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“Mr. Pierce? I’ve been sent here to introduce you to Tommy. Your son.”
Morgan instinctively crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at the petite young woman. She was waiting on the porch of his mansion-like cabin. Her direct hazel gaze, not to mention the baby riding on her hip, indicated that this was no joke set up by his prank-loving ranch workers.

A barrage of questions spun around his brain. “A son? Mine?” he asked.

The child pursed his pink lips, smacking them. Then he reached out to grab a handful of the woman’s chestnut chin-length bob. Morning sun beamed out of the Montana sky, bathing them in a pool of light and innocence. Morgan wasn’t so used to either of those things.

A baby. His? When...where...who...?

She gently grasped Tommy’s hand and untangled his fingers from her hair. “You know...” She laughed. “I was rehearsing my first words on the plane ride, but they came out wrong anyway. His mother wanted me to ease into the bombshell, not blast you with it.”

Flushed, she was eagerly searching his face, gauging him. Morgan shifted his position, leather boots creaking, worked-in jeans just about cutting off circulation to his head

Baby Tommy fixed his Gerber peepers on Morgan, also taking his measure. Could he see everything Morgan had left behind? Champagne nights and silk-clad women with names and faces he couldn’t recollect at times?

As Tommy flashed a toothless smile, something inside the ex-playboy’s chest flexed - a muscle coming to life.

“Let’s get you inside,” Morgan said, guiding them over his threshold, away from the October chill and the yard workers who’d moved into hearing range.

A wisp of flowery perfume tickled him as she entered and offered her free hand. “Let’s start again. I’m Rosemary Robbins.”

Her palm settled in his. Warm. Soft. So tiny. His fingers wrapped around hers, cherishing the feel of her out of habit.

A habit he was doing his damnedest to break.

When their eyes locked, she quickly looked away and let go. The contact had stabbed a twist of heat through his gut. Great. He’d tucked himself away in this desolate Remington, Montana, ranch to escape his old, meaningless lifestyle - not to renew it with the first pretty stranger who knocked on his door.

Hell, she seemed too angelic for him, anyway, especially with a baby gurgling in her arms. His baby, she’d claimed.

He’d see about that.

They settled in his rawhide-and-granite family room near the crackling fire. She positioned herself at one end of a leather couch, and he at the other. Tommy had a fistful of Rosemary’s no-nonsense jumpsuit, still ever watchful.

“I suppose I should explain,” she said. “You could say Tommy was dropped on my doorstep. I’ve taken full responsibility for him.”

“Where’s his mother?”

Rosemary stiffened, and Tommy laid a pint-size hand on her cheek. “His mom’s not ready to meet with you. I’m here to see if you’re willing to be this child’s father.”

“Not to be contrary, but I’m slightly suspicious of any woman who shows up out of nowhere and claims to have possession of my...” The baby stared at Morgan, and the man couldn’t help holding his breath at the family resemblance. “...son.”

“I don’t blame you. But -“

He held up a finger. “Before we go any further, I’d like to know, Ms. Robbins, are you playing some kind of game with me?”




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