“I don’t want to do something that will disrupt my daughter’s life. I don’t want to do anything that might get complicated.”
For a moment Regan stared. Was Chase still talking about work? Or did he mean her—them?
He caressed her cheek, smoothing his thumb lightly across the skin. A soft gasp escaped her throat when he bent his head and kissed her other cheek.
Slowly he lowered his gaze to her lips, and his warm brown eyes became intent.
Then he pulled back and stared at her. She had a moment of confused hope before reality came crashing in.
Kissing him was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
She’d been attracted to Chase since they’d met, she realized now. She’d been bewildered by the feeling.
Hadn’t accepted it. But it had been there all along.
Now it seemed that Chase might have been fighting the same feelings.
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Claire is a new Australian author who writes
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“Claire Baxter makes a noteworthy debut with Falling for the Frenchman, a sweet, sensual and sometimes funny reunion tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Claire Baxter’s Best Friend…Future Wife combines a deceptively simple plot with fabulous, multi-faceted characters. It’s pure magic.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Claire Baxter is an author who pens stories about characters that have a history, but it’s a history that will leave you spellbound.”
—www.CataRomance.com
Claire Baxter
The Single Dad’s Patchwork Family
Like many authors, Claire Baxter tried several careers before finding the one she really wanted. She’s worked as a PA, a translator (French), a public relations consultant and a corporate communications manager. She took a break from corporate communications to complete a degree in journalism and, more importantly, to find out whether she could write a romance novel—a childhood dream. Now she can’t stop writing romance. Nor does she plan to give up her fabulous lifestyle for anything. While Claire grew up in Warwickshire, England, she now lives in the beautiful city of Adelaide in South Australia, with her husband, two sons and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she’s either reading or swimming in her backyard pool—another childhood dream—or even reading in the pool. She hasn’t tried writing in the pool yet, but it could happen. Claire loves to hear from readers. If you’d like to contact her, please visit www.clairebaxter.com.
In memory of my dad (1924–2002)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
REGAN JANTZ took a flute of champagne from a circulating waiter, then made her way to an alcove from where she scanned the mix of Japanese businessmen and local industry representatives.
‘You look like you don’t want to be here.’
Startled, she swung towards the deep male voice. Its owner smiled down at her. Being smiled down on wasn’t exactly a first but it was unusual enough to make Regan give him more than a cursory glance. She hadn’t realised there was someone already occupying the vantage point she’d chosen.
She pasted a professional smile on her face and at the same time took in the expensive suit, confident stance and clean-cut lines of the man’s face. ‘I’m sorry?’
He leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘You don’t look as if you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘Oh.’ Regan stepped back. He might be tall and good-looking and have a nice gentle voice, but she didn’t know who he was.
She saw understanding in his face and, for an instant, wished she could undo the automatic reflex. He was only trying to be friendly after all.
‘I’ve only just got here,’ she said in answer to his remark. ‘I was running late.’
Glancing at her watch, she said, ‘I’m hoping it won’t go on too long.’ She had to get home before her sons went to bed. ‘But I’m sure I’ll enjoy it,’ she finished with a smile, just in case the handsome stranger had an involvement in the event’s planning.
He took a sip from his glass and surveyed the guests filing into the function room. After a brief silence, he said, ‘Do you think it’s a good idea—the tourist trail?’
‘Oh, yes, I do.’ The enthusiasm in her tone was genuine.
The purpose of the cocktail party was to launch a new initiative of the state government’s tourism department—packaging South Australia’s Eyre Peninsula into an activity-filled holiday experience aimed specifically at Japanese tourists and marketed to the Japanese travel industry.
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ she said and not just because he might have been instrumental in developing the concept.
She paused, tempted to leave it at that, but something about the keen interest in his face made her go on. Most people at these events made polite small talk and avoided showing real interest in anything.
‘I’m not completely convinced that I should be getting involved with it, though.’
‘Why not? What’s your business?’
‘I run a tuna farm.’ She sipped her champagne, studying his eyes as she spoke. He had kind brown ones—not as dark as her Italian ex-husband’s eyes, which both her children had inherited, but a warm reddish brown. Like the rich red-gum honey that her son Cory loved on his toast fingers.
‘I can see why tourists would want to visit the seahorse farm,’ she went on. ‘It’s a real novelty. And at the oyster farm they can sample the product, which is a treat, but when they come to visit us, well, all they’ll get to do is ride out to the pontoon in a boat and see the fish in captivity. And hear us talk about the process. It doesn’t compare, does it?’
‘I’m sure you’ll make it interesting.’
She shrugged. She wasn’t so sure that was possible, but she’d do her best, of course. ‘So, what about you? Why are you here?’
‘I’m here on behalf of friends. They run trips for tourists at Leo Bay, taking them out to swim with the sea lions.’
She nodded, smiling. ‘The trail’s a perfect opportunity for them. They couldn’t make it tonight?’
He lowered his voice. ‘I owed them a favour. They don’t like functions like this.’
‘And you do?’
He gave a slight grimace. ‘No. That’s why I was hoping I’d found a kindred spirit when I saw you slinking over here.’
‘Well, I admit it’s not my favourite part of the job, but it has to be done.’
He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I’m out of practice.’
‘At what?’
‘Small talk. With adults.’
The age lines around his eyes and mouth were just what his face needed to give it definition, she decided. Men had an unfair advantage when it came to such things.
Two vertical lines above the bridge of his nose told her he’d spent a lot of time frowning—or deep in thought. She could relate to that.
His hair too was a lighter, warmer brown than Giacomo’s. Its casual style didn’t go with the sharp image he presented in all other respects.
Overall, he was the most attractive man she’d seen in a long time. Suddenly, she realised he’d stopped talking and she was still staring.
