Baby Of Mine Read online

  “I’ve brought your daughter,.”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Jane Toombs

  About the Author

  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

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  “I’ve brought your daughter,.”

  Amber eyes set in a tiny heart-shaped face peered around the man’s leg. “Yasmin?” Linnea whispered, crouching and holding out her arms. “Yasmin!”

  Talal urged the child toward her, and Linnea reached and gathered the girl into her arms, tears forming in her eyes. “I’ll never tire of looking at her sweet face,” Linnea said. “I’ve missed her so.” Tears gleamed in her eyes, and she blinked them away before she started frowning. “No,” she whispered. “Oh, please, God, no. She can’t be—she isn’t—she’s not my Yasmin. She’s not my birth daughter. I can tell by her eyes.”

  Talal stared at her with frank disbelief. “On such flimsy evidence do you expect me to return her and produce another Yasmin for you to inspect?”

  “No,” she said in a quiet tone. “I’ll never give up searching for the daughter I birthed, but this Yasmin is also mine—my gift daughter.”

  Dear Reader,

  At long last, summertime has arrived! Romance is in full bloom this month with first-time fathers, fun-filled adventure—and scandalous love.

  In commemoration of Father’s Day, award-winning Cheryl Reavis delivers this month’s THAT’S MY BABY! Little Darlin’is a warm, uplifting tale about a cynical sergeant who suddenly takes on the unexpected roles of husband—and father!—when he discovers an abandoned tyke who couldn’t possibly be his...or could she?

  In these next three books, love defies all odds. First, a mysterious loner drifts back into town in A Hero’s Homecoming by Laurie Paige—book four in the unforgettable MONTANA MAVERICKS: RETURN TO WHITEHORN series. Then fate passionately unites star-crossed lovers in The Cougar—Lindsay McKenna’s dramatic finish to her mesmerizing COWBOYS OF THE SOUTHWEST series. And a reticent rancher vows to melt his pregnant bride’s wounded heart in For the Love of Sam by Jackie Merritt—book one in THE BENNING LEGACY, a new crossline series with Silhouette Desire.

  And you won’t want to miss the thrilling conclusion to Andrea Edwards’s engaging duet, DOUBLE WEDDING. When a small-town country vet switches places with his jet-setting twin, he discovers that appearances can be very deceiving in Who Will She Wed? Finally this month, Baby of Mine by Jane Toombs is an intense, emotional story about a devoted mother who will do anything to retrieve her beloved baby girl, including marry a handsome—dangerous!—stranger!

  I hope you enjoy these books, and each and every story to come!

  Sincerely,

  Tara Gavin

  Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator

  * * *

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., PO. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  * * *

  JANE TOOMBS

  BABY OF MINE

  Books by Jane Toombs

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Nobody’s Baby #1081

  Baby of Mine #1182

  Silhouette Shadows

  Return to Bloodstone House #5

  Dark Enchantment #12

  What Waits Below #16

  The Volan Curse #35

  The Woman in White #50

  *The Abandoned Bride #56

  *Always a Bridesmaid

  Previously published under the pseudonym Diana Stuart

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Out of a Dream #353

  The Moon Pool #671

  Silhouette Desire

  Prime Specimen #172

  Leader of the Pack #238

  The Shadow Between #257

  JANE TOOMBS was born in California, raised in the upper peninsula of Michigan and has moved from New York to Nevada as a result of falling in love with the state and a Nevadan. Jane has five children, two stepchildren and seven grandchildren. Her interests include gardening, reading and knitting.

  Chapter One

  Why didn’t it rain? The clouds, dark and ominous, obscured the hot July sun, and thunder muttered in the distance. Not a leaf stirred in the humid, oppressive air. Standing on her small patio at the rear of her condo, Linnea Swanson breathed in earthy dampness along with the sharp scent of geraniums seeping through the wooden wall screening the neighboring patio.

  The few flowers she’d planted had been eaten by deer. The only blooms they didn’t seem to relish were the spring daffodils, long gone by now. She minded, but she didn’t blame the deer. The condo where she’d chosen to live had been built, after all, in a woods, and the deer had been here first.

  She’d left the city for upstate New York more than two years ago, and the woods had appealed to her then as a place to hide while she gathered the strength to go on. She’d been in limbo ever since. Could it possibly be true the agony of waiting and wondering was coming to an end? Linnea glanced at the brooding sky and sighed. How much longer?

  Looking at her watch, she saw it was after five. Before she thought about dinner, she ought to go in and put the finishing touches on the final illustration she was doing for the book on ancient Greek medicine. There was something not quite right about the way she’d drawn Galen’s hands as the old Greek physician pointed out the sections of the brain. The contract for the illustrations was the most lucrative yet and she could use the final payment money. Thank God she’d found a way to make her minor artistic talent pay, because the money in the Manhattan bank was for another purpose and she refused to touch it to live on.

  No matter how much she’d spent from that special account, though, she hadn’t been successful in her search. Every agency she’d contacted came to the same dead end. And heaven only knows how many letters she’d written to no avail to various politicians in Washington. If the senator from her district hadn’t suddenly needed a weapon to use against the president’s policy concerning the Middle East, especially Kholi, she’d be no further ahead.

  But was she really ahead? True, there’d been the encouraging phone call from the senator’s office with a follow-up letter. That had been a month ago. Since then, nothing.

  A streak of lightning split the clouds. Seconds later, thunder rolled, closer now. Linnea put out her hand, palm up, hoping to feel drops of rain. When none fell, she shook her head, opened the screen door to the kitchen and went inside. Dear God, she was tired of waiting.

  As Talal Zohir turned his red sports car off the highway onto a local road, thunder growled a warning. Eyeing the ever-darker clouds, he pulled over to the shoulder.

  Speaking in Arabic, he said, “Time to put up the top if we don’t want to get wet.”

  The tiny girl seat-belted in next to him looked confused until he activated the mechanism, then shrank into herself, gazing upward with fearful fascination as the top slid into place. He took her hand in his and she gripped his forefinger tightly.

  “It’s all right,” he said, smiling as reassuringly as he could. “I’m here, nothing will hurt you.” She didn’t offer a smile in return—he had yet to see her smile—but she did relax her grip on his finger.

  As he pulled back onto the road, T
alal began looking for a phone. He hadn’t called from Washington because he wasn’t certain whether he’d arrive at a reasonable hour today, in which case he’d planned to spend the night somewhere in the area and delay until tomorrow before calling the woman. But they’d gotten an early start, traffic had been remarkably light, the various state highway patrols hadn’t spotted him and here they were.

  He grinned, remembering his brother’s prediction that red cars driven by speeding drivers were certain ticket getters. So far, on this present visit to the U.S., at least, he’d proven Zeid wrong.

  The girl tugged at his sleeve. He turned to her, raising his eyebrows. “What is it, Yasmin?” he asked in Arabic.

  “Mama?” she said.

  “Soon,” he told her.

  She lowered her head, bringing the bent knuckle of her forefinger to her mouth.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, knowing she was. Poor little thing, her world had changed so drastically in the past month that it was a wonder she’d been able to adapt at all. He admired her courage. Despite being surrounded by strangers in what was for her increasingly alien surroundings, never once had she cried. In the short time they’d been together, he’d grown attached to Yasmin.

  Not that he relished the assignment his great-uncle had given him. But, as they said in Kholi, “A narrow house can accommodate a hundred friends and a wide palace cannot accommodate two enemies.” It doesn’t pay to anger your king, even if he is a relative. Or, perhaps, especially if he is. When he commands, you don’t argue.

  Of course, there was always a bonus waiting for him in America—in Nevada, to be specific. He intended to finish his mission here in New York as quickly as possible and fly west immediately.

  Catching sight of a street name, Talal braked and swerved to the left. Almost immediately the address he sought turned up on his right. He shook his head. Not a phone anywhere in sight. He slowed and pulled to the curb, debating whether or not to go in search of a phone before arriving on the woman’s doorstep. No, he was here, best to complete the mission. Obviously she would have been notified by someone in Washington that he’d be coming.

  He drove into the parking lot, found the slot that matched the woman’s condo number and noted a car occupied it. Good, she was home. He parked in an empty slot and coaxed a reluctant Yasmin from the car. “You’re tired, I’ll carry you,” he told her still speaking in Arabic.

  She put her arms around his neck, nestling against him trustingly, and he realized how much he was going to miss her. His time with Yasmin had taught him how different little girls were from little boys. Even at eight months of age, Danny had never seemed fragile to him, but in his arms, three-year-old Yasmin felt as frail as the baby bird he’d once rescued when he was a child and carried home in his hands. He’d raised it despite his grandmother’s objections and tried not to cry when the bird finally flew away for good.

  But Yasmin didn’t need him to raise her.

  A few drops of rain fell as he carried her toward the door marked with the proper number. Though his watch told him it was only six, the lowering sky darkened the waning day to twilight. The rumble of thunder sounded farther off now; perhaps the storm would pass them by.

  He paused on the mat outside the door, noting light shining from the tiny windows on either side before he pushed the bell. He heard it ring faintly inside, then footsteps approached the door. Yasmin squirmed in his arms, so he eased her down onto her feet. She promptly took refuge behind him.

  Linnea flicked on the outside.light, glancing through one of the windows before unlocking the door. The neighborhood was safe enough, but you never knew. She drew in her breath at the sight of the dark-haired man standing there. Though he wore an open-necked shirt and casual pants rather than the Muslim robe and headdress, she knew he was an Arab. Good-looking, of course—like Malik, they always were. Could he be an emissary of Malik’s?

  Wary, she put the chain on, unlocked the door, eased it ajar and peered through the opening. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “Are you Linnea Khaldun?” he asked, instead of replying.

  How well she knew that Middle Eastern arrogance. “My name is no longer Khaldun,” she said coolly. “I am Linnea Swanson. Who are you?”

  “Talal Zohir. Please, don’t be frightened. I regret I was unable to call ahead, but I’m the one you must be expecting.”

  Linnea’s heart began to pound. Was it possible...? She’d thought he was alone, but now she strained to see if anyone else was there. Glimpsing something move down low behind him, she caught her breath. A child! Undoing the chain, she flung the door open, crying, “Did you bring her?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve brought your daughter.”

  Amber eyes set in a tiny heart-shaped face peered around the man’s leg. “Yasmin?” Linnea whispered, crouching and holding out her arms. “Yasmin!”

  He urged the child toward her, and Linnea reached and gathered the girl into her arms, tears forming in her eyes. She felt the child stiffly resisting her embrace and murmured brokenly, “I’m your mother, darling. Your mama.”

  “Mama?” Yasmin spoke so softly Linnea almost didn’t hear her.

  “She doesn’t understand English,” the man said. “Only Arabic. But the word mama is the same in nearly all languages.”

  An almost forgotten Arabic word for yes slid into Linnea’s mind. “Aiwa,” she said. “Aiwa, Mama.”

  Yasmin melted against her and clung fiercely. Lifting her, blinking back tears, Linnea rose and carried the little girl inside, only half aware of the man following her and closing the door behind them.

  Dropping onto the couch, Linnea cuddled Yasmin, crooning to her wordlessly, her heart too full to speak. The long and fruitless search was over, the miracle she’d prayed for had arrived. At last her daughter was back in her arms where she belonged. She’d never let her go again.

  Brilliant light flashed through the windows, and the lamps flickered and went out as a rattling clap of thunder shook the house. Yasmin cried out in alarm, and in the dark, Linnea stroked her hair, trying to calm her as rain pelted against the windows.

  The man spoke soothingly in Arabic, and Linnea remembered from her meager store of the language that one of the words meant safe. The child’s frantic grip eased slightly. Apparently she trusted the man. What was his name? Talal something.

  “Candles?” he asked.

  “On the fireplace mantel in holders,” Linnea said. “The matches are in the silver box at one end.”

  Talal found the matches and lit first one candle, then the other. He carried the second over to the couch and set it on the coffee table. In the flickering light the woman’s.face looked soft and luminous, her amber eyes reflecting the candle flame. Eyes like her daughter’s.

  He extracted a tiny, worn silver ring from his pocket and offered it to her on his palm. “Yasmin’s baby ring,” he said. “I thought it best to keep it safe until I brought her to you.”

  She stared at the ring for long moments before she reached to take it. For some reason the brief brush of her fingers against his palm tingled through him. He watched her try to slip the ring on Yasmin’s finger and saw it fit only the smallest one.

  “My grandmother’s baby ring,” she said softly. “My mother’s and then mine. Yasmin was wearing it when she was—was taken. Thank you for returning the ring. And for—” Her voice broke and she shook her head, unable to go on.

  He bowed slightly. “My duty and my pleasure to bring her to her mother. Yasmin is a beautiful child, a daughter to be proud of. I regret—” He spread his hands in lieu of words, recalling his great-uncle’s bluntness.

  “Never trust a Khaldun. Leave it to them to endanger our country’s position with America. If that troublemaker Malik wasn’t dead I swear I’d have him beheaded. Thanks to Allah we’ve found the missing child and so can return her to show our good faith.”

  Talal pulled out Yasmin’s American birth certificate, given to him with the ring, and placed it o
n the table. Yasmin, who’d been examining the ring on her finger, looked up at him and reached out a hand, patting the couch cushion, asking without words for him to sit beside her mother.

  He hesitated, despite the pleading in Yasmin’s eyes. The woman’s attitude toward him had been distinctly hostile until she’d realized her daughter was with him.

  “Do sit down,” Linnea said, apparently understanding what Yasmin wanted.

  He wondered how much Arabic she knew. Surely some. Malik Khaldun would have insisted his wife learn his language.

  As if reading his mind, she said, “I don’t recall very many Arabic words, but it’s obvious Yasmin feels more secure with you near her.”

  He eased down, leaving a gap between the two of them, finding, to his surprise, that he wished he could be close enough to feel her warmth against him.

  Bad idea. The Kholi phrase for American girls translated as play-pretties. Linnea was pretty enough, but any fool could see she was no plaything. Even Malik, the great seducer, had had to marry her to accomplish his goal. Talal didn’t plan to marry again. Ever.

  “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Linnea said, positioning Yasmin slightly away from her while, in the candlelight, she gazed at the little girl with such love that Talal’s throat constricted. Taken back to his troubled childhood, he wondered if his own mother had ever looked at him like that. “I’ll never tire of looking at her sweet face,” Linnea said. “I’ve missed her so.” Tears gleamed in her eyes and she blinked them away.

  Still immersed in the past, Talal was asking himself if his mother could have missed him so acutely, when the lights came back on. As his vision adjusted to the sudden brightness, he watched, perplexed, while Linnea’s expression as she gazed at Yasmin changed to frowning confusion, then stark disbelief. “No,” she whispered. “Oh, please God, no.”