Roz Denny Fox - The Baby Album

Wyatt had everything going for him, looks-wise.

If he’d been off work because of illness, Casey couldn’t tell. He was robust, tanned and all-around fit. She’d admired the ripple of muscles when he bent to change filters. From any angle he was attractive.

Not that how he looked mattered. What mattered was if he liked the photos she’d taken today.

But still, she wondered why he’d closed a studio that was producing at its peak. She’d never pry, but she was curious. What did he have to hide?

Guessing served no purpose. She just needed to dig in and do a good job. She and Wyatt could swap life stories later if they lasted as a team. Her energy would be better spent thinking about what he might say once she could no longer conceal her pregnancy.

From Friends to Forever by Karen Templeton & The Family He Wanted by Karen Sandler

Baby By Surprise by Karen Rose Smith & Daddy by Surprise by Debra Salonen

A Kid to the Rescue by Susan Gable & Then Comes Baby by Helen Brenna

The Sheikh and the Bought Bride by Susan Mallery

A Cold Creek Homecoming by RaeAnne Thayne

A Baby for the Bachelor by Victoria Pade

The Baby Album by Roz Denny Fox

BY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Roz Denny Foxhas been a RITA ®Award finalist and has placed in a number of other contests; her books have also appeared on the Waldenbooks bestseller list. She’s happy to have received her twenty-five-book pin and would one day love to get the pin for fifty books. Roz currently resides in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, Denny. They have two daughters.

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For Nakita and Savannah, ace divers,

great softball players and, best of all,

avid readers. Dream big, girls.

Reach for the stars.

CASEY SINCLAIR PULLED into the high school parking lot. Should she park and go in? She was half an hour early for her job interview, but hadn’t wanted to be late if there was traffic on the road from Round Rock, Texas, to Austin. She’d been hesitant—a school was an odd place to interview a photographer, after all—but the e-mail she’d received June 1st had explained that it was a working interview. Casey would take part in a photo shoot and would be paid for her time.

Eager as she was to do a good job, Casey felt like crap today. Morning sickness. Day two of it. Maybe it was payback for having deliberately left out any mention of her pregnancy in the cover letter she’d sent with her résumé. But she’d been afraid of having her application rejected on that basis. Besides, at the time she’d felt perfectly fine. Now, not so much.

Just this week, a nurse practitioner at the free clinic in Round Rock had listed several possible symptoms Casey might experience during her pregnancy, including morning sickness. Yesterday, when she’d woken up, nauseous, she’d told herself it was the power of sug gestion. When she was sick again this morning, she was forced to admit it might be for real. So all she’d eaten for breakfast were half a dozen soda crackers. And she hadn’t made any sudden moves, as the nurse advised.

Now, hours later, she still felt nauseated.

It could be butterflies because of this interview, but she had to get over it. She needed this job badly. Right before she left home this morning, someone from the electric company had called and said if she didn’t pay her bill ASAP, they’d turn off her power. She’d said she was expecting some money after today, and the rep had agreed to give her an extension until Monday.

Taking a deep breath, Casey climbed out of the twelve-year-old Honda her soon-to-be-ex-husband had left behind when he took off. No doubt Dane hadn’t thought he could sell it.

Casey eyed the almost bald tire nearest her and wondered how much longer she could put off replacing them all. Thank heavens the e-mail had said she’d receive at least fifty dollars for helping the studio owner with his team photographs. The money was more than welcome, but wouldn’t stretch far. Casey needed a regular income.

She retrieved her trusted Nikon, her light meter and her purse from the backseat, then shut the door with her hip.

She prayed for a good outcome as she walked toward the gymnasium, crossing her fingers that her stomach would settle and that she’d do everything the interviewer asked of her perfectly. She noticed parents pulling up to drop their kids at the door.

The cavernous, brightly lit space looked like all high school gymnasiums. Noise ricocheted off the high ceilings. Across the room, two men stood near the bleachers, talking and gesturing. Boys and girls in a variety of uniforms were horsing around. A few straggled in from what Casey guessed were the locker rooms.

Her attention skidded back to the men. One wore gray sweats, the other khaki slacks and a short-sleeve pullover. The second man claimed the bulk of Casey’s interest, because even as he spoke, he was busy assembling two light stands and a tripod.

Wyatt Keene. That was who Casey was supposed to meet today. The ad she’d found had given no information at all about the prospective employer. A few lines in the Help Wanted section of the Austin paper simply stated “Photographer wanted for studio portraits and off-site work. Prefer experience with weddings and family groups.”

Casey had experience.

She’d also had a week to get used to Wyatt Keene’s name, and to do a little research. There was a Keene Photography Studio listed in the phone book, which went a long way toward easing her mind about meeting a strange man in a school gym.

Tightening her grip on her camera, she headed toward the pair, hoping against hope that Wyatt Keene would be as nice as his name felt rolling off her tongue.

“Mr. Keene.” At the sound of Casey’s voice, the man holding the equipment wheeled abruptly toward her. She smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Sinclair. I’m sorry I’m early, but there was much less traffic than I expected. Anyway, I always say it’s better to be early than late.”

Casey felt her smile fade under the man’s frowning scrutiny. Heavens! Was it a crime to show up early? Or did he think she was too chatty? She tended to babble when she was nervous. And boy, was she nervous. The man kept staring at her with eyes that were even blacker than his hair, and not very friendly. “Are you Wyatt Keene?” she asked hesitantly, tempering her earlier enthusiasm.

“Yes. This is Mike Granville, the coach. We’ll be taking team photos today for the yearbook. The captains have props they want to display, and Mike wants us to use trophies. Bats, balls and such. Or signs with the sport’s insignia. In the past I’ve had the captains kneel in front of their teams. I told Mike I’ll take the first photo of his soccer squads. The most difficult job will be getting the kids to stop fooling around. Otherwise, it’s standard picture-taking protocol.”