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       The Boss’s Double Trouble Twins

      Raye Morgan

      Dear Reader,

      A tough guy from an old romance showing up on your doorstep, a past in Paris, a present in Texas, and a pair of adorable twins in your life—sometimes I wish I didn’t just write these things. How fun to actually live them!

      On second thought, the emotional highs and lows would surely wear me out pretty quickly. Much better to read about them than try to untangle them in your own life. That is exactly what makes fiction so much fun!

      I hope you enjoy the ups and downs of the romance of Darcy Connors and Mitch Carver. Love those Texas guys!

      Happy reading!

       Raye Morgan

      About the Author

      RAYE MORGAN is a fool for romance—even in her own family. With four grown sons, love, or at least heavy-duty friendship, is constantly in the air. Two sons have recently married—that leaves two more to go, and lots of romantic turmoil to feed the idea machine. Raye has published over seventy romances and claims to have many more waiting in the wings. Though she’s lived in Holland, Guam and Washington, DC, she currently makes her home in Southern California with her husband and the occasional son. When not writing, she can be found feverishly working on family genealogy and scrap-booking. So many pictures—so little time!

      To the harried but happy mothers of twins everywhere.

      CHAPTER ONE

      MITCH CARVER hesitated as he came into the bright, shiny new chrome and glass office he’d been assigned. Everything in him was rebelling. How many times had he vowed he would never work here in his family’s company? And yet, here he was.

      He swore softly to himself, looking at the huge desk, the sleek computer, the neatly stacked books—the shackles of a businessman’s life. And then he caught sight of himself in the reflection from the floor-to-ceiling window. He was wearing a suit, for God’s sake. The hair that was usually long and untamed, the better to let him slip unnoticed into life on the wild side, had been trimmed short and neat. The beard and mustache were gone. It had been years since he’d looked so conventional. And he hated it.

      “You win again, Dad,” he muttered dryly. But only for one year. That was all he’d promised.

      A sound turned his head. It was coming from what he assumed must be his new executive lounge. He stared at the closed door. He’d been told this entire floor was empty—a clean slate he was to fill with his own entrepreneurial genius, such as it was. Something—or someone—had been overlooked. There seemed to be humming going on.

      A feminine voice sang out, low and bluesy.

      Mitch cocked an eyebrow. This was interesting. The voice was incredibly sexy.

      Then her voice trailed off as though she’d forgotten the words.

      He bit back a grin. There was definitely a woman in his brand-new washroom. A stowaway. Maybe a squatter. And if she looked anything like she sounded … The hair on his arms was bristling—always a good sign.

      Surely she hadn’t been left here on purpose, just for him. But you never did know. This bore looking into and was certainly more interesting than any business he was going to be conducting today.

      “Hello,” he called out.

      There was no answer, but suddenly a weird hush hung in the air.

      “Who’s there?” he tried again.

      Nothing. He frowned. He couldn’t leave it at that.

      “I’m coming in,” he warned, waited a moment for a response, then tried the door. It opened to his touch and there stood a young woman, dripping wet and naked except for a fat, fluffy towel, which was slipping precariously.

      “Hey!” she cried, reaching quickly to stop the towel’s impending dive toward the cold tile floor.

      “You!” he said in turn, wondering for a fraction of a second if he was dreaming. This was a face, after all, that had haunted his sleep for months a year or so ago. A face—and a body—he couldn’t forget, even while slogging his way through the Brazilian rain forest or trekking past the hidden villages that dotted the foothills of the Himalayas. He’d known her for how long? Less than forty-eight hours. And yet, out of all the women he’d ever met, she’d stuck in his thoughts like … like the refrain of a low, bluesy song you couldn’t get out of your mind.

      Yeah, he told himself cynically. A guilty conscience will do that to you.

      Guilty for treating a woman such as this like a one-night-stand. Guilty for seducing a woman whose relationship to an old friend had never been made exactly clear. Guilty for letting a strong attraction take over and push away all concerns about anything but his own raging desire. He could try to blame it on the exotic intoxication of a Paris night, but he knew very well it had been his own fault. She’d bewitched him, but he’d asked for it.

      “Mitch Carver?” she said, dark eyes wide with shock.

      He grimaced. The feeling was mutual. No one liked to face a reminder of his own weakness.

      “Darcy Connors,” he recalled, noting her confirmation as she nodded, looking numb. “Did I get the wrong office?” he asked her quizzically. “Or are you just passing through?”

      She was still staring at him as though she were seeing a ghost.

      He shrugged. “Never mind. I’m always happy to share with an old … uh … friend,” he said, silently cursing himself for hesitating before the word. “Carry on. I’ll just go and …”

      “What are you doing here?” she demanded, clutching the towel up to her chin. “I thought you said you’d never come back to Texas.”

      He wasn’t any happier to see her than she was to see him, but he was beginning to feel she was overdoing it a bit. The tragic look she was giving him was hardly fair. After all, he wasn’t an ax murderer or anything like that.

      “I’ve said a lot of things I shouldn’t have in my time,” he admitted. “Things change. Sometimes you’ve got to eat a little crow. See this?” He gestured toward his mouth. “Covered with feathers at the moment. That was one tough bird.”

      She frowned as though she was still too surprised at seeing him to get his little joke. He took in all of her, the dripping hair, the shimmering drops on her thick eyelashes, the creamy skin and those long, lovely, silky legs he remembered from that moonlit night.

      That unforgettable moonlit night. For just a moment it flooded back, the soft air, the sound of water parting as the Bateau Mouche moved along the Seine, a distant jazz singer, notes from an accordion, lights making patterns against a set of statues, trees, wrought-iron balconies. She’d shivered slightly and he’d put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to keep off the chill. She’d curled up against him and whispered something and he’d laughed, catching her scent and turning….

      Wow. Snap out of it, he told himself sharply, remembering exactly why this woman was so dangerous to him. For some reason she’d appealed to his senses in a basic, primal way he couldn’t ignore. And looking at her now, he knew nothing had changed. Everything about her seemed to tug at his libido.