face with it. For a moment nothing surfaced, and then it came to him. Susan Wilkins was that nondescript little redhead who worked at the library, the one who was a friend of Callie Langley’s.
“Mr. Churchill? Are you there?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course I am. I appreciate the call, Mike. I won’t forget it. Thanks.”
“You’re wel—”
Sterling dropped the receiver into the cradle, uncaring that he’d cut the young man off. Ripping the towel free of his waist, he strode toward the huge walk-in closet, his mind whirling.
Like it or not, sleep would have to wait. Not only did he have a call to make at the fertility clinic, but—more important—he had urgent business with a certain redheaded librarian.
Susan Wilkins strolled slowly along the sidewalk.
Stopping briefly before Cachet, the most exclusive of the many chic boutiques that lined Royal’s Main Street, she took a moment to admire a sleek, pricey lilac-colored sheath on display in the window.
It was going on six o’clock. And despite a sluggish breeze that halfheartedly rattled the leaves on the big oak tree that stood sentinel down the street by Claire’s, the town’s best French restaurant, it was hot. The heat seemed to rise right off the concrete, burning through the soles of her worn leather flats and causing a trickle of perspiration to roll down her back. She could hardly wait to get home, take off her shoes, strip off her panty hose and exchange her work clothes for a pair of loose shorts and a T-shirt.
Yet she didn’t hurry. And not because of the heat or her aching feet, which were courtesy of the two hours of overtime she’d put in at the Royal Public Library. Nor even because of the bone-deep exhaustion that seemed to weigh at her like an invisible anchor. And certainly not because of the dress. As pretty as it was, she had far more important things to spend her hard-earned money on.
Instead she stayed where she was a little longer simply to savor the day. She admired the dress and basked in the brightness of the vast blue sky overhead. She drank in the sounds of the people coming and going around her and inhaled the faint scent of freshly cut grass coming from Royalty Park a few blocks away.
When she finally did resume walking, she couldn’t help smiling a little at her uncharacteristic dreaminess. Or reflecting that lately she seemed to be floating on a secret sea of happiness. She’d felt this way for the past three weeks, ever since her pregnancy test had turned out to be positive. Finally, finally, her dream was coming true. She was going to have a baby.
She didn’t kid herself that it was going to be easy. Money would be tight, and although the library allowed for an adequate maternity leave, she already dreaded the thought of leaving her child when the time came to go back to work. Still, it would be all right. Money wasn’t everything, and she was rich in what mattered most: She had an abundance of love to share.
Besides, it wasn’t as if this was a decision she’d come to lightly. She’d been considering it for years. And, as she’d told Mrs. Richey at the clinic, not only wasn’t there a man in her life, but at twenty-eight, she wasn’t getting any younger. Now that she’d finally been promoted to assistant head librarian, paid off the last of her college loans and managed to put aside a modest nest egg, the timing seemed right.
Thinking of Mrs. Richey made her remember that she’d forgotten to return the woman’s phone call. It had come right at closing, when she’d been busy checking out last-minute patrons, and had simply gone right out of her head. She couldn’t contain a smile. So far, a tendency toward forgetfulness and this constant exhaustion seemed to be the chief symptoms of her condition. Telling herself it could be worse—at least she didn’t have morning sickness—she made a note to call the clinic director first thing in the morning.
Catching sight of her tiny rental house, she finally picked up her pace, only to falter as she caught sight of the man planted on her small front stoop.
Her stomach did a flip-flop. It was Sterling Churchill. Although she didn’t know him personally—she didn’t exactly move in the same social circles as powerful, self-made millionaires and men like him didn’t patronize the public library—she knew who he was. How could she not? Not only was he a civic leader and a member of the prestigious Texas Cattleman’s Club, like her friend Callie’s new husband, Hank, but in a town the size of Royal, he was hard to overlook. She knew that he was in his mid-thirties, that as the CEO of Churchill Enterprises he had holdings in everything from cattle futures to oil wells, that he’d been married and was now divorced.
She also knew that he was big, dark and...compelling.
A wave of heat that had nothing to do with the weather rolled through her. She recalled the questionnaire she’d been required to fill out for the clinic, listing the qualities she wanted in her baby’s father. The personality part had been the most important, of course. On it she’d stated that she wanted somebody kind, gentle and honorable, like her own father.
But there’d also been a section for physical attributes. She shifted uncomfortably on the hot pavement as she acknowledged that when she’d requested someone tall, lean and imposing, with dark hair, light eyes, chiseled features and a graceful way of moving, she might have been describing Sterling.
Yet there was no way he could know about that. Could he? No, of course not. Nobody but the people at the clinic even knew she was expecting. And though she’d told Callie what she’d done, she trusted her friend to have kept her secret.
So what could he possibly want?
Before she had time to venture a guess he turned and caught sight of her. His gaze flicked over her, and something in his expression made her self-conscious. She glanced down at her mauve jumper, acknowledging that perhaps the calf-length hem and voluminous skirt weren’t the most fashionable, and that the color might not have been the wisest choice for someone with her pale skin and auburn hair. And it probably didn’t help that the hair in question was escaping its careful coil. Raising a hand, she wasn’t surprised to find that the slippery mass was listing sharply to one side, while wisps snaked down her neck and tickled her temples and ears.
Still, that was hardly a reason for her visitor’s jaw to suddenly bunch the way it did. Nor did it explain the decidedly cool note coloring his Texas drawl—so much more melodic than her own Northern diction—as he said gruffly, “Ms. Wilkins?”
As so often happened, shyness stole her tongue. Embarrassed, she ducked her head, and tried desperately to relax. After all, in roughly seven months she was going to be somebody’s mother. How could she hope to take care of a child, if she couldn’t handle a simple conversation?
Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “Hello, Mr. Churchill. May I help you?” Oh, brilliant, Susan. You sound like the order taker at a fast-food restaurant.
“We need to talk.”
“We do?”
He gave her a don’t-waste-my-time look. “We do.”
Biting her lip, she crossed the sun-burned lawn and stopped before the single step to look up at him. Casually dressed in boots, jeans, a navy polo shirt and the Stetson that Susan sometimes thought was required dress for every man in Texas, he had an innate elegance that made her more aware than ever of her own woeful state. Clearing her throat, she said, “Is this about Callie and Hank? Are they okay?”
He stared at her blankly, then gave an impatient
