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  Contents:

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  BRADY ROSS ALWAYS DID THE RIGHT THING...

  And that meant finding the daughter he hadn't known existed. But when he encountered his child's guardian, he found himself wavering. Not just because Haven Adams wouldn't give up little Anna without a fight--but because she awakened explosive longings a jaded soldier didn't dare explore.

  Brady had fully intended to claim his child. Yet somehow, he couldn't do it--or walk away. So when Anna's inheritance-seeking relatives sought custody the solution seemed simple: a short, platonic marriage, followed by a guilt-free divorce. They agreed it was necessary but it was also dangerous. Because the moment Brady and Haven said "I do," everything changed...

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  Chapter 1

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  Brady Ross knew three things with certainty.

  Number one: If he had to, he could live without sex.

  Number two: Beneath their smiling faces, 99.9 percent of all men—and women—cared only about the pursuit of their own happiness, and woe be it to anyone foolhardy enough to stand in their way.

  And number three: He wasn't cut out to be a father.

  The first he'd learned during the three years, seven months and seven days he'd been held captive in a South American jungle prison. A captivity that had ended a mere three weeks earlier.

  Funny, the things a man thought about when he was confined to a cell barely three feet wide and seven feet long and he had nothing but time to think. Brady had spent endless hours recalling the things he missed most: the warmth of a fire on a cold winter night, the energizing jolt of black coffee first thing in the morning, the smell of fresh air after a summer ram. When it came down to it, sex paled in comparison with the ultimate pleasure: freedom.

  His childhood had taught him innumerable lessons on the true nature of humanity. Abandoned by his father before birth and by his mother when he was three, Brady had been kicked around from one foster home to the next until he was thirteen years old. Except for the five, too-short years he'd spent as the adopted son of a unique and caring man, he had rarely witnessed the overflowing of the milk of human kindness. Nothing he'd experienced as an adult had changed his conviction that his fellow man was basically a selfish, uncaring, amoral creature.

  As for his merits as a father, instinct, rather than experience, was his guide. Being a father entailed many things, chief among them the ability to care. An ability Brady had lost long ago.

  "Emotionally challenged" was how the last woman he had been involved with before his capture put it. Others had said more or less the same thing. "You don't share your feelings." "I never know what you're thinking." "Your heart stopped beating long ago, but your brain hasn't figured it out yet."

  A favorite pastime of his captors had been the tormenting of those unfortunate souls who had been unable to hide their emotions. Brady had gotten so adept at suppressing all feeling it took a conscious act of will for him to summon up a smile. He supposed that made him even more emotionally challenged now.

  No, he wasn't cut out to be a father.

  And all the excuses in the world wouldn't change the fact that he was a father, something he'd been unaware of until two weeks ago. Which was why he found himself on a sunny May morning rooted to the sidewalk in front of the Melinda Dolan Center for Children. Somewhere inside the ordinary, square, red brick building he had a daughter. A daughter who would soon turn three. All he had to do was make himself go inside.

  The timing couldn't have been worse. Not only did he have to readjust to a world that seemed to have changed radically—and not for the better—during his absence, but he also had to find a purpose for the rest of his life. He wasn't sure he could handle the complications that parenthood would add to the mix.

  Still, badly as he was tempted, he couldn't turn his back and walk away. This was his reality, and he would have to deal with it. The concept of duty and honor might be laughable to most, but to Brady it meant everything. He'd spent years devoting duty and honor to his country; he couldn't shirk his duty to his child. No matter what, he couldn't abandon his daughter the way his parents had abandoned him.

  Squaring his shoulders, and mentally squaring his resolve, Brady took the first step down the concrete path leading to the glassed front doors.

  "Ready or not," he murmured, "here I come."

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  With a sigh, Haven Adams collapsed into her chair, tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The stillness of her office washed over her, soothing tense muscles and frayed nerves.

  "Five minutes," she murmured. "Just give me five minutes, and I'll be able to handle—"

  A sharp rapping on the door interrupted her.

  "Anything," she finished, suppressing a groan. What now? She hoped it wasn't Chad, one of the more challenging children in her care. Twice already in the past hour she'd been called into his classroom, and her patience with him was wearing dangerously thin. Of course, compared with the other fires she'd already put out that morning, handling Chad would be a snap, patience or no patience.

  Sounding louder, the rapping was repeated. Haven drew a deep, bracing breath. While she adored her work and wouldn't dream of doing anything else, there were days when it didn't pay to get out of bed. Today was proving to be one of them.

  Smoothing a hand over hair that was far more disobedient than even Chad, she plastered a polite smile on her face. "Come in."

  The door opened, and she saw a tall, lean man who appeared to he in his early thirties. He had pale-blond hair that hung to his shoulders, framing hard, chiseled, Nordic features. Gray eyes the color of molten steel made a quick survey of her small, cluttered office before coming to rest on her. The utter lack of emotion in their depths should have chilled her to the bone. Instead, she felt a gathering warmth in the pit of her stomach.

  "May I help you?" she asked, remembering her manners and scrambling to her feet.

  "I'm looking for Haven Adams."

  He didn't offer an answering smile, and she felt her own slip a fraction. "You've found her."

  When he crossed to her desk, she saw that he walked with a slight limp, and that, despite the broadness of his chest and the muscles she could glimpse in his forearms, he was far too thin, almost gaunt. His skin was also paler than the unusually harsh winter they'd recently left behind them would warrant. Still, there was an aura of power about him that would not be ignored.

  "My name is Brady Ross," he announced, as if the appellation should mean something to her, but it evoked no sense of recognition.

  She barely came up to his shoulders and had to tilt her head back to see him better. There was something about his face that made it more than the sum of its parts. He had, she realized, the kind of face that would be fascinating to stare at while he slept. She couldn't help wondering when the last time was that anyone had done that.

  Suddenly, she wanted him sitting down. If he was sitting down, she wouldn't feel at such a disadvantage. She'd be able to think more clearly.

  "Please," she offered, indicating the chair in front of her desk, "have a seat, Mr. Ross."

  "I'm here about my daughter," he said when they were both comfortable.

  Haven prided herself on knowing each of the two hundred children in her charge by name. But when she scanned her memory, she came up blank as to a little girl with the surname of Ross. Of course, in these days of interchangeable families, that meant nothing.

  "I'm sorry. Perhaps if you told me your daughter's name, I could be of more assistance."

  "Dolan. Anna Dolan." He paused for the space of a heartbeat, then added calmly, "I believe she's your ward."

  It was obvious he'd expected his announcement to throw her o
ff balance. It probably would have, too, had she not been through this scene before. Far too many times.

  Not another one, was her first thought. On its heels came disappointment. For some reason, she'd expected better from him. Leaning back in her chair, Haven folded her arms across her middle. Of all the crises she'd faced that morning, this one would by far be the easiest to handle.

  "You're late," she said.

  His eyes flickered briefly, betraying his surprise. "Excuse me?"

  "Your counterparts were here weeks ago."

  One pale-blond eyebrow lifted. "My counterparts?"

  Oh, he was good. He was very good. Just the right amount of polite inquiry mixed with a tinge of confusion. Haven gave him full marks for knowing how to stall. He was definitely a cut above all the rest. Not only did he look like a Viking warrior come to life, he stood apart from the crowd because he didn't wear his greed like a cheap cologne, the way the others had.

  "That's right," she said. "All of Anna's other fathers. They were lined up around the corner after the article in the Post-Gazette."

  She'd known she was in trouble the minute she saw it. Spotlighting the steel industry, the article had focused on three of the families who had helped to make steel Pittsburgh's number-one product. Featured prominently were the Dolans.

  The reporter had been thorough, writing that except for a great-aunt, Anna was the sole living heir. While the Dolan fortune was not what it had been before steel's decline in the early eighties, Anna was still a very wealthy little girl. The article had gone on to list Haven's name as guardian, mentioned the day care center and revealed that the identity of Anna's father was unknown.

  Those last tidbits were what had given Haven nightmares. Through her friendship with Anna's mother, she had learned there were people in this world who would do most anything to acquire money they didn't deserve. She'd stood by Melinda through more than one nasty encounter. After the article, she'd braced herself for the worst, concerning Melinda's daughter.

  And gotten it. The center had been flooded with fake fathers the day the article came out. Over the succeeding week, the flood had receded to a steady stream. After two weeks, the stream had slowed to a trickle. After three, it had dried up altogether.

  As annoying and disheartening as the appearance of these frauds had been, they'd proved amazingly easy to discredit. A few basic questions, along with a request for a DNA test, were all it had taken to send them running for the door.

  Now, when she'd thought she'd seen the last of them, this man was here.

  His gaze unblinking, Brady Ross settled back in his chair. One long, lean, jean-clad leg lifted indolently to cross over the other. He seemed in no hurry to leave, nor did he seem the least bit daunted that she'd found him out so easily. If anything, he seemed amused.

  "You'll have to enlighten me," he said. "I'm afraid I didn't read that particular article."

  She didn't believe him. "It would have been hard to miss, seeing as it was a full-page color spread. Quite informative, too. It said that Anna's father never had been identified, then spelled out in elaborate detail the size of her inheritance."

  "I see. And that's why you think I'm here?"

  "Isn't it?" she challenged.

  His air of amusement evaporated. "I'm not a child, Ms. Adams. Your schoolteacher act doesn't intimidate me."

  No, he wasn't a child, she conceded. He was all male. Disturbingly so. It annoyed her that she was unable to ignore the tug of attraction she felt for him. Also galling was the way he was treating her as if she were in the wrong, when he was the one trying to get his hands on a little girl's inheritance.

  "Are you saying you're not here because of the money?"

  "I'm here because Anna Dolan is my daughter. Period."

  "Do you have any proof to substantiate your claim?" she asked coldly.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. After unfolding it, he leaned forward and placed it on her desk.

  "I have this."

  It was a photocopy of a letter, Haven saw. She was unable to suppress a gasp when she recognized the familiar handwriting scrawled across the page.

  Hands unsteady, she lifted the paper, then fumbled for the reading glasses she kept on her desk. When they were squarely on her nose, Haven quickly scanned the words written by Anna's mother:

  Dear Brady,

  I'm not sure you'll remember me, but perhaps the date, August 13, will have some significance for you. I know it does for me. I'm the woman you met that night. I'm writing to tell you that you're going to be a father. I'm not doing this to ask for your support, but because I feel you have the right to know. If you wish to be a part of your child's life, please contact me. If not, I will understand.

  Yours truly,

  Melinda Dolan

  Haven was trembling when she finished reading, and her heart beat so loudly she was certain he could hear it. Her first instinct was to order him to leave, but that wouldn't solve anything.

  She glanced around the room where she'd spent so many pleasurable hours since opening the Melinda Dolan Center for Children two years ago. Her framed diploma and certifications hung on one wall, along with a corkboard covered by dozens of crayoned pictures. Built-in bookcases filled with child care books covered another wall. A clutter of paperwork that she never seemed able to conquer littered her desk. Nothing had changed.

  But how could that be, she wondered, when her entire world had turned upside down?

  "Are you ready to concede that I'm Anna's father?" she heard him ask.

  She dropped both her glasses and the paper onto her desk. Right now, the only thing she'd concede to him was that the sky was blue.

  "I will, of course, want to see the original," she said.

  He nodded. "In the proper company."

  Meaning legal counsel, so she couldn't tear it up.

  She'd never thought this could happen. Whenever she'd questioned Melinda about this very eventuality, her best friend had dismissed it as inconsequential.

  "Anna's father wants nothing to do with her," Melinda had always said in a voice of absolute conviction. "He won't be bothering you."

  Haven never had discovered his name. Melinda hadn't listed it on the birth certificate, and she'd made it quite clear to anyone with the temerity to ask that the identity of Anna's father was not a subject open for discussion. Out of respect for her friend, Haven hadn't pried.

  Now she wished she had.

  Why hadn't Melinda told her about the letter?

  Because it was a clever forgery, she decided. Yes, that had to be it. Melinda had never told her about the letter because she never wrote it.

  "I'll have to insist on a DNA test," she said, thankful her voice didn't betray her inner agitation.

  "Of course. The sooner we get this matter cleared up, the sooner I get to know my daughter."

  Icy fingers of fear squeezed around Haven's heart. He was too calm, too assured. Every other so-called father had left on a run at the mention of DNA testing. But not this man. Either he had nerves of steel or he sincerely believed he was Anna's father.

  Dear heaven, could this really be happening? Could she lose Anna? No. She refused to believe it. Anna was Melinda's gift to her, the fulfillment of a prayer she'd thought would never be answered.

  She fought to control her rising panic. She had to stay calm. For Anna's sake.

  Something still bothered her, something that wasn't quite right. She latched onto it like a drowning person grabbing at a life preserver.

  "According to the date on this letter, Melinda was around two months pregnant when she wrote it. That was…" She did a quick calculation. "Over three and a half years ago, Mr. Ross. You weren't here for Melinda while she was carrying your child. You weren't here for her when she was sick and dying. You certainly weren't here when Anna was born. Where were you?"

  His eyes flashed with an emotion she could describe only as pain—deep, searing, gut-wrenching pain. A second later, h
e'd schooled his face back into its impassive mask, leaving her to wonder if her imagination had been playing tricks on her.

  It had to be her imagination, she told herself. Looking at him now, she found it hard to believe that he ever smiled, or that a sense of humor lurked somewhere beneath his ultra-serious exterior. An emotion as deeply felt as the pain she'd thought she'd glimpsed seemed utterly foreign to him.

  "I don't believe that's relevant," he said.

  Obviously, whatever the excuse he had for his absence, it wasn't a compelling one. Telling her the truth would do little to curry her favor. Not that he seemed to be going out of his way to get on her good side.

  "I think a judge might find it extremely relevant," she retorted. "You say you want to get to know your daughter. If you're so anxious, why'd it take you so long to put in an appearance?"

  He spoke with obvious reluctance. "For what it's worth, I didn't receive the letter until two weeks ago."

  "You mean it took the post office that long to deliver it to you?" She didn't bother to hide her disbelief.

  "No, they delivered it on time."

  "But you just said you didn't receive it until two weeks ago."

  "I didn't. I … moved shortly before it was sent. It just now caught up with me."

  Unlike his claim to paternity, his words had the feel of a lie, of something conjured up on the spur of the moment. When had it ever taken the post office three and a half years to track a person down, even if a Change of Address form wasn't on file? Obviously, he didn't want to tell her where he'd been. Why?

  She examined his face, once more noting its pallor. "Were you in prison, Mr. Ross?"

  Again, she was surprised by the flash of emotion in his eyes. This time, she saw not only pain, but also admiration. The pain was directed inward, but she could swear the admiration was for her.

  "If it eases your mind at all, Ms. Adams, I wasn't in prison. At least, not the kind of prison you mean. Not that it would change anything if I was a convicted felon. You see, I am Anna's father."