All in the Family

by Heather Graham

  Enjoy again this sweet and humorous classic romance by New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham!

  Dan Marquette is sure his innocent daughter was seduced by some teenage lothario, while Kelly McGraw is certain that a little temptress set her sights to trap her perfect son. It was an incendiary way to meet, and both parents are too stubborn to admit that they’re wrong. Until, of course, they start to realize that you don’t get to choose who you fall in love with. And baby makes five…

  Originally published in 1987

  ALL IN THE FAMILY

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  She had been watching him for a long time when she finally came to the fence that day. Well, maybe not so long in days—she had only been in Bolivar for a month—but it felt like forever. She’d seen him first in the hallway, walking with his friends. She’d noticed his hair, like a beacon. It wasn’t just blond, it was nearly white, and one lock slashed across the tan of his forehead like a beautiful ribbon of silk. And his eyes, blue, bright blue like the sky, were as startling and arresting as that hair.

  Not that she could have missed him anyway. He was about six-foot-two—a standout in any crowd. Tall, blond and beautiful. He should have been a California beachboy, not a West Virginia mountain man.

  Yet it had been his smile that had really drawn her. It had seemed like the epitome of romance to her young heart, straight out of a novel, sensual, fascinating. They had seen each other on her very first day, across the crowded hallway. Their eyes had met, and the world had stopped. Suddenly there was no one else, no one who mattered. She heard the beat of her own heart, and nothing else….

  And then he had smiled.

  It seemed as if she had been there forever, returning his gaze, unable to smile herself. Unable to even blush.

  Then someone had tapped him on the shoulder and he had turned, and she had been released. But not really. The spell he had cast had stayed with her, and at every opportunity she had watched him, and now she was watching him again, her fingers curled around the wire fencing, tense and taut, her eyes trained on his tall form. He was wearing a helmet, shoulder pads and ridiculously tight pants; there were black marks beneath his eyes to ward off the sun’s reflection, and he was filthy from numerous falls to the spring-wet earth. But he was still the most beautiful human being she had ever seen, and she smiled, because she knew he was aware that she was there, watching him. The new kid in town. She was patient; she could wait. She knew that he would come to her. She had known it that day in the hallway when their eyes had met so romantically, when the world had stood still, when there had been no one on earth except for the two of them.

  A whistle shrilled, and the boys went running off the field. One of the coaches yelled at someone, and soon the field was nearly empty.

  He remained. He tossed the football up in the air, caught it, tossed it again, caught it again. And then he stared at her and slowly smiled, and at last he walked toward her.

  He reached the fence, and they stood just inches apart, only the wire separating them.

  It happened again. The sky was gone; the earth was gone. Noise faded, and they were alone; they were all that mattered in the entire world. Silence seemed to reign, but it was an eloquent silence.

  She was in love. Head over heels in love, and she would never love again as she did at the moment. They watched each other with all their feelings in their eyes.

  “You’re Sandy Marquette,” he said at last.

  “You know my name.”

  He smiled. A slow, rueful smile that was totally endearing.

  “I know everything about you. You’ve just moved here from D.C., and your birthday is the second of September, and your father is some kind of historian and…”

  His voice trailed away for just a moment. Then that smile touched his face again, more wistful than before. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. You must be here to break the hearts of all us poor mountain boys.”

  She laughed, a husky sound that caught in her throat. Warmth raced through her, and she felt breathless, barely able to speak.

  “I’d take a mountain man anytime.”

  It wasn’t meant to be sexy; she was just being honest. She barely knew him—all she knew were those looks that had passed between them—but those exchanges were as good as vows; they were promises to last a lifetime.

  “This mountain man?” he inquired softly.

  “No other. Ever,” she whispered.

  The spring breeze picked up, touching them both. A shadow rich with dark warmth and promise fell over the valley. He dropped the football, and ran his fingers curled over hers where they clung to the fencing. Just touching.

  “I’ve got to shower,” he finally told her.

  “I’ll wait.”

  It was some time before he could release her, but at last he did. He stared at her as he walked across the field. When he tripped, she laughed, and so did he. He waved and forced himself to turn around. To hurry, hurry so that he could get back to her. Even so, he dropped the soap a dozen times. His fingers were shaking so badly that he had to shove his hands into his pockets and whistle when he finally left the locker room. Then he walked back to meet her at the fence, and they smiled again, both aware that he would have to walk around to meet her without that obstacle between them.

  She was sophisticated, he told himself. She was superior to anything that had ever touched his life before. He couldn’t behave like a bumpkin!

  Hold something back, she warned herself. He was the most popular guy in school, adored by everyone. He was beautiful, he was like a god, and she was just the new girl, and she had to be careful….

  He came around to her and paused awkwardly. Then that slow smile lit his face again, and he held out his hand toward her. He watched her eyes as their fingers intertwined.

  “Want—want to get—” He had to clear his throat. “A soda or—”

  “I don’t care. I don’t care what we do.”

  “We could drive—” he began, but then his face fell, and he laughed. “Except that I don’t have a car. I came with Peter, but then I took one look at you and forgot everything.”

  “I have mine,” she said.

  She led him to the parking lot and to her brand-new, little red sports car.

  He groaned inwardly, feeling all the differences between them more keenly.

  She was a rich girl, and he…

  “Yours? I mean, your own?” he asked hesitantly.

  She nodded and handed him the keys. He took them and paused, and then he saw all the wistfulness and magic in her eyes. He realized that nothing on heaven or earth mattered except for the two of them.

  He opened the door for her, then came around to the driver’s seat.

  He loved the car. He loved the subtle scent of her perfume. He loved the girl who was sitting beside him.

  He drove to a quiet place by the river and parked. They talked, and finally darkness fell.

  He talked about the river and told her about rafting and swimming, and he told her about the cabin up in the mountains by the stream. He told her about the deer that would come and eat right out of your hand, and about how when a fire crackled in the hearth and night descended, there was no better place to be. She tried to tell him about her life, but she couldn’t think of much to say, because
it felt as if her life had begun with her first glimpse of him, and that nothing before him mattered.

  She would never have thought of the time; he was the one who worried. She would have dropped him off at his house, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  He would always see her safely home, he promised.

  And besides, he needed to walk. Needed to feel the air and the earth and savor the feeling, the feeling of knowing her, of loving her.

  He began to dream of her, awake and asleep. He’d had a 4.0 average for all of his high school years, but now everything he read turned to gibberish.

  That, he knew, would have to change. Smiling by the light of his desk lamp, he chewed his eraser and thought about the situation. He had to maintain that 4.0. Now, more than ever, he had to go through with all of his plans.

  He was going to marry her. As soon as possible.

  He told her so the next day. At first she was stunned, but then she hugged him. Then the bell began to ring for class, so he whispered that they would talk later, that as soon as school was out they would head for that cabin, where they could be alone to plan their future.

  That afternoon, while it was still light, they wandered to the stream. They wound up laughing and showering each other with the cold mountain water. Naturally he built a fire to warm them up.

  By its gentle light they gazed into each other’s eyes, and then he touched her, and then…

  Love led the way for her, a gentle, tender path to an ecstasy that was both sweet and torrid.

  She’d known she belonged to him, since their eyes had met across the hall, but now she felt as if he would be a part of her forever and ever. They would marry, yet marriage could be only a legal sanction of what they had already shared.

  Others might talk and call them foolish, say they were young, that they knew nothing. That they had so much to learn, so many paths to follow. At their ages it was a crush, only puppy love.

  Puppy love…

  No one had ever loved so deeply, she knew. And no one had ever made love as they had.

  Love.

  He was in love, he thought. They would get married as soon as possible, no matter what. Parental opposition, screaming, shouting, reproach—nothing would stop him, although he would be deeply sorry if his mother didn’t understand.

  But not even that could be allowed to matter….

  He would give up anything. That was it. This was love. She was his life.

  He wanted to run out of the cabin, run out stark naked, and pound his fists against his chest, because she made him feel so male and strong and wonderful. He wanted to proclaim to the world that she was his, his forever.

  But he knew that wasn’t such a smart idea.

  He turned to her, and, as if she could read his mind, she warned softly that they had to take care, had to move slowly, had to keep their love a very special secret.

  They would meet whenever they could. They would cherish each other and every moment until they could be together forever.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Take that, you dastardly, devilish dragon!”

  Kelly tried the words aloud, shrugged, grimaced, then added more pencil strokes to her paper, resting her feet on the rungs of her chair as she surveyed her morning’s work.

  Umm. Hard to judge. But this installment of the Dark of the Moon was due tomorrow, and she simply had to take care of the Fairy Queen and Daryl the Devilish Dragon by tonight.

  “Easy,” she murmured to herself. “Slay him. Off with his head!” But she couldn’t do that, of course. Dark of the Moon was written for children, it took place in a fantasy land where mythical creatures learned lessons about life, teaching them to the children in the process. She couldn’t go around lopping off her characters’ heads.

  “Okay, then, Daryl, what are you going to say here, huh?” she asked her character. Daryl—massive and muscular and mischievous—stared up at her with his big, slightly tilted eyes and defied his creator to reproach him.

  She frowned slightly, wondering what was disturbing her, then realized that she really did have the capacity to tune out the world. The echo that was resounding in the air hinted that someone had been out on her front steps ringing her doorbell for quite some time.

  “Jarod! Jarod, could you get the door, please?”

  Kelly stared at Daryl again, knitting her brows and chewing her eraser. Come on, come on, Daryl, she coaxed him in silence. What are you going to say in return? Maybe I should have you cringe and cry; maybe I should have you lower those long eyelashes and beg forgiveness with such a wicked look beneath those lids that the kids will be ready for trouble next time.

  The doorbell was still ringing. Kelly looked up in disgust. “Jarod!”

  Was he even home? Maybe that was Jarod ringing the doorbell because he’d forgotten his key. He had become very forgetful lately—worse than she was.

  “Oh, hell!”

  Kelly tossed down her pencil and padded barefoot from her office to the hall and to the door. She should have looked through the peephole—Jarod was always warning her that she was too trusting—but she was annoyed at having been interrupted, so she merely threw the door open with a bang that threatened the old hinges.

  “What—” she began, but her question, short as it was, never had a chance to be spoken.

  “Where’s your father? I want to see him now, young lady. Right now!”

  Kelly felt fury settle over her as she stared up at the total stranger blocking her doorway. She was accustomed to staring up at her son who stood over six feet tall, so she had no trouble meeting his eyes, her own narrowing with instant hostility. Yet, despite that hostility, she fought the urge to step back a foot.

  His hair was dark auburn, and it cut a slightly disheveled swath across his forehead, as if he had been brushing it back in agitation, but had finally gotten tired of fighting with it. He wasn’t just tall; he was built as solidly as a wall, a fact made easy to notice by the snug fit of his worn jeans over his trim hips and long legs, and the way his navy shirt hugged his taut biceps and broad shoulders.

  He had flashing dark eyes, a straight nose, and a square jaw. And he looked as furious as Kelly herself. People just don’t act like this around here, she thought.

  He might have been handsome if his features hadn’t been so hard and angry. As it was, she couldn’t escape the feeling that she really should step back. He was clearly dangerous. Jarod had been justified in warning her that she shouldn’t open the door so readily, she realized.

  “Where is your father!”

  The words thundered out at her again, and she felt a rekindling of her initial fury. She didn’t step back after all. Instead she straightened to the limits of her barefoot, five-foot-two frame and squared her shoulders, lifting her chin regally and staring at him with what she hoped was total and absolute amusement and scorn.

  Just who the hell did he think he was, and what did he want?

  “My father, sir, is in Vancouver—I believe. I don’t keep a schedule of his whereabouts.”

  The stranger paused slightly, gazing down at her with his dark brows knit together. He really was a very good-looking man, Kelly thought, her heart skipping slightly. Then she reminded herself that he was also rude and abrasive, and she set her hands on her hips, casting a glance of restrained impatience his way.

  “Get me your mother then. Now—please.”

  A sigh of irritation escaped her, and she felt her own temper rise to the boiling point as he brushed past her into the hallway of the old house, critically surveying everything in sight. He didn’t go any farther, though, just watched her with annoyance, as if she were a child who was purposely and willfully attempting to delay him.

  She stared at him with startled surprise, then smiled slowly—maliciously—in realization. He did think she was a child!

  Kelly closed the door and leaned against it, crossing her arms over her chest—smiling as sweetly as she could. Her blond ponytail, bare feet and diminutive size had misled him, but t
hat didn’t mean she had to show him any mercy.

  “Where is your mother, please?” he said again, sighing with exasperation.

  She swallowed back a touch of sadness and replied with a definite bite, “Six feet under. Now just what is your problem?”

  “What?” He was definitely startled.

  Kelly set her jaw grimly. “Deceased. My mother is deceased. Now, since you’ve barged into my home—”

  “You live here alone?” he demanded.

  “Not exactly. I live with my son.”

  “You’re his mother?”

  He spoke with such absolute astonishment that Kelly paused, touched by the irony of the situation. “If being ‘his’ mother means that I’m the mother of Jarod McGraw, then yes. Now—”

  “You can’t be!”

  “But I am.”

  His eyes raked over her—so totally and assessingly that she longed to slap him.

  “If you can’t—”

  “Where’s your husband?”

  Kelly gritted her teeth, wishing desperately that she had the size and strength to pick the man up by his collar and deliver him back to the step on the seat of his pants. Her eyes narrowed even further, and she said, “Also deceased, I’m afraid. So, since you’ve barged your way so rudely into my house, I suggest you tell me your business as quickly as possible. Otherwise, I’ll feel obliged to ask the police to rid me of your obnoxious presence.”

  He didn’t scare easily. But then, he didn’t smile, either, only continued to stare at her grimly. “I’ve been considering the possibility of calling in the police myself, Mrs. McGraw. Somehow I had this ardent hope that I could come over here and in some miraculous way discover that it couldn’t be true. But it is true—I can see that right now. You must have been a true child bride, lady. And it’s more than obvious that you don’t have a bit of control over that overgrown, irresponsible Adonis you’ve raised!”

  What? Now he was really in trouble! He could hold any opinion of her that he chose, but any intelligent many should have more sense than to insult a woman’s only child!

  And especially Jarod, she thought with a pang. Jarod; bright, considerate—exceptionally sensitive. In almost eighteen years, she had never come across anyone who didn’t like Jarod!