Baby On The Way Read online

  “you’re the father.”

  A wave of satisfaction swept over Del, catching him by surprise. He gave Libby a hug. Beneath his palms he could feel the delicate bones of her back.

  Possessive tenderness poured through him, and words he’d never intended to say in his life sprang out of his mouth. “I’ll marry you.”

  He clamped his lips shut. But after a moment of shock he found it felt right. Marriage—he’d never thought of it, but now. Yeah, that was the answer to the problem.

  She wouldn’t be on his mind so much if he married her.

  Libby hadn’t responded—overcome with gratitude, no doubt.

  “I’ll tell everyone that I’m the father and-”—“

  No!” Libby pushed free of his arms.

  Del stared at her in surprise. “You want to tell them?”

  “No! I mean I don’t want anyone to know you’re the father. Not ever!”

  Dear Reader

  This month we’ve got two wonderful books about pregnant heroines. I’ve never been pregnant myself, but these writers made it easy for me to see myself in their heroines’ places. And what crazy circumstances each one of them finds herself facing.

  Alexandra Sellers’ Shotgun Wedding introduces us to Carlee Miller, happily planning a life with her about-tobe child—until she discovers there was a mix-up at the sperm bank. And now millionaire dad-to-be Hal Ward wants in on the action. And not just the diaper-changing action, either. Once this guy sets eyes on the mother of his child, he’s looking forward to making his next baby the old-fashioned way.

  For Libby Sinclair, heroine of Sandra Paul’s

  Baby on the Way, it was the old-fashioned way that got her into trouble in the first place. And now Del Delaney, the other half of that troublemaking night, is back in town—just in time to crash Libby’s baby shower and let her know there will be lots of nights just like it in her future. And for some reason, Libby’s not complaining!

  Enjoy them both, then come back next month for two more Yours Truly novels, the books all about unexpectedly meeting, dating—and marrying—Mr. Right.

  Yours,

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  Please address questions and book requests to.

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P O. Box 609, Fort Ene, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Baby on the Way

  Sandra Paul

  To my dear cousin Betty Williams and my dear brother-in-law Steve Douglas. Thanks for all your help!

  A Letter From the Author

  My husband is a real “tough” guy—a welder who never bothers to complain about the burning slivers of metal that sometimes become embedded beneath his skin while he’s working. Yet he suffered along so convincingly with me during the labor of our first child that the nurses paid more attention to him than to me. (Much to my indignation!) I can still remember the wonder on his face when he first saw our son, and he soon became an expert at changing diapers and rocking the baby to sleep.

  It was a good thing he did, because our next child arrived two months premature, and due to complications, I ended up spending a few days in intensive care. My husband took care of our new baby, spending hours in the preemie ward carefully cuddling our “baby doll”—a tiny, perfect little girl no bigger than the length of his callused hand.

  A few years later, he was the first to hold our second daughter, too, and was so reluctant to hand his precious bundle over to “Mom” that I had to threaten to get up off the delivery bed and come get her—stitches or no stitches.

  In Baby on the Way, Del isn’t too sure at first how he feels when he learns Libby is expecting. But as soon as he holds his new little one in his arms, he’s immediately smitten.

  Yes, Del—like my husband—discovers that he really loves babies. After all, what true hero doesn’t?

  Books by Sandra Paul

  Silhouette Yours Truly

  Baby on the Way

  Silhouette Romance

  Last Chance for Marriage #883

  The Reluctant Hero #1016

  His Accidental Angel#1087

  1

  You Are Invited

  to a Baby Shower

  For: Elizabeth Sinclair

  Place: Susan Kayle’s House

  Time: 8 p.m., Friday Night

  Shhhhh! It’s a SURPRISE!

  “Del” A. Delaney paused in the act of chugging milk straight from the carton, his attention caught by the small pink card tossed carelessly atop the gift boxes on his sister’s kitchen table. His gaze brushed over the coy stork posing with a blanketed blue bundle in its beak, and fastened on the name penned in below. Elizabeth. Elizabeth Sinclair.

  Libby? His jaw clenched. It couldn’t be.

  Slamming the carton down, he snatched up the card.

  “Chris!” he shouted. “Christine Delaney! Get out here this minute.”

  “You bellowed, brother?” his sister asked, strolling into the kitchen. Her gaze—the same dark blue as his own—fell on the open carton of milk. Shaking her fashionably tousled dark hair in disapproval, she said, “Darn it, Del, if you don’t use a glass I’m going to—”

  “Never mind that.” He thrust the card at her. “What the hell is this?”

  Christine’s slim brows lifted at his harsh tone. She took the card from him and studied it, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it’s an invitation for a baby shower—another term for a party celebrating the arrival of a small human being sometimes referred to as a B-A-B-Y.”

  “Damn it, I know what a baby is.” Del snatched the card away. “Are you saying Libby is pregnant?”

  Chris beamed, patting his arm. “You’ve finally got it. I always knew there was a glimmer of intelligence in there somewhere. Now step aside while I gather a few more things together. I told Susan I’d get there early and help with the decorating.”

  She bustled around, opening cupboards while Del stood frozen to the spot. “How far along is she?” he demanded.

  “Hmm?”

  Del glared at the back of his sister’s head, resisting the urge to shake her. He spaced out each word. “I said, how far along is she?”

  Christine glanced up. “Libby? About seven or eight months.”

  She turned away while Del, overcome with the urgent need to sit down, straddled a kitchen chair. He felt as if he’d been poleaxed, a familiar feeling he’d had once before: the first time he’d looked into Elizabeth Sinclair’s startled brown eyes.

  Seven and a half months ago.

  “Where is she?” he growled.

  “Still at work,” Chris said, her voice muffled as she burrowed in a cavernous cupboard. “I already told you that when you got here.”

  Yeah, Chris had told him. In fact, it was the first question he’d asked her when stepping into his family’s Victorian house where Libby rented the third-floor rooms. Actually he’d known, even before Christine told him so, that Libby wasn’t home. The big old house had an empty feeling.

  His jaw clenched. Damn it, he should have called—he’d planned to call. Yet, it was precisely the strength of his need to do so that had kept him from picking up the phone. He stared down at the invitation in his hands. And now Libby was pregnant. He still couldn’t quite believe it. The memory of slender white limbs and soft, slight curves floated through his mind.

  “Now, Del. I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

  His gaze whipped up, fastening on his sister. Christine was watching him as she sat back on her heels, cradling a large yellow bowl in her lap. “You do?” he said.

  “Yep, I sure do.” She nodded decisively, making her curls bounce. “
You’re thinking I made a big mistake, taking Libby on as a boarder—that she’s some kind of irresponsible flake. But you’re wrong. She’s not like that at all. Once you meet her, I know you’ll see right away Libby is a good person. Why, everyone in the town loves her. Even Mrs. Peyton says.”

  Christine chattered on, while Del’s frowning gaze returned to the paper. So Libby hadn’t told anyone about him.about them.

  “…and with all the traveling I do for my job, and all the traveling you do for yours.”

  But why not? She had to know they’d find out sometime.

  “…this house sits empty ten months out of the year, anyway. It’s nice to have someone who’ll be here all the time…”

  He’d left her an emergency number. Why hadn’t she used it? Unless…his brows drew together as his initial certainty about the baby’s paternity wavered. “Who’s the father?” he asked abruptly.

  “With Libby here—” Thrown off stride by the interruption, Chris paused, her brows drawing together in puzzlement. “What?”

  “Who does Libby say is the father of her baby?”

  “Oh. No one.” Seeing her brother’s darkening frown, Chris added hastily, “I’m not kidding. I know it sounds strange, but she’s honestly never said. Half the town believes she must have been pregnant before she arrived in Lone Oak, while the other half suspects the father might be the new doctor over in Vicksville.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “He’s a real babe and I guess Libby’s been seen with him a time or two.”

  Del’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, she has, has she? This.doctor,” he drawled. “He comes here to see her?”

  Chris shook her head again. “No, not that I’m aware of. And Libby doesn’t ever talk about him, which is part of the reason I don’t think it’s him.” She rose gracefully to her feet. Stacking the bowl in a carton next to the gifts, she added, “Besides, he seems like a nice guy. Certainly not the type to get a woman pregnant and then abandon her.”

  Del straightened, a flush burning along his cheekbones, his fingers crushing the card in his fist. “Is that what Libby told you?” he demanded. “That some guy abandoned her?”

  Chris picked up her box. “No, that’s just my theory. I told you Libby’s never said a word and I don’t have the nerve to press her. She’s sweet and all, but kind of…reserved, if you know what I mean?”

  “No,” Del said bluntly. “I don’t.” The Libby he knew—the Libby he’d gotten to know very well indeed during the three days they’d been snowbound here alone together—hadn’t been reserved. Oh, she’d been aloof at first and a little shy at times, but mainly she’d been warm, and giving, and honest. At least he’d thought she’d been honest.

  Pushing back his chair, he stood abruptly and lifted the box from Christine’s arms.

  “What are you doing? Where are you going with that?” she demanded as he headed to the door.

  “To the baby shower, of course,” he said without pausing. “To meet this brave, sweet, silent paragon you keep talking about. I have a feeling,” he added grimly, “that this meeting is long overdue.”

  “Surprise!”

  Libby jumped, her hands flying up instinctively to cover the rounded mound of her abdomen as Susan Kayle’s door flew open. Behind the blonde crowded a group of smiling women while across a far wall a blue banner declared Congratulations, Libby, On Your Pending Arrival.

  Libby’s throat tightened. A surprise shower. They’d given her a surprise shower. “Oh, this is just too much,” she said helplessly. They were all so sweet. So excited. A tenseness she hadn’t even been aware of eased within her chest, leaving her ridiculously close to tears.

  As if on cue, Susan strode forward, plucking off Libby’s damp rain hat and divesting her of her purse and coat with the ease of an experienced hostess. “I swear, these Oregon summer rains get worse every year,” she said. Expertly, she ushered Libby forward to a huge, overstuffed white armchair. “Now, just sit down and catch your breath a minute. As usual, Christine is late and we can’t get started without her.”

  Libby sat down. Way down. The cushions sank beneath her weight until she felt as if she were enveloped by a giant marshmallow. Folds of her denim jumper bunched beneath her hips, constricting the heavy material across her stomach. She shifted, trying to rearrange the material while she glanced around at the women chattering in groups. The warmth of belonging stole over her.

  In Beverly Hills, California, where she had grown up, Libby had never known many of her mother’s neighbors. Thick walls separated her mother’s minimansion from the properties around her, and even more isolating had been Liz’s dislike of mingling with “outsiders”—meaning anyone who didn’t share her all-consuming interest in the movie industry. Since Libby planned to be a teacher, and her interest in the film world her mother loved had been tepid at best, she’d often felt like an outsider, too.

  Until she’d come to Lone Oak. This was the kind of small town she’d always longed to live in, a place filled with “real” people who cared about one another.

  “So, were you surprised, Libby? Did you really believe Susan was just having a Tupperware party?” Anabel Royce demanded.

  Libby abandoned the battle with her skirt to answer the slim brunette. “I was completely surprised.”

  “And didn’t you think it was odd I made you work overtime at the store tonight after you’d asked for the evening off?”

  “I certainly did.” But she really hadn’t found it surprising at all. Anabel, who had hired her to clerk at the department store, hadn’t been pleased when her new help had turned up pregnant after only a couple of months on the job. Libby had assumed tonight’s overtime was simply an expression of her boss’s displeasure. She’d been doubly sure of it when Anabel had arranged for old Bill, one of the janitorial staff, to drop her off at the party instead of waiting for Libby herself.

  How wrong she’d been—how wrong about them all. She’d expected the whole town to turn its back on her once everyone discovered she was single and pregnant with no sign of the baby’s father in sight. Instead, they’d all been more than kind, not even questioning her about the baby’s father once they learned—via Christine—that she preferred not to talk about him.

  “Did you hear we’ll be having a sale in the infants’ department this week?” Brooke Frenzel asked softly, and Libby brushed a strand of rain-damp hair off her cheek, turning to smile up at the younger woman perched on the arm of her chair. Brooke worked in the store, too, and as soon as she’d learned Libby was expecting, she’d made it her business to keep her informed of upcoming sales. “They have some darling outfits discounted,” Brooke added.

  Libby’s mouth turned down ruefully. “I think I’d better stock up on the more practical stuff like diapers.”

  “But, Libby, your baby can’t run around in diapers all the time,” Anabel said, smoothing her designer dress. She lowered her voice. “I might be able to increase your employee discount some. The right clothes are so important.”

  Not to a child they aren’t, Libby thought. She’d had plenty of the “right” clothes growing up—and all she’d craved was love. Still, how kind of Anabel to worry about it. She smiled up at the woman, saying, “Thanks, Anabel, but once my mother hears about the baby, I’m sure I’ll have more outfits than the baby could ever wear.”

  “Why, Elizabeth Sinclair, you told me two weeks ago you planned on telling your mother about the baby immediately. You mean you still haven’t done it yet?” a shrill voice inquired.

  Her mother wasn’t the only one she hadn’t told, Libby thought involuntarily. For a moment, a pair of piercing blue eyes flashed in her mind.

  She blinked, dispelling the vision as Brooke whispered, “Uh-oh, you’re in for it now. Lone Oak’s most notorious busybody is headed this way.”

  Libby looked up to find Pamela Peyton—with her plump shadow of a daughter, Dorrie Jean, in tow—elbowing her way toward Libby’s chair. Libby said admonishingly, “C’mon, Brooke, she’s not that bad.�
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  “No, she just can’t understand that not everyone wants her advice on their private business,” her friend whispered, and moved discreetly away as the pair approached. The other women standing nearby followed suit and, cowardly, Libby wished she could escape also. Not that she disliked Mrs. Peyton, she assured herself hastily. It was just that she received a lecture from Christine’s nearest neighbor every time they met, her attempts to avoid the older woman meeting with no success. Libby alwaysgot caught.

  She smiled bravely at the two women as Mrs. Peyton planted her stout body in front of her while Dorrie Jean hovered timidly in the background. The matron’s pointed nose seemed to quiver in her round face as she declared, “Goodness gracious, Elizabeth. I’d let my Dorrie Jean know a thing or two if she didn’t tell me the moment she was expecting.”

  “Mother.” Dorrie, blushing fiery red, plucked fruitlessly at her mother’s sleeve.

  Mrs. Peyton shrugged her off. “Now, Dorrie Jean, Libby knows I always speak my mind.”

  Yes, Libby certainly knew that—Pamela Peyton had a reputation for speaking her mind to anyone who would listen.

  “…and I think her mother will be disappointed she wasn’t told sooner.” Mrs. Peyton turned back to Libby. “Don’t you agree?” she demanded.