Triplets Found: The Virgin's Makeover / Take a Chance on Me / And Then There Were Three. Judy Duarte
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“Any ideas?”
He thought for a while, then broke into a lazy grin. “There’s one word we need to use in the name.”
“What’s that?” She took a sip from her glass.
“Virgin.”
Virgin? Lissa choked, sputtered and coughed.
“Are you okay?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m fine. I guess it just went down the wrong pipe.”
The explanation seemed to appease him, although she really hadn’t swallowed wrong. His comment had surprised her. Heck, the way Sullivan said virgin made it seem as though he thought virginity held some kind of merit, some value.
If that were the case, maybe her inexperience wouldn’t scare him away.
The idea of losing her innocence to Sullivan made her imagination soar. Of course, he’d probably be shocked if she suggested it—assuming she had the nerve to broach the subject. After all, she’d never been suggestive or forward—sexually speaking.
Besides, Sullivan had his share of beautiful women. What would make him settle for a nobody like her?
She could, of course, dream. Couldn’t she?
Lissa had become good at fantasizing. Which certainly helped, because the thought of going to her deathbed as a virgin was downright depressing, if she dwelled upon it.
“Virgin Mist,” he said. “Now, that’s a name that would appeal to the masses. It promises something new and fresh. What do you think?”
Before she could tell him it worked for her, the big, oval-topped door opened, and her father walked into the tasting room.
“How’d you like the tour?” he asked Sullivan.
“It was great. Enlightening. And the tour director really knows her stuff.” Sullivan shot Lissa a smile that nearly wobbled her knees.
“Well, she ought to. Lissa loves the vineyard.” Ken slid an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “In fact, she’s the daughter who takes after me.”
Sullivan chuckled, and Lissa smiled.
It was nice when her father said things like that, when he seemed to forget that she was adopted.
But they both knew there was another man out there—somewhere. A faceless man who could actually lay claim to her genetic makeup.
In his Portland law office, Jared studied a legal brief, yet his mind wasn’t on his work.
He was still reeling over the fact that the clock was ticking. That he still didn’t know anything about Olivia Maddison or her child. That the PI he’d hired had been due to check in ten minutes ago.
Just as he glanced at his gold wristwatch, a beep sounded over the intercom system.
“Mr. Cambry?” his secretary asked.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Hastings with Investigative Specialties is here to see you.”
“Send him in.” Jared was eager to know what the investigator had learned, whether he’d found Olivia yet.
Moments later, Sam Hastings entered. He was a big man with a full head of blond hair and prominent brows that shaded pensive eyes.
Jared stood and reached across the table to shake hands. “Any news?”
“Yeah. I’m afraid so.” Sam blew out a sigh. “Olivia is dead.”
Dead? Jared slowly dropped to his seat. “What happened?”
“Car accident. Twenty-seven years ago.”
“And the baby?” Jared asked, heart pounding. Had the child died, too?
“It was made a ward of the state and put up for adoption.”
“Now what?” Jared asked.
“Well, let me tell you what I’ve learned, what we’ve got to work with.” Sam took the seat in front of the desk, as though the revelation might take a while. “Olivia and her mother were involved in a traffic accident. Mrs. Maddison was killed instantly, and Olivia was critically injured. Paramedics took her to Portland General Hospital, where she remained in a coma until she died a few weeks later.”
“So, what do the hospital records show?” Jared asked.
“That’s the problem.” Sam took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “A few months after Olivia’s death, a severe storm caused a power surge throughout the county. The hospital’s backup generator kicked on a few seconds later, and the patients were okay. But because the computers are old and the hospital birth clinic lacked funding until the new owners, the Logans, came on board, the computer files were either lost or are nearly impossible to retrieve.”
“But surely there are paper files, not just the computer entries,” Jared said, hoping his efforts to find his firstborn hadn’t struck out completely.
“I’m afraid not. When the power surged, it caused a circuit breaker in the clinic to spark. Some of the sparks landed on a cutesy wall hanging they used as a nursery decoration. A fire started, eliminating a number of paper files regarding adoptions, foster care situations, fertility information and other things.”
Jared could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, could feel his palms growing moist, his stomach knotting. “Are you telling me that we can’t find out what happened to the baby?”
“The child survived the accident, was born prematurely and put up for adoption through the Children’s Connection. What we’ve got are bits and pieces of information.”
“Like what?” Jared asked, his hopes resurrecting.
“A name, an address, a gender…but I’m not sure what matches up.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got, and we’ll take it from there.”
Could that baby he’d fathered twenty-seven years ago be the miracle they needed?
That evening, as Lissa prepared for bed, she couldn’t find Barney. And when she asked her folks, neither of them had seen him, either. Obviously, the rascally pup had sneaked out again. But it was too dangerous for him to stay outside all night.
She grabbed her robe and put on a pair of slippers, intent on searching the grounds.
As she stood on the front porch and scanned the lawn and the pond, she spotted Sullivan sitting quietly on the deck of the cottage, her puppy in his lap.
“Looking for this little guy?” he called out.
“Yes.” She touched the sash of her blue chenille robe, checking to see that it was snug, then fingered the edge of the lapel, making sure it covered her flannel nightgown.
She walked across the grass, then made her way over the small, wooden bridge.
All the while, Sullivan watched her.
She felt weird letting him see her like this, yet she was probably more bundled up than in her street clothes.
When she neared the guest cottage, he asked, “Why don’t you join me for a while?”
Join him? Sit down on one of the padded, wrought-iron chairs on the wooden porch and chat? She really ought to take Barney and go back to the house, yet something urged her to stay.
“All right,” she said. “Just for a few minutes.”
He glanced into his lap, where the puppy rested. “This little rascal was chasing a duck, who didn’t take too kindly to being barked at.”
Lissa laughed. “Barney has a lot to learn.”
“But he’s brave. Instead of running back to the house with his tail between his legs, he wandered