His Baby Dilemma

Must they always be continents apart?

Nobody expects Paris fashion designer Grace Railton to settle down in her Indiana town, least of all Mica Barzonni. Fifteen months ago, he turned to her for comfort and compassion following a farming accident that left him permanently injured. Then she returned to France and went silent on him.

Until, suddenly, Grace shows up on his doorstep with life-altering news. Mica, a father? He’s barely learned to navigate his post-accident life. But this could be his chance to become the man he’s always wanted to be—the husband and father Grace and their baby son need. Now Mica just has to convince her to stay.

“Grace,” Mica said with a sharp edge of irritation. “What are you doing here?”

Her heart slammed violently in her chest. Her hands were shaking. She had to do this quickly.

“I brought you something.”

“You what?”

Grace leaned into the back seat and unhooked the straps in the baby carrier, lifting Jules.

She straightened and shut the door with her hip. Mica stared at her and then at the baby. “Hold out your arm, Mica.”

He was speechless as she walked up to him, but he took Jules when she held him out.

“He’s yours, and it’s your turn to take care of him.”

Mica’s blue eyes blazed with mistrust and something akin to revulsion. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Does he look like a joke?”

“No.” His surprise and mounting anger hit her like shotgun pellets. Sharp, painful and deep. She’d thought she’d prepared herself for his reaction, but seeing Mica and remembering what it was like to be in his arms... Grace hated herself for being the bad guy. There wasn’t a single thing she’d done since last October that merited his trust, love or respect.

“I don’t have a son,” Mica said and started to hand the baby back to her.

“Yes, you do. This is Jules.”

Dear Reader,

Mica Barzonni never questioned his fate until an accident paralyzed his left arm. He’d always assumed he’d inherit his father’s successful farm. Despondent and frustrated, Mica wasn’t looking for love when Grace Railton came back to Indian Lake to help her aunt Louise at the ice cream shop. But he was looking for comfort.

It had been over a decade since the summer Grace lost her heart to Mica. She’d never forgotten the kiss they shared in his parents’ swimming pool. Mica didn’t remember much, except that Grace was a silly beauty pageant contestant. Now she’s an up-and-coming fashion designer in Paris. Little can distract her from her career. Except Mica.

After a romantic October in Indian Lake, Grace returns to Paris. And Mica doesn’t hear a word from her for fourteen months...until she shows up on his doorstep and shocks him to his soul.

She presents Mica with their son.

Mica is angry that Grace has kept six-month-old Jules from him, but now that he’s met his baby, he wants to keep him—forever. Grace is still looking for one thing and one thing only: Mica’s love.

I hope you like His Baby Dilemma. I must admit I had fun writing the comic scenes in this story. Not only has Mica never changed a diaper, but he must do it one-handed! As poignant as the love story between Grace and Mica is, there were strong moments of insight, even for me.

Please send me your thoughts and comments at cathlanigan1@gmail.com, follow me on Facebook and Twitter, @cathlanigan, or visit www.heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com.

Catherine Lanigan

His Baby Dilemma

Catherine Lanigan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHERINE LANIGAN knew she was born for storytelling at a very young age when she told stories to her younger brothers and sister to entertain them. After years of encouragement from family and high school teachers, Catherine was shocked and brokenhearted when her freshman college creative-writing professor told her that she had “no writing talent whatsoever” and that she would never earn a dime as a writer. He promised her that he would be her crutches and get her through his demanding class with a B grade so as not to destroy her high grade point average too much, if Catherine would promise never to write again.

For fourteen years she did not write until she was encouraged by a television journalist to give her dream a shot. She wrote a six-hundred-page historical romantic spy thriller set against World War I. The journalist sent the manuscript to his agent, who then garnered bids from two publishers. That was nearly forty published novels, nonfiction books and anthologies ago.

MILLS & BOON

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This book is dedicated to my late husband,

Jed Nolan, my hero and best friend. I will love

you to the moon and back, and throughout all

the galaxies and universes.

Acknowledgments

This year has been a difficult one for many authors and editors. For the family of Heartwarming authors, we must say goodbye to our extraordinarily talented, warmhearted and savvy senior editor, Victoria Curran. Granted, she may not be part of our line any longer, but, Victoria, you will always be a part of my life and my future. For those authors like me who have been in this business, decade after decade, we’ve walked through these valleys and this I know...you are never alone. Editors are not simply work colleagues. For an artist, an author, an editor is part of our brain, heart and soul. It isn’t possible for me to put a part of my heart on a shelf and say, “Be seeing you.” Instead, I will say, “Let’s talk soon.”

To Claire Caldwell, there are no words to express my appreciation for your insights and my downright giddiness when we brainstorm and pull yet another story together. With each story, we have more and more fun. And that’s the way it should be.

To my agent, Lissy Peace, to whom I’ve been “joined at the hip” for over twenty years—it’s

been a ride!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Fifteen months ago

GRUMBLING AT HER travel-weary reflection in her palm-sized mirror, Grace Railton used a cotton swab to clean away the mascara smudges under her eyes. Jet lag. No sleep and a seven-hour time difference between Paris and Indian Lake are not your friends, Grace. She peered into the mirror. Nope. Not by a long shot.

“Next stop—Indian Lake. Indian Lake!” the conductor announced as he trundled down the crowded aisle.

Grace inhaled—for courage or stamina, she didn’t know. Almost there.

“Indian Lake!” the conductor shouted again as he passed Grace’s seat.

Grace reached out to touch his sleeve. “Excuse me, would it be possible to get some help with my bags when we stop? I’ve been traveling for nearly fourteen hours and—”

“Not my job,” he barked back and started to move away.

Grace gripped his sleeve. “Sir. I’m most happy to pay for the service and I—”

“We don’t take tips.” He peered at her, taking in her clothing. “You’re not from around here.”

“I just flew in from Paris.”

“Let me guess. You’re the one with the huge bags blocking the exit?” He glared at her.

Grace wasn’t about to be shut down. “I only need help off the train.”

He continued to glower at her. Hard.

“Thirty dollars?”

“I’ll meet you by the door.” He looked down at her high-heeled boots. “Think you can manage the steps in those things?”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him with a bright smile.

Grace wasn’t sure if the man was angling for more money or if he was criticizing her apparel. Either way, she’d gotten what she wanted out of the bargain. Her bags were overloaded and overweight—and for good reason. She would be staying in Indian Lake for over a month, helping her Aunt Louise at The Louise House ice-cream shop while she recovered from back surgery.

Aunt Louise’s request was one that Grace wouldn’t have dreamed of declining. Louise was the only family Grace had left. Grace’s father, Jim Railton, had died when she was very young and her mother, Amanda, had died the day after Grace’s high-school graduation.

However, Aunt Louise was always a prominent part of Grace’s life and all of Grace’s happy childhood memories featured Aunt Louise’s quirky presence.

Louise had always treated Grace as the daughter she never had, and because Grace had dreamed of a career in fashion design, Louise had insisted that only Parsons, one of the best design schools in the country, was good enough for her talented niece. Grace had already saved nearly half the tuition from her Junior Miss Illinois and Miss Teen Illinois pageant winnings. Since Grace had grown up in fashionable, urban Chicago, the competition for the crown was stiff, but her determination and talents had bloomed early. Louise had generously offered to cover the rest. Once she graduated, Grace had diligently sent Louise a check every month, though she’d never asked to be repaid. Grace was no longer in financial debt to her aunt, but she wasn’t sure she could ever repay the kindness and support Louise had given her over the years. Helping her at the ice-cream shop was merely a drop in the bucket.

The train rumbled past a riot of autumn-bronzed trees and rolling farmland, golden now with harvested corn shocks and soybeans. The land was serene and lush with abundance, and Grace realized she’d never quite felt the same about any other place. Not even the South of France, with its vineyards, cobblestone streets and outdoor cafés, held the allure for her that Indian Lake did.

Odd, it’s taken so long for me to return here.

The last time she’d been in Indian Lake she’d been two months shy of her sixteenth birthday. Her mother had still been alive. Grace had been the first runner-up in the Miss Teen Illinois contest. After winning the crown for Junior Miss Illinois in prior years, Grace was blindsided by her near miss. She’d been certain she would win. Her piano performance was impeccable. The gowns she’d designed and that her mother had helped her make were perfection. She’d delivered answers to the judges’ questions with insight and flawless diction. She should have won. But she hadn’t.

That summer was a turning point in her life. After that summer, Grace had altered her goal of becoming a model and directed her ambition toward fashion design. It had been a summer for growing up. That much was certain.

Grace ran her palm over the lapels of her jacket, making certain they lay flat.

Nervous habit, she groused to herself and dropped her hands. She’d worked hard on the design she was wearing. Her fingers traveled over the wool fabric she’d snagged at a bargain price from Johnstons of Elgin. The cashmere was from Nepal, but Grace believed the Scots knew how to weave it best. As comforting as her black jacket and slim skirt were, she was anxious.

She leaned her head against the hard seat and exhaled. She had to calm down.

“You coming back home?” the man across from her asked.

Grace had been so deep in thought, she’d barely noticed anyone else on the train at all.

“Yes. No. Yes,” she replied, looking at him. Attractive was an understatement. He was tall and trim in his well-tailored black business suit, white cotton shirt and conservative tie. The clothes were not expensive, off the rack. He had a good eye for putting himself together and watching his budget. She liked that.

His blue eyes danced and a wave of thick chestnut hair fell over his forehead.

“Can’t decide, huh? Think you’ll get off when we stop?” He smiled broadly.

He was observant. She had to give him that.

Grace couldn’t hold back her own smile. She was used to men striking up conversations with her in cafés. Trains. Airplanes. She’d worn a rhinestone crown since she was ten, and didn’t give it up until she was fifteen. Sometimes she thought men could still see the glimmer, even though the glamour and floodlights had faded for her long ago.

He leaned forward. Just a bit. Not so much that the gesture cut through her personal space. “Dylan Hawks.” He extended his hand and she took it.

“Hawks? I know that name. Are you related to Isabelle Hawks?” she asked.

“My sister,” he said, lifting his chin proudly. “She’s why I’m home for the weekend. Her bridal shower.”

“How nice.” Grace swallowed hard. She limited thoughts of brides to design projects, never imagining herself in that role. “I’m Grace Railton, by the way.”

“Pleasure.” He smiled and then continued. “It’s a big couples’ thing at our friend’s house. Mrs. Beabots.”

Grace’s spirits lightened. “I know her very well. She was practically my mentor.”

“Mentor?”

“It’s a long story,” Grace replied. After high school, Grace had left for New York and entered Parsons School of Design. While her friends went to parties, she drew, created and studied. When they went to Florida for Spring Break, she wrangled appointments with fashion house assistants and design team members. Over large lattes—which she bought for them—Grace picked their brains and soaked up information. In the summers, she took part-time internships on Seventh Avenue. She hadn’t cared how menial the job; she’d only wanted to learn. Like striving for one of her pageant crowns, she had to be the best.

She’d graduated at the top of her class and landed a summer internship at Tom Ford. Grace knew that the very best designers worked in Paris, and she’d believed that until she had a chance to prove her talent in the biggest and toughest arena in the world, she’d never be happy.

Aunt Louise had told Grace of Mrs. Beabots’s former life in Paris, where she had “done something” at Chanel, though no one in town was certain what, since Mrs. Beabots was as tight-lipped, as Louise put it, as the seal on a coffin. Grace had gotten to know Mrs. Beabots during her visits to Indian Lake in high school. Grace had taken an instant liking to the older woman and they shared an admiration for beautifully made clothes. Mrs. Beabots had eventually suggested Grace sketch the dresses she envisioned and send them to her. Grace did precisely that. Throughout high school and college, Grace had corresponded with Mrs. Beabots, sending drawings and photos of her designs. Grace had pleaded with her her aunt to enlist Mrs. Beabots’s help in making connections in Paris, and by that autumn after her college graduation, Grace was on a plane headed to Paris as an assistant to an assistant at Jean Paul Gaultier. Grace’s penchant for perfectionism had gotten her noticed within weeks and she had been challenging herself ever since. Now she was an independent designer with her own team, hoping they would be “brought on” to a top couture house. Under an iconic umbrella, they would have respect, clout and the freedom to create their own line of clothing and accessories, with Grace’s name and logo stamped on every ensemble. They would have security and respect. Fortunately, up to this point, her designs had sold enough to keep them all afloat. Barely.

No question about it. If not for Mrs. Beabots, Grace would not be anywhere near where she was now.

“So are you here for the party as well? Odd we haven’t met. I would remember you...” Despite racing through his questions, Dylan spoke with a dash of charm that was so light most would miss it. Grace did not.

“What a nice thing to say. Thank you. But no, I’m not invited to the party, though I knew Isabelle years ago.” She paused, her mind floating back to that summer, when all of Sarah Jensen’s friends hung out together. Barbecues. Slumber parties. Pool parties... Grace wrenched her thoughts back to the present. “Actually, I’m helping my Aunt Louise. Perhaps you know her. Louise Railton?”

He snapped his fingers. “The Louise House! An Indian Lake institution.”

Grace flashed him a grin. “I’ll tell her you said so.”

The train slowed as it neared the town. Blazing maple, oak and walnut trees hugged the crystal blue lake like bejeweled arms. White clouds scudded across the sky, the sun dazzling Grace’s eyes.

The train jerked to a stop.

“Indian Lake! Indian Lake!”

Adrenaline raced through Grace’s body as she shot to her feet. “We’re here!”

“So we are,” Dylan replied, putting his iPad in his briefcase. “It was nice meeting you, Grace.”

“I’m sure I’ll see you around town,” she said as she gathered her oversize black fringed purse and two large totes, one of which held her laptop, iPad and sketchbook.

“I’m not here all that often. I live in Lincoln Park and work in downtown Chicago. Prosecuting attorney. In case you wanted to know.”

A blush colored Grace’s face. “I apologize for my manners. My head’s been in another world...”

“I could tell.” His mouth quirked in an impish grin.

Dylan slipped out of his seat and walked away.

Way to go, Grace. Nice guy and you blow him off. When are you going to get a life? A real one? She slung her purse and one of the totes over her shoulder, then bumped her way down the aisle toward the exit.

Carefully, Grace negotiated the narrow metal steps down to the pavement. For the first time on her trip, she questioned the importance of her fashionable, but apparently impractical, boots.

The conductor waited until she disembarked before unloading her overweight bags. One by one, he slammed them against the concrete and then sneered at her. “What’ve you got in there? Rocks?”

“Vitamins.” She reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew the cash she’d agreed to pay him.

He touched his hand to the bill of his cap and hopped back up on the train. Grace yanked the long luggage handles out to their full length, hoisted one of the totes higher up on her shoulder and began pulling her load. She felt like a pack mule.

“Grace!” a woman’s voice called.

“Grace! You’re here!” a younger female voice shouted.

Raising her head, Grace saw Aunt Louise coming toward her, bent over a walker. With her was a blonde woman whose sparkling green eyes she’d know anywhere. Grace stood upright and let go of the suitcase handles. “Aunt Louise! And...Maddie? Maddie Strong?”

“Barzonni now.” Maddie beamed.

“Grace! Thank heaven!” Louise’s smile was nearly as bright as the sun. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Grace.” She held out her arms.

Grace couldn’t remember a more wonderful sight. For an instant, she regretted every minute she’d spent apart from her Aunt Louise. Her life in Paris seemed to melt away and all she felt was a rush of affection for her aunt, and nostalgia for this town and the summer long ago with the barbecues, the swimming pool...and Mica.

* * *

“I’VE MADE A lot of changes since you were here, Grace,” Louise said as Grace helped her into the shop.

Grace flipped the cardboard door sign to Open, then stood in the entrance, her eyes stinging with tears. “It’s just an old sign,” she whispered, tracing the crumpled edges of the sign she’d turned over years ago when it had been her job to help Aunt Louise open up and close. Just a sign. A battered, old, faded sign. And suddenly, it meant the world to her because it was part of her life with Aunt Louise.

“Grace?” Louise said.

“Sorry.” Grace sniffed. “I was making sure the lock was open.” She wiped away her tear.

“Sarah and the kids will be here anytime now. It’s Annie’s birthday, so they’ll want some of my newest creations.”

Louise moved her walker over to the chair she’d pulled up to the counter, where the old cash register still sat. It was a monster antique with tabs that would make a muscle-builder’s biceps flex, yet her aunt had refused to give up the old thing.

“I see you’re not computerized yet.” Grace chuckled.

Louise swatted the air with her palm and slapped her thigh as she eased into the chair. “Good heavens, of course I am. In the office. But out here, everyone likes reminders of a bygone era. They come here for this old register. That and the pumpkin-spice and gingerbread-nut ice cream I make every autumn.”

Grace’s heels clacked against the century-old walnut floorboards. She took off her jacket and hung it on a peg next to the wide window with the gold lettering announcing the seasonal offerings.

“I hate to have to thrust you right into work, Grace,” Louise said. “But it couldn’t be helped. Sarah and the kids...”

“Please, don’t apologize, Aunt Louise. I’ll be fine.” She shoved the sleeves of her black sweater to her elbows, revealing at least nine bracelets on each arm. She went to the sink and washed her hands. Under the counter glass was a group of photographs of the sundaes. “Let me study these for a sec.”

“It’s the Monster Mash they love. I serve it in those big round dishes. Six scoops of ice cream slathered in hot fudge with whipped cream piled eight inches high. It feeds four.”

“Thank goodness!” Grace laughed as the front door opened and nearly a dozen children rushed in. Maddie held the door as Sarah Jensen Bosworth walked in behind them. The kids raced to their favorite tables and picked up the menus, challenging each other as to who could eat the most ice cream.

Grace hugged Sarah and as much as she wanted to catch up, the kids were shouting out their orders and Maddie said she had to rush to get Louise to her rehab appointment.

“I’d better get to work,” Grace said.

“You haven’t had a chance to take a breath,” Maddie said. “Not even change or freshen up.” Maddie’s eyes traveled from Grace’s seven strings of pearls, crystals and gold ropes around the banded neckline of the black knit sweater, to her houndstooth wool pencil skirt and fringed black boots. “I wish I knew how to put something together like that.”

“Thanks,” Grace replied, basking in the twinkle of appreciation. “That means a lot to me. A lot.”

Maddie hugged her, then tilted her head toward Annie and Timmy Bosworth and Danny Sullivan, who were waving huge spoons up in the air. “They look like they’re about to revolt.”

“I’m on it.” Grace smiled and went straight to work scooping six kinds of ice cream into Monster Mash dishes.

After serving up over half a dozen massive concoctions, her hands sticky and nearly frozen, she lost track of time. She was halfway into the refrigerated bin, trying to dig out the last of the pumpkin-spice ice cream when she felt the counter reverberate.