Jacqueline Diamond - The Would-Be Daddy

She was leaving?

“Let’s not part this way,” Marshall protested. “We should talk.”

“About what?”

“You’re supposed to be the expert.”

“On pregnancy?” she asked.

“On relationships.”

“Well, here’s my opinion,” Franca said. “We’re not compatible, Marshall. I wish we were, and sometimes … No. I refuse to delude myself. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Her footsteps rapped across the tile floor toward the hall. Then he heard the door latch behind her with a loud click.

He sat at the counter, bewildered. How could she deny the intimacy they’d shared last night? Yet judging from her words, she regretted the whole night with a man she could never love. What had seemed a transformative experience to him had been entirely one-sided.

He and Franca had always been opposites. Why expect things to be different now?

Because, in a few weeks, they’d learn whether they were going to be parents …

The Would-Be Daddy

Jacqueline Diamond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Medical themes play a prominent role in many of JACQUELINE DIAMOND’s one hundred published novels, including her Safe Harbor Medical series for Mills & Boon Cherish. Her father was a small-town doctor before becoming a psychiatrist, and Jackie developed an interest in fertility issues after successfully undergoing treatment to have her two sons. A former Associated Press reporter and TV columnist, Jackie lives with her husband of thirty-seven years in Orange County, California, where she’s active in Romance Writers of America. You can sign up for her free newsletter at www.jacquelinediamond.comand say hello to Jackie on her Facebook page, JacquelineDiamondAuthor. On Twitter, she’s @jacquediamond.

To Hunter and Brooke

Contents

Cover

Introduction She was leaving? “Let’s not part this way,” Marshall protested. “We should talk.” “About what?” “You’re supposed to be the expert.” “On pregnancy?” she asked. “On relationships.” “Well, here’s my opinion,” Franca said. “We’re not compatible, Marshall. I wish we were, and sometimes … No. I refuse to delude myself. Let’s just leave it at that.” Her footsteps rapped across the tile floor toward the hall. Then he heard the door latch behind her with a loud click. He sat at the counter, bewildered. How could she deny the intimacy they’d shared last night? Yet judging from her words, she regretted the whole night with a man she could never love. What had seemed a transformative experience to him had been entirely one-sided. He and Franca had always been opposites. Why expect things to be different now? Because, in a few weeks, they’d learn whether they were going to be parents …

Title Page The Would-Be Daddy Jacqueline Diamond www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author Medical themes play a prominent role in many of JACQUELINE DIAMOND ’s one hundred published novels, including her Safe Harbor Medical series for Mills & Boon Cherish. Her father was a small-town doctor before becoming a psychiatrist, and Jackie developed an interest in fertility issues after successfully undergoing treatment to have her two sons. A former Associated Press reporter and TV columnist, Jackie lives with her husband of thirty-seven years in Orange County, California, where she’s active in Romance Writers of America. You can sign up for her free newsletter at www.jacquelinediamond.com and say hello to Jackie on her Facebook page, JacquelineDiamondAuthor . On Twitter, she’s @jacquediamond .

Dedication To Hunter and Brooke

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

It was unfair, dangerous and cruel. That poor little girl. If Franca Brightman didn’t figure out a way to rescue four-year-old Jazz, she’d burst into a fireball that would bring down the Safe Harbor Medical Center parking structure on top of her.

She’d tried to work off her fury by staying late on a Friday night at her office. She’d spent hours reviewing the patient files that had come with her new job as staff psychologist. Plunging into the records and assessing patients’ need for additional treatments should have blunted her pain and outrage.

Instead, the click of her medium-high heels on the concrete floor rang in a fierce staccato as she tore through the nearly empty lower level of the garage toward her aging white station wagon. At least at this hour she didn’t have to feel embarrassed by her car, which was dented and old compared with the others, particularly the sleek silver sedan parked a short distance up the ramp.

Franca’s last glimpse of Jazz had been riding off in a junkmobile far worse than this. The decrepit state of the car had intensified her fear about where and how the child would be living now that she’d gone back to her biological mother.

Where was Jazz right now? Had her mom bothered to fix dinner, or were they eating out of a can? Crammed into a rent-by-the-week motel unit, the four-year-old must miss her beautiful princess bedroom. Did she believe Franca had relinquished her by choice?

White-hot rage swirled inside Franca as she unlocked her station wagon and dropped into the driver’s seat. It was a wonder that, despite the chilly March air, she hadn’t already set the building ablaze.

Franca wished she could figure out a safe way to vent her anger, which had been simmering all day. With a PhD in psychology and years of counseling experience here in Southern California, she ought to be an expert on releasing emotions.

Instead, her mind returned to an image of the black-haired little girl, her blue eyes brimming with tears. Handing Jazz over to her unstable mother at the lawyer’s office this morning had nearly torn Franca apart. How could she expect her foster daughter to understand why the planned adoption had fallen apart?

I shouldn’t have come to work today. But being new at her job, Franca didn’t want to ask for personal leave. After a lifetime of careful control, she’d assumed she could handle this.

She’d been wrong.

On the steering wheel, her hands trembled. She hated to drive in this condition, but she couldn’t sit here indefinitely. Sucking in a breath, she switched on the ignition.

A rock song from the radio filled the car. The singer’s voice rose in a ragged lament: “I can’t take it anymore!”

There must have been half a dozen songs with similar lyrics, but right there, right then, this one seemed meant for her. Smacking the dashboard, Franca cranked up the volume and sang along in shared disgust, her voice ringing through the garage.

“I can’t take it anymore! I can’t take it anymore!” That felt good. Childish and self-indulgent, but good.

A drum solo followed, which Franca accompanied by thumping the steering wheel. When the chorus returned, she howled even louder: “I can’t take it anymore!” The acoustics in this garage were odd, she noted as she paused for a breath. It sounded as if the music was echoing from up the ramp, underscored by...could that be a man’s voice rasping out the same lyrics?

It might be her imagination, but to make sure, she muted the radio. The music continued in the distance, with a ragged masculine voice trumpeting, “I can’t take it anymore!” over the recording. The words and melody were emanating from the silver sedan.