Michael's Baby

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Copyright

Brett Reminded Herself That Michael Had Only Married Her For The Baby.

Same reason she’d married him. The fact that she loved him should play no part in their relationship. Not until he felt the same way. If he ever did.

Brett stiffened as Michael put his arm around her as they watched Hope settle down to sleep in her crib. “You can relax,” he assured her. “I’m not going to be sweeping you off your feet again tonight. We’ve got plenty of time to get used to this marriage stuff. There’s no rush, right?”

“Right,” she agreed. To him it was marriage stuff. To her it was the secret longing of a heart that had almost forgotten how to hope…

Dear Reader,

Established stars and exciting new names.that’s what’s in store for you this month from Silhouette Desire. Let’s begin with Cait London’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Tallchiefs Bride—it’s also the latest in her wonderful series, THE TALLCHIEFS.

The fun continues with Babies by the Busload, the next book in Raye Morgan’s THE BABY SHOWER series, and Michael’s Baby, the first installment of Cathie Linz’s delightful series, THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIFT.

So many of you have indicated how much you love the work of Peggy Moreland, so I know you’ll all be excited about her latest sensuous romp, A Willful Marriage. And Anne Eames, who made her debut earlier in the year in Silhouette Desire’s Celebration 1000, gives us more pleasure with You’re What?! And if you enjoy a little melodrama with your romance, take a peek at Metsy Hingle’s enthralling new book, Backfire.

As always, each and every Silhouette Desire is sensuous, emotional and sure to leave you feeling good at the end of the day!

Happy Reading!

Senior Editor

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 Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Michael’s Baby
Cathie Linz

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHIE LINZ

left her career in a university law library to become a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance novels. She is the recipient of the highly coveted Storyteller of the Year award given by Romantic Times, arid was recently nominated for a Love and Laughter Career Achievement Award for the delightful humor in her books.

While Cathie often uses comic mishaps from her own trips as inspiration for her stories, she found the idea for this trilogy in her very own home—from an heirloom that has been in her family for generations. After traveling, Cathie is always glad to get back home to her family, her two cats, her trusty word processor and her hidden cache of Oreo cookies!

For my mom,

who is an artist with a caulking gun and

taught me what she could.

Sorry I still throw a baseball

like a girl, Mom!

One

The scream woke Michael Janos out of a sound sleep. Even though he had dropped out of the police academy and gone into corporate security work instead, some responses were instinctive.

Reacting instantly, he grabbed for the jeans he’d worn last night, jamming his feet into the denim legs as he hopped toward the door to his apartment. The scream sounded as if it had come from the apartment directly above his. In his bare feet—despite the single-digit November temperatures outside—he raced upstairs, swearing in Hungarian as he stubbed his toe on the top step before reaching the upper apartment and pounding on the door.

“Mr. Stephanopolis, are you in there? It’s Michael Janos.”

The elderly man slowly opened the door.

“What happened?” Michael demanded. “I heard someone scream.”

“It was me,” Mr. Stephanopolis replied testily. “I was in the shower and the hot water ran out. I nearly froze my private parts off! You’ve got to fix that hot-water heater before someone gets hurt.”

Michael was already hurt—his big toe was throbbing like nobody’s business. When he’d been six years old he’d broken that big toe by stubbing it on a stair—he only hoped history wasn’t repeating itself.

“Did you hear me?” Mr. Stephanopolis demanded, tightening his bathrobe more tightly around his toothpick body.

“I heard you,” Michael assured him wearily. It was barely six and he hadn’t gotten to sleep until two a.m. “I’m sure the entire building heard you screaming like that.”

“So what are you going to do about the hot-water heater?”

“You know I’ve placed an ad for a building supervisor to take care of repairs. Meanwhile I’ll call for a repairman, but it is Thanksgiving weekend.”

“A repairman already came out last weekend.”

And charged Michael plenty in overtime. “Look, I’ve got a couple people coming by today to interview for the super’s job. Hopefully one of them will know what they’re doing.”

Michael’s hope was fading by the minute as the handful of applicants came and went—each of them as dim as the light bulb he’d asked them to put into his stove as a test of their supposed handyman abilities. The most recent applicant had all but taken the stove apart in his quest to put in the damn bulb. Now Michael would have to call an appliance repairman in for that, too—in addition to everything else that was already on the fritz.

Meanwhile, the hot-water heater guy still hadn’t shown his face, or any other part of his anatomy, since Michael had placed the call at six that morning.

Mr. Stephanopolis had shown his displeasure with the lack of hot water by stomping around in his apartment with his army boots—remnants of the Second World War. He’d had his wife, who was built like a brick outhouse, join him in his protest march. Since Michael was directly below the marching stampede, there was no rest for the weary.

A timid knock on his door was a welcome diversion, until he saw who was outside. Mrs. Wieskopf and Mrs. Martinez stood side by side, clearly believing in the philosophy of power in numbers. The two senior citizens shared the apartment next door to his on the main floor. If their knock was timid, the look on their faces was anything but. “Mr. Janos, do you realize that there is no hot water in this building?” Mrs. Wieskopf demanded.

“I know. I’ve already called a repairman…”

“We do our washing on Saturdays, Mr. Janos. And we can’t get our whites clean with cold water.”

“A repairman came last weekend,” Mrs. Martinez added.

A fifteen-minute lecture on the responsibilities that accompanied being a building’s owner followed.

When he could finally get a word in edgewise, Michael said, “Look, ladies, I’m doing the best I can here.”

With a disapproving sniff, the two women returned to their own place.

Michael was ready to call it quits for the day when he remembered there was one more applicant to go. Glancing at his watch, he frowned. The guy was late. Not a good start.

As if on cue, Michael heard the strangled sound of the security buzzer, indicating that there was someone pushing the button in the building’s postage-stamp-size foyer. He couldn’t ask who it was because the damn speaker was broken, so he undid the locks on his door and strode outside. From his doorway he could see the postman through the glass beside the front door. The man looked as aggravated as Michael felt.

“Got a package for you here,” the postman said as Michael joined him in the foyer, his tone of voice making it clear that he disapproved of Michael getting packages and complicating his route. “And your metal mailbox thingamajig sticks. You better get it fixed.”

“It’s an old building,” Michael said.

“It’s a white elephant,” the postman snorted. “Axton was wise to dump it.”

He’d dumped it all right, right into Michael’s unwilling lap. Michael had carried David Axton as long as he could, but when Axton hadn’t paid for the security work Michael had done for his company almost a year before, Mi chael had finally taken him to court—and ended up with this monstrosity of a Victorian mansion-cum-apartment house while Axton had declared bankruptcy and taken off.

“It’ll be worth something someday,” Axton had told him before leaving the courthouse. “Just needs a little fixing up. That area in the near north side of Chicago is being rehabbed by yuppies. Hang onto the property, Janos, and you’ll find I’ve paid you back in spades.”

Right. And he probably had some swamp property Michael could buy for a song, too.

Michael had only been living in the building a few weeks and already he knew he was in for some big headaches.

The slam of the front door told him that the postman had moved on, leaving Michael standing there with the mysterious package in his hands. Frowning down at it, he hoped it wasn’t any more of the sex toys that David Axton had ordered before vacating the property.

No, the address label had his name written out in a spidery handwriting. In fact, it had his given name of Miklos on it. No one ever called him that.

Looking at the return address he couldn’t make anything out. But the stamps said Magyar Posta. He knew enough of his native language to know the stamps were from Hungary. But he didn’t know anyone in Hungary. Granted, his parents had come from there, but they’d emigrated to the States in the early sixties, when he’d been just a child.

The package looked like it had come via China by a slow camel train. Kind of the way he felt after a hellish day like today.

Lifting the package to his ear, he shook it and felt a pain splinter his head, making him wince—and making the door slip from his booted foot and slam, effectively locking him out of his own building.

Swearing in Hungarian for the second time that day, Michael yanked on the doorknob, only to end up pulling it out in his hand.

Brett Munro stared at the slip of paper in her hand before checking the address one more time: 707 Love Street. Yep, this was the place, all right. It looked more like a house than an apartment building, but then she knew that once, decades ago, this area off Fullerton had been an affluent neighborhood. Now it was struggling with urban renewal.

Brett knew all about struggling. And when she opened the outer door, she saw a tall, dark-haired man struggling, too—yanking on the doorknob of the inner door before ending up with the knob in his hand. The man had no outer coat on and had obviously just locked himself out.

“Maybe it would help if you buzzed someone else to let you in,” she suggested.

The man whirled to face her and she caught her breath at the dark attraction of his face. He wasn’t what you would call traditionally handsome, his face was too lean for that. It was carved in rakish angles with noble shadows beneath high cheekbones.

She was close enough to see the striking color of his eyes—a light hazel with unexpected depth. Brett blinked. She’d never seen eyes quite like that before. It wasn’t just the color, but also their darkly brooding expression that made her feel as if she’d just been lifted into the vortex of a tornado.

“Where did you come from?” he demanded.

“Outside,” she replied. “Would you like me to fix that for you?”

Michael clutched the doorknob to his chest, which was hard to do, since he was carrying a paper-wrapped box, and glared at her. “I’ve had enough people trying to fix things around here.”

“It’s a beautiful old building,” she said admiringly, noting the etched glass panel on one side of the inner doorway.

“It’s a security risk,” he replied, following the direction of her gaze. “The place is falling down around our ears.”

“Then why do you live here?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

She made no reply, knowing what it was like to have few options. But that life was behind her now. “So what are your impressions of the building’s owner?”

“The guy was a no-good con artist,” Michael growled, wishing David Axton were there so he could punch his lights out.

His passionate reply clearly startled her. He saw the way her blue eyes opened wide, her long lashes dark against her creamy white skin. He wondered who she was visiting in the building.

“So are you going to buzz someone to let us in?” she asked.

“Most of the intercom system is busted. Those that do work are in apartments where the occupants are halfdeaf.” He was referring to the Stephanopolises, Mrs. Wieskopf and Mrs. Martinez, quelling the flash of guilt he felt at referring to them in such a way. His parents had taught him to respect his elders. But surely not when they took pleasure in torturing him the way his tenants did.

“If the intercom is broken, then I guess there’s just one thing to do,” Brett said. “Put that doorknob back on.” Seeing his distrustful look, she added, “Look, I know what I’m doing. Actually, I’m here to interview for the building supervisor’s job. It looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

The man’s expression darkened as he frowned at her. “What kind of story is that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a woman.”

“That’s right. So?”

“The ad said I was looking for someone with experience. A handyman.”

“You? But I thought you said the owner was a no-good con artist?”

“That’s the guy who dumped the place on me. I’m just, the poor idiot who got stuck with this monstrosity.”

Her look clearly told him that she thought he was an idiot for questioning her skills. She was kind of pretty, with her short dark hair and those blue eyes with their smudgy thick lashes. Seeing the sprinkling of freckles across her cute nose, he was willing to bet she had Irish blood. She looked wholesome. His mother would approve of her. But then Michael had never dated women his mother would approve of.

She was wearing a down coat and a strange woolen hat—beret, he corrected himself. Whatever it was called, it wasn’t real practical for keeping body warmth in. Around her neck was a bright-colored scarf that looked like it had been knitted by a bunch of color-blind elves. She had nice legs encased in tight jeans and on her feet were a pair of heavy-duty hiking boots.

“As the poor idiot who owns this place,” she said, “maybe it would be best if you conducted our interview inside. It’s not much warmer in here than it is outside. Are you going to give me the doorknob to fix or not?”

“Not,” he said.

She sighed. “Why not?”

“Because things are bad enough already. I don’t want them getting any worse.”

“Then how about I talk you through fixing the knob yourself?” she suggested with the patience of someone addressing a troublesome two-year-old who was refusing to eat his vegetables. “I’ve got a small screwdriver on my Swiss knife.” She reached into her purse and pulled it out.

“I’ll do that,” Michael said, taking the knife from her. He wasn’t sure he could trust her not to run him through with it. She looked aggravated enough with him to try. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s Brett. Brett Munro.”

“You signed your application letter B. Munro,” he noted accusingly before handing her his package while he turned to the door.

“To avoid your throwing it into the ‘round file,’“ she retorted. “Experience has taught me to be cautious when applying for a job of this kind.”

Michael wasn’t really listening to her. Instead he was rather proud of the way he jiggled the doorknob back into place. He had to squat down to see what he was doing while trying to fit the compact screwdriver into the screw’s slot. This handyman stuff wasn’t that hard after all, if you had the proper tools.

“You have to turn the screwdriver to the right to tighten it,” she informed him dryly. Of course, with that he slid the screwdriver right off the screw, nearly gouging the wood on the door.

Muttering under his breath, he tightened the screw and moved on to the next one. Once that was done, he reached into his wallet and extracted a credit card to slide into the door jamb. Holding it just right, he hit the bolt and opened the door.

“You did that a little too easily for my comfort,” Brett told him.

“That’s why I’ve got a locksmith coming next week. I’d have gotten him here sooner, but the guy had a three-week waiting list.”

“I know how to put in a new lock.”

“Yeah, but do you know how to fix a hot-water heater?” he retorted, certain she’d answer no.

Instead she said, “Depends what’s wrong with it.”

“If I knew what was wrong with it, I’d fix it myself,” Michael declared.

He didn’t appreciate the yeah-right look she gave him.

“Have you ever been a building supervisor before?” he demanded, taking his package back from her in exchange for her Swiss knife as he headed for his main-floor apartment. This door he hadn’t locked, thank heaven.

“No,” she replied, trailing after him and looking around his place with interest.

Michael never “sted a look like that. It either meant someone was casing the joint or, if it was a woman, that they were getting nesting instincts—imagining their chintz couch in his living room. He’d be called paranoid, were it not for the fact that his last romantic relationship had started with just such a look of interest at his living room. The relationship had ended several months ago in disaster. She’d accused him of being a loner. She was right.

“Why should I hire you if you have no experience?” Michael countered.

“I didn’t say I had no experience. I’ve taken architecture courses, I know basic construction methods. Other girls played with dolls. I played with tools. I’m good at fixing things.”

“Taken apart any stoves?” he asked, pointing to the mess in his kitchen.

She nodded.

“Can you fix that?” he inquired mockingly.

She walked into the kitchen and frowned at the appliance. “Do you have a toolbox?” she asked. “I didn’t bring many tools with me.”

What kind of question was that? Every self-respecting man had a toolbox—not that he knew what to do with it. He handed it to her and let her have at it, figuring she couldn’t mess up the appliance any more than it already was.

While she attacked his stove, Michael undid the package he’d received—which was harder than it sounded, since the thing was wrapped in clear tape from one end to the other. It took him ten minutes to get the outside paper off. The one time he shook the package in frustration, he felt that sharp pain in his head again—almost as if the pain was connected to his handling of the package. Finally he got it unwrapped. Inside was a cardboard box advertising what he assumed to be Hungarian washing powder. And inside that was a mass of crumpled newspapers.

Reaching down, his fingers finally made contact with something solid. Something warm. He couldn’t get a good grip on it with all those newspapers, though.

Tossing them aside, he noticed a sheet of white writing paper with the same spidery handwriting as the address label. Taking the sheet, he read:

Oldest Janos son,

It is time for you to know the secret of our family and bahtali—this is magic that is good. But powerful. I am sending to you this box telling you for the legend. I am getting old and have no time or language for story’s beginning, you must speak to parents for such. But know only this charmed box has powerful Rom magic to find love where you look for it. Use carefully and you will have much happiness. Use unwell and you will have trouble.

Michael had to squint to make out the spidery signature and in the end was only able to make out part of it-”Magda.” He hadn’t thought they’d had any relatives left in Hungary, but on second thought he did seem to recall his dad mentioning a Great-Aunt Magda.

He read the strange note once more. “Rom magic”…that meant Gypsy magic, Michael knew that much. His dad had Gypsy blood, but Michael didn’t know anything about any family secrets. It was just his luck that his folks had recently left on a Pacific Rim cruise, so he couldn’t call and ask them what this was all about.

Looking back into the carton, minus the newspaper, he was now able to see something. a box maybe? Picking it up, he saw that it was indeed an intricately engraved metal box, with all kinds of strange markings—half-moons and stars, among other things.

Wondering if there was anything inside, Michael lifted the lid…