Single with Twins Read online

  The twins were becoming very fond of Mack very quickly.

  They didn’t want to lose him, the way they’d lost the father they had never known. They wanted their mommy to tell them they could keep Uncle Mack forever, and that yearning had to be nipped in the bud. She didn’t want her daughters’ hearts broken when Mack left Tucson.

  And your heart, Heather? she asked herself. When she’d hugged Mack to thank him for the beautiful vase, she’d been struck by a sense of being where she belonged, encircled in his strong, protective arms. And she’d felt the raging, burning heat of what she knew was desire, of a woman wanting a man, wanting to make love with that man.

  Stop it, she admonished herself. This was ridiculous. She hardly knew Mack Marshall. Desiring him, wanting him was terrible, frightening and—

  It had been many years since she’d been made to feel special and pretty and feminine….

  Dear Reader,

  It’s the little things that mean so much. In fact, more than once, “little things” have fueled Myrna Temte’s Special Edition novels. One of her miniseries evolved from a newspaper article her mother sent her. The idea for her first novel was inspired by something she’d heard a DJ say on her favorite country-western radio station. And Myrna Temte’s nineteenth book, Handprints, also evolved in an interesting way. A friend received a special Mother’s Day present—a picture of her little girl with finger-painted handprints and a sweet poem entitled “Handprints.” Once the story was relayed to Myrna, the seed for another romance novel was planted. And the rest, as they say, is history….

  There are plenty of special somethings this month. Bestselling author Joan Elliott Pickart delivers Single with Twins, the story of a photojournalist who travels the world in search of adventure, only to discover that family makes his life complete. In Lisa Jackson’s The McCaffertys: Matt, the rugged rancher hero feels that law enforcement is no place for a lady—but soon finds himself making a plea for passion….

  Don’t miss Laurie Paige’s When I See Your Face, in which a fiercely independent officer is forced to rely on others when she’s temporarily blinded in the line of duty. Find out if there will be a Match Made in Wyoming in Patricia McLinn’s novel, when the hero and heroine find themselves snowbound on a Wyoming ranch! And The Child She Always Wanted by Jennifer Mikels tells the touching tale of a baby on the doorstep bringing two people together for a love too great for either to deny.

  Asking authors where they get their ideas often proves an impossible question. However, many ideas come from little things that surround us. See what’s around you. And if you have an idea for a Special Edition novel, I’d love to hear from you. Enjoy!

  Best,

  Karen Taylor Richman, Senior Editor

  Single with Twins

  JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART

  For Josh who has learned how to smile

  Books by Joan Elliott Pickart

  Silhouette Special Edition

  * Friends, Lovers…and Babies! #1011

  * The Father of Her Child #1025

  †Texas Dawn #1100

  †Texas Baby #1141

  Wife Most Wanted #1160

  The Rancher and the Amnesiac Bride #1204

  ΔThe Irresistible Mr. Sinclair #1256

  ΔThe Most Eligible M.D. #1262

  Man…Mercenary…Monarch #1303

  * To a MacAllister Born #1329

  * Her Little Secret #1377

  Single With Twins #1405

  Silhouette Desire

  * Angels and Elves #961

  Apache Dream Bride #999

  †Texas Moon #1051

  †Texas Glory #1088

  Just My Joe #1202

  ΔTaming Tall, Dark Brandon #1223

  * Baby: MacAllister-Made #1326

  Silhouette Books

  * His Secret Son

  Previously published under the pseudonym Robin Elliott

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Rancher’s Heaven #909

  Mother at Heart #968

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Gauntlet Run #206

  Silhouette Desire

  Call It Love #213

  To Have It All #237

  Picture of Love #261

  Pennies in the Fountain #275

  Dawn’s Gift #303

  Brooke’s Chance #323

  Betting Man #344

  Silver Sands #362

  Lost and Found #384

  Out of the Cold #440

  Sophie’s Attic #725

  Not Just Another Perfect Wife #818

  Haven’s Call #859

  JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART

  is the author of over eighty-five novels. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys reading, gardening and attending craft shows on the town square with her young daughter, Autumn. Joan has three all-grown-up daughters and three fantastic grandchildren. Joan and Autumn live in a charming small town in the high pine country of Arizona.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The air was thick with smoke from the burning buildings and had an eerie orange cast. It even tasted strange, like dirt, charred wood…and fear.

  Bullets thudded into the low, block wall with a maddening tempo as Mack Marshall crouched next to the old man and woman who were clinging to each other, trembling with fright.

  “Hang on,” Mack said. “The good guys know we’re pinned down back here. They’ll get us some cover fire and we’ll make a run for it.”

  The couple stared at Mack with wide, terror-filled eyes. Their expressions told him they hadn’t understood a word he’d said.

  Damn, Mack thought, he’d really done it this time. All the other photojournalists had pulled back. But him? Hell, no, not Mack Marshall. He had to get closer, to go for a few more pictures that no one else would get, to push his luck right to the edge. Luck, which was obviously running out very, very quickly.

  He could die here. He could actually get shot full of holes and die in the dirt in this godforsaken place, his lifeblood seeping into the ground to be trampled by strangers’ feet and forgotten, as though it had never been there. As though he had never existed.

  Damn, he could die here…and no one would cry because he was dead.

  Mack shook his head slightly in self-disgust at his depressing thoughts, but there was nowhere to escape from the chilling truth. Yeah, sure, he had friends scattered around the world who would feel badly that Mack Marshall had finally pushed his luck too far, once too often, and had bit the big one.

  Mack was a helluva photojournalist, they’d say as they raised drinks in a final tribute to the reckless man who had never been without a camera around his neck and dynamic words to describe what he had seen.

  Mack deserved all those awards he’d received over the years, they’d decide, filling their glasses again, but…by the same token…he sorta deserved his come-uppance too because he continually pushed his luck to the point of ridiculous and had finally paid the piper for the risks he’d taken.

  Here’s to Mack. Drink up, boys… The king is dead and which one of us will be the next king? Here’s to Mack…what was his last name again?…oh, yeah, Marshall. Mack Marshall… Did you notice there was no family at the memorial service for Mack?

  No one.

  There was nobody there who cried.

  A bullet zinged
through the air above Mack’s head and he ducked even lower, cursing under his breath as he was pulled roughly from his dreary, mental ramblings.

  The old couple gripped each other tighter, closing their eyes, their lips moving with whispered prayers.

  “No,” Mack said, shaking the man’s shoulder. “Stay alert, be ready to run. Don’t give up now. How are you going to see the terrific pictures I took of you two if you quit on me now?

  “Never let it be said that Mack Marshall didn’t take the extra step to get the perfect photograph, the one that puts him a cut above the herd. The picture that this time just might be the one that got him killed.”

  The old man and woman bobbed their heads in jerky motions, willing to hang on to the sound of Mack’s deep voice, grasping at anything that hinted at hope.

  Mack stiffened suddenly and narrowed his eyes.

  “That’s it. Hear it?” he said. “That gunfire is from the good guys. Yeah, I can see them up on that rise, and they’re giving us cover. This is our last chance.” He crept behind the couple and gave them a push. “Run. Now. Go!”

  The elderly couple ran, hunched over, moving as quickly as they could. Mack was right behind them, bending low, one hand flat on the old man’s back to propel him forward.

  They had to get to that building across the street, Mack’s mind hammered. Go, go, go. Ten more feet. Five. Move, move, move. Almost there now…three feet left and they would be safe and—

  A bullet slammed into Mack’s left shoulder, the force of the impact causing him to fall onto his back in the dirt. White-hot pain rocketed through his entire body as a black curtain began to descend over him.

  No! his mind yelled. He’d seen the friendly hands reach out and pull the old couple into the building. He had been one stride away from escaping the danger in the street.

  And now he was going to die? Here? In the dirt? He was only thirty-seven years old, and he was going to die in a village in a remote part of a country that half the people in the world had never even heard of, or gave a damn about?

  He was going to die alone, knowing that when the final words were spoken over him, no one would cry?

  No-o-o!

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter One

  Two months later

  Heather Marshall leaned back in the chair in front of the computer and rotated her head, attempting to relax the tightened muscles in her neck. She gave up relief as a lost cause and directed her attention to the row of numbers on the monitor.

  Nodding in satisfaction, she pressed the save button, then exited the program. A moment later she turned off the computer and sighed as blessed silence fell over the bedroom, the hum from the machine stilled after another day of work.

  She got to her feet and glanced longingly at the double bed that beckoned to her to crawl between the cool sheets.

  “I’ll be back,” she said to the bed, pointing one finger in the air.

  Leaving the cramped bedroom, she walked down the short hall to the living room, her destination the kitchen where she would pack the girls’ lunches for school the next day. The brown bags would be waiting to be grabbed from the refrigerator as the twins prepared to make their usual last-second dash to catch the school bus.

  When she was halfway across the living room, a quiet knock sounded at the front door, causing Heather to stop and glance at her watch.

  It was nearly ten o’clock, she thought, frowning. Who on earth would be knocking at her door at this late hour? There must be an emergency with one of her friends in the neighborhood.

  Heather hurried to the door, then hesitated as she gripped the doorknob.

  Slow down and think, she told herself. Granted, the people in the dozen houses on her short block looked after one another, were like a family of sorts, but that didn’t erase the fact that this section of Tucson was not the pride and joy of the chamber of commerce.

  The small homes were old, the people who lived in them were low-income, struggling-to-get-by folks, just as she was. It was a high-crime area and only a dope would fling open the door at ten o’clock at night without knowing who was on the other side.

  She went to the front window and peered through the drapes, clucking her tongue in disgust as she saw that the light had burned out—again—leaving her tiny front porch in total darkness. There was definitely something faulty in the wiring in that socket that caused the bulb to burn out within a few days of being replaced.

  The knock was repeated.

  Heather went to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Marshall?” a man’s voice said. “Heather Marshall? I realize that it’s late but I saw your lights on and…I was wondering if I might speak to you? It’s really very important.”

  Heather narrowed her eyes and planted her hands on her hips.

  “Are you selling something?” she said. “At ten o’clock at night? I’m not interested, thank you.”

  “No, no, I’m not a salesman,” the man said. “Look, my name is Mack Marshall. I’ve been trying to locate you for weeks and now that I have I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to speak with you. Did you catch my last name? It’s Marshall. We’re related…kind of. I’ll explain everything if you’ll open the door.”

  Marshall? Heather thought, frowning. Mack Marshall? And he was claiming to be related to her? That was nuts. Her husband, Frank, hadn’t had any relatives. No one. Like her, he’d been alone in the world, just one more thing he’d claimed meant they were to be together.

  “You have the wrong Marshall,” Heather said. “My husband has no family. Good night, Mr. Marshall. I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

  “Wait,” the man said. “Your husband’s name was Frank. This is obviously as much of a surprise to you as it was to me, but I’m Frank’s half brother. I didn’t even know he existed until a few weeks ago. Then I discovered he died nearly seven years ago, but that he left a wife and children. I’ve been searching for you ever since. Please, Mrs. Marshall, won’t you let me speak with you?”

  Frank had a half brother named Mack? Heather thought incredulously. Was this some kind of scam? Oh, that was silly. What was this Mack Marshall person going to scam her out of? Her millions?

  Mmm, she thought, pressing one fingertip to her chin. What to do? What to do? Mack Marshall had piqued her curiosity, that was for sure. It wasn’t every day—well, night in this case—of the week that a long-lost relative popped up out of the woodwork.

  Why hadn’t Mack Marshall known until now that he’d had a half brother? And by the same token, why hadn’t Frank been aware of Mack’s existence?

  Mmm. The safest thing to do would be to tell this Mack guy to come back in the morning, when she wouldn’t feel as vulnerable as she did now when it was pitch dark outside.

  Right, Heather thought dryly. That would result in a long night of tossing, turning and the piling up of unanswered questions regarding the mystery now standing on her porch.

  “I give up,” she said, then opened the door a crack to peer out.

  Darn, she thought. That decisive action had accomplished nothing more than to give her a glimpse of a tall person barely silhouetted in the darkness.

  “I’ve frightened you, haven’t I?” The man said. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Marshall. I’ve waited this long to talk to you so I’ll come back in the morning, if that’s all right. It certainly wasn’t my intention to make you uneasy about letting me into your home. Is there a time tomorrow that would be good for you to speak with me?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Heather said, flinging open the door. “Come in. But, I swear, if you’re selling something, you are out of here.”

  “Fair enough,” the man said, stepping into the living room. “I really appreciate this.”

  Heather closed the door, then turned to look up at Mack Marshall.

  This man, she thought, feeling her heart do a strange little two-step, could not possibly be related to Frank. This man was without a doubt the most ruggedly handsome,
well-built specimen of the male species she’d ever seen in her twenty-seven years on this earth.

  Oh, mercy, look at the square cut of his jaw, the straight blade of his nose, lips that were perfectly proportioned to his other features and…hair. Hair that was thick and black and needed a trim, and eyes that were so dark she could hardly discern the pupils.

  His broad shoulders filled out the pale blue dress shirt opened at the neck, and his long, long legs were encased in nice-quality gray slacks, and—

  Nope. No way. This Mack Marshall, or whoever he really was, couldn’t possibly be Frank’s brother, half or otherwise. Frank had been hardly taller than her own five-foot-six, and he’d gained weight just looking at a piece of cake, resulting in a large bulge that covered his belt within a few months of their marriage.

  True, Frank had had very dark eyes, but his hair had been brown and thinning. He’d been rather good-looking, in a pleasant, ordinary sense, and he could be extremely charming when the mood struck but—

  Heather folded her arms beneath her breasts and tapped one foot.

  “The jig is up, Mr. Whoever You Are,” she said. “You don’t look one bit like Frank Marshall, not even close. I don’t know what you’re attempting to accomplish here, mister, but it isn’t going to work. I’d like you to leave my home. Now.”

  Mack Marshall raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, then lowered his left hand to his side. He removed his wallet from his back pocket with his right hand and flipped it open.

  “Take a look at my identification,” he said. “New York driver’s license, press card, voter registration, credit cards, the whole nine yards. I am Mack Marshall and your late husband was my half brother. I have a folder full of documents in my vehicle if you’d like more proof.”