The Daddy Decision

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Authors: Donna Sterling

BOOK: The Daddy Decision
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“Does that mean you forgive me?”
Cort's voice was soft. Dangerously so.
 
Reluctance delayed Laura's reply. She had no doubt he regretted the harsh way he'd broken off their affair, but she sensed some hidden challenge in his gaze. “Yes, I forgive you.”
 
He slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her slowly, determinedly, into a hug. She was once again aware of his strength, his muscled hardness, the achingly familiar scent of his hair and skin. He took her mouth in a deep, moving kiss.
 
Desire flared between them, hot and swift. The very intensity of that tripped some internal alarm, and sanity rushed back.
 
She pulled free of him, her heart slamming against her rib cage. “Why did you
do
that?” she whispered frantically between erratic breaths.
 
His eyes burned bright “For the same reason you didn't stop me.” His reply shook her almost as much as his kiss. “Tell me, Laura,” he commanded gruffly, “why didn't you stop me?”
Dear Reader,
 
Harlequin Temptation celebrates its fifteenth birthday this year! When we launched in 1984, our goal was to be the most sensual, most contemporary series in the marketplace. Today we're still that—and
more
. Each month we bring you four fun, sexy stories that range from romantic fantasy to “Blazing” sensuality. Temptation is
the
series for women of the new millennium.
 
Over the years popular authors such as Jayne Ann Krentz, Barbara Delinsky, LaVyrle Spencer and Carla Neggers have contributed to the success of Temptation. Many of our writers have gone on to achieve fame and fortune—and the
New York Times
bestseller list!
 
In celebration of our fifteen years, I'm delighted to introduce you to three shining stars. Say hello to Pamela Burford, Alison Kent and Donna Sterling, who are each thrilled to bring you their sizzling stories in September, October and November.
 
I hope you enjoy these talented authors, as I hope you will enjoy all the fabulous books and authors to come.
 
Happy reading!
 
Birgit Davis-Todd
Senior Editor, Harlequin Books
 
P.S. We love to hear from readers! Write and tell us what your favorite Temptation book was over the past fifteen years. We'll publish a list of the top fifty!
 
Harlequin Books
225 Duncan Mill Road
Don Mills, Ontario
CANADA M3B 3K9
THE DADDY DECISION
Donna Sterling
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
To those who brought so much fun to my life as I was growing up—my aunts and uncles. Ruth and Larry, Ann and Bob, Jane and Ed, Ronnie, Rita and Dana, Terry and Jerry, Al and Cheryl, Chris and Kate. You've always meant more than you realize!
Also my thanks to
Mary Duke of Duke Design Associates
in Atlanta for her help, and
Susan Goggins, Carina Rock,
Jacquie D'Alessandro and
Anne Bushyhead
for invaluable critiques.
Dear Reader,
 
As Harlequin Temptation celebrates its fifteenth anniversary, I'd like to express the joy it has brought me over the years as both a reader and a writer. Temptation novels allow me to savor the kind of romance that gladdens my heart and reaffirms the beauty of the profound bond between soul mates. I can't think of anything more thrilling.
 
Writing for Harlequin Temptation has also won me many of the industry's most prestigious nominations and awards. My heartfelt thanks to the editors of the Harlequin Temptation line, and a very “Happy Fifteenth Anniversary”!
 
And to you, dear reader, I wish many more years of happy romance reading!
 
Please feel free to visit my Web site at
www.temptationauthors.com
or e-mail me at
[email protected], or mail me at
P.O. Box 217, Auburn, GA 30011. I'd love to hear
from you.
 
Yours sincerely,
 
Donna Sterling
Books by Donna Sterling
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
655—HIS DOUBLE, HER TROUBLE
694—THE PRINCESS AND THE P.I.
726—SAY “AHHH . . .”
738—TEMPERATURE'S RISING
 
Don't miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.
 
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian. P.O Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
1
T
HE MISCHIEVOUS GRIN on his sister's face as she met him at the door on that snowy Wednesday evening put Cort immediately on guard, but by the time she'd drawn him inside her Lake Tahoe chalet, the trap had already sprung.
An unexpected mob converged on him in the great room with exuberant greetings, hugs and handshakes.
He should have known better than to believe he'd be Steffie's only guest this Thanksgiving. Surrounding him were faces he hadn't seen in over a dozen years. Tension gripped him as he scanned those faces, searching for one in particular that had always been among them.
Laura Merritt.
She wasn't there
. At least, not in the small, welcoming circle around him. He relaxed somewhat and returned the hugs and handshakes.
“Cort Dimitri, you old dog!” greeted B.J. Mayhew, the most radical feminist ever to raise a fist on the University of Georgia campus. “What were you thinking, staying out of touch with us for fifteen years?” Although her auburn hair was still as short as a man's and her voice nearly as gruff, she was dressed in a tweed blazer and khakis instead of her old braless tank top and jeans. “I don't care
how
rich you are now. I still ought to kick your butt.”
“Yeah, you promised me that years ago,” Cort replied, still tense from the surprise, “and I haven't seen any action yet.”
A strong, mittlike hand gripped his and turned him toward a burly giant with skin the color of black coffee and a smile as wide as a goalpost. “Congratulations, man. Heard you sold your chain of sports bars for big bucks.” Pumping his hand was Hoss “the Boss” Tucker, one of the hardest-hitting linebackers in UGA's history. A light sprinkling of gray glinted in his short black hair. “I go by ‘Coach' now. Been shaping up the Prattsville Pirates for the past few years. Six-and-four for the season. Could have used some of your armchair quarterbacking.”
“He wouldn't have listened to a word of it,” cut in Tamika, looking and sounding exactly like the sassy cheerleader she'd been when Hoss had first brought her home. With her hair braided in her usual queenlike coronet, she held a sleeping baby in her sleek brown arms and wore a sizable diamond on her left hand.
“Hey, Cort, my man!” came a masculine shout from the far corner of the massive great room. The greeting was followed by an expressive squeal from an electric guitar. All eyes turned to the blond guitarist, who smiled happily as he made the instrument scream. Cort shook his head with a reluctant smile. “Rockin' Rory” Harper still had that damn guitar attached to him like an extra appendage. He'd put some meat on his bones and his hairline had receded, but his platinum hair was still pulled back in a ponytail, his handlebar mustache still drooped to his jaw and his faded jeans still sagged as if he'd just removed his stash of pot from their well-worn seat.
B.J. yelled at Rory to turn down the volume before he woke Tamika's baby, Tamika instructed Hoss to put the baby to bed upstairs, Hoss told Rory to play some Jimi Hendrix, and Steffie took the snow-dampened coat from Cort.
Cort, meanwhile, looked around again to assure himself
that no one hung back from the friendly ruckus in an attempt to avoid him. He braced himself for that possibility, half expecting to meet the gaze of the brown-eyed blonde he hadn't seen for fifteen years. She'd been such an integral part of this crowd that he couldn't believe she wouldn't be included.
“She's not here yet, Cort,” his sister said, returning from the coat closet. “She should be soon, though.”
He didn't pretend not to know whom she meant. Gritting his teeth, he tucked a firm hand beneath his sister's elbow and steered her to the relative privacy of the kitchen, fighting the temptation to strangle her.
Steffie had told him she'd be spending Thanksgiving alone if he didn't join her. Newly divorced, she'd sounded so pitiful over the phone that Cort had carved a few days out of his busy schedule and flown back from Italy.
He supposed he should have known better than to believe her sob story. For years she'd celebrated Thanksgiving with these people, her closest pals from college—the odd assortment of individuals who had once shared the big, drafty, off-campus house on Hays Street.
From backgrounds as varied as New England fishing towns to West Coast hippie communes to inner-city back-streets, the only things they'd all had in common had been the University of Georgia and their lack of family to visit during vacations. They'd banded together on those occasions, as well as in other times of emotional need, and eventually bonded into a nontraditional family of their own.
The Hays Street gang, as they'd become known in their little college town of Athens, Georgia.
Although Cort had owned the house on Hays Street and lived there with them for a while, he hadn't attended any of their reunions over the years. He'd never really felt a
part of the group. He was only four years older than Steffie and most of the others, but he'd felt decades older, working to pay the bills and Steffie's tuition while the others attended classes, parties and ball games. He'd actually seen very little of his housemates.
Except for Laura.
Laura.
Guilt and regret jabbed deep into his gut. He turned to his sister with a reprimanding gaze once they'd reached the kitchen. “Alone for the holidays, huh, Stef?”
“You
had
to come this time!” she declared in a forceful whisper. “Tomorrow will be our fifteenth anniversary celebration. Fifteen years since our first Thanksgiving together in the Hays Street house.”
“So what does that have to do with me?”
Her dark eyes sparked with indignation in her pixielike face. “You don't have a sentimental bone in your body, do you?”
“Never saw much profit in sentiment.”
She compressed her lips and shook her head, setting her chin-length, glossy black hair into motion. “That's exactly the reason I wanted you here. I'm worried about you. You've been too caught up in business for so many years, you've forgotten there's anything more to life. And now, with this new, high-flying life-style of yours, I'm more likely to see you on the news or on some society page than I am in person.”
“That's crazy.”
“Oh, yeah?” She lodged a hand on one hip. “How long will you be able to stay with me this time?”
“Until Saturday.” After a reluctant pause, he admitted, “I have an important meeting in London first thing Monday. ”
She threw her hands up. “London, Japan, New York.
You're always with the ‘power players' now. You've lost touch with the people who really care about you.”
“Like who?”
“Me, for one. When was the last time we saw each other?”
“Just a few months ago.”
“Twelve, Cort. A full year. And that was only because you had a two-hour layover. You can barely squeeze me in your schedule, you're so wrapped up in your financial ventures and schmoozing with high society.” She shook her head again, looking bewildered. “How can you be happy spending so much time with the same kind of people who put us down our whole lives? Don't you remember what they did to Papa, and Mama, and...and us?”
“I haven't forgotten a damn thing.” A surge of dark emotion accompanied the words. He would never forget. And that was why he intended to climb to the very top of the power chain. Nobody he cared about would ever again suffer the fear and degradation that had beaten down his Greek immigrant parents and riddled his and Steffie's childhood.
A weary sigh escaped her. “There's more to life than acquiring power, Cort. There's friendship. Family. Love. I know you believe in all that, or you wouldn't have bought me this house. All I'm asking is that you start using that heart of yours a little more—
really
using it—before it withers away.”
He couldn't resist teasing her. “What, you want another house?”
She punched him in the shoulder. “I'm serious, Cort! I pray every night that you'll fall in love with some nice woman and marry her and start a family of your own.”
“A family of my own?” Images of “family” flashed through his mind—his father slaving for a pittance to keep
them sheltered and fed, until he doubled over on the factory floor with no one caring enough to call a doctor as he died. His mother being dragged away by INS agents, her eyes wide with fear for the children left behind. Steffie as a twelve-year-old kid, hungry and cold, depending on Cort for her very existence.
Start a family of his own? He'd just as well cut open his heart and let it bleed. “Don't waste your prayers, Stef,” he murmured. “You're all the family I need.”
Her smile looked wistful and sad. “Then at least admit that you need friends. Real friends. Everyone in the Hays Street gang cared about you long before you made your millions.”
“I barely knew any of them.”
“Of course you knew them! In fact, for a while there, I thought that you and Laura might—”
“I barely knew Laura, either,” he interjected coolly.
It was the truth. Despite all the time she'd spent in his bed—stolen hours between her classes and his two jobs—he hadn't really known her. He hadn't known her favorite food, music or colors. Hadn't known her hobbies, interests or views on life. He wasn't even sure he'd known her major. And he hadn't given any of those things a thought until he'd left her far behind him.
No, they hadn't wasted much time on talk. Hadn't gone anywhere or done anything that didn't involve sex. But they'd had plenty of that. He hadn't been able to keep his hands off her. And she hadn't been able to say no. At least, not to him.
She'd been a virgin the first time he'd made love to her.
A deep, sharp pang assailed him again, and he turned away from Steffie in search of a drink. A strong one.
She stopped him near the kitchen door. “Laura and
Fletcher will be here soon. They'll be surprised to see you. I, uh, don't believe I told them you were coming.”
He turned back to face her. “Fletcher?” He'd forgotten about the quiet, serious young man who had moved into the Hays Street house shortly before Cort had moved out
“He and Laura are coming straight from an interior designers' seminar. Fletcher runs an antiques shop in Memphis, and Laura opened an interior design business in the same building. They're trying to save up enough money to actually buy the place.”
“They're...a couple?”
“Heavens, no. Actually, I've sometimes wondered if Fletcher might be gay.”
Cort didn't comment He knew that others had wondered about Fletcher, too, but he never had. He'd been aware of Fletcher's very male interest in Laura from the first time the guy laid eyes on her.
She'd had that effect on most men. She'd glowed with the kind of striking beauty that turned all gazes her way. Waist-length blond hair; a slender but voluptuous body; endless legs; smooth, honey-gold skin that a man couldn't help wanting to touch. She'd been too damn beautiful to be real. But she
had
been real. And kindhearted. And vulnerable.
He never should have let her move into the house on Hays Street.
“Cort, will you please try to relax for the next few days and have a little fun, like we used to?”
He managed a slight smile. “Okay. And I'm sorry if I've neglected you.” He slipped an arm around her and soberly met her gaze. “I'd protect you with my life, you know.”
Her eyes misted. “I know that But I don't need your protection, Cort We're not on the mean streets anymore.”
“And I intend to keep it that way.”
She hugged him tightly. “Even if you hadn't insisted on putting all that money in my account, I'm earning a decent living now. My teacher salary is more than enough to pay my bills. All I need is for you to be happy.”
Happy.
He'd never given that concept much thought. Didn't sound all that profitable.
The doorbell rang, and Steffie's face brightened. “I'll bet that's Laura and Fletcher.” She hurried away to greet the newcomers.
Cort remained in the kitchen and headed for the bottle of fine, aged brandy he'd spotted on the counter. As he chose a snifter from the cabinet, he heard a babble of cheerful greetings in the other room, and then Steffie's questions.
Where's Fletcher? Missed the flight! Catching a later one?
So. Laura had come alone. For no clear reason, the idea pleased Cort. He paused with the bottle of brandy in his hand and listened closely to catch her low, soft voice among the others.
“Wait, Steffie, don't close the door. The cabdriver's bringing in my luggage.” Her voice hadn't changed. Still as warm and lilting as a blossom-scented Georgia morning. “He's the sweetest old man. He wouldn't hear of me carrying my own bags, even though he's got the worst cold.”

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