Jacqueline Diamond - Paris or Bust!

Danny appeared in the doorway and Roxanne smiled at him through her tears. “Are you crying, Mommy? Do you need to go in the closet?”

Roxanne laughed. “No, sweetie, I don’t need to go in the closet. I’m crying because I’m happy.”

Her son smiled weakly. “You’re not gonna be happy anymore. The puppy just pooped on the floor.”

Kit groaned, then picked Roxanne up off her feet and spun her around. “I’ll clean it up,” he said.

“No, we’ll clean it up.”

He set her back on her feet then bent close and brushed a kiss on her lips. “There is some other bad news, besides the puppy poop,” he said.

“What? You have a pet elephant waiting out in the car?”

He cupped her cheek with his hand and grinned down at her. “No, my dad signed on to the Family Voyager Web site. You didn’t win the contest. There won’t be any trip to Paris or any shopping spree.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of airline tickets. “So here’s the plan. I figured we’d fly everyone to Disney World for a vacation. I’ve got tickets for your parents. I think it’s about time they met the man who’s in love with their daughter. And there are tickets for Renee and her family, too. And sometime during the vacation, we can get married.”

Roxanne gasped, amazed at all he’d done. “The kids would love that.” She paused. “But where are the tickets for us?”

“I thought we’d drive,” Kit said. “I’d like to spend some time with my new family.”

Roxanne sent him a dubious look. “Have you ever spent twelve hours in a car with four children? They all have to go to the bathroom at different times. Every time you pass a place to eat, they start whining about how hungry they are, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to stop and retrieve a shoe or a book or a hat that mysteriously found its way out the window and into the middle of the highway.”

“I guess you’ve got a lot to teach me about kids,” he teased.

“I guess I do,” Roxanne replied.

Kit pulled her into his embrace and hugged her. “I’ve got plenty of time, too,” he said. “We’ve got the rest of our lives.”

Remember back in high school when you read The Odyssey? Remember Penelope, the woman who got stuck at home while everyone else went off having adventures? Remember the suitors besieging her to get their hands on her property?

Well, that’s kind of my situation.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my ranch, the Wandering I. Since I inherited it last year, though, I’ve learned what a big job it is running a spread like this, even compared to teaching second grade, which is what I did before.

Then there are the guys. In high school, I was a wallflower, so it’s nice to have admirers, if that’s what they are. The problem is, none of them noticed me before I became a property owner. Now they keep popping up under my nose, telling me that my four-year-old twins need a daddy.

Sometimes I’m tempted to marry one of these guys just to get a break from the others. Then I read about Family Voyager’s wonderful contest, with the first prize a trip to Paris for me and my kids. It sounds like a dream come true!

My little guys, Benjamin and Jeremy, have never been outside Texas. The farthest I ever got was to Santa Fe for the Indian Days festival. I’d sell my freckles for a chance to inhale fresh bread from a bakery instead of smelling cattle all day and to dine at the Eiffel Tower instead of flipping hamburgers on the barbecue.

If anyone needs a trip to Paris, it’s definitely me!

CALLUM FOX shoved back a rebellious hank of silver-blond hair and stared in disbelief at the e-mail on his computer screen. When had Jody Reilly had twin sons? How could her parents have died and left her the ranch without his hearing about it? And who said she’d been a wallflower in high school?

The publisher of Family Voyager stared into space, ignoring the manuscripts, galleys and photos scattered across his broad desk. The plush office and framed magazine covers on the walls faded from his mind.

He was back in high school, suffering from a crush on a laughing minx with flyaway reddish-brown hair. Even as a teenager, Callum had been in a hurry to set the world on fire. He hadn’t expected to fall for a high-spirited, slightly chubby girl whose aims in life were to teach elementary school and have lots of kids.

Despite their incompatible goals, he and Jody had had a lot of fun. They’d performed together in the school band and hung out after school and during college before heading their separate ways.

Five years ago, when Callum returned to the small town of Everett Landing to settle his parents’ estate after his father’s death, they’d spent a night of lovemaking that still made his chest tighten and his hands grow damp whenever he thought about it. He’d invited Jody to move to L.A., but she’d turned him down. End of story.

Through the open door of his office marched the managing editor, Tisa Powell, her high heels soundless on the plush carpet. A tall, slender African-American woman with a sense of style as well honed as Callum’s, she moved with energy and purpose. At twenty-eight, she was only a year younger than he was and equally ambitious.

“We’ve got a problem.” Tisa stood with hands on hips. “Have you checked out our Web site today?”

“As a matter of fact, no.” Usually that was the first thing Callum did each morning. He’d launched Family Voyager on the Internet half a dozen years earlier. Its runaway success, boosted by features on celebrity families and his knack for spotting new trends in travel, had enabled him to move into glossy print two years before. The magazine still maintained a dynamic presence online as well.

“I thought the senior staff was going to pick the finalists in the contest,” Tisa said.

“That’s right.” The Mother of the Year contest, sponsored by the magazine and several major advertisers, had been Callum’s brainchild. The grand prize was a trip for two to Paris and a shopping spree for the most deserving woman.

“Then why…”

Too impatient to wait for her to finish the sentence, he said, “I asked Al to winnow the entries down to a manageable number for us to review.” Al Johnson, the advertising director, had seemed like a suitable person to filter through the barrage of essays that had poured in through the Web site and the mail. “I sent them to his office last week. He’s not actually picking the finalists, though. In fact, I was just reading some of the entries myself.”

“Al’s been out since Monday with a strained back,” Tisa said. “Somebody winnowed them, all right. The names of ten finalists were posted on the site this morning.”

“What?” A few clicks on the computer brought Callum to a page flashing the words: “Contest Finalists! One of These Ten Moms Will Win a Trip to Paris!”

He scanned the finalists’ names and thumbnail descriptions with a sinking sensation. Some of the ladies were exactly the type of person he’d had in mind, including the mother of quadruplets. He had to admit, the choices looked interesting, including both married and single women.

But why, oh why, had someone selected Jody? There was an obvious conflict of interest for Callum, since the two shared the same hometown, although whoever had pulled this stunt couldn’t have known that there was an even stronger bond between them.

Uh-oh. There was a second finalist from his hometown, as well, a restaurant owner whose children had grown up and moved away. According to her entry, she wanted to take her pet cat to Paris.

“This is inexcusable!” Mentally, Callum searched through the staff roster, trying to divine which of his employees might hate him, because the situation reeked of sabotage. Yet he hadn’t fired or demoted anyone. In fact, he’d given them all a large bonus a few months ago at Christmas.

“You realize that we’re stuck,” Tisa said. “If we disfranchise any of these ladies, they could slap us with a lawsuit.”

“Did I insult someone at a staff meeting?” Callum asked. “I know I speak without thinking sometimes.”

“That’s because you’ve got so many ideas, you can’t keep them all inside.” The editor smiled fondly. “Nobody’s mad at you.”

“Then who’s behind this?”

“Let’s go down to David’s office and find out.”

David Renault, the Web master, apologized profusely when he learned of the problem. “The advertising department e-mailed them to me,” he said. “I thought they’d been approved.” He uttered a string of colorful curses. “I had no idea. I feel terrible.”

After reassuring David that it wasn’t his fault, he and Tisa trooped to Al’s office, which was only slightly smaller than Callum’s and had an even better view of the Los Angeles skyline. He’d been out all week, the secretary confirmed.

“I’ve been covering for him,” chirped the young woman, whose nameplate read Sally Sinclair. Although she must be in her twenties, to Callum she seemed about eighteen. “Don’t you just love the finalists? I tried to pick people our readers would identify with. I put my own stamp on the contest, don’t you think? My mother says that’s what I need to do to get ahead in publishing, to put my own stamp on things.”

“You picked the finalists?” Tisa asked in disbelief.

“I was showing initiative.” Sally’s cheerful confidence began to crumble. “Wasn’t I supposed to?”

“I asked Al to narrow down the entries, not choose the finalists and post them on the Web site,” Callum said. “Do you have any idea what a disaster this is?”

The secretary’s lips trembled and tears sparkled in her eyes. It was enough to melt a man’s heart.

Not a woman’s, though. “You are not the editor of this magazine. I am,” Tisa growled. “And Callum is the publisher. If you ever again presume to ‘put your stamp’ on anything without our approval, you can haul your initiative right out that door and pound the pavement with it.”

“I’m sorry.” Sally’s contrition might have been more impressive had she not added, “But aren’t they wonderful? I especially like that woman with the cat! And I chose two finalists from your hometown, Mr. Fox! I thought you’d appreciate that.”

The next thing Callum knew, Tisa had grabbed the collar of his designer jacket and tugged him into the corridor. “You had steam coming out of your ears,” she told him. “We’ll let Al deal with that twit when he gets back.”

Callum spared another glance at the door to the advertising department before accepting her advice. “We’ve got to run damage control,” he said.

“Maybe we could add a few more finalists,” Tisa suggested. “So we have more to choose from.”

“That might only complicate matters.” They were pushing a tight deadline. The winner had to be posted on the site by the end of May, and it was already March. A write-up about her and her trip would provide a future cover story for the print edition of Family Voyager. “I’m sure we can find a suitable Mother of the Year from that list.”

“Not the woman with the cat.” Tisa accompanied him down the hallway. “Some people may consider pets part of the family, but I doubt our advertisers do.”

“The readers will get a charge out of her, though.” Already Callum’s brain was making the best of things.

There was, however, one issue that he couldn’t erase from his mind: Jody Reilly and her boys. One sentence about the suitors stuck with him: They keep popping up under my nose, telling me that my four-year-old twins need a daddy.

If Jody wasn’t married, who was the father?

The timing looked suspicious. Five years ago, Callum and Jody had steamed up the windows of her bedroom. She’d amazed him with her unrestrained passion and he’d amazed himself with an all-night response that, he suspected, could have stretched much, much longer.

Was it possible she’d become pregnant from their encounter? Despite Jody’s fiercely independent nature, Callum couldn’t picture her keeping such a secret. Besides, he’d used protection when they made love. Well, the first time, anyway. After that, he didn’t remember.

No doubt she’d had plenty of other boyfriends before and since. In fact, during the days after the funeral when she helped him prepare his family’s old home for sale, he seemed to recall her mentioning that she’d recently broken up with someone. Perhaps they’d gotten back together later.

“Anyway, I’d make a lousy father,” he said aloud.

“What?” Tisa stopped outside the traffic department, the organizational arm of the magazine.