A K-9 cop and Colton nanny come under fire

A Coltons of Red Ridge romance

Officer Dante Mancuso pursues justice with only the company of his K-9 partner. But when tragedy strikes, the bewildered bachelor winds up with custody of his infant nieces. Desperate for help, Dante hires heiress Gemma Colton to help him care for the little girls. As they grow closer caring for the babies, shadows from their respective pasts threaten their growing bond.

JUSTINE DAVIS lives on Puget Sound in Washington State, watching big ships and the occasional submarine go by and sharing the neighbourhood with assorted wildlife, including a pair of bald eagles, deer, a bear or two and a tailless raccoon. In the few hours when she’s not planning, plotting or writing her next book, her favorite things are photography, knitting her way through a huge yarn stash and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.

Connect with Justine at her website, justinedavis.com, at Twitter.com/justine_d_davis, or on Facebook at Facebook.com/justinedaredavis.

Also by Justine Davis

Operation Midnight

Operation Reunion

Operation Blind Date

Operation Unleashed

Operation Power Play

Operation Homecoming

Operation Soldier Next Door

Operation Alpha

Operation Notorious

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Colton’s Twin Secrets

Justine Davis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07930-3

COLTON’S TWIN SECRETS

© 2018 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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This one’s for readers in one of my favorite states,

South Dakota. Don’t go looking for Red Ridge,

for it’s entirely from imagination. But you’ll know that.

Enjoy the ride anyway. And here’s to SD,

indeed Great Faces, Great Places!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Hope.

What a fool’s game.

K9 officer Dante Mancuso stood in the doorway of the small apartment, wondering why on earth he felt the slightest twinge of hope that this time it might be different, this time they might actually find something. Anything. Trying to link the Teflon Twins, Evan and Noel Larson, to their multitude of crimes had so far been like trying to break Flash of sniffing.

As if the big dog had heard the thought, he looked up, leaned his head against Dante’s leg and gave him that mournful look out of the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. His heart and gut reacted for a moment before his brain kicked in to remind him he was being played.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Dante muttered to the bloodhound.

With a long, pained sigh that matched the expression on his wrinkled face, the dog plopped down on the floor.

“You’ll get your turn when they’re done,” Dante told him. The black-and-tan dog gave him what in a person would be a distinct side-eye look. “What? You don’t like Mondays or you can’t sort out a few extra smells?”

With a distinct huff, the dog settled his head onto his front paws.

A man in uniform stepped through the door, pulling off his shoe covers and latex gloves. Al Collins was fairly new, a lateral transfer from down in Custer, still in training here, and Dante didn’t quite have his measure yet.

“I swear, Mancuso, you talk to that dog more than I talk to my human partner.”

“Human?” Dante shot a grinning glance at Collins’s training officer, Duke Carnahan, a large, muscled man with a forehead and brow line that looked a bit simian, and often served to fool people into thinking him stupid, when in fact he was one of the sharpest cops around. He was also one of Dante’s closest friends in the department.

“Keep it up, pretty boy, and I’ll have to rip your arm off,” Duke shot back.

Dante knew the man was joking, but Duke also looked quite capable of carrying out the threat. “Flash might not like that.”

The cop’s gaze shifted to the dog, who now looked half-asleep. “You trying to tell me that lazybones would actually bite me?”

“That lazybones could run you into the ground over any kind of terrain. But when he caught you, he’d just lick you to death. Maybe drown you in slobber.”

Duke grimaced. “Ugh. Drown in dog drool? No, thanks. You can keep the arm.”

They both laughed.

“Don’t see you down here much, Mancuso,” Collins said. “Don’t like us?”

“Some of the neighbors and I don’t get along,” Dante answered, his voice carefully neutral.

Collins frowned, but Duke got it quickly. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about your brother.”

I wish I could.

* * *

Gemma Colton paced the floor of her condo in the building owned by her father, for once taking little pleasure in the sweeping view or the expensive furnishings. She was focused on one thing and one thing only. But it was her entire future.

“Something go wrong at the fund-raiser?”

She turned to look at Devlin. “What?”

“You seem...edgy.”

And so, she realized, did he.

Devlin Harrington was the biggest puzzle she had ever encountered in her admittedly pampered life. To be honest, that was half the reason he intrigued her so—her social life wasn’t usually so complicated. She was the youngest daughter of Fenwick Colton, and men were usually falling all over themselves for the chance to take her out. But not Dev. She’d never had to chase a man before, but the combination of his good looks, elegant manners, sharp dressing and confident air were irresistible to her.

And so she’d set herself to the task, telling herself it was in part because he was the son of wealthy Hamlin Harrington—who himself was involved with her half sister Layla, which was a puzzle—and a successful lawyer in his own right with his father’s company. He was one of the few men where the question of him being after her money—well, her father’s money—had never come up, not even with her father, who was paranoid about the subject.

And eight months later, here they were, not an inch closer to where she wanted to be. Oh, they had a relationship—it just wasn’t the kind she wanted with him. Because she’d quite fallen for the handsome lawyer, and if it was in large part because even after all this time he still seemed unreachable, she wasn’t at all sure what that meant.

If she wanted to see him, it was up to her to reach out. And half the time he had other plans he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change. Telling herself he was a busy, successful man was wearing thin.

Quinn’s words kept ringing in her head. Her cousin had been kind, gentle even, but her advice boiled down to one thing: you can’t force love. But she wasn’t trying to force it, she told herself. She already loved Devlin. And he loved her, she was sure, he just needed to move her up on his priority list. And she wasn’t certain how to do that; she’d never not been at the top of that list with anyone she’d been with before.

“No,” she said finally. “The fund-raiser went fine. Great, in fact. We raised even more than last year.” Her chin came up. “Even without you.”

He ignored the jab, as he usually did. She could never decide if it was because he didn’t see it or it simply didn’t bother him. She usually leaned toward the former, since the latter implied he didn’t care enough to let it bother him, and she didn’t want to believe that.

“I’m sure the animal shelter will be pleased,” he said, and he sounded so preoccupied that she was almost certain he was only vaguely aware of what he was saying.

She stifled the childish urge to stamp her foot and say, “Pay attention!” But it was a close thing; Gemma was not used to being an afterthought for anyone.

Especially a man she was crazy about. A man she wanted to build that future with. A man who would fit seamlessly into her world. A man even her father couldn’t find fault with.

“Dev!”

He seemed to snap back to reality. “Look, I just couldn’t get there, all right?”

She sighed. “It’s not that. Not really. Where are we going, Dev?”

He frowned. “Going?”

“You and me. Don’t you think it’s time we progressed beyond dinner a couple of times a week and only going to official functions?”

The frown deepened. “This is fine.”

A pronouncement. Not an “I think,” just a judgment as if the only input required was his. She would have to break him of that, and soon.

“This isn’t my idea of fine. I want more, Dev.”

He stood up. “I know,” he said softly. He reached out to cup her cheek, and she thought at last she was getting somewhere. At least she had his full attention now. But instead he looked almost sad. “I’m sorry, Gemma.”

He meant it. She could tell. And her entire mood shifted. “It’s okay. It was just a fund-raiser. There’ll be another one. In fact, the big gala is right before Thanksgiving, and—”

“No, Gemma.”

She blinked. “What?”

He gave her a regretful look. And her certainty about the sincerity flickered; it was the same practiced look he gave someone when he was turning them down for a case, or a favor, or any other request made of him that he did not want to say yes to. She’d admired how he did it, at first. But she’d never had it turned on her before.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. And again it sounded genuine.

“It’s all right,” she said quickly, not quite sure why she was feeling she needed to scramble to accept something that would have made her angry with anyone else. But she couldn’t be angry with Devlin. She was crazy about him. “I know it’s not your thing, so I’ll quit asking if you want.”

“It’s not that, Gemma.”

Anxiety spiked through her. It was an unfamiliar feeling; she’d had little to be truly anxious about in her life.

“What, Dev? What is it?”

“I wish I could give you what you want.”

“I want you. You know that.”

“Yes.” He said it sadly but gently. “Yes, I do. And I know you mean it.”

“I love you,” she said, the anxiety shifting to desperation, as if a snowfield she’d been admiring had suddenly let go into an avalanche.

“You do,” he said, sounding a little wondering. And looking almost puzzled. “You really do.”

“Yes,” she said, feeling a bit better.

“You deserve that kind of love yourself. You deserve a man who adores you.” He gave a shake of his head, as if he were surprising himself. “And I’m going to give you the chance to find him. Because you genuinely, truly love me.”

None of this was making any sense. “I don’t understand.”

“I can’t give you what you want, Gemma. I don’t love you. Not like that.”

She stared at him. For the first time she admitted to herself that he was really saying it. But she was still far from believing he meant it.

Chapter 2

With the ease of long practice, Dante yanked his thoughts away from his brother, Dominic, who lived about three blocks from the rather dingy apartment he now stood outside, waiting to search. He tried never to think about him or the rest of his lawbreaking family. He’d long ago accepted that he was the odd one out, the one who had not only chosen not to break the law but uphold it. Sometimes Dominic and his snooty wife, Agostina, looked at Dante as if it were the other way around, or as if his very existence in the Mancuso family was some kind of accusation.

As perhaps it was.

Flash nudged his leg. He looked down at the dog. He knew most people would laugh at him for thinking it, but he would swear this time the dog’s solemn expression held concern, as if the animal had sensed where his thoughts had turned. And maybe he had. Like most dogs, Flash was sensitive in areas beyond his prodigious nose.

As he waited, Dante wondered idly if the local judges ever got tired of issuing search warrants in the so far fruitless efforts to relate just about every criminal in Red Ridge to the Larsons. He sure got tired of asking for them, even knowing most of those scumbags were probably part of the Larson operation.

And the ones who aren’t are probably related to me.

“Well,” Duke said, in the brisk tones of someone changing an uncomfortable subject, “our cursory search was a bust, other than finding out the guy’s apparently addicted to chewing gum. Never seen so many wrappers. Oh, and that microwave is a hazmat zone.”

“So,” Collins said, “I guess you’d better turn the nose loose.”

Flash was on his feet before Dante had to say a word. Collins looked startled. “Enough people call him ‘the nose’ that he’s learned it means he’s about to go to work,” Dante explained.

Collins looked impressed. “Mind if I stick around and watch? Never actually seen him work.”

“Just stay out of his way,” Dante said, his good-humored demeanor now replaced with the all-business attitude that told Flash he’d brook no nonsense. Bloodhounds were notoriously strong headed, and it took an equal amount of stubborn in a handler to get the best out of them. In the beginning he’d had to outlast Flash on a few occasions to get the dog to understand this was a human who would persist until he did what was asked of him.

But I’ve got a lot of practice in stubborn.

Dante shook off the moment when his family tried to trample into his thoughts again. Now was all about Flash. That he also made sure the dog had plenty of fun in his life—which meant hours of purposeless sniffing and romping—had brought them to a place where they were a smooth, efficient working team. And it was time to do that work.

He stepped across the threshold, a now eager Flash at his side. He didn’t bother to have him sniff the officers who had already been inside so he could tell him to ignore those scents; he knew Flash had already done that. Dante wasn’t sure how the dog processed it, but he knew which scents to ignore.

When he gave the command to search, the dog set off instantly. Dante watched, thinking as he often did that if he mapped out the dog’s travels, there would be no pattern. And yet to Flash, the paths were as clear as a well-lit interstate. And every inch of those paths must be sniffed at length. In such an enclosed space, Dante supposed it took more time to sort out the trails. He knew the animal’s incredible nose could track a scent hundreds of hours old, but the suspect had been in this place not even three hours ago, so it should be hot and fresh.

But as he watched, a different sort of pattern emerged. As if he’d been here to observe, he saw a model of life here in this small apartment emerge. Saw the most frequent paths walked—couch across from the flat screen to the kitchen and back, and almost never to the narrow table in the eating nook. Couch to the bathroom and back. Bathroom to the bedroom in the back, which had been enough to make even the casual-living Dante’s nose wrinkle. Did the guy never do laundry? Poor Flash, he thought. Although he supposed to the dog the stronger the smell, the headier it was, no matter that to a human it was nearly gagworthy.

He wished there was a way to train the dog to go for the faintest scents first, but he knew that was counter to Flash’s every instinct. And so he’d settled into the routine, letting the dog do it his way, because he almost never failed. And if he did fail to find something, it was because there was nothing to find.

Dante watched the dog work in the kitchen now—this was the only time Dante didn’t have to worry about the animal’s impressive counter-surfing skills, as he never strayed when working—wondering not for the first time if a negative result of a bloodhound’s scent work would be as acceptable in court as a positive. If he didn’t find something, was that proof in reverse? Would there come a case when a bloodhound’s nose would be used in court to prove someone’s innocence rather than guilt? He supposed it was only a matter of time, if it hadn’t happened already. He should look that up—it was always good to keep on top of things like that so—

Flash pawed at a cupboard door. Dante went still. And then it came—the dog’s look back over his shoulder that told him he’d found something. He crossed over to the dog, gave him a pat. He gloved up then crouched and pulled open the door. Bare seconds later he’d shoved aside a saucepan that looked like it had once bounced down three flights of stairs. Then he pulled out the only other thing in the cupboard. And stared as Flash proudly nudged it with that nose.

A five-pound sack of flour.

“Seriously, dog?”

Flash gave him a mournful look. But then, he always looked mournful. Others called it solemn, others dignified, but to Dante it was always mournful. And just now it was as if the dog was hurt Dante didn’t trust him.

“All right, all right.”

He picked up the bag, straightened up and put it on the counter. Pondered. What the hell would a guy who didn’t have even a saltshaker in his kitchen, and nothing in his fridge but beer and leftover pizza, be doing with a bag of flour? Cutting drugs? That made no sense—the stuff was entirely the wrong texture. It looked practically full, anyway.

Collins made a smart-ass comment from the living room about whether they were searching or baking cookies. Dante flipped him a hand gesture. They both laughed.

He studied the bag for a moment longer, then unrolled the haphazardly folded top. Hesitantly—even with the gloves, he was a little wary of what might be in there, judging by the state of the microwave alone, let alone the rest of the kitchen. He was hardly manic about housecleaning, but this was a cut below.

He was glad not to see anything moving, although there were a couple of suspect dark specks amid the white. He bent again, picking up the battered saucepan. Then he pulled out one of the plastic evidence bags he always carried and used it to line the pan. Finally he picked up the flour and started to pour it into the bag-lined saucepan.

“Sarge’s car just pulled up,” Duke called out.

Dante grunted an acknowledgment, his attention on going slowly. By the time a third of the bag was emptied, he was beginning to get antsy. He trusted Flash implicitly, but—

Something fell out of the bag, sending up a puff of white flour. Dante leaned over to look. And went very still.

It was a phone. A cheap throwaway phone. A burner.

He was almost afraid to breathe. He reached out to touch it with a fingertip, half-afraid he was seeing things. It shifted slightly in the flour. He picked it up.

“Damn,” Duke muttered, crossing the room now. He joined Dante, staring down at the phone. “He really is that good.”

“Yeah. He is.”

* * *

He couldn’t mean it, Gemma thought. Dev couldn’t really be breaking up with her.

“But—” she began.

He shook his head. “I’m going to give you that chance to find that guy,” he said again.

Gemma frowned. He sounded as if he were giving her some great gift, not destroying their life together. And somewhere deep inside, where she was the woman who knew her place in this world, she felt a spark of anger.

“That’s big of you,” she said sharply. “So, what, you’re just going to walk away from me? From us?”

“Yes.”

“And just what,” she asked imperiously, “do you think you’re going to find with someone else that I don’t have? Just what is it you think I’m lacking, Devlin Harrington?”

Dev looked almost sad. “An ounce of maternal instinct,” he said.

Maternal instinct? Her brow furrowed. What on earth did that have to do with anything? Then a memory struck her.

“Is this about your cousin and her baby?”

She found it hard to believe one awkward moment with a tiny, squalling, squirming infant could have brought them to this. Sure, it had been clear she didn’t know the first thing about babies, but why would she? She was Gemma Colton, daughter of Fenwick Colton—not to be confused with her distant cousin with the same name, who had had to deal with that awful virus a few years ago in Dead River, Wyoming, the best reason she’d ever heard for not becoming a nurse—and any children she might ever have would be safely ensconced with a nanny.

“That was just the demonstration of what I already knew,” Dev said. And now he was sounding sad. “Gemma, keeping Harrington Incorporated in the family is my responsibility. And that requires children.”

She might not know much about kids, but that seemed a rather cold-blooded way of thinking about them, even to her. But she loved Dev, and so she plowed on. “So? I want kids...someday.” She shoved aside the doubt. “And they’ll have a good life,” she declared. “The best schools, the best care, a dozen nannies if that’s what it takes to find the right one.”

“Exactly.”

Gemma blinked. “What?”

“I want a woman who will be hands-on with our children. Who will be a great mom. Like mine. She never turned us over to a nanny. Never abdicated her responsibility.”

“Abdicated her responsibility? You make it sound like giving up a crown—” She cut off her own words when she heard how snarky she sounded. Secretly, she thought Dev probably had a rose-colored-glasses view of the mother who had died. Kind of like her father did of his first wife, Layla’s mother.

Layla.

“Wait, what about your father? Who’s to say he and Layla won’t have children when this crazy killer is caught?”

Something flashed in Devlin’s eyes. Was he not happy about his father being engaged to a woman only three years older than him? Surely he didn’t think he would be supplanted by any children they had, since he was already a crucial part of the company.

She herself wasn’t thrilled with her sister marrying Dev’s father, and not just because it would make things complicated—her father-in-law would also be her brother-in-law—but because she couldn’t quite believe Layla loved the guy. Not like Gemma loved Dev, anyway.

And belatedly she remembered she was thinking about complications that would now apparently never arise. Because Dev was breaking up with her. Her ultimatum had gone seriously sideways.

“You can’t mean this,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “It’s just not a good match. But you’ll be all right, Gemma. I wish...” He paused, then said decisively, “I’ll let you find the happiness you deserve.”

He’d let her? She’d had about enough of this royalish munificence of his. She wanted to ask who put him in charge of the world, but didn’t.

She’d show him. No one broke up with Gemma Colton. She was the one who did the breaking up. He wanted maternal instincts? She’d show him maternal instincts. She’d make him sorry he’d ever doubted she had them. She’d have him crawling back, apologizing, in no time at all. She’d never been thwarted in her life, not for anything she’d really wanted.

And she would not be now.

* * *

“I’ll go let the Sarge know you found something.”

Dante nodded, didn’t even look as Duke left. His attention was fastened on the phone. The screen was tiny compared to his own, and it was obviously bare-bones, but it booted up quickly enough.

The call log was empty. No contacts saved. Neither of which surprised him. He opened the messaging app. His mouth tightened a little at the short list of text conversations. Top name meant nothing to him, nor did the next. In fact, none of the four names did.

But the next three had only phone numbers listed, no names assigned.

And that middle number looked familiar.

He pulled his own phone out of his pocket and quickly called up a file. Scrolled down to a list of numbers...

It was there.

Holy bloodhound nose, it was there. They finally, finally had a link to the Larsons. He looked at the patient dog. “Flash, you’re a genius.”

Okay, Dante thought, that look was dignified. And it fairly screamed, “Of course I am.” He grinned. His Monday was turning out not just decent, but great. He quickly checked the rest of the bag—nothing but flour. Sealed up the evidence bag. Picked it up. Headed back toward the living room.

Boom.

The front windows of the apartment shattered. Gunfire. Dante grabbed Flash and hauled him back to the kitchen, out of the line of fire. More shots.

His mind was racing. Ran through it in a split second. Three quick rounds. Not fast enough for fully automatic. Large caliber, but not huge. No hope of hitting anyone, so a warning. Then a squeal of tires on pavement. Picking up speed. Maybe—

A horrendous crash from outside echoed through the now broken windows. Metal versus metal, and more glass raining down.

But no more shots.

Can’t drive and shoot at the same time.

The ominous silence held. Then he heard shouting from outside. He ordered Flash to stay in the no-nonsense voice the dog always obeyed unless he was on a scent so strongly that his nose shut down his ears.

He made his way into the living room, keeping out of the line of sight of the front windows. Still more shouting, but no shooting. He edged his way over to the window, still in the shelter of the solid wall. Pulled his Glock 22 from the holster, just in case. Risked a quick, darting glance. Behind the relative safety of the wall, he played the scene back in his head.

It was ugly. A big heavy white van had T-boned a small, expensive—and in this case too easily destructible—sports coupe. Crushed it up against a power pole. Signals at the corner were dark, and he’d bet the power was out for blocks around.

The white vehicle was the shooter. Had to be—only one on the street heading the right direction. So the guy he’d glimpsed running from it had to be him. And whoever was in that little coupe had never had a chance, they—

It hit him then. The coupe. The little bright yellow coupe.

He knew that car. There might be more than one in town, but in this neighborhood?

“Dominic,” he breathed.

Gun still in his hand, he bolted out the door.

Chapter 3

“He got away,” Collins was saying.

Dante registered the words but couldn’t speak. He was only barely aware of Flash sniffing around the shooter’s car, and he ignored the dog’s questioning look as the animal wondered why he wasn’t getting the order to track.

“He’s hurt, though. He left a little blood on the steering wheel.”

Again, Dante didn’t react. He was staring at the second gurney being loaded into the coroner’s van. When the doors of the van were slammed closed, the coroner’s assistant glanced back at him. He supposed someone had told the guy who he was. His connection to the fatalities.

As the van pulled away, he shifted his gaze to his hands. At the blood already dried, staining his shirt cuffs.

“You tried, man,” Duke said softly from behind him. “There was nothing you could have done. They were gone the moment that shooter plowed into them.”

“They should have stolen a sturdier car,” Dante mumbled to himself. Although he’d never been able to prove it, he’d known his brother had stolen the coupe, probably with his wife’s help. If for no other reason than Dominic never bought what he could steal, and Agostina had expensive taste.

She had had expensive taste.

“Run the VIN, if it’s not ground off,” Dante said.

“Already did,” Duke said. “Matches the logo, comes back to Red Ridge Delivery Service.”

Dante registered the name; he’d been so focused on his brother he hadn’t even glanced at the side of the van. One of the Larsons’ front companies. And suddenly the shooting made sense. Sending a message: don’t talk to the cops. They must not know we already have the guy.

“I meant that one,” he said, nodding toward the bright yellow wreckage, which would now just about fit in the back of the van that had hit it.

“Your brother’s?” Duke asked hesitantly.

“Odds are it’s stolen,” Dante said flatly. Not from here in Red Ridge—the car was too distinctive, he thought. They’d likely done their version of car shopping in a bigger, easier-to-be-ignored-in place.

Duke just looked at him for a long, silent moment. Dante stared him down, silently daring him to say something. Anything that would burst the gates on the dam that was holding back the tangled, messy emotions churning inside him. He and Dominic had never seen eye to eye on much of anything, had had only strained contact for years, but he was still his brother. And they’d had some good years together as kids.

Kids.

Dante’s breath jammed up in his throat.

The twins. God, the twins.

“Mancuso? You need the medics? You just went pale.”

“I just thought of something,” he muttered, all he could manage.

“About the crash, or the shooting, or the investigation?”

They hadn’t been in the car. Thank all the gods there be, they hadn’t been in the car. “No,” he finally got out. “Personal... Family.”

Duke eyed him. “Look, get out of here. I’ll handle this.” Dante blinked. His friend shrugged. “You shouldn’t be here anyway, with your brother and all. So whatever it is, go deal with it.”

He didn’t often let his heart take the lead over his gut-level cop instincts, but this...this was huge. Too huge to be denied. No matter what or who his brother had become, no matter the problems that had caused Dante in his life, this was bigger than any of it.

“Thanks, Duke,” he said, called for Flash and ran for his car. He hit the button on the fob for the liftgate and got the dog in the back of the big black SUV. Seconds later he was behind the wheel.

It only took a few minutes to cover the distance to Dominic’s. He spent every second of it thinking about the tiny, helpless babies his brother and sister-in-law had brought into the world, perhaps unwisely, just six months ago. For a short while, the arrival of the tiny girls had smoothed things out between them all, but it sadly hadn’t lasted, for even that small pair of miracles apparently couldn’t change Dominic’s chosen path. He continued with his crooked ways, and Dante had had to back away once more.

The place stood out on the quiet street; Agostina’s taste for flashy things didn’t stop at vehicles. Amid the wood-sided houses with big trees, lawns and carefully tended flower beds in the neighborhood, the tiled roof, stone walls and concrete yard stood out glaringly. And even if they hadn’t, the statuary would have done it. He’d thought Agostina was going for the feel of a palazzo in Florence, although he knew she’d never set foot in Italy. Problem was she’d missed it by a very long shot; the statues were cheap copies lacking the life and vitality of the originals. He was all for respecting his Italian heritage, but this didn’t look impressive or grand, just completely out of place.

The house was locked, which he’d expected. But the fact that no one answered the door made him wonder where the girls actually were. Agostina might not be the nicest person around, but surely she wouldn’t have left those two tiny children home alone.

He walked around the side of the house. Most of the windows were shuttered, or masked with the showy ceiling-to-pooling-on-the-floor draperies his sister-in-law had chosen. Every possible point of entry was secured with high-quality locks, which he also expected.

He took the flat stone path around to the back of the house, where the kitchen looked out on yet another courtyard full of statuary he thought would make a meal rather unappetizing. This was where Agostina had chosen to put the more brutal art—gods fighting with each other, warriors running through their enemies or beheading them. He’d expected—maybe hoped—she would lighten up a bit after the twins arrived, but there had been no visible changes yet.

And now there never will be.

He pried loose one of the larger stones from the pathway and used it to break a window in the kitchen door. He wasn’t worried about an alarm system; the very last thing his brother would have wanted was to have the police responding to his house when he wasn’t there. He’d told Dante more than once that while his brother was welcome in his house, the cop was not. And certainly not that ugly, drooly thing he called a dog, Agostina always added.

He knew he was thinking about those things to avoid fixating on the images that were etched into his mind, probably permanently. When he’d first reached into the crumpled vehicle to touch his brother, he’d already known. The unnatural angle of Dominic’s head had warned him, and when he’d been unable to find a pulse, it only confirmed what his gut was already telling him. And one look at his sister-in-law had told him there, too; Agostina must have hit the windshield hard. She’d always hated seat belts, for they wrinkled her elegant clothes. And even becoming a mother, having two innocent souls depending on her, had made no difference.

So you avoided wrinkles but ended up blood-soaked.

He shook his head sharply as the kitchen door finally swung open. He stood just inside for a long moment, simply listening. The house was quiet.

Dead quiet.

He looked around the kitchen, hoping to find a notepad or something, maybe with a helpful phone number. No such luck. He repeated the action in the large room adjacent, which looked more like a museum than a home. He made his way to where he knew Dominic’s office was; there, at least, his brother had refused to allow his wife’s taste to dominate. It was a functional room, with a large desk holding a computer and a file cabinet behind it. He could only imagine what might be in there. Dominic wasn’t stupid enough to keep paper records of his illicit activities, was he?

He walked to the desk, again looking for some kind of clue that might tell him where his nieces were. Nothing.

He sat down, booted up the computer. It was, as he’d expected, password protected. He tried the obvious ones first—names, birthdates, including the twins’. No luck. There did not appear to be any password-generating software present, although it didn’t have to be on the machine itself. He was sure Katie Parsons, the RRPD’s tech whiz, could crack it in a matter of hours, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go there yet.

Right now all that mattered was finding the girls. Once he knew where they were, that they were safe, he’d be able to think straight. It would be something to focus on, something productive. He and Dominic had no other family left—at least not out of prison—except an elderly uncle and some cousins back in New York. Now he just had to—

The knock on the front door was faint all the way back here, but definite. It was followed by the loud clang of a doorbell that sounded disconcertingly like church bells from a cathedral. He made his way carefully, watchfully down the hall and through the drapery-darkened living room to the rather grand foyer. A glance out a window had told him there were no police cars in sight, but then, a good cop wouldn’t park in view anyway. And he still didn’t believe Dominic would have risked a burglar alarm, and there had been no control panels visible anywhere in the house.

The sidelight windows next to the door were a rather garish stained glass portrayal of...something, but they enabled him to see onto the porch, although distortedly. A short someone, with a frizzy-looking shock of gray hair. And a rather shapeless dress.

He put a hand on his weapon, and with the other pulled the door open. An older woman stood there, and her expression when she saw him was one of surprise. He saw her eyes flick to the K9 unit patch on his jacket.

“Oh! I knew it was the police, I saw the car...but you’re Dominic’s brother, aren’t you?”

“I... Yes.”

“I thought so. I recognize you from the picture, although you look very different out of uniform.”

Picture? Dominic had a picture of him? Somewhere this woman would have seen it?

“Who are you?” he asked carefully.

The woman smiled briefly, and in that moment she looked like someone’s kindly grandmother. “I’m Louise Nelson. I live next door. But I’m very glad you’re here. I got a phone call a while ago, and my daughter is ill. I have to go to her.”

“I’m...sorry,” Dante said, not sure what else to say, or why she was telling him, a total stranger, about this. Then, because it was his nature as well as ingrained, he asked, “Can I do anything? Drive you somewhere?” With my luck she’ll say yes and the daughter lives in Sioux Falls, about as far east as you can go and still be in the state.

She looked startled. But then she smiled again, and it was steadier this time. Worry, he realized. She was worried. “No, but that’s so sweet of you. You’re as nice as Dom said you were.”

It was his turn to be startled. “He...did?”

“Oh, often.” She hesitated, then added, “He said sometimes you were too nice for your own good.”

Well, that was his brother, all right.

Had been.

He wondered how long it took to start thinking in past tense.

But she was frowning now. Looking at his hands. He’d pulled his jacket on over his bloodstained shirt, but the cuffs still showed. “I was...at an accident scene a while ago,” he said, and she seemed to relax. And thankfully did not put his sudden appearance at this house he never visited together with that bit of information and realize who was in that accident. It was not something he wanted to talk about. He hadn’t even begun to process it himself.

And he needed to find Zita and Lucia, that was the most impor—

“So can you come over and get the girls?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’m really sorry, but I have to leave as soon as possible.”

“You have the twins?” he asked, feeling a little slow on the uptake.

“Yes. I watch them now and then. I enjoy having little ones to take care of again for a while.” She smiled again. “My husband’s with them now, so they’re all right, but he’s hopeless with babies beyond keeping them from getting hurt.”

“I’m afraid so am I,” he admitted. Hopeless, meet helpless. What the hell am I going to do?

“Oh, you can’t be that bad. Otherwise Dom wouldn’t have told me to call you if anything happened and I couldn’t reach them.”

And again he felt a little slow. Shock, maybe? “He told you to...call me?”

She nodded. “He said you were the reliable one in the family.”

He almost laughed. Except he wasn’t sure there was any laughter left in him.

A few minutes later, he was staring down at two impossibly small humans, sleeping snuggled up to each other in a single crib.

“They’re doing so well for being born early,” Mrs. Nelson was saying. “They’ll be caught up soon. They’re so cute.”

She kept talking, but Dante had tuned out. Because one of the babies had opened her eyes and looked at him. And smiled. It gave him an odd, melting feeling inside.

It was followed by an icy chill.

She didn’t know that her short life had just changed forever.

Chapter 4

“Well, now there’s a sight fit for a horror movie.”

Dante didn’t get angry at Carson Gage’s comment as he walked into the Red Ridge PD building. In fact, he almost welcomed it; everybody else wanted to pour out sympathy he didn’t want. But then Gage had lost his own brother, a brother he hadn’t been close with, to the Groom Killer, so if anyone knew about walking in these shoes, it was Gage.

Besides, the detective was right. What else would you call a guy with eyes the color of an overripe tomato, hair that had yet to see even his fingers run through it, a jaw that was more stubbled than usual, and under his jacket with the unit logo, a T-shirt he thought he’d probably pulled on backward in his bleary-eyed haste this morning?

The fact that this character out of a horror flick was also lugging two baby carriers, occupied, only made it all scarier. To him, anyway.

“Longest night of my freaking life,” he muttered to Gage.

“I can see that.” And Gage was looking at the twins warily. They stared back, wide-eyed and uncertain. “Uh...what are you going to do with them?”

“Hell if I know,” Dante muttered.

One of the girls made a string of sounds that—purely coincidentally, he was sure—had the same cadence and number of syllables of his muttering. He groaned inwardly but made a mental note to watch his language. He had no idea when babies started to talk, but he didn’t want their first words to be swear words they’d picked up from their uncle.

He stared down at the two innocent faces. He had no idea when babies started to talk. He had no idea when they started to walk.

He had no idea, period.

Not to mention that the twins had gone through most of the bottles Mrs. Nelson had provided, and he had no idea what to do when the food ran out.

His desk phone rang. Since it was practically behind her head, Lucia gave a start. Her face scrunched up in the expression he’d learned during that long night meant she was about to erupt into a screeching wail. Quickly he reached into the bag Mrs. Nelson had sweetly packed for him and pulled out a bright pink stuffed rabbit. The moment Lucia saw it, her expression changed. The wail became a coo. And after a moment she moved a tiny hand toward the toy.

Breathing again, Dante tucked it in beside her and answered his phone. “Mancuso.”

“Hey, Dante, it’s Frank.” Dante cradled the phone between ear and shoulder as Frank Lanelli, the day-watch dispatcher, spoke. “I’ve got a caller on the main PD line asking for you by name, but with everything—I’m really sorry, by the way—I thought I’d check with you before I put him through.”

“Thanks,” he said, meaning it, and appreciating the businesslike approach. “Who is it?”

“Name’s Fisk. He’s a lawyer.”

Dante frowned. Rarely did a lawyer’s call mean good news for a cop. “Any idea what he wants?”

“Maybe,” Lanelli said, and for the first time Dante heard hesitancy in the efficient man’s voice. Frank had been with the department for decades and was the solid linchpin that kept things moving, keeping more in his head at one time than Dante would have thought possible.

“Hit me,” Dante said with a sigh.

“He says he’s your brother’s lawyer.”

“Damn.” His eyes flicked to the twins as soon as the word slipped out. But Lucia seemed happy with her rabbit, and Zita was merely watching him with apparent interest. “All right, put him through.”

While he waited a freight train of possibilities barreled through his mind. Criminal lawyer? Was there some case pending? Was his brother a suspect in something? Had Dominic been arrested and he just hadn’t heard about it yet? Oh, God, had they been fleeing a scene when the shooter had hit them? They had been careful about where they did their thing; Agostina had always said you didn’t dirty your own pool.

But you never minded dirtying someone else’s, did you? You always—

The click of the call going live cut off his fruitless thoughts.

“Mancuso,” he said again.

There was a brief pause before the caller spoke. Startled by the name? That he was still using it, despite the connotations his brother had hung on it? Believe me, I’ve thought more than once about changing it. But he’d chosen to keep the name. Both as a reminder of growing up dirt-poor and wanting, and maybe, in some crazy way, thinking he could clean it up a little.

“This is James Fisk,” the caller said. “I’ve just gotten word about your brother. My condolences.”

“Thanks,” Dante said shortly. If the guy was really Dominic’s lawyer, he probably already knew he and his brother weren’t close. And he didn’t have time to waste on words he didn’t want to hear anyway. “What did you need?”

“It’s more what you need.” Dante nearly smiled at that. He’d lived most of his life in a determined effort never to need a lawyer. So far he’d succeeded. “I have your brother’s will.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know if he told you—”

“He didn’t.” Whatever it was, Dominic hadn’t told him. Because he never did. And Dante was happier with it that way, because it let him hang on to the tiny bit of brotherly feeling he still had.

“Well. Then. Everything is left to his wife, or if she is also deceased, to his daughters.”

“Of course,” Dante said, although he couldn’t help wondering how the girls would feel if they ever realized how said property had been obtained, with the proceeds from a career of criminal activity.

“You understand, then?” the man said, sounding relieved.

“Understand?” Dante asked, puzzled about what could be confusing about this. Then it hit him. He almost laughed. “Wait, you think I expected my brother to leave me something? No way in—”

He cut it off with another glance at the twins, who were being rather cooperative, both having apparently gone back to sleep.

Why not, after all? They were awake most of the night...

“Well, he did, in a way.”

Dante frowned again. “In what way?”

“The children.”

“What?”

“I’d say making you their legal guardian is leaving you something, wouldn’t you?”

Dante sank down into his desk chair. He had no choice—his knees had suddenly gone weak. “What?” he repeated numbly.

There was a long, silent pause. “He never told you?”

Dante searched for words and finally said, very carefully, “My brother made me the twins’ guardian?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” It came out as bewildered as he was feeling. “We weren’t... We didn’t...”

“He told me you were the only one he would trust. Because, he said, you were the only one who would see to them properly.”

What the hell did that mean? “Look, Mr. Fisk, I can’t—”

“I understand things are a bit...chaotic at the moment. I’ll send you a copy of the relevant portions of the will, but there are some other papers to sign and be filed. So if you could manage to come in to my office, or I can meet you somewhere, if that’s impossible.”

This is all impossible.

“Give me your number,” he said, almost automatically. He scrawled it down and hung up without saying anything other than goodbye. Stared at it for a moment. Then looked at the sleeping girls, the picture of innocence now, nothing like the twin demons who had kept him running all night.

What the hell did he know about babies? Nothing. He knew nothing about little kids, either. And half the time—more than half, in fact—he was convinced he understood absolutely nothing about the female of the species at all, so how was he supposed to raise two of them?

A flood of images rushed through his mind, of toddlers wreaking mayhem, emotional teenagers doing the same. Girls. Clustered in packs, whispering. God, that time of the month. Warning them about that kind of boy.

Teaching them how to put that boy on his knees? Now that might be something I could contribute.

But the rest? No. No way.

Why, Dominic? Why me?

He couldn’t do this.

He had to.

...the only one who would see to them properly.

What the hell did that even mean?

It was too much. Panic filled him. He couldn’t be responsible for this. He could deal with thieves, armed robbers, murderers, the scum of the earth. But he couldn’t be responsible for seeing that these two helpless babies had a good life.

Zita opened her eyes again. Smiled again. He pictured handing her over to some stranger to raise. Or worse, refusing the task and handing her over to the system. He knew too well, better than a civilian, that no matter how well meaning, there were too many gaps, too many holes in that system. Holes big enough for these two to fall right through.

“They kinda look like you.”

Dante jerked out of his swirling thoughts to stare at Gage. “What?” Seemed like the only word he could manage lately.

“When they’re frowning, anyway,” Gage gibed at him.

He started to make an insulting hand gesture, a reflex among cops who had worked together awhile. But he stopped before it formed. That, too, would have to stop.

He remembered at Mrs. Nelson’s, looking down at...he wasn’t sure which one it had been, now, Zita or Lucia, who had opened her eyes and looked at him, but he remembered thinking how her life had changed forever and she didn’t even know it.

But now he knew something else.

So had his.

* * *

“Maternal instinct,” Gemma said rather huffily as she stared down at the artistic pattern worked into the surface of her latte.

“What?”

She raised her gaze to her brother’s face. And she couldn’t help but smile. She’d been terrified Blake was going to die just two months ago, after that horrible incident at the train station. And she’d already missed him while he’d been off building his fortune, but she completely understood his need to prove something to their father.

But now he was almost recovered, and much, much happier as he, Juliette and their daughter were building a life together. She envied but didn’t begrudge him, because she loved him. She’d even come to like the bright, clever little girl who was his daughter. She didn’t mind children at that age, where they were beginning to talk and you could communicate with them.

An ounce of maternal instinct...

Devlin’s words came back to her. Her jaw tightened. Just because she didn’t want children yet didn’t mean she had no instincts. And there had to be a way to convince Dev of that. That she could be what he wanted.

“Gemma, what’s wrong?”

She blinked. Blake had gone out of his way to meet her for coffee—the least she could do was pay attention. They were still finding their way in their own relationship, after his five-year absence.

“Sorry. Just...distracted. How are Juliette and Pandora?” That would do it, she thought. And the smile that warmed Blake’s face, that lit his green eyes, proved her right.

“Besides wonderful?” he asked.

“Already knew that,” Gemma said with a wave and a grin. “How about Sasha?” Juliette’s K9 partner, a clever beagle, had been instrumental in the case that had brought them all together.

“She’s a character,” Blake said. “I think she’s glad to be back to work, though.”

“Toddler getting to her?”

“No, they get along great, but Juliette says it’s a learning curve.” Blake let out a compressed breath, as if he’d thought of something sad. “Not as much as one of the other K9 guys, though. Juliette told me he just inherited his twin nieces, six months old.”

Gemma blinked. “Inherited?”

Blake nodded. “His brother and sister-in-law were killed in a traffic accident yesterday.”

“That’s awful!”

“Yeah. Juliette says Dante’s going crazy, trying to deal. He says he knows nothing about kids and less about babies.”

“No paternal instincts?” The words were out before she could stop them. It irritated her that Dev had gotten to her so deeply that she couldn’t seem to shrug it off.

“Not on five minutes’ notice, no,” Blake said, looking at her in apparent puzzlement at her sharp tone. “Anyway, he’s in a panic, looking for a nanny.”

Gemma stared at her brother, beyond startled at the idea that flashed into her head the moment he’d finished the sentence.

“A nanny,” she said.

Blake nodded. “No way he can do it alone, and he knows it. And he’s a cop—never knows when he might be late, or get called in after hours.”

“So he’ll need someone with...strong maternal instincts.”

“Yeah.” Blake lifted a brow at her. “What is with you today? All this parental instinct talk? If you’re worried about me and Pandora, we’re okay. I’ve already fallen for her like the proverbial ton of bricks.”

“I know. It’s not that. It’s me.” She gave him a wry smile. “You know, it’s always about me.”

Her brother studied her for a moment. “Some might believe that. But you’ve got a heart of gold, Gemma. You’re always willing to give away what you’ve got or raise money for good causes.”

“Maybe I need to get more hands-on.”

“Like?”

She knew it was crazy. Completely. Yet she couldn’t think of a better way to prove Devlin utterly, totally wrong.

“That cop who needs a nanny,” she said, slowly, as her common sense tried to rein in the insane idea. “Who is he?”

“Dante Mancuso,” Blake said, lifting his coffee cup. “Word from Juliette is he’s a good guy. Pulled himself up from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks and made something good of his life.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” he asked, taking a sip.

“Be nanny to those babies.”

Chapter 5

Blake made a strange sound, as if the coffee had suddenly gone bad. Or as if he’d choked on that last swallow.

“You...what?”

“I’ll take the job,” Gemma said.

He stared at her. She stared back, her mind set now that she’d voiced it. He started to speak. Stopped. Started again. Stopped again. Then, in a tone she could tell was purposely level, he said reasonably, “If they tracked people who know even less than he does, you’d be on the list.”

“I can learn,” she said stubbornly.

“You’re smart, and you’ve got drive,” he agreed. “Nobody raises money for charity like you do without it. But that’s a lot different than dealing with babies.”

“Nobody’s born knowing,” she pointed out.

“No. But they usually have time to learn before it’s in their lap, so to speak.”

“So I’ll learn fast.”

“Why would you want to do this?”

“Maybe I don’t like not knowing anything about...the whole baby thing.”

Her brother studied her for a long, silent moment before saying softly, “Does this have anything to do with Dev Harrington?”

She stiffened. “Why would you ask that?”

“Look, I don’t know the guy, but—”

“Exactly.”

“I just don’t like to see you hurting.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m not hurting. I’m mad.”

“Uh-oh. Mad like when you painted my shoes red, or mad like when you broke that window in Dad’s car?”

“Mad like when Anna Witton called me a useless socialite,” she muttered.

Blake smiled at that. “And look what you turned that into,” he said softly. And she knew he meant that was when she’d begun her philanthropic efforts, determined to prove the former mayor wrong. Well, and to show her father she was good at something. And she had found, to her surprise, that not only was she good at it, she loved it. It gave her a sense of fulfillment that nothing else in her life ever had.

Even Dev.

She brushed away that traitorous thought as she made her way back to her car after Blake had to leave for an appointment. And for a few minutes she sat tapping a finger restlessly on the steering wheel of her racy little red coupe.

You can’t be serious about hiring that useless little socialite.

Mayor Witton’s words echoed in her mind. She’d proven her wrong—more than wrong.

And now, she thought determinedly, she would prove Dev wrong, too. So wrong he’d have to admit she’d be the perfect wife—and eventually mother. She’d just postpone the mother thing as long as she could.

She started the car and left the parking lot with a bark of tires.

* * *

It was noon before Dante had a chance to check and verify that yes, he had pulled his T-shirt on backward this morning. Which explained the irritating rub of the collar against his neck all morning. A morning spent doing everything but work. A dozen phone calls and he was no closer to finding the help he needed. All the nanny agencies he’d tried were more than ready to send people out for interviews. Tomorrow, or the next day. He didn’t think he’d live that long.

The girls had finally gone to sleep, but only after he’d brought Flash in and the big dog had settled down beside them. He’d noticed very late last night, when it seemed the wailing would never stop and he’d expected the neighbors in his condo building would be pounding on the door any second, that they quieted when the bloodhound wearily lumbered over and sat in front of them as if he were staring them down with those mournful eyes. And as long as he stayed, they kept quiet. Dante had spent the rest of the night dozing on the floor beside his partner; what little sleep he’d gotten he owed to the animal. Who had featured in the snippets of wild dreams he remembered, born of some children’s tale where a dog had served as a nanny.

“If only,” he muttered now as he looked at the odd trio.

He caught himself tugging at the neck of his shirt again. He glanced around the office; there was nobody else here at the moment. He quickly tugged the shirt out of his jeans, pulled it up to where he could slip his arms out of the long sleeves, and turned it around the right way. Like everything else since yesterday, it got tangled, and by the time he’d gotten his arms back through and reached to pull the shirt back down, he was no longer alone.

For an instant he thought he’d somehow dozed off. Because the woman standing across the office gaping at him was something out of a particular type of male dream. Tall, willowy and dark eyed, long hair in loose waves with streaks of golden brown that framed her face... And that face. Damn.

He shook his head sharply, half expecting her to vanish. She did not. Instead she just stood there as if as stunned as he. She wasn’t quite as tall as he’d thought, because a good three inches of it was the heel on the shoes that matched the soft, silky gold shirt she wore with tan slacks.

She matched her hair, he thought numbly.

And then he realized he had frozen in the midst of reaching for the hem of his shirt. And she was staring at his bare torso.

His abs contracted involuntarily. Hastily he tugged his shirt down, forgoing tucking it in for the moment. He felt another—lower—involuntary response, but quashed it rapidly. This woman, whoever she was, was way, way out of his league. He could tell that from the designer clothes and expensive jewelry.

She’s probably just stunned—and offended—to walk in and find a guy with his shirt half off. She looks the type.

Which brought him to the question of how she’d gotten in here. Normally civilians didn’t just walk in. They had to get past Lorelei Wong first, and the woman was a very efficient guardian of the gate, as it were. Usually.

“Can I help you?” he asked with businesslike politeness.

“I...” She swallowed, as if she were as rattled as he was. But damned if he was going to apologize for his appearance when she was the one who was in a usually restricted area. He waited silently.

Her gaze flicked to the corner where the two baby carriers sat, guarded by the lugubrious-looking Flash. Then she looked back at him and said, with a hesitancy he found surprising, given her appearance, “You’re...Dante Mancuso?”

Possibilities raced through his mind. Was she some child services rep? He felt an unexpected jab of panic; was she here to take the girls? Some deep-down part of him suggested he should be relieved at that, but it was swamped immediately by the horrific thought of these two innocent babies winding up in the system.

Then he discarded the thought; this woman was too expensively dressed. Unless she was some wealthy do-gooder dabbling. But she knew his name.

And she was still staring at him.

“Who are you?” It came out a bit abrupt, but he was running on too little sleep and too much chaos.

“I’m...Gemma. Gemma Colton.”

Colton. Oh, great.

He could have guessed by her appearance, but he already knew which branch of the famous—and infamous—Colton family she had to be from. Because he knew she wasn’t from his colleague Brayden Colton’s sketchy side of the family tree, or Chief Finn Colton’s ranch-grown side. That left only one possibility: the überwealthy, often annoying Fenwick Colton. Personally he’d always found the loud, brassy man an irritant, although he often wondered how he’d turned out such decent kids as Patience, the K9 unit vet. And Blake, who had had the sense to get out from under his father’s thumb and make his own way—nothing like coming home a huge success and almost as rich as the old man.

Blake. A vague memory tickled his weary brain. The fund-raiser last year, when he and Flash had drawn the short straw and had to put in an appearance. Not onstage, thankfully, but just to mingle and be seen. The fund-raiser organized by Blake’s sister. That’s how he’d always categorized her, as Blake’s sister, and if he’d ever heard her full name, it hadn’t registered.

It registered now. He hadn’t seen the event organizer that night, but if he’d had to imagine her, he would have come pretty close to the woman before him, in her expensive outfit, including the spike heels and the perfect hair.

“What do you want?” He’d tried for a neutral tone, but he hadn’t quite made it.

He saw her gaze flick again to the babies. “I... Blake told me you needed a nanny.”

Blake? Dante’s fellow K9 unit officer Juliette must have told him. He wasn’t surprised; he was sure he was the talk—or the joke—of the department by now.

“You know someone?” he asked, daring to feel a spark of hope.

She nodded. Then, after a moment’s hesitation that surprised him—the rich Coltons were not generally known for a lack of confidence—she said, almost meekly, “Me.”

Dante stared at her elegance, the aura of wealth and the above-it-all air she projected, probably without even trying. And he couldn’t help himself. For an instant the panic, the worry, the grief vanished.

And he burst out laughing.

Chapter 6

Gemma barely reacted to his laugh, although it was rare that she, Fenwick Colton’s daughter, was laughed at. But she knew that was because nobody wanted to get on her father’s bad side.

And she was self-aware enough to know how the idea of her as a nanny would appear on the surface. A nanny should be motherly looking, she thought, with some vague idea of ballet flats and one of those huge diaper bags slung over her shoulder.

She also knew she was staring, which was silly now that the lean, muscled abdomen that had struck her breathless was covered. But the image played back in her mind so vividly he might as well still be standing there, shirt rucked up around his arms, bare chest and that lovely six-pack open to her view.

She forced her gaze up to his face, wondering oddly if this was how a guy felt when he caught a glimpse of female flesh he normally wouldn’t have. If so, no wonder they stared.

He didn’t look much older than she was. The Italian heritage his name implied was obvious; he had the dark hair and eyes and the kind of face that made women with any heritage look twice. Not to mention the body...

Yes, whatever else Dante Mancuso was or wasn’t, he was certainly a lovely example of the male of the species. Even though she guessed he wasn’t at peak just now; the dark circles under his eyes spoke of a rough night.

And grief, she remembered suddenly, her brain seeming to finally shake off the shock of her first sight of him. He had inherited this problem—two problems, she amended—because his brother was dead.

“I’m sorry about your brother. Were you close?”

His expression went cool. “Thank you, no.”

It took her a moment to realize that was two answers, not one. Her gaze shifted to the babies again. Then why...?

“If you’ll excuse me, I have more calls to make.” He turned toward his desk.

“I told you, I’ll take the job.”

He stopped, turned back to her. Looked her up and down, assessingly, and not at all in the way she was used to. Not for her figure, her hair or her clothes, or anything else she was used to being assessed for.

“I don’t think so.”

He clearly found her lacking. That was also not something she was used to. And it was far too close to Dev’s assessment of her for her not to react. She drew herself up, and her chin rose. “You don’t think I can do it?”

“Do you know the first thing about handling one baby, let alone two?”

“Do you?” she countered.

“Not even the thing before the first thing,” he said, so easily it unexpectedly charmed her. “That’s why I need someone who does.”

“I—”

A piercing wail from below cut her off. Her head snapped around to look at the babies. It was the one on the left, clearly very unhappy. The big dog—a bloodhound, she remembered from seeing them at one of the charity functions—lifted his head and looked at the baby dolefully. The other baby, impossibly, continued to sleep. Perhaps she was used to her sister’s outbursts, Gemma thought.

Her gaze flicked back to Dante, who was wincing. Other heads in the office were turning, and from far across the room came, “Tone it down, will you, Mancuso? On the phone here.”

Moving on impulse, Gemma bent down and unstrapped the crying infant from the seat and picked her up. The wailing continued. She tried to rock her in her arms, but she only seemed to get louder. Prodded by vague memories of having seen it done, she lifted the baby—who was astonishingly solid and warm—to her shoulder. She felt the little legs kick, saw the tiny hands flail slightly and tightened her grip, pressing the tiny girl to her.

It felt strange. Different. Foreign. And yet...amazing. Something about that warmth, the weight, the shape of her. She cooed at the tiny child, not even caring if it helped or not, only feeling it was the thing to do. She patted the tiny back.

“Higher up,” came a call from behind her, and she glanced around to see the receptionist who had been grinning as she had let her past the desk.

She followed the instructions, and moments later the baby let out an outsize burp. With it came some milky liquid that flowed down the shoulder of her blouse. And she was stunned to realize she didn’t even care. Even if the $500 garment couldn’t be cleaned, she didn’t care. Because the baby in her arms felt so good, and, wonder of wonders, she had stopped crying and was looking at Gemma through bright, innocent eyes. And Gemma felt something stir deep inside her, something like awe, amazement and wonder all rolled into one blossoming explosion of warmth.

And then the tiny being closed her eyes and almost immediately dropped off to sleep. Trusting. Added to what she was already feeling, it was almost overwhelming.

She looked up met Dante Mancuso’s dark eyes, which seemed almost amused now. Or surprised, perhaps. “Please,” she said softly. “Let me do this.”

He hesitated. Looked at her for one more moment, at the way she was cradling the tiny girl in her arms. But it was the cop who spoke. “You’re Fenwick Colton’s daughter. You have no experience with this, no references, and as far as I know, this—” he nodded at the tiny child in her arms, that sweet, warm weight “—is as close as you’ve ever been to taking care of a baby. And I’m just supposed to just say, ‘Sure, move on in,’ and turn my nieces over to you?”

Move on in.

She hadn’t thought of that. But it only made sense he’d need a live-in nanny. She almost frowned; Dev wouldn’t like that.

Devlin Harrington, she told herself fiercely, dumped you. And this is the fix for that. He can hardly say you wouldn’t be a hands-on mother if you show you can handle twins!

“You know Blake. Call him, ask him.”

“He may be a billionaire whose word is golden, but he’s also your brother,” Dante pointed out.

“Okay, then call Juliette. Cops trust each other, right?” She could see by his expression that she had him thinking now. Actually considering. And she pressed her case. “You don’t even have to pay me. I’ll do it just for the experience.”

“I could talk to Juliette,” he said, but reluctance was still clear in his voice. In that moment, as if conspiring to help her, the second twin woke, seemed to realize she was missing out on interesting things, and began a wail that put her sister to shame.

“And,” Gemma added, with more bravado than confidence, “I’ll start right now.”

Dante’s eyes closed wearily for a moment, and Gemma had an inkling of the kind of night he’d had. It touched her, in an odd sort of way she would never have expected. She tried to imagine.

When he opened them, he said decisively, “I’ll call Juliette. If you can keep them quiet long enough for me to do that, we’ll talk.”

Gemma had no idea what to do to accomplish that. Trying to think, she put the sleeping twin she was holding—how on earth did you tell them apart?—back in her carrier, and set it down beside her sister’s. She reached for the crying twin. The big, droopy-eared dog’s head came up, and she hesitated.

“That’s Flash. Flash, meet Gemma.” The dog looked up at him, and Gemma would have sworn he was asking a question. “Gentleman for now,” was Dante’s answer, given in commanding tone.

With an odd sound, a sort of combination sigh and groan, the dog gave her a studying look, took a deep sniff and settled his big head back down on his paws.

“For now?” she asked, a little warily, as she picked up the crying baby and repeated the earlier procedure, which seemed to work, and thankfully without the spitting up this time.

“Withholding final judgment pending further evidence,” he said.

That seemed fair to her. It was just the dog part that threw her. “And he...gets that?”

“In his own way, yes. It means you’d have to do something he really, really didn’t like for him to come after you.”

She blinked. Glanced again at the dog, who looked for all the world as if it would take an explosion to bestir him from his selected spot.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Dante said in the tone of someone who knew perfectly well what she was thinking. “What he might lack in speed he makes up for with stamina and sheer power. And he’s got a mind of his own. You’re going to have to earn his trust, too. He decides for himself when you’ve crossed a line.”

She drew herself up. “Does he let you know when you’ve crossed a line?” she asked sweetly.

If her manner registered, he didn’t let it show. Then again, he was a cop and probably had a lot of practice with keeping his thoughts unreadable.

Except when his life was blasted to bits.

She remembered not only why she was here, but what had happened to make him need help, and felt bad about her tone.

But he answered her easily enough. “Yes. He just cuts me more slack, because he knows that while I’m a just a dumb human, I usually catch on eventually.”

As she watched him pull out his cell phone and walk across the office, tapping out a text message, probably to Juliette, she found herself thinking that Dante Mancuso was very far from a dumb human.

* * *

“I won’t lie, buddy, she’s spoiled,” Juliette Walsh said in Dante’s ear. “But she’s also got a heart of gold, is quick to learn and very determined. And she’s got depth to her. For a Colton, she’s...a tiny bit naive about some things. Don’t know how she managed that.”

Depending on what those things were, Dante wasn’t sure a little naïveté wouldn’t be welcome. “All I really need to know is can I trust her to take care of the twins?”

“She would never intentionally hurt anyone, but I doubt if she’s ever even babysat in her life,” Juliette said frankly. “Blake could probably tell you that.”

He had the thought that calling Blake might be a good idea anyway. They could share the novelty of instant parenthood, although the situations were very different.

“He’s the one who told her about...my situation.”

“I did mention it to him, sort of in passing. Thought he might know someone who could help.”

“Thanks,” Dante said, meaning it. “Although I bet he never expected his little sister to volunteer.”

“That,” Juliette said with a laugh, “I can practically guarantee. But Gemma can be a real sweetheart, Dante. She’s surprisingly easy to be around, even for us ordinary people.”

“How would you know? Nothing ordinary about you,” Dante teased, and she laughed again. It was infectious. She was so happy these days it fairly flowed over the connection. And he had a suspicion that once that damned Groom Killer, as the ever-helpful media had tagged the serial killer terrorizing would-be grooms in Red Ridge, was caught, some wedding planning would be starting.

“And one more thing,” Juliette added. “If she says she’ll do something, she’ll do it, unless outside forces prevent it. She truly, honestly tries to never break a promise. Their father broke too many, I think, so she’s hard over the other way.”

Dante went still for a moment. Juliette could have been talking about him. He knew all about long strings of parental broken promises, and his reaction had been the same: if he gave his word, his promise, he’d go to whatever lengths necessary to keep it.

“Thanks, Walsh.”

“No problem.”

“Stay happy, will you?”

She laughed, and it was a light, airy sound that was full of delight. “Blake’ll see to that.”

He stared at the phone when the call was done, contemplating for a moment the unlikely way and place Juliette Walsh had found—or rather refound—the love of her life. And as unlikely as it was, he believed his brother had genuinely loved Agostina, at least as much as he was able. Dante was the one who was out of step on that front. He’d never met a woman he thought he could spend the rest of his life with. And cops were generally lousy marriage material anyway. What kind of woman would want to put with the crazy hours, the callouts, the grimness of it all, let alone the fun of knowing every time your husband walked out the door he might never come home?

That had even been one of Dominic’s arguments when Dante had signed up for the police academy. After the shock had worn off, anyway, and after his outrage at the problems this would cause for the family. Especially when Dante had bluntly told his brother not to think he’d now have an in with the department, that he had every intention of becoming and staying an honest cop.

Dominic had never forgiven him for that.

And now he never would.

Chapter 7

As the memory of the scene she had walked in on played back in Gemma’s head, she had to admit Dante was also damned sexy. Not as sexy as smooth, suave Devlin, of course, but in a different, rougher, edgier way.

Not that that type appealed to her. Which did not explain her first reaction to the sight of his bare torso, but she decided not to think about that now. She had other things to deal with. Like keeping these two quiet. She dropped down to sit beside the two babies and the dog.

You two are going to be my résumé. When Dev sees I can handle this, he won’t have doubts anymore. Then everything will go back to the way it should be.

The dog lifted his head again, looking at her steadily. She knew she was being fanciful, but there seemed a world of wisdom in those deep-set canine eyes. She felt the urge to pet him but didn’t know if that would break some K9 protocol. Funny, she’d heard all her life about the Red Ridge K9 unit, had raised money—a lot of money—for them, but she knew very little about the animals themselves. Maybe she’d held herself apart because they had been the pet cause of her father’s first—and, if she were honest, most beloved—wife. Maybe the only one he’d really loved; she’d figured that out fairly young.

She glanced across the office at Dante, who appeared to be waiting for a response to a text to Juliette asking for a convo. Then, tentatively, she held out a hand for the dog to smell. He didn’t seem impressed, but then she remembered the deep sniff he’d taken earlier.

“No harm,” she whispered to him. With some idea that it might be less objectionable than a pat on the head—this dog, with his almost noble mien, did not seem the type for such saccharine gestures—she reached out and stroked one of the long, dropping ears with the back of her fingers. It felt surprisingly thin and delicate, and amazingly, incredibly soft. And it curled at the tip, inward and back, in a way she had spent many hours trying to get her hair to do just right.

One of the babies giggled. Or at least that’s what it sounded like. It startled her, and her head snapped around. It was the baby she’d just put down—she’d have to learn how to tell them apart, so she didn’t call them by the wrong names—and she was watching her and Flash with obvious interest.

She felt another gaze, knew it was Dante. She looked up at him and smiled.

He went very still. But before she could decipher the look on his face—normally she wasn’t much for stubble, but she had to admit on him it looked good—he turned away. For an instant she wondered if it had been an expression of male reaction, but then she heard him talking into his phone as he walked away, toward the window, and laughed inwardly at herself.

God, you really do think it’s always about you, don’t you?

She looked back at the two girls. And for the first time felt overwhelmed at what she’d done. Felt the fierce urge to back out, now, fast, before she got in any deeper.

...an ounce of maternal instinct.

Dev’s words rang in her mind. And her determination returned. She’d set out to prove him wrong, and she would. Somehow.

She stroked that soft ear again. And to her surprise, the big head nudged her hand. She looked at the dog. The dog who had already gotten one of the girls to giggle.

“Will you help me, Flash?” she whispered to him, scratching behind that ear now. “You’ve obviously got the knack.”

The dog gave her another long, considering look, and then turned toward the two babies, as if he understood exactly what she meant. With a sigh that sounded nothing less than long-suffering, he plopped his head back down on his huge paws.

Gemma chose to interpret that as acceptance, if not an outright offer to help. It would have to do.

* * *

Jolted out of useless meanderings, Dante turned to walk back toward his desk. And stopped a few feet away at the sight of Gemma sitting cross-legged on the floor, one hand holding one of the dangling, beaded earrings she’d been wearing in front of one of the twins, who was batting at it happily as her sister slept on, and the other hand stroking one of Flash’s ears. The dog looked as close to blissful as he ever did.

It wasn’t much to go on, he knew that. But the combination of that recognition that he and Gemma had chosen a similar response to parental unreliability and this image of her, the twins and Flash before him made up his mind.

“I hope you can learn to tell them apart.”

Gemma looked up at him, smiling widely. All the Colton polish and elegance was still there, but that smile made her seem...real. “Oh, I can already do that.”

He blinked. “You can?”

She nodded. Gestured at the sleeping twin. “She’s a little smaller, but that might not last, so I looked for something else. And see, her right eyebrow has a little point on top.”

He looked where she was indicating. And indeed saw a point in the shape of the tiny brow, where the other one was a smooth curve.

“I...never noticed.” Odd, he usually had a cop’s eye for details, but he’d missed this.

“It’s a girly thing,” Gemma said blithely, as if she never would have expected him to notice. “Besides, I’d guess you’ve been a little busy.”

That was an understatement. Dante thought. Everything was a blur from the moment he’d picked up the girls from Mrs. Nelson. “Frankly,” he said drily, “I’m amazed we all survived.”

Again that smile. Genuine, he thought. That’s what it was. “I just hope you can tell me which is which.”

“I... They have little bead things with their names. Elastic. On their ankles.” He grimaced. “They come off, though. Thankfully not at the same time so far.”

She laughed. It wasn’t the light, airy thing that Juliette’s had been, but rather a deeper, huskier sound that seemed to make the back of his neck itch.

“Let’s see, then,” she said, with her free hand tugging at the tiny bootie of the twin so entranced with her earring. “Ah, ah, sweetie, that earring would be just too easy for you to swallow, so I’ll just hang on to it while you play.”

He remembered wrestling with the tiny cloth foot coverings in the wee hours, remembered with an odd twinge of...something, that moment when he’d caught that impossibly tiny bare foot in his hands and marveled at it. That these two tiny beings were connected to him, were of his blood, his DNA, even if once removed, filled him with awe. And the burst of protectiveness that had flooded him in that instant had shocked him.

How could his brother stay on that crooked path when he had these two tiny girls depending on him? How could he not be changed, simply by their very existence? How could he—

It had hit him again then, with renewed force. And he wondered if he would ever get over the jolt of having to think of his brother in the past tense.

“Ah,” Gemma said softly, yanking him out of the painful memory. “So you’re Lucia,” she said. “With the affinity for flashy things. I’ll remember that.” She looked at the sleeping twin now. “Which makes you Zita, of the pointed brow. Sounds like a mythical name, doesn’t it?”

Dante was smiling. Widely. And he wasn’t quite sure why. Sure, it was in part because he was feeling better about the impulsive decision he hadn’t even told her he’d made yet. And because he liked her voice. But it was more than just that. It was how she was speaking to them, not in baby talk or cooing, but lightly, with humor, as if they could understand.

And perhaps they could, the tone if not the words. For Zita had awakened as if in response to her name, although she couldn’t really know it yet, could she? Or maybe she could. He sighed, seeing yet another internet search in his future. He really needed to learn where they were at six months, where they should be and what he should be watching for from here on out.

Here on out. Which meant the rest of his life. For the rest of his life, he was responsible for these two. Not just care and feeding, which suddenly seemed simple in comparison to protecting, nurturing, teaching...

It all crashed in on him at once, and he sank down in his desk chair. Gemma looked back up at him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, sounding startled. “You look a bit...pale.”

“Ashen is the word you’re looking for,” he said shakily. “Because it all just hit me.”

“All?”

“That my brother is gone.” He looked at the girls. “That the rest of my life is no longer mine.”

She looked from him to the girls and back. “No,” she agreed quietly. “I guess it’s not.”

“I don’t even know why he did it. Why he chose me for them.”

Any more than he knew why he was telling her this. He never spilled his guts like this, not even to his friends, let alone a virtual stranger.

“You’re his brother,” Gemma said, sounding a little puzzled.

“Yeah, but...” He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. “Never mind.”

“You’re probably feeling what Blake felt when he found out about Pandora. Shocked, and a little terrified.”

“That fits,” he muttered wryly. “Especially the terrified part.”

“He said learning he was a father stunned him even more since she was already here.” She waved at the girls. “Like they are. No months of waiting to prepare, get used to the idea.”

“I’m only their uncle,” he said, not even sure why.

“But you’re going to have to be more.”

He shifted his gaze from the girls—now giggling quietly at Flash, who was looking at them, head tilted and wearing his most quizzical expression—back to Gemma.

She’s got depth to her...

He was seeing that now. Never in a million years would he have expected to be having this kind of conversation with the spoiled youngest daughter of Fenwick Colton.

“I always thought I’d have kids. Someday. But not now.”

She gave him a look that bordered on surprise, but only nodded. Then, after a moment, she said softly, “Maybe it doesn’t matter when you become a father, only that you do.”

He stared at her. She was rattling him, this pampered yet unexpectedly sweet heiress, and he didn’t know what to think of her. Quickly he looked at the babies. They were making soft sounds now, simple ohs and ehs and ahs, but in turns, looking at each other, as if they were carrying on some sort of secret twin conversation. As perhaps they were.

“Maybe if they were boys,” he muttered. “I’d know something about that.”

“Then it’s lucky you have me, isn’t it?” Gemma said airily.

Dante looked back at her. She looked...at home on the floor next to his desk, Flash at her side and the two girls in front of her. He caught himself picturing this same tableau in his living room, maybe before the fireplace, the flames throwing a soft glow over them.

He yanked himself off the uncharacteristic and unwanted path. He wasn’t sure she was qualified, or that she wouldn’t get bored and walk out within the week. But he needed help right now. And just because she seemed to screw up his thinking was no reason to refuse her offer.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Okay,” he said, surrendering to what now seemed inevitable. “You’re hired.” For now, at least.

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