That Summer In Maine

610—MERRY CHRISTMAS, MOMMY!* (#litres_trial_promo)

654—THE COMEBACK MOM

669—THE PRINCE, THE LADY & THE TOWER

688—KIDS & CO.* (#litres_trial_promo)

705—CHRISTMAS IN THE COUNTRY

737—DADDY BY DEFAULT ** (#litres_trial_promo)

742—DADDY BY DESIGN** (#litres_trial_promo)

746—DADDY BY DESTINY** (#litres_trial_promo)

756—GIFT-WRAPPED DAD

798—COUNTDOWN TO BABY

813—FOUR REASONS FOR FATHERHOOD

850—FATHER FEVER** (#litres_trial_promo)

858—FATHER FORMULA** (#litres_trial_promo)

866—FATHER FOUND** (#litres_trial_promo)

882—DADDY TO BE DETERMINED** (#litres_trial_promo)

953—JACKPOT BABY

965—THAT SUMMER IN MAINE

Contents

Prologue (#u99c6d798-5373-52d4-810d-ba1bcb4bfa50)

Chapter One (#ud6efeedb-1b1d-5ea6-97c8-6a087362ec3c)

Chapter Two (#u94636442-936a-5835-8df2-b1cd9f751446)

Chapter Three (#uffbb03ef-19a8-5a56-9abd-56eabfbb7c14)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue

June 23, 9:53 p.m.

Somewhere in the Pyrenees Mountains

Kidnapped!

Maggie Lawton offered sincere apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson as she assessed her situation. She watched with a weird sort of disassociation as the leader of the Basque separatists who’d ambushed her party of six on a hiking trail in the Parc National des Pyrenees spoke to his small army of men gathered around the campfire. They all wore the red boina or beret that was a political statement and a badge of pride for the movement.

To distract herself from the nighttime chill, she remembered that she’d played a kidnapped Arabian princess years ago in her one and only foray into musicals. It had run just fourteen months, and she’d been glad when it was over. Her costume had been skimpy and the theater cold.

She tried to remember the lyrics of the number she sang when captured by Bedouins and held for ransom. It had been jaunty and heroic and she’d sung it loudly and with broad gestures, hoping her enthusiasm would disguise the fact that she had a poor voice.

“Why, for God’s sake, are you humming?” Baldrich Livingston, her costar in several long runs at London’s Old Vic, and the grumpiest man in Europe, glowered at her in the light of the campfire. “There’s no audience beyond the lights, dear heart, and no intermission in fifteen minutes! This is real! Our pal le compte has gotten us into it this time!”

Gerard Armand, Compte de Bastogne, leaned around Glen and Priscilla Thicke to defend himself. Maggie and her companions sat side by side on the cold ground, their wrists tied behind their backs. “Oh, certainement! Blame me! Celine and I had plans to go to Monte Carlo for the weekend, but the four of you barge into my villa uninvited!”

Glen, who was Maggie’s agent, a practical man in his early fifties, took exception to that. “It was your birthday, Jerry. We came to surprise you and help you celebrate.”

“You came,” he returned, “because my servants spoil you and you are able to bask in my reflected glory. You theater people have wealth but no style, unless you borrow it from your royal friends!”

Baldy rolled his eyes. “Please don’t say bask.”

“Yes,” Prissie added while adjusting the sleeves of her chic little hiking jacket. “And you know very well you could not have taken your ch?re aimеe to Monte Carlo, Jerry. She may be old enough for your bed, but I’m sure she’s far too young to gamble.” That observation made, Prissie turned her attention to the Basque leader. “Monsieur! Monsieur! May we have water, please? We have been sitting here in the cold for hours! I’d like something sparkling, not still.”

Baldy rolled his eyes again and even Glen said under his breath, “Priss, shut up.”

She bristled indignantly. “Why? If they want to hold us for ransom or to make some political point, that’s fine. I’m sure the publicity won’t hurt. But I don’t intend to die of thirst or starvation while we wait for rescue.”

“Do you know nothing?” Gerard demanded. “These people are not playing! They are terrorists! Murderers! They would kill us in a heartbeat if—”

“Monsieur le Compte!” The leader of their kidnappers, a muscular man of average height and considerable presence, paced in front of them, an Uzi hooked over his shoulder. He was handsome, but there was a zealot’s fever in his eyes.

Maggie felt a chill trickle down her spine as his gaze touched each one of her companions, rested on her a moment, then focused on Gerard. “You malign me,” he said in an amiable tone that was eerie for all its gentleness. “I fight for my people, though my French Basque brothers are more passive and peaceful than our cousins in Spain, whom I prefer to emulate. We are descendants of the original Iberians and have lived here since before the Celts arrived thirty-five hundred years ago, yet every civilization to live here has preferred to pretend we do not exist. They’ve pushed us higher and higher into the mountains. I am not a murderer, monsieur. I’m simply trying to find a place for my people.”