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“Maybe I can help.” Sloan motioned to her daughter.
“She doesn’t go to strangers,” Maggie said.
“It’s worth a try.” He held out his arms. “Hey, Shorty, what’s up?”
The little girl silently stared at him, probably didn’t know what to make of a man in the kitchen. Maggie braced for an ear-splitting protest, but after a moment’s hesitation, Danielle went to him and settled her chubby little arm around his neck.
Maggie’s heart melted at the sight of the big man carrying her little girl.
Gorgeous, charming and good with kids. Sloan Holden was a triple threat. But he must have a flaw.
Every man did.
* * *
The Bachelors of Blackwater Lake: They won’t be single for long!
The Widow’s Bachelor Bargain
Teresa Southwick
TERESA SOUTHWICK lives with her husband in Las Vegas, the city that reinvents itself every day. An avid fan of romance novels, she is delighted to be living out her dream of writing for Mills & Boon.
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Contents
“You must be Mr. Holden. And—happily—you’re not a serial killer.”
Sloan Holden expected beautiful women to come on to him, but as pickup lines went, that one needed tweaking. He stared at the woman, who’d just opened the door to him. “Okay. And you know this how?”
“I had you investigated.” Standing in the doorway of her log cabin home turned bed-and-breakfast, Maggie Potter held up her hand in a time-out gesture. “Wait. I’m a little new at this hospitality thing. Delete what I just said and insert welcome to Potter House. Please come in.”
“Thanks.” He walked past her and heard the door close. Turning, he asked, “So, FBI? CIA? DEA? NSA? Or Homeland Security?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which alphabet-soup agency did you get to check me out?”
“Actually, it was Hank Fletcher, the sheriff here in Blackwater Lake. I apologize for blurting that out. Guess I’m a little nervous. The thing is, I live here with my two-year-old daughter and another, older, woman who rents a room. It’s my responsibility to check out anyone who will be living here.”
Sloan studied the woman—Maggie Potter—dressed in jeans and a T-shirt covered by a pink-and-gray-plaid flannel shirt. Her shiny dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her big brown eyes snapped with intelligence and self-deprecating humor. She was pretty in a wholesome, down-to-earth way, and for some reason that surprised him. He’d assumed the widow renting out a room would be frumpy, silver haired and old enough to be his grandmother. It was possible when his secretary had said widow, he’d mentally inserted all the stereotypes.
“Still,” he said, sliding his hands into his jeans’ pockets, “a serial killer by definition gets away with murder and is clever enough to hide it. Maybe I’m hiding something.”
“Everyone does. That just makes you human.” The wisdom in that statement seemed profound for someone so young. “But you, Mr. Sloan Holden, can’t even spit on the sidewalk without someone taking a picture. I doubt you could ditch photographers long enough to pull off a homicide, let alone hide the incriminating evidence.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Even so, Hank assured me you are who you say you are