Marta tried in vain to read Derek’s expression on the drive back to Villazon. He’d been in a thoughtful mood since he and his mother disappeared into the kitchen. She gathered that he’d disclosed his illness, and had noticed a new rapport between the two of them.
His family had been warmer than she’d expected, and the memory of his sister’s baby made her heart contract. Those people loved Derek, even if they didn’t know how to reach him.
Right now, he remained lost in reflection. Marta chose not to intrude.
Rachel and her pediatrician husband lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in the Amber View development, on the east side of Villazon. Their front porch blazed with holiday lights.
When Russ welcomed them, they found about a dozen friends gathered in the living room. At a freestanding, carnival-style popcorn maker that scented the air deliciously, Rachel was filling yellow-and-red striped bags for the kids.
Greetings flew. As Marta returned them, she scanned the guests: Connie and Hale, Elise and Mike, detective Jorge Alvarez, Mark Rohan and Rosa Mercato—wearing an engagement ring—and Joel Simmons. No sign of Tracy. A large-screen TV showed a scene of snow falling across a woodland. That was as close as Southern Californians came to enjoying a white Christmas.
The chatter had died with their entrance. Connie broke the lull. “My mom says your cheapskate father bought you a bathrobe. I hope it has solid-gold buttons.”
Marta settled onto the couch with a cup of hot apple cider. “It’s a fresh beginning.”
“Yeah, you can bet on Christmas to turn us all lovey-dovey,” Joel grumbled.
Although Derek’s forehead furrowed, he didn’t reply. The others also let the comment slide.
The conversation ranged across topics from football games to, inevitably, Frank Ferguson’s angry departure the previous day. “I’m sorry I missed it,” Elise said. “He should have waited until shift change so more of us could hear.”
“Yeah, and it was pretty thoughtless of the chief to duke it out with Ben during lunch hour,” Hale joked. “A guy doesn’t dare even leave for a sandwich. You don’t know what you’re going to miss.”
Derek chuckled. Across from him, Joel looked away. But amid the ripple of laughter, Marta believed that humor had defused any tension. That is, until Mike innocently asked how the captain’s position would be filled.
“Oh, they might pick one of us lieutenants, or just hand it to a bootlicker like Reed,” Joel answered.
“Give it a rest!” Connie snapped.
Her ex-husband showed no sign of complying. “He shouldn’t mind. He’s been angling for a promotion for the past year.”
“I didn’t ask to be community relations director,” Derek replied quietly.
“You love it over there, kissing up to the chief. What happened to the guy who used to swear he’d never leave the field except in a pine box?” Joel demanded.
Sensing what came next, Marta gripped her cup tightly. Sure enough: “He got Parkinson’s disease,” Derek said.
In the abrupt silence, the children’s voices echoed from down the hall. Playing a board game, Marta gathered.
“That’s why the chief tapped you?” Hale asked at last.
Derek gave a short nod.
“Oh, hell.” Joel sounded disgusted, this time no doubt with himself. “I’ve been mad at Tracy for what she did to us, and I took it out on you. Sorry, man.”
“Apology accepted.” Whatever Derek might have added was cut short when his phone rang. He excused himself to answer.
Marta watched his expression shift into duty mode. “Where?…Has anyone issued a statement?…I’m on it.”
He clicked off. “There’s been an explosion. I have to go deal with the media.”
A chorus of questions greeted this disclosure. He responded that he had little information beyond the locale: Frank Ferguson’s house.
That generated even more inquiries. He had no answers. “Watch the news channels. I’m sure you’ll get a glimpse of my mug soon enough.”
“We’ll take Marta home,” Connie volunteered.
“Thanks.” Derek caught Marta’s eye. “Walk me out?”
“Sure.”
She accompanied him to the sidewalk. “Sorry I have to split.” He lowered his head until their foreheads touched.
“I understand.”
“Save New Year’s Eve for me, will you?” he murmured.
“Of course.” Marta sighed as he brushed a kiss along her temple. “Congratulations on telling everyone the truth. They needed to hear it.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said. “Well, we’ll talk later. Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
“Merry Christmas.” She cherished the endearment.
Inside, the others pelted her with questions about Derek’s illness. She answered as best she could.
“Nobody had a clue,” Rachel observed when they’d exhausted Marta’s knowledge. “Derek’s always been such a tough guy. The kind who could deal with anything.”
“Almost anything,” she corrected.
Russ changed the TV station. A camera crew in front of Frank’s home was running scenes of firefighters mopping up. The blackened garage, stark in the glare of spotlights, bore a gaping hole.
The group at Rachel’s house stuck around until Derek appeared and issued a statement outlining the course of events. Earlier, several neighbors had reported a blast. Suspended police captain Frank Ferguson had been found dead after a bomb he was building accidentally detonated.
He’d left no indication of the bomb’s intended target.
*
Tracy Johnson waited until the other reporters left the scene, Derek noticed. This being a Tuesday and past her weekly deadline, she didn’t have to hurry.
She walked beside him as he trudged toward his car. “He meant to kill the chief, didn’t he?”
“That’s supposition,” Derek responded automatically.
Despite his disgust with Ferguson, the man’s horrific death twisted in his gut. Such a waste of a human life. He also found it hard to accept that his former colleague had plotted Will’s murder.
“He must have been insane,” Tracy said.
Yeah, maybe, Derek thought.
She stuck around while he unlocked the sedan. Something was troubling her, he gathered.
“I have to respect my sources,” Tracy told him. “But I’m responsible for what I choose to print, too.”
“Next time, question the motives,” he responded. “They matter. And they may guide you to a bigger story.”
“I sure missed this one.” Tracy tightened the belt on her red-and-green holiday-themed sweater. She must have been pulled from a celebration, too. “Joel underestimates you, Derek. You’re not just a pretty face.”
“All compliments gratefully accepted.”
“Merry Christmas.” She headed off, a solitary figure in the night.
He returned home, eager for a peaceful refuge. Tonight, though, the bare surfaces and neutral colors of the condo lost their appeal.
The condo needed updating. Next weekend, he’d see what he could do.
*
Marta missed spending at least part of the following weekend with Derek. He had to help his sister with a project, he explained.
He kept busy at work during the week, too. The press descended daily for its fix of Frank-related scandals, she saw on the newscasts, as tales emerged of gambling debts, an ex-girlfriend threatening to bring abuse charges and a rambling pseudonymous blog that described the intention of destroying an enemy called “The Bogus Chief” with a car bomb.
His mental problems appeared to have kicked into high gear when Vince Borrego was forced to retire. Frank had assumed the position of chief belonged to him by right. As his personality disintegrated, he’d blamed all his problems on the man he insisted had cheated him.
In a positive development, Chief Lyons and his son reconciled. “It never occurred to me someone might try to kill my dad,” Ben told an on-air interviewer. “I’d be lost without him.”
Throughout the media frenzy, Derek’s low-key manner provided a refreshing contrast to all the hype. Marta only wished he could have accompanied her to a doctor’s appointment on Monday, when Dr. Bennett decided to perform a second ultrasound as a safeguard.
All appeared well. This time the probe detected the babies’ gender—both male.
Two boys. Two little Dereks. Marta ached to keep them so much she retreated to the ladies’ room and cried for several minutes.
Then she washed her face and returned to her job, determined to maintain a cheerful façade. She refused to ruin this special New Year’s Eve.
Derek collected her at seven. He looked, if possible, even handsomer than usual in a suit and dark shirt. “Would you mind if we swing by my place before dinner?” he asked. “I’d like your opinion on a new purchase.”
“Okay.” In the car, although Marta longed to save her news for a more romantic moment, it burst through her restraint. “I had another ultrasound. They’re both boys.”
“Is that for sure?”
“Apparently.”
Aside from a blink, Derek showed no further reaction as he steered into traffic. Her spirits sank. Subconsciously, she’d hoped the news might affect him as strongly as it had her.
When they parked at his condo, memories rushed back—of that night before the auction, when she’d helped him prepare, and of their subsequent date, when tenderness had bloomed into a connection that would at some level bind them for the rest of their lives. Even if he refused to admit it.
“What’s wrong?” Derek held the car door, waiting for her.
Marta struggled to contain a coil of emotions. Words sticking in her throat, she simply climbed out.
As they approached the entrance, Marta sought a light remark to disguise her feelings. Impossible. She loved him too much. They belonged with each other and with their children.
She halted on the front porch. He reached past her with the key. “Let’s go in. You’ll catch a chill.”
“I’m not cold.” Marta cleared her throat. “I have to say something.”
Derek arched one eyebrow. “Here? We’re in full view of the street.”
“Any reporters hanging around?” she asked.
“No, thank heaven. Planning to take a swing at me?”
“Not unless you tick me off.” Marta summoned her courage. Once they entered his turf, she might lose her nerve. “I’ve always believed I had a duty to make others comfortable and happy.”
“At which you’ve succeeded,” Derek observed.
“I also trained everyone, including myself, to ignore my needs. I refuse to do that anymore,” she said. “Listen up. If you don’t marry me and keep these babies, Derek Reed, you’re an idiot.”
He stared at her. Then he asked dryly, “Is that a proposal?”
“I suppose so.” Marta felt deflated. Was that the extent of his reaction?
Derek unlocked the door. “Let’s continue this discussion inside.”
When she entered, she gaped in surprise. The lights seemed brighter than she recalled, and the furniture had been shifted to clear space for a playpen. Safety netting covered the stair railing.
“Is your sister moving in?” She hoped his weekend project hadn’t resulted from the breakup of Jill’s marriage.
“No, although she did provide invaluable assistance,” Derek murmured close to Marta’s ear. “Let me show you the second floor.”
In a daze, she let him guide her upward, past the window that overlooked glittering holiday decorations in the complex’s central court. They passed the office, which now held exercise equipment along with a desk.
In the spare bedroom, the overhead dome illuminated a pair of cribs and a changing station, an animal-themed strip of wallpaper and matching curtains. “We settled on green and yellow. Too bad we didn’t know the gender,” he commented.
“We might have a girl later,” Marta blurted, then blushed furiously.
“You approve?” Derek asked.
She parroted his earlier words. “Is that a proposal?”
“Maybe we should draw straws to see which of us gets to say yes.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll go first. Yes.”
“Yes,” Marta echoed.
A sigh escaped, as if he was releasing years of pent-up tension. “You were right,” he said.
She relaxed against him. “About what?”
“I should have trusted my friends enough to tell them of my diagnosis. And you were right that I’m still a real cop, too. I did the department a greater service by using my brain that I ever did with my muscles.” He sank atop a sturdy toy chest and pulled her onto his lap.
“Is this strong enough to hold us?” she asked.
“Better be, because I suspect two little boys will be jumping up and down on it.”
Sheer happiness enveloped her. Still, Marta remained practical. “How will we balance our careers and child rearing and all that?”
His teeth flashed a brilliant white. “You can quit your job and attend school full-time if you’d like. Hale speaks very highly of Vince’s daughter’s home daycare, and I’ll watch the kids at night and on weekends while you study or teach. With my current position, I actually have regular hours instead of rotating shifts. What do you think?”
“That’s awesome,” she admitted. “You’ve devoted a lot of thought to this.” She’d never expected Sergeant Hit-and-Run to turn into the kind of husband and father who stuck around.
He grew serious. “Marta, I can’t be sure what lies ahead. Physically, I mean. But the future doesn’t seem so frightening as long as we’re together.”
As if anyone knew what the future held! She’d relinquished that illusion long ago. What mattered was the love they shared.
“To me, no matter what, you’ll always remain the sexy man I fell in love with,” Marta told him. “You’re my best friend, too.”
“Better than Connie and Rachel?” he teased.
“Better than the whole world.”
He kissed her and they snuggled for a while. Then they went out to celebrate the new year.
The streets shone in the moonlight as they drove to the restaurant. Inside Marta, two little boys lay snug and safe.
Someday, she thought, she would tell them about this night and how it felt like a fairy tale. Except that, with Derek, the magic was real.
The End
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USA Today bestselling author Jacqueline Diamond is known for her romantic comedies, medical romances, Regency romances and mysteries—102 titles as of 2017. A former Associated Press reporter and TV columnist, Jackie currently writes the Safe Harbor Medical Mystery series, including The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet, The Case of the Surly Surrogate and, coming in early 2018, The Case of the Desperate Doctor.
Jackie has been honored with a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. A former national board member of Romance Writers of America, she is active in RWA’s Orange County Chapter.
Jackie and her husband, who have two grown sons, live in Southern California. You can learn more about her books and sign up for her free newsletter at jacquelinediamond.com. You can contact Jackie at JacquelineDiamondAuthor on Facebook or as @jacquediamond on Twitter.
Please enjoy Chapter One of The Would-Be Mommy, the first book in the Safe Harbor Medical romance series.
Everywhere he looked, Ian Martin saw babies. Around the plush hospital lobby, giant photos of babies hung on the walls. Between the designer couches, life-size dolls beamed from their carriages at the throng of local press and small-town dignitaries. Now, if a few Uzi-toting toddlers in camouflage pj’s would burst in, that might be interesting.
As if he weren’t already on infant overload, Ian noticed two women in advanced stages of pregnancy posing for photographs. Presumably they’d both conceived with the high-tech help of the doctors here at Safe Harbor Medical Center, whose six stories of state-of-the-art equipment were detailed on a large wall chart.
Honestly. Didn’t these people have anything better to do? He certainly did.
Although Ian had covered wars from Africa to Afghanistan, his editor seemed to think he had a gift for human-interest stories. So, as he was already in Southern California with a free Friday evening, he’d been dispatched to cover the official reopening of this updated, expanded maternity hospital. He’d much rather be digging into his main investigation of a federal judge accused of taking bribes, or even poking into the Hollywood divorce scandal that was his secondary reason for descending on the area.
Across the room, he exchanged wry glances with cameraman Pierre Fabray, a coworker from the L.A. bureau of Flash News/Global. With a shrug, Pierre returned his attention to a mom-to-be who, judging by the size of her, must be pregnant with triplets.
Idly, Ian dropped a couple of entry tickets into the raffle box in front of a display of expensive baby furnishings. He’d parted with twenty bucks for them, since the raffle raised money for needy families, the kind that could never otherwise afford these luxurious surroundings. If he won—and Ian had remarkable luck—he planned to donate the gear to charity.
That task accomplished, he gazed around for power players he might be able to prod into saying something provocative. There had to be a story here somewhere. If Ian couldn’t find it, he’d stir one up by asking questions somebody didn’t want to answer.
First obvious player: hospital administrator Mark Rayburn, a father-knows-best-type obstetrician in his late thirties. Second possibility: a lady from the corporation that owned the hospital. From her spiked heels to her mask of makeup, she looked like she breakfasted on nails and spat them out machine-gun–style at anyone who crossed her.
Neither of them was likely to yield more than an irritable quote or two. Better to locate the inevitable gadfly. There must be a doctor who’d worked at the facility prior to its transformation from a community hospital and who was less than thrilled to see it turned into a haven for the moneyed.
Ian didn’t see anyone fitting that description hanging around, shooting his mouth off. He needed assistance, and from what he’d seen of the public relations director, talking to her wouldn’t be painful at all.
He located Jennifer Serra outside the auditorium. Dark hair tumbled appealingly from a knot atop her head, and the exotic tilt to her dark eyes intrigued him, as did a hint of sadness that made him wonder what secrets she harbored. But although he was known as much for digging into personalities as for rooting out facts, Ms. Serra wasn’t his target tonight. Too bad.
“Mr. Martin!” Her full mouth perked into a smile. “We’re almost ready to start the press conference.”
“Actually, I’d like to talk to someone first.”
“Who?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Her chin came up. “Anything I can do to help, I’d be glad to.”
She shouldn’t make tempting offers like that, Ian reflected. On the other hand, being helpful was her job. “Who’s the most ticked-off doctor at this hospital?”
“I’m sorry?” Her expression turned wary.
“The one who makes trouble.” Kind of like I do.
She swallowed. He’d scored a direct hit, Ian could tell. “We’re a team here,” she responded gamely.
“And it’s your duty to say so. But we both know better.” He stretched out an arm and leaned against the wall, deliberately fencing her in. She’d either have to retreat or duck beneath his arm to escape. “A giant corporation buys a community hospital and turns it into a money-making machine. That’s got to rub somebody the wrong way.”
His peripheral vision caught Pierre’s approach. Jennifer’s face tightened at the sight of the camera, but with what must have been considerable effort, she relaxed into another smile. “If anyone’s unhappy, you can hardly expect her to show up at an event like this.”
“Her?” So there was someone.
Jennifer adjusted the short, fitted jacket she wore over a figure-skimming dress. Ian assumed that bought her a moment to regain control and find the appropriate glib answer. Sure enough, here it came: “Mr. Martin, this is a wonderful facility that brings hope to couples struggling to start a family.”
“Of course it does.” He filed a mental note to sniff out the disgruntled doctor later, but tonight he needed another angle. “Do you have children?”
“No, not yet.” There it was again, that trace of sadness.
“If you ran into trouble having them, could you afford a place like this? Wait—I’m sure you have great insurance. But what about the ordinary infertile woman in Safe Harbor, California? Where is she supposed to go?” While Ian didn’t relish making such a pretty lady squirm, the corporation presumably paid her well to cross swords with rascals like him.
Annoyance flared in her eyes. “We’re always happy to work out payment plans, and we accept Medi-Cal clients. Plus, we don’t just provide fertility treatments. We offer a multitude of services, from routine preventive care to early-stage cancer treatment.”
Pierre was angling around, capturing all this for the video service Flash News/Global provided to its clients, along with still-photo images and stories. Personally, Ian wasn’t crazy about appearing on video. Digging beneath the surface of the news required an ability to blend into a scene, impossible to do if you became a celebrity. Nevertheless, this was a part of the job, like it or not.
“Is this live?” Jennifer asked Pierre.
“It is now.” He turned the camera on Ian. “Go!”
Deep breath. “This is Ian Martin for Flash News/Global, reporting from Safe Harbor, California. We’re at a newly remodeled fertility hospital, talking with public relations director Jennifer Serra. We were discussing how this place positively reeks of luxury.”
She narrowed her eyes at him in annoyance. Then, as Pierre swung toward her, she said brightly, “Safe Harbor Medical Center offers a full spectrum of services for men, women and their babies at all economic levels. We specialize in fertility care and high-risk pregnancies, with an emphasis on cutting-edge technology and techniques.”
Back to Ian. He seized his chance. “This place may be called Safe Harbor, but just imagine a frightened young woman trying to relinquish her baby under the safe harbor law. If she dared to show up here, I’ll bet she’d be whisked out the back door.”
That was the advantage that video had over writing. You could throw out preposterous ideas and see what kind of reaction you got.
Jennifer took the bait. “We don’t whisk anyone out the back door,” she snapped. “And that’s the safe haven law, not safe harbor. It protects desperate mothers from being charged with abandonment. We want them to bring their newborns to a safe place.”
“Safe haven, safe harbor,” Ian tossed off. “Are you saying scared young moms can drop off their babies at Safe Harbor Medical Center? Will they be placed in wealthy homes?”
“They’ll be placed in loving homes.” A muscle tightened in her neck as Dr. Rayburn and the lady in the power suit came into view.
He decided to push a little harder. “Would you take in a surrendered baby?”
“Me personally?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“I love babies.” Jennifer swallowed hard. “Every day I walk past our nursery and wish I could hold them all in my arms. But that doesn’t mean I could…”
Ignoring a twinge of guilt, Ian persisted. “So if a young mother walked in here right now…”
“I’d do anything I could to help her.” Tears sparkled in her eyes. “As would any decent person.”
In her face, he read a yearning so profound it twisted his gut. Damn, what wound had he reopened here? They’d gone beyond the usual game between reporter and publicist. Gone straight into her soul.
Live on the Internet.
Ian found his voice again. “Thank you, Jennifer Serra.” He squared off with the camera. “This is Ian Martin, reporting from Safe Harbor Medical Center.”
Nodding his approval, Pierre killed the feed. Dr. Rayburn and the executive, who’d apparently caught only the last few words, appeared pleased.
“Shall we start the conference?” the administrator asked.
“Absolutely.” Casting a final glare at Ian, Jennifer headed toward the lobby to corral the rest of the crowd. Too bad he’d just burned his bridges, Ian mused. It might have been fun getting to know her during the week or so he expected to stay in the L.A. area.
Anyway, she wanted kids, and at her age, which he guessed to be late twenties, was no doubt seeking a guy to nest with. At thirty-four, Ian was strictly a here-today-and-gone-tomorrow kind of guy, and preferred ladies who felt the same.
Yet something about Jennifer haunted him. Perhaps it was the irony that such a beautiful woman seemed so bereft.
Joining the crowd, he wandered into a wood-paneled auditorium with cushy, upholstered seats, raked flooring and, up front, an impressive display of electronic equipment. Other attendees were still nibbling miniature quiches and bacon-wrapped shrimp hors d’oeuvres, Ian noticed. He wished he’d grabbed a plateful while he’d had the chance.
The auditorium darkened and a slide show began, detailing the facility’s remodeling and its shining mission of mercy. There were scenes of beaming parents and earnest doctors in white coats bending over test tubes.
Hold on. Ian straightened at the sight of one slide, which showed a doctor wearing an out-of-place skeptical expression. “The head of our pediatrics department, Dr. Samantha Forrest, works closely with new parents,” enthused the narrator.
Well, Dr. Forrest, a capable-looking blonde, might care about the couple shown with her, but she clearly didn’t enjoy being on camera. What else did she dislike?
Ian trusted his hunches, and he decided to call on Dr. Forrest soon. Maybe he’d discovered his disaffected troublemaker.
The slide show ended and the lights came up on the TV-star-handsome Dr. Rayburn. Perfectly at ease in front of a microphone, the administrator detailed the new programs, some already in place, others just opening. The emphasis was on the latest medical developments, which, no doubt, were accompanied by breathtakingly high charges.
“Twenty years ago, the success rate for pregnancies with in vitro fertilization was ten to twelve percent,” he concluded. “Today, in younger women, we can expect to achieve a sixty to seventy percent rate. With older women, the rates are also much higher than they used to be, and this is just the beginning of the adventure. Now I’m happy to take questions.”
Ian didn’t bother to take notes as other reporters threw out inquiries.
“Delivering a baby is the most wonderful feeling in the world.” Dr. Rayburn responded to one question with passionate commitment. Where had the corporation discovered this guy—Hollywood central casting?
Ian flipped through the press kit an assistant had handed him earlier. In Dr. Rayburn’s bio, he saw no mention of a wife or children. If delivering a baby was fabulous, why hadn’t the great doctor produced any of his own?
That seemed too personal to ask in front of a crowd, though. Instead, Ian chose the ever-popular topic of multiple births. “Is there a limit on how many embryos you implant in a woman?” he demanded without waiting to be called on.
“We implant two or three embryos at most,” the administrator responded. “We try to avoid multiple births that can endanger the health of mothers and babies. Now, let’s hear from Medical Center Management vice president Chandra Yashimoto.”
The lady exec stepped forward to contribute a few words about the pride her company, based in Louisville, Kentucky, took in this new facility. The press kit listed neither an M.D. nor an R.N. after her name.
After finishing her remarks, Ms. Yashimoto yielded the microphone to Jennifer.
“I hope you’ll all stick around and enjoy the refreshments,” said the PR director, her voice pleasingly husky. “Also, we’ll be announcing the winner of our baby bonanza raffle shortly. Furniture, clothes, all the gear you need for a great start.”
After a breath, she plunged into an obviously prepared wrap-up. “Although the hospital has remained open during remodeling, our staff endured a lot of disruption over the summer. We were aiming for a September opening, and here we are, right on track. I now officially declare our doors open. Thank you all for joining us.”
A smattering of applause followed. As the audience got to its feet, Ian tried to figure out his next move. Technically, he’d done his job, providing Pierre with video and amassing enough material to write an article. A routine one, but Flash News/Global would move it out, since weekends tended to be slow for news without courts and legislatures in session.
All the same, Ian hated writing forgettable pieces. He craved an angle.
A sudden stir caught his attention. Willa Lightner, the middle-aged PR assistant who’d been distributing press kits earlier, had entered from the hall and was excusing her way up the center aisle toward Jennifer. The two met, conferred and hurried out together.
Something was up. Might be nothing more than a knocked-over punch bowl, but, his curiosity aroused, Ian strode in their wake.
He trailed them around a bend and into an alcove where half a dozen people had gathered. It took a moment to identify the object of their interest.
A young woman stood with her back against the wall, her arms encircling a blanket-wrapped bundle. Loose brown hair cascaded around a face in which determination warred with fear. In contrast to the moms-to-be Ian had seen earlier, she wore a threadbare smock and flip-flops. Definitely not part of the hospital’s show and tell program.
He took out his notebook and glanced around. Pierre was headed his way. Excellent.
In front of him, Jennifer parted the small group. “Hi. I’m the public relations director. Can I help you?”
The young woman thrust the bundle into her arms. “I know who you are, Mrs. Serra. I just saw you on the Internet.” Her voice trembled. “You said you love babies and you’d give them a home. Well, I want you to adopt mine.”
For a thunderstruck moment, nobody moved. Except Ian, who jotted notes on his pad.
He’d found his story at last.
Book One of the Safe Harbor Medical Romances: Due to a mistake in the press, babies for adoption flood Safe Harbor Medical Center. Publicist Jennifer Serra is falling in love—but does her heart have room for a tiny girl and a troublesome reporter?