acbb-4984-585e-af17-bff9d496a29f">
Wyatt’s eyes twinkled. “We’re a proud lot.”
“I’ve heard as much.”
With his finger, he pushed a barrel curl resting on her cheek behind her ear. From the second his finger glided across her skin, ridiculous yearning reared up again, putting a halt to their pleasant banter. He gazed at her with dire want, his eyes dipping down to her mouth.
“Brooke,” he rasped. There was a distinct hitch in his voice that touched something powerful inside her quivering belly.
“It’s okay, Wyatt,” she said. Whatever he wanted, she was ready for.
A groan rose from his throat and he began shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. One of his hands wrapped firmly around her waist, his fingers inching her closer, while the other hand was lifting her chin. His lips met hers. She felt instantly safe with Wyatt, and it wasn’t borne by his saving her from empty gas tanks or pesky older men. It was something more, something she’d never experienced before. Utter trust.
* * *
Twins for the Texan is part of Harlequin Desire’s No 1 bestselling series, Billionaires and Babies: Powerful men…wrapped around their babies’ little fingers.
Twins for the
Texan
Charlene Sands
CHARLENE SANDS is a USA TODAY bestselling author of more than forty romance novels, writing sensual contemporary romances and stories of the Old West. When not writing, Charlene enjoys sunny Pacific beaches, great coffee, reading books from her favourite authors and spending time with her family. You can find her on Facebook and Twitter, write to her at PO Box 4883, West Hills, CA 91308, USA or sign up for her newsletter for fun blogs and ongoing contests at www.charlenesands.com.
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To my sweet mother-in-law, Nancy, with love.
Thanks for having twins, inspiring this story and giving me a great husband!
Contents
Brooke McKay had no clue where this deserted Texas road was taking her. Gazing past a dozen squished bugs on the rental car’s windshield, she saw flatland stretching before her for miles and miles. After living in California near mountains and beaches, this kind of vast flatness was foreign to her.
Red warning lights blinked from the car’s dashboard. She looked down at the indicator. Her gas tank was nearing empty. “Don’t do it, don’t do it.”
Decked out in her best black lace dress with all the necessary trimmings and red heels so high they’d put the balls of her feet to the test in the walking-to-the-next-gas-station department, Brooke pushed the car to its limit.
She spotted something lying in the middle of the road. “Oh!”
Roadkill.
Apparently someone had driven on this road recently. It was good news for her, but not for the poor possum.
As she drove on, she removed her sunglasses and squinted into the afternoon sun searching for a miracle. A gas station would be nice, with an attendant who knew where in heck she was.
The car sputtered, the engine wringing out its last breaths.
She sucked in oxygen, praying that her worst nightmare wasn’t coming
