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She had trouble falling asleep.
Restlessness filled her. She told herself it was because the babies were moving around, making her uncomfortable. But it wasn’t just that. Her mind was restless for an entirely different reason.
And the reason had a name and a face.
Dennis Lincoln.
Every time Nicole closed her eyes, she saw his face and relived their kiss.
Body tensed, she stared up into the darkness. She was being adolescent. A pregnant woman shouldn’t feel this way. And she didn’t want to feel at all. Not anymore…
Marie Ferrarella earned a master’s degree in Shakespearean comedy, and, perhaps as a result, her writing is distinguished by humor and natural dialogue. This RITA® Award-winning author’s goal is to entertain and to make people laugh and feel good. She has written over one hundred books for Silhouette, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide and have been translated into Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Polish, Japanese and Korean.
Happy New Year-Baby!
Marie Ferrarella
MILLS & BOON
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To Sandy Lee, my almost daughter.
Love, Jessica’s mom.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
W hen Dennis Lincoln opened the door, the shower stall exhaled a cloud of steam. The mist hovered about him as he stepped quickly out of the cocooning warmth of the shower onto the tile. He shivered. The rest of the bathroom felt cold.
The headache he’d had when he went to bed still throbbed lightly just outside his temples. Dennis carefully toweled the excess water out of his dark blond hair, then draped the damp towel over the silver rim of the shower stall.
He’d stayed up until past two in the morning, watching the miniature surveillance cameras he had set up. Neither the one in the carport area right outside her door, nor the two within her apartment had picked up any activity. Looked as if it had been a slow night for both of them, he thought. A slow night in a succession of slow nights.
Which was why it was now time for phase two of the operation.
Phase two had been set in motion yesterday with a simple purchase from Mike’s House of Affordable Electronics. Much more than fifty-two inches of sound and screen, the TV gave Dennis a way to meet his quarry. It gave him an excuse to strike up a conversation, get into her apartment with her permission, and subsequently into her life. Right now, it seemed the best way to find the answers.
Or, he thought with a wry smile as he glanced in the mirror, if she knew the questions.
Not exactly the way he’d envisioned his future ten years ago, clutching that hard-won law degree. But it suited him.
Even if it didn’t suit his face, Dennis mused as he pulled a comb through his wet hair. No one looking at his affable, guileless blue eyes and quirky half smile, complete with dimples, would have ever guessed what his true occupation was.
Which was exactly what made him the best candidate for the job. It allowed him to make contacts, form quick relationships and get to the heart of the matter where a more abrupt, blunter man would have struggled weeks for a toe-hold.
He’d been here, settled in at Sandcreek Apartments, for over a week now. That amounted to exactly eight days, and thousands of feet of frustration, if counted in video tape.
So far, the cameras and the tap on her phone had yielded nothing out of the ordinary. If she was involved with the Syndicate the way her late husband had been, the involvement was covert. They hadn’t attempted to make any contact with her.
Dennis couldn’t continue to sit on his hands and wait. Waiting always irritated him even though it was the hallmark of the job. He had to become friendly with her, to cull her favor and her trust.
It shouldn’t be too difficult, he judged as he passed the blow dryer over his damp hair with wide, even movements. Nicole Logan looked as if she needed someone to talk to and he intended to be the one she opened up to.
Blessed with a light beard, Dennis shaved quickly, then rinsed off his razor. His father’s razor, he thought absently, looking at the ancient, double-edged shaver. Just about the only thing, besides his hair color, that the old man had to pass on to him before he died.
A razor and an armload of responsibilities Dennis had been too young to understand at the time. Understanding and acceptance came much later.
Placing the razor into the medicine cabinet, Dennis walked into the bedroom and crossed to the rack where he had meticulously laid out his clothes the night before. Image was important. He had to look the part of an up-and-coming tax lawyer on the cusp of tax time.
Something he might have actually been, he thought, slipping on his trousers, had things turned out differently.
But
