she rang the doorbell to announce her arrival. The world was full of babies. Just because she was unable to have any of her own was no reason to go to pieces every time she heard one crying.
Even aversion therapy hadn’t helped. After discovering the truth, she had deliberately volunteered to work in the newborn room at the children’s shelter in Melbourne where she worked part-time. But instead of putting her off babies, being around them had only deepened her sense of loss.
As a distraction, she had decided to throw herself into the journal she edited for people who shared her enthusiasm for dollhouses and miniatures, although the name of her publication was ironic. She had called it The Baby House, the name historically used to describe dollhouses before they had become children’s toys. Of course, she had named it before finding out that she couldn’t have children. But it was uncanny how she seemed destined to be surrounded by reminders of her barren state.
She drew a deep, shuddering breath. She was not—repeat not—going to let this beat her. Surely her parents’ example was all the proof she needed that other forms of parenting could be equally gratifying? The Dale family included three foster siblings as well as Bethany, her older brother, Sam, and little sister, Joanie, and all six of them loved and fought and loved again with all the passion of blood brothers and sisters.
She could handle one unexpected baby, she told herself resolutely, especially if it meant persuading Nicholas Frakes to let her interview him about the Frakes Baby House for her journal. That was, once he got over being furious with her for concealing the real reason she was here. She hadn’t lied exactly, except by omission. But she had used her business letterhead and suggested that the article would concern family history in this area. In a way, it did, she told herself to silence the nagging voice of her conscience. She hadn’t said it wasn’t about the dollhouse so she couldn’t be responsible for whatever conclusions Nicholas Frakes chose to draw.
She wished she’d had more time to research his background more thoroughly but his faxed agreement, scribbled on the bottom of her letter, had come out of the blue two days before. She had been working at the children’s shelter until late on both days, leaving her no time to do anything but write out a few questions she would like him to answer.
She was sure he would have refused to see her if she had mentioned the real purpose of her visit. It was Nicholas himself who had withdrawn his family’s famous dollhouse from public display soon after inheriting the Frakes estate on his father’s death. Why, nobody seemed to know, but he had resisted all overtures from the media to gain access to it. It would be a real coup if Bethany could secure the interview and photograph the house as it was today.
Her breath escaped in a rush. Without the boost to circulation provided by this story, her journal wouldn’t survive for another issue. She could have struggled on, funding it herself, if the printer hadn’t gone bankrupt while holding a substantial amount of her capital and leaving her in debt. But she couldn’t let herself dwell on what was riding on this interview or she would lose her nerve altogether. And there would be no story unless she gained the cooperation of the formidable Nicholas Frakes.
Squaring her shoulders and drawing herself up to her full five foot seven, including her heeled shoes, she pressed the doorbell, hearing it ring distantly inside the house. At the same moment, the baby began to scream again louder than ever, and Bethany’s heart turned over. The child sounded so desolate. Why didn’t somebody do something to comfort it? In spite of her resolve to remain unmoved, her arms ached to hold the child and rock away those pathetic cries.
After the third ring, when no one came to the door, Bethany decided the occupants couldn’t possibly hear her above the sound of the crying baby, so she set off around the verandah in search of another entrance where she could make her presence known.
The house was a delightful blend of traditional and modern styles, the rough-sawn timber cladding blending charmingly with bay windows, a steeply pitched corrugated roof and stained-glass panels set into French doors that could be opened onto the verandah to let in cooling breezes. One set stood open, and frothy curtains billowed outward as Bethany moved cautiously toward them.
“Hello. Is anyone home?” she called tentatively.
There was no response so she stepped over the threshold, finding herself in what was obviously a man’s bedroom. A not very tidy man, she observed, wrinkling her nose involuntarily. The massive mahogany bed looked as if it hadn’t been made for days, with black silk sheets and continental quilt dragging onto the floor as if the occupant had hurled himself out in a hurry.
The black silk made her smile. Definitely a bachelor. No woman in her right mind would choose such difficult-to-launder materials. Clothes were strewn everywhere, and Bethany felt her color heighten as she noticed the underwear draped over one corner of a cheval mirror. Evidently Nicholas Frakes’s taste ran to skimpy briefs of almost transparent silk.
The sight of herself in the same mirror brought her up short. Her moss green linen pantsuit looked so businesslike for this setting. A black chiffon negligee would be more appropriate. No, not black—too strong for her creamy complexion, she decided. Coral was more becoming. And her honey-colored hair should be released from its clasp at her nape to flow around her shoulders in untamed curls, although the comma curl on her forehead could stay. It added a touch of coquettishness to her teal blue eyes and with luck, provided a distraction from the scattering of freckles on her fair skin. Then she would be ready for such a hedonistic setting as this room.
In horror she realized where her thoughts were heading. She had no right to be here, far less to be taking such a prurient interest in Nicholas Frakes’s bedroom, if this was even his room. Averting her eyes from the chaos, she hurriedly crossed the room and stepped out into a wide vaulted hallway.
The crying sounds grew louder as she headed toward them. She skidded to a halt at what was apparently the door to the kitchen. It was a huge room with a massive stone fireplace and a vaulted, steeply pitched ceiling. In the center was a scarred oak table, and seated at it in a high chair was the unhappy little girl making all the noise. Beside her was an equally unhappy man trying unsuccessfully to spoon food into her mouth.
Bethany stared in amazement at the tableau. She had seen a photograph of Nicholas Frakes’s head and shoulders, but it hadn’t prepared her for the height and breadth of the man. A fraction over six feet tall, he stooped awkwardly over the high chair. A pair of stonewashed moleskin pants rode low on narrow hips, the seams strained to their limits as he braced his long legs wide apart. She had a momentary vision of trying to keep pace with the stride those legs would take, and she felt out of breath just thinking about it.
He wore no shirt, and his bronzed torso gleamed in the sunshine spilling through an open window, the sight putting further restraints on her breathing until she noticed the telltale green streaking the sculpted perfection of his chest. He might have the build of an athlete but he was human after all. If that wasn’t spinach he was wearing, then she’d eat the baby food herself.
The discovery gave her the courage to say loudly, “Nicholas Frakes?”
The man snapped upright as if shot. “Good Lord, where did you spring from?”
She held out her hand. “I’m Bethany Dale. We had an appointment, remember? You didn’t hear the bell so I came in the back way.”
“The back way is locked,” he said pointedly.
There was no escaping the confession, although she blushed at being forced into the admission. “The French doors into your bedroom were open. I came in that way. I’m sorry if I’m intruding.”
He thrust a hand through his hair which was the blue-black color of gunmetal and cropped close to his head in almost a military style. The texture was intriguing. Would it feel soft or bristly if she brushed her fingers against it?
She was doing it again, she realized with a start. What was it about Nicholas Frakes that inspired these almost voyeuristic tendencies in her? First the underwear. Now she was wondering how it would feel to brush her fingers through his hair. And she had barely set eyes on the man.
“You’re here now so the question