Desperately Seeking Twin...

By Marie Ferrarella

TWO HALVES OF A WHOLE

DESPERATELY SEEKING TWIN

A small, faded photograph had turned Blair Stephens' world upside down. She'd suddenly learned she was adopted and that, somewhere, she had a twin sister who was her spitting image! With nowhere else to turn, she hired the services of hunky Devin Quaterman, P.I. He knew a bit about twins, being one himself. But what he wanted more than anything was to make beautiful Blair his better half!

Two Halves of a Whole:
Identical twins separated at birth find love, family and each other in these festive holiday stories by RITA Award–winning author Marie Ferrarella. Look for The Baby Came C.O.D. this month in Silhouette Romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460876114

Marie Ferrarella

This USA TODAY bestselling and RITA ® Award-winning author has written more than two hundred books for Harlequin Books and Silhouette Books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website at www.marieferrarella.com.

Book preview

1

Blair and Claire, twenty—three months.

The smile froze on her face like a still life that no longer had any feeling behind it. Very slowly, she turned the photograph around again and looked down at the people forever captured by the camera’s lens.

People who threatened to change life as she knew it.

As she sat amid the scattered remnants and mementos of her mother’s life that she had pulled out of the jumbled bottom dresser drawer, Blair Stephens stared uncomprehendingly at the photograph.

At her past. A past she hadn’t known, until this moment, that she had.

The air suddenly seemed to have been sucked out of her mother’s small, tidy bedroom. Blair couldn’t breathe. Her icy fingers held on to the photograph so tightly that they felt as if they were going to snap off.

Her eyes clouded as she focused on the tiny faces in the slightly faded color snapshot.

Anger and confusion ripped through the insulating tissue of numbness, assaulting her like twin falcons

bent on destruction. What did this mean? What the hell did this mean?

Who was the other child in the photograph with her? The child wearing the same dress, the same pink, lace—trimmed ribbon cocked slightly to the left.

The child wearing the same face.

Who was she?

And who was the woman sitting between them, an arm tightly wrapped around each child as if she were holding precious packages?

Who?

Why?

The last question echoed in her mind like a cry shouted into a bottomless canyon that came ricocheting back. Why?

Blair became vaguely aware of a shadow falling across her. Rousing herself, she looked up. Aunt Beth was standing in the doorway, a sympathetic smile on her lips. She looked enough like her mother to make Blair’s heart jump within her breast.

It took her heart a very long, painful moment to catch up to what her mind already knew—that Ellen Stephens was gone.

They had buried her this morning, saying words over the newly formed mound of dirt and standing in a semi—circle around it, all but oblivious to the drizzling autumn rain.

She had stood there, surrounded by her family, feeling lost and alone.

But not nearly as lost and alone as she felt at this moment, holding the photograph in her hand. And she still didn’t know what it meant.

Was afraid to know what it meant.

Or perhaps, a distant, tiny voice whispered, she already knew what it meant.

The sympathetic look on Beth Wilson’s face turned to one of concern as she drew closer to her sister’s only child. Everyone in the family had wanted to come into the room, using some pretext or other, to check on Blair. But Beth had talked them out of it, saying that one person was better in this case than having a crowd push their way in, however wellintentioned. Right now, Blair needed her space, and she needed love. Beth thought she could give her both.

Seeing only the young woman she dearly loved, Beth set her private pain aside and placed a hand on Blair’s shoulder. She had thought this was a bad idea, sifting through Ellen’s things now. It was too soon. Grief needed time to settle.

But Blair had always been stubborn. Just like Ellen, Beth thought fondly. Anything I can do to help you, Blair?

It was an offer her aunt, all of her aunts and uncles, not to mention her cousins, had already made. Blair had turned them all down. She’d come in here to sort through her mother’s things, feeling that it was best to get the painful job over with now, while she was still numb from the funeral.

It had been foolish to believe that it might not hurt as much that way. It hurt just to be in the same room where she’d shared secrets with her mother. Where she had poured out her heart the night Billy Adams had dumped her for Carole Anne, just because Carole Anne had suddenly bloomed and was now wearing a bra while she could have still worn T—shirts and shown no noticeable difference from her male cousins.

Wait, her mother had promised knowingly, your turn will come. And the next year, when she’d turned fourteen, it had.

It was in this room that her mother had given her her treasured pearl drop necklace to wear to the senior prom. And in this room she’d let her climb into bed when the thunderstorms had made all the monsters a five—year—old’s mind could conjure up come bounding out of the closet to frighten her.

The room sang of memories.

It hurt like hell to be here alone, but it was a bittersweet hurt and Blair had faced up to the task like her mother’s daughter. Bravely. Her mother had always wanted her to be strong, no matter what. It didn’t seem right to give in to cowardice now of all times.

But there were tremors racing through her now, as she held up the photograph for her aunt to see.

You can tell me about this. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Aunt Beth reached for the photograph as she sat down beside her on the bed. Priding herself on being the family historian, she was fully prepared to give Blair a narrative to go along with the scene.

But she wasn’t prepared to see the photograph again. Not this one.

When she looked up at Blair, the color had drained from her face. Where did you get this?

Blair nodded at the drawer that was still hanging open. I found it in there. At the bottom of the drawer, beneath the things I made for her.

Ellen Stephens had saved absolutely everything her daughter had turned her childish hand to, both in elementary school and beyond. Every drawing, every poem, every take—home project was lovingly put away, preserved within the confines of two large bureau drawers. Even the ridiculous candlestick holders she’d been forced to make in metal shop were here.

More than once, Blair had urged her to clear out that junk and make serious use of the space. And she’d been secretly pleased when her mother staunchly refused, referring to them as her treasures.

Someday, when you have a child of your own, you’ll understand how precious all these things really are, her mother had told her with a knowing look in her eyes.

And Blair had felt safe and loved.

She felt fearfully adrift now.

In her heart, Blair prayed that her aunt could give her an anchor, something to hold on to. Because something dark and lost within her was struggling to come forward, threatening a tidal wave that could wash away the foundations of everything she held dear. Everything she believed in. It wasn’t anything she could point to or say with certainty, it was just a feeling. A very strong feeling.

But still, she had to ask. Had to know. Curiosity, her parents liked to brag, had always been her best asset. And her main flaw.

Blair waited, but her aunt said nothing. She only continued staring at the photograph, as if it were a ghost come back to haunt her.

Who’s the other little girl, Aunt Beth? Blair pressed.

Soft brown eyes full of sympathy, as well as sorrow, turned to look at her.

Her mother’s eyes, Blair thought. Everyone in the family had brown or hazel eyes. Even her father had had brown eyes. Everyone, except for her. Hers were blue. A deep, rich blue. When she was little, she’d thought her eyes made her an outcast. Her mother had told her they made her special.

Beth placed a hand on top of hers. She didn’t tell you?

Fear grew, telegraphing itself through Blair’s limbs, dampening her palms, weakening her knees.

No, she whispered, her eyes never leaving her aunt’s face. Tell me what?

A small smile hinting of the sadness just beneath played across Beth’s lips as she looked at the young woman she had regarded as her niece for the last twenty—two years. Ellen’s child. No matter what else was said, what was brought to light, Blair would always be Ellen’s child. Beth had begged Ellen to tell Blair the truth before she found out some other way. And Ellen had promised that she would.

How like Ellen to procrastinate. Ellen, who was always late with everything, had left this to the last. And then hadn’t gotten around to it.

Beth squeezed Blair’s hand. She meant to, Blair. She really meant to, but I guess she was afraid.

Blair forced air into her lungs before she could ask, Afraid? Afraid of what? Blair gripped her aunt’s hand, willing her to end this torture and tell her straight out. She was beginning to think some pretty awful things. Aunt Beth, who is the other little girl? And who’s the woman with her?

There had to be a logical explanation that would banish this strange, sick feeling from her stomach. Was the other little girl in the photograph a cousin she didn’t know about? A long lost relative her mother had forgotten to mention? She’d heard of cousins who looked enough alike to be twins.

Oh, please, let it be that.

But as she watched her aunt, Blair knew that the explanation wasn’t nearly as simple as the one she was praying for.

Beth drew a long breath as she placed the photograph on the bed. There was love in her eyes when she took both Blair’s hands into hers.

The little girl is your twin sister. And the woman in the photograph… Her voice faltered, cracking. She began again. The woman is your mother.

Devin Quartermain always liked the first of the month. It meant that things began all over again. Fresh. Bills piling up from the last month were finally paid and he was faced with a brand—new opportunity to get things off to a good start.

His brother, Evan, thought this to be a hopelessly optimistic view of life, which was why, in Devin’s opinion, Evan was stuck behind a corporate desk, unable to enjoy the piles of money he was earning. He, on the other hand, could be perfectly happy with the small, and at times tidy, sums that being a private investigator afforded him.

The difference between them boiled down to attitude and time. Evan had little of the latter because he possessed the wrong type of the former.

Eventually, Evan would learn, Devin thought, spreading the morning edition of the newspaper out on his desk. After all, Evan was still a young man. He only acted old. At times, it was hard for Devin to remember or believe that they were exactly the same age, twenty—nine. Evan acted as if he were his father, not his brother, dispensing irritating advice that Devin had no interest in hearing.

Okay, let’s see what’s going on in the world today, he murmured. He was comfortable talking to himself, a habit he’d acquired after spending so much time alone. Half his work hours, if not more, were spent in his own company, either doing surveillance or piecing things together in solitude.

As he was about to take a bite out of a well stuffed jelly doughnut, a confection he looked forward to with as much relish as his first cup of coffee in the morning, there was a knock on his door.

He glanced at the clock on his desk, a stark, reliable thing that Evan had given him when he opened his practice. At nine in the morning, Devin wasn’t expecting anyone. All his cases were closed.

Whoever it was knocked again.

Opportunity, Devin thought with a smile.

He rose, but then, because he was hungry and dinner had been a hamburger the previous evening at six, he took one quick bite before going to the door. The bite managed to displace an inordinate amount of jelly, which came shooting out the other side. Reacting instinctively, he stopped it with his hand. A large red raspberry glob began to drip slowly down his palm.

Devin’s trip to the door was momentarily curtailed as he looked around for a napkin. The jelly continued its journey, forging a trail along his fingers.

Belatedly, he remembered that he hadn’t taken a napkin when he left Rosie’s Diner. Muttering an appropriate oath, Devin pulled a wrinkled handkerchief out of his back pocket and quickly began wiping away the red residue from his fingers. Everything felt sticky.

On the third, louder knock, he called out a distracted, It’s open.

That was when she walked in. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Five foot six—no, five foot three, he amended, noticing that the high heels she was wearing looked to be a good three inches. She had long blond hair and electric—blue eyes. The onepiece gray—blue dress she was wearing seemed to breathe with her. As did he.

Devin stopped wiping his hand. A snatch of a poem by Byron ran through his head. His mother would have been