taylor Pryce, thirty-year-old professional bachelor, developed this sudden fidgety paternal streak?
But, of course, he knew when it had happened—he knew to the day, to the minute. It happened more than a year ago, when he had read an old love letter addressed to his dead brother, a letter that spoke of a baby on the way.
Somehow, ever since that moment, while his lawyers combed the country, searching for that baby, Taylor’s subconscious had been training him, getting him ready to be a father.
A father. He shut his eyes against the bright morning sun. God, that sounded strange. Until the letter had surfaced, he hadn’t even known he was an uncle. But the letter left no room for doubt. Jimmy, who died two years ago in some crazy, war-torn European country Taylor had hardly known existed, had left behind a child, a little boy, now almost two years old. A boy who should bear the Pryce name—but didn’t. A boy who had been... Taylor clenched his teeth. There was only one word for it. Stolen. His nephew had been stolen.
Taylor jerked his tie down an inch and pried his top button loose. It must be a hundred degrees out here. Where the hell was Charlie?
But
