Susan Mallery
Author Book List

One moment, computer consultant Parker Hamilton was quietly programming in his house along the rugged Pacific coast. And the next, his life was thrown into a tailspin. He discovered he was a father. What would he do? What would he say to his daughter? Did she know the truth — that he hadn't known about her? And why was her beautiful aunt, Erin Ridgeway, suddenly giving him the chance to be a full-time father?

Despite everything, Erin promised herself she'd give Parker a chance to know his daughter. But what could a lonely millionaire know about raising a little girl? Well, Erin was going to have to find out...for the sake of Christie, who so desperately wanted a family....

Excerpt

"There's a woman here to see you," Kiki said, sticking her head into her boss's office.

Parker Hamilton wasn't really working, but he didn't raise his gaze from the computer screen. The program wasn't coming together. He couldn't concentrate. Everyone had been telling him to slow down or he would burn out. He shifted in his chair and wondered if he could feel the heat of that even now. He would hate like hell if everyone had been right.

"I'm not interested, Kiki," he said, still not looking at her. "Tell your friend she's wasting her time."

He didn't hear his housekeeper move into the room, but he felt her presence. Sure enough his screen soon filled with her reflection. She was standing behind him, with her hands on her hips. The image wasn't clear enough to see her face, but he knew her expression would be impatient. She'd been impatient with him a lot lately. "You've got to stop staring at that little screen," she said.

"You're going to go blind. Or worse. Your eyes will change shape until they're square, like your monitor."

He punched in the Save command, then spun in his chair until he was facing her. His housekeeper was probably in her early fifties, although she was very coy about her age. As usual, she was dressed in a jogging suit. She must own dozens. Parker had seen a rainbow of colors, all with matching athletic shoes. Today she was dressed in fuchsia. He didn't know they made shoes in that color.

"How is having my eyes change shape worse than going blind?" he asked. Kiki had the most interesting, if illogical, mind.

"Don't try to change the subject. You have a visitor."

"You're the one who brought up my eyes," he reminded her. He flashed Kiki a smile. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. I know you worry about me. But —" He glanced out the window, not really seeing the view of the Pacific Ocean, but instead looking in the black ugliness of the past.

"I'm not interested."

Kiki shook her head. Her short blond hair fluttered over her forehead before settling back in place. "You think I don't know that? In the last couple of years I've paraded every single woman between twenty and thirty-five through here. Believe me, Parker, I've given up on you. This isn't one of my friends. I think —" She paused thoughtfully, something she almost never did. "I think you'll want to talk to her."

With that Kiki left.

Parker rose from his chair and started after her. Irritation battled with curiosity. His housekeeper could easily deal with anyone trying to sell something. If it wasn't one of her friends, then who?

He came down the stairs and across the large foyer. The house was large, too large, but he didn't plan on moving. He'd made peace with his surroundings if not with himself.

The front door was open. A woman stood on the porch. She had her back to him as she stared at the wide lawn and the flowers edging the driveway. The back of the house butted up to the edge of the cliffs. Beyond the terrace there was only the drop to the ocean. All the yard was in the front.

He had a brief impression of shoulder-length dark hair, touched with a hint of red. A loose-fitting cream sweater fell to slender hips. Jeans covered her long legs. His gaze dropped lower, and he smiled slightly. Her athletic shoes were white. Apparently she didn't share his housekeeper's compulsion to have everything match.

"May I help you?" he asked.

She turned toward him. Recognition slammed into his gut. Her eyes were hazel and tilted up at the corner. Her generous mouth was straight, but he knew what it would look like smiling. He knew about the dimple in her right cheek and how her laughter sounded. Five years ago, hers had been the only laughter in this empty house.

Regret followed recognition. Regret for how he'd treated her and regret for how easy it had been to let her go. He'd been the worst kind of bastard. Not only had he broken her heart, but he'd used her to forget.

She stared up at him, her hazel eyes searching his as if he were a stranger. Five years was a long time — they were strangers. They'd always been strangers.

He took in her clothing a second time. She was dressed more conservatively than he remembered. He raised his gaze to her face. There was something different in her expression. A wariness. He grimaced. Why wouldn't she be wary of him?

"Hello, Stacey," he said quietly.

She looked startled, then shook her head. "Mr. Hamilton, I'm not Stacey Ridgeway. I'm her twin sister, Erin." She held out her hand to him.

He took it without thinking. Her skin was smooth and cool. Instead of releasing her fingers, he held on, as if to keep her from bolting. Not Stacey? Was that possible? "You look just like her."

"We were identical twins." She glanced at the hand he was still holding. "Mr. Hamilton, we need to talk. May I come in?"

"Of course." He let go of her, then moved back, pushing the door open wider.

She stepped inside and gave him a quick smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes. He stared at her. They were different. He hadn't been imagining it. Twins. Had Stacey told him she was a twin? She might have. She'd talked a lot, but he'd never listened. The sound of her words had blocked out the pain and that had been enough. It hadn't mattered what she'd been saying.

"This way," he said, motioning to a set of open French doors on the far side of the living room. It was late June and the afternoon sun would be warm on the terrace. Fog rolled in that morning, but had long since burned away.

They crossed the hardwood floors, their athletic shoes barely squeaking on the polished wood. He tried to think of something to say. He hadn't seen Stacy in five years. Had he given her a single thought after she'd left?

On the terrace he held out a chair for Erin and tried to remember that time. It was a blur. He knew he'd felt guilty about what had happened and what he'd said. He also admitted he'd felt relieved when she had left. He'd never thought to go after her, or check on her. Is that what her sister wanted? A piece of his hide for not giving a damn? Five years was a long time to carry a grudge.

Erin sat at the small table and folded her hands in her lap. He took the seat across from her and continued to study her face, trying to see the differences. It was a pointless exercise. He didn't remember enough about Stacey.

"You're probably wondering why I'm here," she said. He listened to the sound of her words, trying to figure out if their voices were the same. He thought they might be. "I wasn't expecting you," he admitted. "It's been several years since I've seen Stacey."

"Five," she said, confirming his assumption. She bit her lower lip, then drew in a quick breath. Gathering courage, he thought. But for what?

"Mr. Hamilton —""

"Parker, please."

She nodded. "Parker, I don't know how much you remember about my sister."

"She interned with me for a summer." At least most of a summer. Until circumstances — no, he was determined to be honest with himself if no one else — until he had driven her away. He didn't regret her leaving, but he was sorry for how he made her go. "We —" He fumbled for words. Got involved? He hadn't been, although he had a bad feeling Stacey had believed herself to be in love with him.

"There were some misunderstandings," he said at last.

"I take full responsibility."

Her gaze met his. "I see," she said. Those two words carried a powerful message. He could tell by the look on her face that Erin Ridgeway knew the details of that summer. She knew what he'd done to her sister.

He resisted the urge to spring to his feet and pace the terrace. Okay, he'd been a bastard, but he hadn't done anything Stacey hadn't wanted. God knows she'd been throwing herself at him for weeks before he'd finally given in. She'd been over twenty-one. An adult.

Sell it somewhere else, Hamilton, a voice in his head muttered. She had been twenty-two and nowhere near grown up enough to handle you. He swore silently at himself and at the voice for speaking the truth.

Before he could think of something to say, Kiki swept onto the terrace. She walked over and set an old polished silver tray on the center of the table. There were two mugs, a coffee carafe, sugar, cream and a plate of brownies she'd made that morning.

"The coffee's fresh," Kiki said. "I ground the beans myself."

Erin glanced up and gave her a polite smile. "Thank you very much."

Kiki nodded. "No trouble. Mr. Hamilton rarely has visitors. I enjoy having people in the house." His housekeeper looked at her and shook her head. "You sure look exactly like your sister." She poured coffee and set a mug in front of each of them. "She was a lovely young woman. Very bright and funny. She brought a lot of life into this old house."

Erin's eyes widened. She'd reached toward her cup, then paused, her hand frozen in midmotion. "Stacey lived here?"

"All the interns did," Kiki said. "There are plenty of bedrooms. Town is too far away for them." She gave an exaggerated shrug. "Those college students always wanted to be working on the computer programs. Morning, noon and night. The world would have ended if they'd had to spend time actually driving back and forth. I would guess half of them never ever noticed the view from their bedrooms." She motioned to the twinkling blue of the Pacific just beyond the terrace. "Mr. Hamilton never notices, either. All he does is work."

She gave him a look that told him she hadn't forgiven him for being so tardy to dinner the previous night that he'd not only ruined her roast, but had also made her late for her date.

"I made the brownies myself," she said, pointing at the plate. "And not from a mix. Eat up." She glanced at him and raised her eyebrows. "You, too, Mr. Hamilton."

With that she walked across the terrace to the far door and entered the small hallway that led to the kitchen.

Parker picked up the plate and offered it to Erin. "Please try one. Kiki is an excellent cook and she gets very upset if she isn't appreciated."

Erin took one of the brownies and set it on a napkin. But she didn't taste the treat. Instead she stared at him. "I hadn't realized my sister lived here."

Parker had to clear his throat before speaking. "Yes, well, there were about six students in the house at the time. She was very well chaperoned." He snapped his mouth shut. Not well enough, he reminded himself, fighting an unfamiliar heated sensation. At first he couldn't figure out what it was, then he realized he was embarrassed. "At the time, it worked out best for everyone. Kiki was right. The interns did work constantly. I never required all those hours, but they would get caught up in their projects. I don't know if you're familiar at all with computer programming, but it can get very intense."

She reached for the cream and poured a little in her coffee. She stirred the mixture slowly. "That's what Stacey used to tell me."

He leaned back in his chair. "Did Stacey send you here, Ms. Ridgeway?"

Her gaze met his. Her eyes widened and her mouth parted in shock. The color drained from her face. "You don't know." Her lips pulled into a straight line. "Of course you don't. How could you?"

Uneasiness settled over him. "Know what?"

"My sister is dead. She died four years ago." This time Parker gave in to the impulse and rose to his feet. He crossed the terrace to the waist-high stone wall that ran around the perimeter of the open area and stared out at the sea.

Stacey Ridgeway was dead. He probed his emotions and encountered compassion for her family, regret — always regret — for what he'd done and remorse because he wouldn't have the chance to explain or apologize. No sadness or longing. He'd barely known her. If her twin sister hadn't come calling, he would never have thought of her again.

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