Jean Brashear - Sweet Child of Mine

“Of course not,” Suzanne snapped. “It’s just—”

“There are two doors between us. You can shove a chair under the knob if you think your charm is so fatal that my self-control will fail.”

She thought of hot, deep kisses and his hard male body pressing into hers—but she reminded herself that she’d just seen a side of him she hadn’t known. He’d just demonstrated how unsuitable she’d always known they were.

This man had women aplenty only too happy to fall into his arms.

“Fine. But knock before you enter the dressing room, and I’ll do the same.”

He nodded. “I’ll be downstairs whenever you’re ready to leave. Look around all you want. I have no secrets.”

She watched him go, mouth agape at the blatant falsehood. Maybe he really believed that, but she knew she’d never met a more complicated or mystifying man in her life.

Meet the Coltons—

a California dynasty with a legacy

of privilege and power.

Michael Longstreet: Prosperino’s golden boy. He’d grown up with his wealthy parents granting his every wish. But now they have a wish of their own—for him to find a bride ASAP….

Suzanne Jorgenson: Tireless social worker. Only one man can get under her skin, and now a small child’s welfare depends on her marrying him!

Bobby Roper: Lost-and-found child. Now that his adoptive parent can no longer care for him, he’s about to be reunited with the one woman who has never stopped loving him.

Rafe James: The very private P.I. He has some ideas about who might be responsible for the town’s current crisis—he just doesn’t know how personally involved he’s about to become….

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JEAN BRASHEAR

A Texan to her toes, award-winning author Jean Brashear still couldn’t help falling in love with Northern California from the moment she saw it, so the invitation to be part of a series set there was thrilling. An avid reader from childhood, she has been in love with romance almost as long as she’s been in love with books. She considers Silhouette a wonderful fairy godmother for giving her the chance to share that love with readers, as the joy of writing stories is one that never pales. She welcomes mail from readers at P.O. Box 40012, Georgetown, TX 78628 or via the Silhouette Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.

To my beloved brother Buddy and his lovely Liz,

and to their sweet Jackie, Jimmy, Justin, Joey

and Jenny, with great affection and heartfelt thanks

for cheering me on.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

“Michael, your father just wants to know that you’ll have someone of your own. We worry about you being alone. He needs the peace of mind.”

“I’m not alone, Mom. I have plenty of friends.” Michael Longstreet leaned back in his chair, boots propped up on the desk, and squeezed his eyes shut. Telephone cradled on one shoulder, he stared out his law office window. The quiet of Prosperino’s Main Street in early February was something he normally looked forward to, but this year was anything but normal.

His town was in trouble. His father’s heart was giving out. His mother, usually so relentless in her need to meddle in his life, had turned frail overnight.

“And I had someone,” he continued to make his case. “I had Elaine.”

“I know.” Her voice fell. “I can’t help thinking that if we’d given our blessing to your marriage, she and the baby would still be alive.”

No, Mom. That’s not on your shoulders. That blame is all mine. “Mom, don’t—”

“It’s just that he worries about you.”

“I know.” It was an old record, the grooves worn thin. “But there’s no reason to worry. My life is fine. I’ve got my work and my duties as mayor—” He glanced at his watch and shoved to his feet. Rory Sinclair, the FBI expert investigating the contamination of the Hopechest Ranch well, had asked for a meeting that would begin in half an hour.

“Mom, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry. There’s a meeting about Hopechest. I’ll stop by and see Dad in the morning, all right?”

“Michael, will the town’s water be all right?” She sounded old, all of a sudden. Tremulous in a way that worried him.

“Sure it will,” he said, with a confidence he couldn’t back up with facts. It was his main task lately, projecting assurance so that people wouldn’t panic. “The FBI is on the case and they’re getting close, they tell me. We’ll know soon what made so many people sick.” He stood up, ran his fingers through his hair and wondered when he’d ever get a good night’s sleep again. “Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go now, but don’t you worry. I can’t magically produce a wife to make Dad happy, but I’ll talk to him again, make sure he sees that I’m just fine. I’ll figure out a way to ease his mind.” And he would, just as he’d always done his duty by his family.

With one notable exception.

He listened to his mother for another few moments, made sure that she was steadier before he said good-bye. Then he glanced at his watch again, grabbed his jacket and strode out the door.

Mayor Longstreet was on the job.

Something was wrong with Suzanne Jorgenson.

That evening Michael frowned, watching the slender, dark-haired social worker standing so quietly at the podium. The emergency city council meeting was jammed with anxious citizens, all talking at once.

A voice lifted above the rest. “Michael, how do we know this DM—uh—”

“DMBE,” he supplied. He’d only heard of the substance an hour ago himself.

“Whatever,” the man in the second row shouted. “My wife’s pregnant and we’ve got three other kids. What makes you think the contaminated water is only at Hopechest Ranch?”

Michael leaned closer to his microphone, praying for the right words. The air was thick with fear. A full-blown panic wasn’t far off.

“The only people who’ve gotten sick have been either kids who live at Hopechest or townspeople who work there.”

“Why would anybody want to poison a ranch full of kids?” someone asked.

“Those kids are troublemakers. Even their parents don’t want them,” said a disgruntled voice.

Finally Michael saw a spark in Suzanne’s deep violet eyes. Her long hair swung as she turned quickly to pin the speaker with a glare. “Just because it’s been forty years since you had kids around, Homer Wentworth, doesn’t mean you have no responsibility to help those less fortunate.”

Michael tried not to gloat. Old Wentworth wanted to raise the drawbridge around his property and ignore the rest of the world—until his taxes were impacted.