Bringing Up Baby Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  About The Author

  Books By Charlotte Douglas

  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

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Copyright

  “So, your clients left me something in their wills?”

  The lawyer, Farnsworth, looked nervous. “Yes, my clients were two of your greatest fans. They read your column “Bringing Up Baby” every week. In fact, your love and knowledge of children added so much to their lives that…”

  Devon managed to smile. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t accept anything.”

  Farnsworth leaned toward her with a stern look. “But you must. Everything’s been taken care of. And you’ve been left…”

  “What?”

  “Amanda Phillips. She’s six months old.”

  “A baby!” Devon managed to murmur in shock. “You’re giving me a baby?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In July 1995, Charlotte Douglas became an American Romance “Rising Star” with the publication of her first American Romance, It’s About Time. Since the appearance of that debut novel, Charlotte has continued to write for American Romance and is now looking forward to the publication of her first Harlequin Intrigue. The author lives in the Tampa Bay area with her high school sweetheart whom she married over three decades ago.

  Books by Charlotte Douglas

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  591—IT’S ABOUT TIME

  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

  Bringing Up Baby

  Charlotte Douglas

  To my mother, Dorothy Harrill

  Chapter One

  A baby’s tiny ears are attuned to the sound of his mother’s voice. When your baby cries, murmur softly in his ear. He will cease his wailing to hear you.

  Amanda Donovan, Bringing Up Baby

  The doorbell rang for the third time. Devon Clarke ignored it, raked her fingers through her short hair and pressed Enter on her computer keyboard. The modem hummed as her fifth-anniversary column whizzed across the phone lines to the syndicate.

  Satisfied, she leaned back in her desk chair. No more deadline for a week. Downstairs, the doorbell chimed again with a longer, more insistent tone.

  “I hear you,” she muttered. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot.” She slipped one foot into a sandal and groped with her toes for its mate. At the fifth irritating clamor of the bell, she abandoned her search for the other shoe, kicked off the first and trotted barefoot down the stairs. “Coming!”

  The Florida sun beamed through the beveled glass panes of the front doors, silhouetting a man’s rigid posture. Devon dodged sawhorses in the foyer and opened the door.

  “Miss Clarke?” An elderly man with a stern expression presented his business card, “I’m Fenton J. Farnsworth. May I have a few moments of your time?”

  The gray-haired elegance of the man made her conscious of her faded T-shirt, paint-splattered shorts and tousled hair. She straightened her shoulders and accepted his gold-embossed card, which identified him as an attorney from Kansas City. His expensive suit and the limousine at the curb suggested his competence at jurisprudence.

  “Look” she opened the door wide enough to display the chaos of construction in the foyer “—I’m very busy, so I’ll have to pass on whatever you’re selling or collecting for.”

  Farnsworth’s starchy demeanor grew more stiff. “I assure you, I am neither selling nor soliciting. I have come in my capacity as an officer of the court to present you with a bequest.”

  Curiosity overrode her impatience. “From whom? I don’t know anyone in Kansas City.”

  “But people in Kansas City, indeed all over the country, know you, Miss Clarke—or should I say, Mrs. Donovan?”

  His disclosure of her secret identity galvanized her into action. She grabbed Farnsworth by his elbow, dragged him into the house and slammed the door behind him. In the shadows of the hallway, she jammed her fists on her hips. “Donovan’s supposed to be a secret. How did you find out?”

  His shrug rumpled the wool of his tailor-made jacket. “There’s hardly anything I can’t uncover, given enough time and resources. And my clients’ resources are considerable. I suggest we sit down. You’re looking a bit pale.”

  Devon squelched the panic that had bubbled over when he addressed her by her secret name and preceded him into the living room, zigzagging around paint cans and ladders. After tugging a dust-laden drop cloth from the sofa, she offered him a seat, and Farnsworth perched stiffly on the cushion’s edge.

  She sank into a chair opposite him, not bothering to remove the canvas tarp that covered it, eyed the dapper man warily and tried not to think of blackmail. She’d written under the pseudonym, Amanda Donovan, for over five years, and no one but Leona Wiggins, her agent, and her former editor, Jake Blalock, knew the real identity of the baby column’s creator. “What do you want?”

  He tilted back his head and chuckled. “Put yourself at ease, Miss Clarke. I don’t want anything. I’ve come to give you something.”

  “Give me what?”

  “Perhaps I’d better start at the beginning.” He adjusted the gold links in his French cuffs and cleared his throat. “My clients, Chad and Gloria Phillips, owned one of the largest farm equipment corporations in the Midwest. They were two of your greatest fans. They read your column, Bringing Up Baby, religiously every week.”

  She wrinkled her forehead in confusion. “You’ve come all the way to Florida from Kansas City because your clients are fans of my column?”

  He nodded. “Partly. Chad and Gloria wanted children more than anything in the world, and you were a source of inspiration and hope to them. After several frustratingly barren years, their daughter was finally born. And they named her Amanda, after you.”

  A flush of pleasure crept up her face. “I’m honored.”

  “Gloria said your book Easy Meals for the Busy Mother was a lifesaver.” He smiled and smoothed his silver hair with his palm. “Your love and knowledge of children added so much to their lives, they decided to include you in their wills.”

  Guilt permeated her pleasure. She knew nothing about babies, never had. But she couldn’t admit that to him—or anyone—because her livelihood was built on the lie. If the facts were known, her whole life, including the marvelous old Victorian house her work enabled her to make payments on, would come crashing down around her ears.

  Although the bequest piqued her curiosity, she salved her guilty conscience through denial. “That was very generous of your clients, but I couldn’t accept anything from them.”

  “But you must.” Farnsworth leaned toward her with a look that must have struck fear in the hearts of his courtroom opponents. “Everything’s been taken care of, all the necessary papers have been filed—here are your copies—and she’ll arrive in just a few hours.”

  Devon accepted the official-looking document and scanned its fine, compact print, but the legalese made no sense. Good Lord, what had they left her, a puppy? Or worse, some favorite farm animal? “Who—or what—is she?”

  “
Your namesake, Amanda Phillips. She’s six months old.”

  “A baby! You’re giving me a baby?”

  He nodded.

  “Not on your life, buster! You can’t just waltz in here and hand me a baby, as if it was a free trip to Vegas or a set of luggage.” She slumped back in her chair, stunned. “Give away a child? No way.”

  “Believe me, my clients wouldn’t do this voluntarily. Unfortunately, they were killed in a tragic accident. Their car ran into a drainage ditch during a violent thunderstorm. They both drowned.”

  At a loss for words, she stared at him. The situation left her numb with surprise, and she resisted the temptation to pinch herself, to prove the man’s offer was all a crazy dream fabricated by her subconscious to punish her for deceiving her reading public.

  “Fortunately,” he added, “the baby was at home with a sitter at the time.”

  “But why choose me?” she muttered, more to herself and fate than to Farnsworth.

  “Right before Amanda’s birth, Chad and Gloria named you her guardian, knowing you’d give their daughter love and expert care should anything happen to them.”

  The attorney’s foolishness had progressed far enough. She shoved the papers back at him. “Count me out. A child should be raised by her own flesh and blood.”

  “But my clients insisted—”

  “Doesn’t she have grandparents?”

  “Deceased.”

  “Aunts?”

  His stoic expression never wavered. He shook his head.

  Desperation surged within her. “Uncles?”

  “Phillips has a half brother, Ernest Potts, but the man is unprincipled. Chad and Gloria were adamant that the child be kept from him at all costs.” Farnsworth pressed the guardianship papers back into her hands. “These documents are filed with the court. Returning them to me does not negate them.”

  Devon struggled to think. Maybe in this instance, honesty was her best policy. “Mr. Farnsworth, what I’m about to tell you is privileged information, not to be divulged to anyone.”

  “I understand.”

  “You don’t want to leave Amanda Phillips with me. I’m a fraud who knows nothing about babies.” Her voice squeaked like Butterfly McQueen’s in Gone with the Wind. She swallowed hard and lowered her tone. “I was an only child, orphaned at age three and raised by a maiden great-aunt. My only experience with babies comes from reading my great-grandmother’s journals, passed on by Aunt Bessie when she died. They’re the source for all my writing.”

  He shrugged. “I fail to see a problem.”

  “Of course there’s a problem!” She sprang to her feet and winced when her bare foot struck an errant nail. Waving her arms, she hobbled around the cluttered room. “Tons of problems! I don’t know one end of a baby from another. I’m a single woman, scratching out a living for myself. And this place is full of dust, dirt and debris, no place for a child.”

  The attorney’s calm exterior remained unruffled. “You’re overreacting, Miss Clarke. All parents are beginners with their first child. It’s called on-the-job training. This construction won’t last forever, and Amanda’s trust fund will pay for anything she needs—or desires.”

  “What about love? I don’t love this baby, I don’t know this baby, I don’t want this baby. She needs parents who love her.” A solution hit her, and she turned to face him. “Put her up for adoption.”

  “That would be contrary to my clients’ wishes.”

  “What about my wishes?” Devon glared at him. “If I’m the child’s legal guardian, I’ll put her up for adoption myself, for her own good.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” His toneless voice stopped her cold.

  “Why not?”

  “It would be most unfortunate if your millions of fans discover their favorite columnist has given up her own child, that she was, to use your words, a fraud.’’

  “That’s blackmail!”

  “No, merely insuring that my clients’ wishes for their daughter are carried out as they intended. The nurse will deliver Amanda later today, and her furniture should arrive about the same time.”

  “But—”

  “And this—” he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and thrust it into her hands “—is the first monthly payment from Amanda’s trust, made out to you as her guardian.”

  Devon’s knees buckled at the amount, and she sank onto the nearest chair. “That’s more than I make in six months.”

  “Use it for the child and for her environment.” He glanced around the room and brushed invisible dust from his sleeve. “As long as Amanda is healthy and happy, your secret, Mrs. Donovan, is safe with me.”

  Devon didn’t hear him leave. She sat motionless, gripping the check and guardianship papers, tangible reminders his visit hadn’t been a bad dream. The check, made out to her, burned in her hand. Only a saint wouldn’t feel tempted by that much money. She could pay off her house with a few more checks that size, or start a pension fund, or—she shook her head, shoving temptation away.

  She wouldn’t touch the baby’s trust fund. It wouldn’t be right—even though the extra money would come in handy each month while she waited for her check to arrive from the syndicate that distributed her columns to newspapers all over the country. No, the kid didn’t belong to her and neither did the money.

  She removed a tarp that covered a Windsor desk, shoved the check and papers into a cubbyhole and dropped the cloth back over the desk. Out of sight, out of mind.

  The whine of a power saw across the hall dragged her from her reverie. Mr. O’Reilly had let himself in and begun work, although much later than usual. She picked her way through the maze of paint cans and debris to the kitchen door. She’d put on a pot of coffee and ask the old man for advice.

  Mike O’Reilly had worked for her for the past six months, remodeling the kitchen and her upstairs bedroom first, so she could move in while he completed the renovations. She’d never had a father figure in her life, and she’d grown fond of the white-haired carpenter with his wisdom, wit and twinkling blue eyes. With Aunt Bessie gone, he was the closest thing to family she had.

  The familiar atmosphere of the kitchen soothed her nerves as she scooped coffee into the basket of the coffeemaker. She’d designed the room herself with its walls and counters the color of pale sunshine, gleaming oak cabinets and lemon yellow curtains sprigged with wildflowers. She arranged homemade macadamia-nut cookies on a plate and took down two large ceramic mugs from the rack over the stove.

  “Mr. O’Reilly,” she called up the hallway toward the sounds of hammering in the dining room. “Coffee’s ready.”

  She filled the mugs with the steaming brew and carried them toward the table in the dining alcove.

  The sight of a tall, dark stranger in the hall doorway startled her, and she halted abruptly, sloshing hot coffee over the front of her T-shirt. “Who are you?”

  The stranger hooked his thumbs in a tool belt, slung low on narrow hips over jeans that fitted like contact paper. His movement rippled the muscles of his tanned arms, exposed by the rolled sleeves of a faded denim shirt. “You didn’t burn yourself, did you?”

  Her skin smarted where the coffee had spilled, but her fright was greater than her injury. Huge and powerful, the man towered in the doorway. She backed toward the kitchen door. “What are you doing in my house?”

  He pushed shaggy nutmeg hair off his broad forehead and studied her with eyes the color of summer thunderheads. “I’m O’Reilly.”

  “The hell you are!” She plunked the mugs on the table and inched closer to the exit. “O’Reilly’s a white-haired old man with a big grin and periwinkle blue eyes. You’re—”

  “I’m what?” He fixed his generous mouth into an unyielding line above a mesmerizing cleft in his chin.

  “You’re—different.”

  An understatement if she’d ever heard one. Where O’Reilly had been kindly and slight of build, the man in the doorway radiated a strength ca
pable of crushing her with one sweep of his muscled arm. The set of his chiseled jaw, finely sculpted nose and powerful shoulders and chest exuded a magnetism that almost made her forget the man was a trespasser.

  “I’m Colin O’Reilly, Mike’s son.” An engaging grin cocked the corner of his mouth as he surveyed the front of her T-shirt, soaked with coffee and molded to her breasts.

  She squirmed under his scrutiny, grasped the doorknob behind her and twisted, but the door was locked. She struggled with the dead bolt. “You don’t look anything like Mike. I’ll need identification.”

  With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he tugged his wallet from a back pocket, extracted a card and sauntered forward. “My driver’s license.”

  She overcame the compelling urge to move toward him and held her ground. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer, but whether from fear or fascination, she couldn’t tell, “Don’t come any closer. Leave it on the table and back away.”

  When he slid the laminated card across the table’s polished surface before stepping back into the hall doorway, her thudding heart eased its clamor. But to be safe, she unlatched the lock as she reached toward the table with her other hand. When the same intense eyes stared back at her from the photo ID of Colin O’Reilly, she experienced both relief and embarrassment.

  He tucked the card back into his wallet and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. “Sorry if I startled you.”

  She flushed, feeling foolish. “And I’m sorry if I overreacted. You caught me by surprise.”

  “Dad gave me the key and told me not to disturb your writing.” He strode forward and held out his hand. “I’d like some of that coffee, if there’s any left.”

  She grasped his extended hand, and the firmness of his grip set her arm tingling. “I’m Devon Clarke. Where’s Mike?”