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She shouldn’t flirt with him.
She really shouldn’t. But a little demon was prodding her with its pitchfork. “I don’t have much to do. Maybe you still want to play?” Carissa asked, leaning against the wrought-iron table in a provocative pose.
“Uh, no, thanks,” Brody muttered, looking delightfully flustered, and she bit back a grin, enjoying this more than she should. He had loosened up a lot over the past month. However, that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun at his expense.
“You’re running scared,” she said, taking a step toward him.
“Scared of what?” He backed away.
“This.” She took another step and poked him in the chest, expecting him to make a run for the house at the brief physical contact.
However, he didn’t move a muscle, his dark gaze unreadable, and her pulse accelerated madly.
“And this.” She ran a finger down his cheek, enjoying the rasp of stubble against her fingertip.
He grabbed her hand and lowered it, regret mixed with desire in his eyes.
“I’m not scared. I’m just wary,” he said.
Nicola Marsh has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster, she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary, which could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves in her dream job. Visit Nicola’s Web site at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.
Found: His Family #1836
Wife and Mother Wanted
Nicola Marsh
MILLS & BOON
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To the Sirens, for their friendship, support and cyber hugs
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
‘I DON’T believe this!’
Carissa Lewis collapsed into a garden chair and resisted the urge to throw her mobile phone into the nearby pond. Though she wouldn’t risk it. The way her luck was running today she’d probably decapitate Fred, her favourite ceramic frog.
Instead, she took a deep breath, gritted her teeth and lowered her voice. ‘Peter, how could you do this to me? To the children? We were counting on you.’
Her boyfriend of eight months—eight far too long months—said, ‘Yeah, well, you shouldn’t ask so much of people. Personally, I’ve had a gutful.’
She shook her head, wondering if the late nights she’d been keeping in preparation for the annual Easter pageant had melted her brain. How could asking Peter to play the Easter Bunny for the local kids in town be asking too much? The guy didn’t have a heart—a fact she’d slowly realised over the course of their lukewarm relationship but hadn’t got around to doing anything about.
So she had a thing for ‘comfortable’ boyfriends—guys who didn’t challenge her, or demand anything of her, or set off any fireworks in her vicinity. So what? She liked it that way. Comfortable was good, and the antithesis of her totally uncomfortable childhood, when she would have given anything for someone to depend on.
She tried a different tack. ‘Peter, this is important to me. Please, won’t you reconsider?’
‘Sorry, Carissa.
