Eileen Wilks - Midnight Choices

The acid in Duncan’s stomach called him a liar. Suddenly he’d had enough pretending. His voice came out harsh. “I’m a mess, Gwen.”

“So am I.” She sounded surprised.

“As messes go, we aren’t even on the same scale. You’d be better off with Ben.”

“You’re probably right.”

Startled, he stole another quick glance. She was smiling at him rather shyly. In spite of everything, an answering smile tugged up one corner of his mouth. “Not going to argue with me, huh?”

“If you’re going to say stupid things, I can, too.”

His smile lingered until he pulled into the driveway. It died before the car came to a complete stop. The lights were off. All of them.

Ben wasn’t back yet. No one was. He and Gwen would be alone in the big old house.

Dear Reader,

“In like a lion, out like a lamb.” That’s what they say about March, right? Well, there are no meek and mild lambs among this month’s Intimate Moments heroines, that’s for sure! In Saving Dr. Ryan, Karen Templeton begins a new miniseries, THE MEN OF MAYES COUNTY, while telling the story of a roadside delivery—yes, the baby kind—that leads to an improbable romance. Maddie Kincaid starts out looking like the one who needs saving, but it’s really Dr. Ryan Logan who’s in need of rescue.

We continue our trio of FAMILY SECRETS prequels with The Phoenix Encounter by Linda Castillo. Follow the secret-agent hero deep under cover—and watch as he rediscovers a love he’d thought was dead. But where do they go from there? Nina Bruhns tells a story of repentance, forgiveness and passion in Sins of the Father, while Eileen Wilks offers up tangled family ties and a seemingly insoluble dilemmain Midnight Choices. For Wendy Rosnau’s heroine, there’s only One Way Out as she chooses between being her lover’s mistress—or his wife. Finally, Jenna Mills’ heroine becomes The Perfect Target. She meets the seemingly perfect man, then has to decide whether he represents safety—or danger.

The excitement never flags—and there will be more next month, too. So don’t miss a single Silhouette Intimate Moments title, because this is the line where you’ll find the best and most exciting romance reading around.

Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

is a fifth-generation Texan. Her great-great-grandmother came to Texas in a covered wagon shortly after the end of the Civil War—excuse us, the War Between the States. But she’s not a full-blooded Texan. Right after another war, her Texan father fell for a Yankee woman. This obviously mismatched pair proceeded to travel to nine cities in three countries in the first twenty years of their marriage, raising two kids and innumerable dogs and cats along the way. For the next twenty years they stayed put, back home in Texas again—and still together.

Eileen figures her professional career matches her nomadic upbringing, since she’s tried everything from drafting to a brief stint as a ranch hand—raising two children and any number of cats and dogs along the way. Not until she started writing did she “stay put,” because that’s when she knew she’d come home. Readers can write to her at P.O. Box 4612, Midland, TX 79704-4612.

This story is for those who have fought and won against breast cancer…and for those whose fight is over.

It’s for those of us who love them.

And it’s for my own beloved warriors:

Doris Elizabeth Hembree. Kia Cochrane.

Rosalie Whiteman.

Edie Duke. Day LeClaire.

Courage, like life, happens one step at a time.

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 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Highpoint, Colorado

Humidity fogged the kitchen window where Duncan stood, gathering in tiny droplets at the bottom of one pane. Spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove, layering the air with scent—oregano, basil, the sweetish bite of onion and the meaty aroma of the Italian sausage he liked to use instead of hamburger. The phone was ringing.

Probably his brother. If not, the caller would either give up soon or leave a message.

He wiped a circle clear of fog and left his hand on the glass. It was cold. According to the calendar, spring had arrived, but winter died slowly in the mountains. It was likely to hang on, snarling and snapping, for another few weeks.

He looked out at the line of cedars his father had planted along the back fence when he was three. They were nearly thirty feet tall now. He tilted his head and saw a gray sky sliced and diced by the bare black limbs of the oak that sheltered the rear of the house.

Three rings…

Duncan counted heartbeats in the silence between rings. His pulse was still elevated from his workout. A drop of sweat meandered down his neck. His arm throbbed like a mother, but that was to be expected. He’d learned to stop before throbbing turned to solid pain. Pushing for more than his body could give just slowed his recovery, and he couldn’t afford any setbacks. He’d maxed out his personal leave; added to medical leave, that gave him just over a month to get himself in shape.

In more ways than the obvious.

Four rings. Idly he rubbed the raised tissue of the new scar on his forearm. It was cold outside, but free of ice or snow. He could run.

With a click, the answering machine picked up. After a pause he heard his brother’s gravelly voice: “You’d better be in the shower or something, not out running in this weather. I’m in no mood to nurse you through pneumonia.” Another pause. “I’ll be a little late—a problem with a supplier.” Then the click as he disconnected.

Duncan shook his head. Habits died hard—especially with someone as thickheaded as his big brother. Did Ben think the army only let them go out to play when the weather was nice?

Still, he should pull on a dry sweatshirt. He headed for the stairs at the front of the old house.

The doorbell rang. He paused with one foot on the step, tempted to ignore it as he had the phone. But this intrusion had arrived in person and would have seen his Jeep out front. He or she would probably keep ringing for a while, and it was cold outside.

Reluctantly he moved to the front door, turned the dead bolt and pulled the door open.

The woman on his doorstep looked cold. Her hands were pushed into the pockets of a pale pink cardigan that zipped up the front; it was the exact shade of her creased trousers. Her sneakers were pink, too, with shiny silver shoelaces. The flat white purse slung over her shoulder had the soft look of expensive leather. Her hair was icy blond and very short, revealing complicated little knots of wire and gems that dangled from her ears, which were small and pink with cold. So was the tip of her slightly crooked nose. Otherwise she was pale. And tiny. If she were to step straight forward into his arms, the top of her head would fit easily under his chin.

His heartbeat picked up. His mind skittered for purchase.