Twins times two!

by Bingham, Lisa

  This book made available by the Internet Archive.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lisa Bingham is a resident of Tremonton, Utah—a rural farming community where the sounds of birds and the rustle of wheat can still be heard on hot summer evenings. She has written both historical and contemporary romances and loves spending time watching her characters grow. When she isn't writing, she spends time with her husband on his three-hundred-acre farm and teaches English at a local middle school.

  Books by Lisa Bingham

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  602—NANNY JAKE

  635—THE BUTLER & THE BACHELORETTE

  651—THE DADDY HUNT

  662—DANA AND THE CALENDAR MAN

  692—THE PRINCESS & THE FROG

  784—AND BABIES MAKE TEN

  835—MAN BEHIND THE VOICE

  887—TWINS TIMES TWO!

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  540—WHEN NIGHT DRAWS NEAR

  Don't miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

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

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

  $(wi and Qbee <£ QW» and ©pa/we ate hnfifnj b annumuu>maMiag#yf

  (§?(m and Qbwjmomnuf

  Q^aka^/Sls

  to

  (^ma and Q^o/wie s daddy

  (§jrlum4mlallkf {minimal)

  ahhwwnaJ uw

  Chapter One

  Cara Wells paused in the doorway to the kitchen and suppressed a grin. Mere feet away her twin girls were trying to scale a makeshift ladder made of their potty stool, a package of disposable training pants, and the brass handles of the drawers. Zoe, the smaller of the two, had evidently been drafted into being "top man" in the escapade, while below her, Heidi pushed at her sister's rear end in an attempt to help her crawl onto the kitchen counter.

  It wasn't hard to figure out their intended goal. Only an hour ago the twins had helped Cara make a chocolate cake. Knowing the girls would be tempted to drag their fingers through the frosting, Cara had pushed it as far back into the corner as she could. But even keeping the sweet treat out of sight hadn't been enough to dissuade them from trying to get another sampling.

  "Get off the counter," Cara said, softly enough to keep from startling the girls but with enough firmness to help them realize she meant business.

  Immediately three-year-old Zoe twisted to look at Cara. The little girl's cornflower-blue eyes radiated an angelic innocence that belied her proximity to the cake.

  "C'mon Zoe. Get the cake," Heidi urged, obviously not dissuaded by Cara's appearance.

  "Down," Cara said again.

  "We needa piece a cake," Heidi announced.

  "That's for when we go on a picnic with Polly tomorrow afternoon." Cara's reminder had little effect so she added, "Tomorrow."

  "No!" Heidi insisted, still pushing Zoe's rear and causing her sister to scrabble for a handhold on the slippery Formica. "We needa piece a cake now!"

  Cara had to fight to keep from laughing. A part of her wanted to cave in and let them have the cake. In the six months since the state had given her legal guardianship of the children, it had been such a joy to watch them experiencing so many firsts. Each day was a conquest for them in some small way—from potty training to riding a tricycle. They took such joy from the simple things, and they'd taught Cara to look more closely at the simple beauties of the world around them. Cara liked

  the way they turned their faces toward the morning sun and ate ice cream with the exuberance of a gourmand.

  But she also knew that it was important to set limits. Despite everything the children had been through, she couldn't spoil them rotten. After all, there was Harvard to look forward to—or perhaps a seat on the Supreme Court. If either venue proved to be part of their futures, it wouldn't do for Cara to ruin their manners in their first few months under her care.

  "Can we p'ease hav'a piece?" Heidi asked, but the stamp of her foot belied the civility of her request.

  "No. Now help Zoe get down."

  "But, we wanna—"

  Cara held up a finger in warning, and Heidi stopped her tirade in midsentence knowing already that to argue would mean a stint of "time-out" in the bedroom.

  Fortunately, before Heidi could decide it might be worth the risk to press her luck, Cara was distracted by the sharp bleep of the phone. A quick glance at the ID box informed her that Polly Town-send was calling from one of the business's cell phones. Polly was a fellow partner of the Mom Squad—a mother-for-hire service that Cara and

  three other friends had organized less than three years earlier.

  "No cake," she said again firmly, then grasped the receiver. If Polly was calling this late, there was a snag in the schedule for the evening.

  It never ceased to amaze her how busy the Mom Squad was kept—especially in the evenings. Originally each of the founding partners had been searching for a way to earn a little extra money. They had never dreamed that the enterprise would bloom into a full-scale business with more requests for service than any of them could handle on their own.

  "Hold on a second," Cara said into the phone. Then she looked at the twins and pointed a finger at the floor. "Down. Right now." Cara purposely used the no-nonsense tone that preceded a session of time-out, with the twins isolated in two different rooms. As usual, the thought of being separated— even for two minutes—was enough to dissuade the twins from disturbing the cake. Reluctantly Heidi stepped aside so that Cara could scoop Zoe from the counter and shoo her in the direction of the playroom.

  Finally she was able to devote her attention to Polly. "Hi, Polly. What's up?"

  Cara had already finished the payroll checks and stacked them neatly on the counter in preparation

  for delivering them to the office the following morning, so she doubted the call had anything to do with her duties as the Mom Squad's CPA.

  "Melba Wilson's daughter just called, and Melba has been taken to the hospital with an apparent appendicitis attack. They're rushing her into surgery now."

  "My gosh, will she be okay?"

  "The surgery is fairly routine, but naturally everyone's a little worried."

  "We should send someone to be with her daughter."

  "I've already taken care of that. I've got Sharon on her way to the hospital now. She'll keep us posted throughout the evening and see about ordering some flowers from the hospital gift shop. Our immediate problem lies in the fact that Melba had a tending job tonight. I guess she was more concerned about canceling than she was about being hospitalized. We're stretched awfully thin. I'd go myself, but I have two job interviews to conduct later, and I haven't been able to contact the applicants. I wondered if you'd be available. You could drop the twins off at the office. They can entertain themselves in the day care room here while I do the interviews, then I'll bring them back to your place and watch them until you get back."

  Accustomed to filling in for such emergencies,

  Cara pulled a pad of paper closer. "Give me the address and the time I need to be there."

  Polly's sigh of relief was audible. As Cara copied the information, she knew that getting to the address located on the eastern bench would be tight, but if she took a few of the back roads...

  Within fifteen minutes Cara was on her way. The twins were strapped into their car seats, a bag filled with extra training pants and snacks nestled on the floor beside them. Polly was waiting for her in the parking lot of the Mom Squad offices, and it took only another few minutes to transfer the twins into her care—most of that time spent in the twins insisting on offering her numerous farewell hugs and kisses.

  As
she drove away and watched the girls wave to her until she turned the corner, she felt an all-too-familiar lump of emotion wedge at the base of her throat.

  Zoe and Heidi had brought her so much joy— so much joy in the midst of tragedy. When Cara's brother and sister-in-law had been killed in an auto accident a year ago, Cara had received guardianship of the fraternal twins. She'd become a mother overnight, not an easy task considering the confusion and grief that all of them had suffered after the accident. But they were doing better now. Life had begun to develop a steady routine, and the an-

  guish wasn't quite so strong, coming in sharp jabs from time to time rather than the ever-present waves.

  Cara had the children to thank for that. Little Heidi, with her long blond hair and indigo eyes, was the ringleader of the pair. She could dream up more ways to get into trouble than Cara could anticipate. Zoe, on the other hand, was quiet, eager to please and a quick learner—facts that often escalated Heidi's plans for adventure. But with her carrot-colored curls and cornflower-blue eyes, she often affected an expression of angelic innocence that belied her mischievous nature.

  Cara sighed, knowing that the twins had brought her more happiness than she had ever thought possible. She'd already begun formal proceedings to adopt the children—the idea having been suggested in her brother's will. Yet, if anyone had asked her only a year before if she would ever consider motherhood, she probably would have told them no. With a nasty divorce behind her, she'd been so sure she would spend the rest of her life alone. Funny the way fate could shuffle the deck and deal a hand a person had never anticipated.

  Retrieving the paper with the address from her bag, Cara checked the numbers against those on the nearest street sign. She was getting close.

  Making a right-hand turn, she resisted the impulse to gawk at the houses on either side of the winding road. She had entered the newer building section high on the Wasatch Bench, located to the east of Salt Lake City proper, an area reserved for homes the size of hotels. The area all but screamed of wealth and privilege.

  According to Polly, their client was a lawyer. And judging by the real estate surrounding his home, he was a wildly successful one at that. Cara doubted that her yearly earnings could even pay for a building lot in the area.

  In the gathering dusk, she caught a glimpse of a pair of wrought-iron gates tipped with brass. The numbers corresponded to those she'd scrawled on her planner.

  "Bingo," she whispered under her breath, rolling to a stop in front of the security monitor and pressing the call button. Within seconds her summons was answered by a baritone, "Yes?"

  "Hello, Mr.—" she glanced at her paper "—Mr. Gifford. I'm Cara Wells from the Mom Squad. I believe you were notified that I would be coming to watch your children tonight rather than Melba Wilson."

  There was a soft, nearly imperceptible whirring sound from behind a small glass screen, and Cara resisted the urge to mug for the camera that had

  probably been focused on her. Ahh, the drawbacks of wealth. Constant security and the constant threat of risk. Cara would take concerned neighbors, dead bolts and peepholes on her doors over high-tech electronic surveillance equipment any day.

  "Will you hold your ID up to the camera please."

  Evidently Mr. Gifford was even more paranoid than most, she thought as she retrieved her wallet from her purse and held it up to the lens of the camera. She didn't think many would-be thieves or kidnappers would be riding around town in such a conspicuous van. Banking on the fact that a company car would help promote some free advertising, the Mom Squad had a small fleet of pink and blue vans complete with huge plastic booties attached to the roofs.

  "Drive on in."

  With no more fanfare than that the gates slid open, allowing Cara to roll onto a brick driveway laid in a herringbone pattern.

  "Pretty ritzy," Cara murmured to herself. She grew even more impressed when the driveway began winding through stands of huge evergreens and oaks—the sort of transplanted foliage that had probably been fully grown and transplanted onto the lot within the last few years. Through the trees

  she caught a glimpse of emerald-green lawns, a pond complete with ducks and swans and...

  Was that a deer? Was the place actually home to deer, or had they come down from the mountain and jumped the fence?

  "I hope they had ID with them," she muttered under her breath, then laughed. No, the animals had to have been transplanted onto the grounds, as well. From the encounter she'd had at the gate, she doubted Ross Gifford would ever allow anything so untidy as unwanted deer—especially if the landscaping was any indication. As she continued to wind her way up the hill, she didn't see a stray leaf, a straggly bush or a withered flower. Everything was theme-park perfect and slightly...unreal.

  "Big money," she murmured to herself. "Big, big money."

  No wonder he was so careful about checking her out. That much money had to make a person paranoid, especially with young children around. Nevertheless, she couldn't help wondering why Ross didn't have a full-time nanny and a fleet of governesses. Wasn't that what wealthy people did with their children?

  Realizing she was judging the man and she hadn't even met him yet, she took a deep breath. Rather than second-guess him, she should be relieved that Ross Gifford was a client of the Mom

  Squad. And the fact that he was so careful with his children's welfare should bring him up a notch in her estimation. Cara was just as protective of the twins' welfare, preferring to use close friends or Mom Squad associates on those rare occasions when she needed a sitter.

  Without warning the trees suddenly parted and the road curved to reveal the house. A muted "Wow" burst from her lips, and she unconsciously stopped. If she didn't know better, she would have thought she had stepped back in time. In front of her lay a modern-day castle complete with field-stone walls, mullioned windows and a pair of round turrets.

  "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Cara whispered, then, realizing she'd slipped into her habit of talking to herself, she snapped her jaw closed. It wouldn't do to talk to herself in front of Ross Gifford. Judging by this house, he was an important client to the Mom Squad. A very, very important client.

  Cara immediately became conscious of her worn jeans, scuffed sneakers and finger-tossed hair. Then, frantically, she looked for a place to park, knowing the van had a tiny oil leak that she hadn't seen to yet.

  When it became obvious that the entire road was made of the same herringbone brick, she chose an

  inconspicuous spot next to a flowerbed. "Please, please don't leak," she whispered to the car, then offered the van a friendly pat on the steering wheel.

  She took a moment to look in the mirror, then grimaced. The heat and her busy day had caused her hair to poke out at all angles. And even though she'd adopted a short pixie-like cut in an effort to tame the natural curls, she didn't think her hairdresser had intended it to look so... untidy.

  "Damn." Then remembering she'd vowed not to talk to herself, she bit her lip and slid outside.

  After slamming the door, Cara slung a duffel bag full of games, storybooks and puppet paraphernalia over her shoulder, then hurried up to the front door.

  Even his door was rich and elegant, she decided with a grimace. It looked as if it had been carved from a single span of oak. Wrought-iron studs and huge rings rather than doorknobs carried out the castle theme.

  A glance at her watch reassured her that she had arrived on the dot of seven. Since Ross Gifford already knew she had arrived, she debated whether or not to ring the doorbell. With her luck, he wouldn't have a doorbell. More likely he had Quasimodo sequestered in one of the towers.

  When the thought caused a burst of nervous

  laughter, she turned away to school her features. Almost against her will, her eyes absorbed the pristine landscaping and a house large enough to contain an orphanage. Just as she'd thought, there were deer grazing in the grass near the pond. The docile animals seemed perfectly at ease, and why wouldn't they
be? They must be thinking they were in deer nirvana.

  "Amazing. Absolutely amazing."

  Again she pressed her lips together to keep from saying anything more out loud. She might be amazed and she might be impressed, but she had to keep her thoughts to herself. After all, she was merely the hired help for the evening. It didn't matter that the fieldstone still held a portion of the day's heat. Or that the colors of the rock made the house look as if it had stood on the site for hundreds of years. Nor was it any of her business that the absolute perfection of the scene gave Cara the willies—as if she were surveying a movie set and everything she saw was an illusion.

  The sound of a throat being cleared caused her to jump and she turned.

  He did have Quasimodo working for him.

  No. Not Quasimodo, she quickly amended. The man who stood in front of her was far too tall, too rigid, too stiff and formal to be the bell-ringing hero of the twins' favorite cartoon. His dark suit,

  crisp starched tie and gleaming black shoes bespoke a man who paid attention to details.

  "Good evening, Miss Wells."

  The British accent immediately revealed that he wasn't the same man who'd asked to see her identification.

  "I'm from the Mom Squad."

  "Yes. We know."

  Cara wasn't sure if the gentleman—a butler?— was using a royal we or if he included Ross in his statement.

  She flushed when the butler looked at her car, and his gaze flicked to the undercarriage as if he sensed the oil that even now threatened to mar the pristine surface of the drive.

  "That will be all, Stibbs. I can handle things from here. You'd best get to your opera before the curtain rises."

  The voice came from the shadowy interior of the foyer. From her vantage point in the sun, Cara's eyes couldn't adjust enough to give her a good glimpse of the man. She had the vague impression of height, the flash of a white shirt, but little more.