Some Kind of Wonderful by Barbara Freethy

From the Publisher

It's the kind of story investigative reporter Matt Winters writes about — not the kind he wants to be living. When he discovers a newborn baby girl on his doorstep, he panics ... then he desperately turns to his temptingly pretty neighbor Caitlyn Devereaux for help. After all, women are supposed to know everything about babies!

Caitlyn's natural sensuality intrigues Matt ... and heraching vulnerability as she holds the precious bundle piques his curiosity.The wedding gowns she creates are famous for fulfilling every bride'sfantasies, yet she firmly says that marriage — and motherhood — are not for her. But her kisses suddenly have Matt dreaming of something wonderful — and soon he's determined to get this reluctant woman to change her mind.

Library Journal

A baby is the last thing hard-driving journalist Matt Winters needs. But when he finds one outside his San Francisco apartment door late one night and it turns out to belong to the sister he hasn't seen since she was nine, he knows he can't just abandon the baby. He also knows that he has to find his sister. But he needs help, which comes in the reluctant form of bridal shop owner Caitlyn Devereaux, his neighbor and a woman with sorrows of her own. Although the relationship between Caitlyn and Matt is primary, a secondary love story adds a satisfying touch to a well-written, emotionally involving romance that combines a realistic urban setting with a family-oriented plot and makes it work. An expert at creating appealing characters, Freethy is a RITA Award-winning writer of heartwarming, family-centered contemporary romances; she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.

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Chapter One

Cool wet fingers of fog brushed against his face as Matt Winters walked up the hill to his San Francisco apartment building. At the sound of a siren, he automatically stiffened. Held been chasing ambulances for so long he couldn't help but wonder what new story was developing, what tragedy was unfolding, what family was about to receive an unwelcome late-night phone call.

As the siren drew closer, he glanced down the street behind him. All was quiet. Parked cars, shadowy buildings, the light from the street lamps broke the darkness, but nothing looked out of place. Still, Matt felt the prickles of uneasiness stab the skin on the back of his neck. He felt like someone was watching him, and his instincts screamed caution even though his brain couldn't figure out why.

Taking one last look down the street behind him he moved to unlock the front door of his apartment building. He frowned when he saw that the door was ajar and the lock appeared to be jammed. Matt wasn't particularly concerned about his barely furnished apartment or even his own safety. He'd lived in places far more dangerous than this. The broken lock aggravated his sense that something was wrong, but a quick look around the lobby revealed nothing amiss.

With a weary sigh, Matt pressed the elevator call button and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. He hadn't slept more than three hours in a row in the last seventy-two. He'd been chasing a news story, following a money trail that had led him straight up the steps of City Hall. Tomorrow the rest of San Francisco would read about the corruption ofone of its supervisors in the morning edition of the Herald.

His mission accomplished, Matt should have been feeling satisfied. Instead he felt restless, once again reminded that no matter how many truths he unveiled, no matter how many mysteries he solved, he couldn't solve the one that mattered most.

Matt pressed the elevator button again, hating himself for not being able to let go of the past. How ironic that he lived his life in search of the truth, yet couldn't seem to accept it when it stared him in the face.

That need for closure, the desire to stop the endless hunger, the unquenchable thirst for answers had brought him back to San Francisco, the place where it had started and where it had ended.

Finally, the elevator doors opened. A minute later, Matt stepped onto the tenth-floor landing and walked down the hall to his apartment. He let himself in just in time to catch the phone before the machine picked up. "Winters," he said abruptly.

There was no reply, just the sound of someone breathing. A prank call, an informant, a threat? He didn't know which.

"Matt?" It was barely a whisper, so hushed he couldn't tell if it was a female or a male.

"Who is this?" No answer. "Look, I don't have time to —"

The sound of a click, then the dial tone, told him the caller had hung up. Out of habit, he wrote down the caller ID number. It wasn't one he recognized, but he'd check it out later. He was simply too tired to deal with one more thing tonight.

Tossing his car keys onto the dining room table, he headed into the kitchen, wondering if by some impossible chance there was actually something edible in the refrigerator. Unfortunately, it boasted nothing more than a couple of beers, some wilted lettuce, and molding tomatoes. Popping open one of the beers, he took a long grateful swallow, then walked back into the living room.

It wasn't much of a room for living in at the moment. There was an old black leather couch along one wall and a matching overstuffed armchair, an oak coffee table that held his array of newspapers and magazines, a stereo system, because he couldn't live without music, and a punching bag hanging from a hook in the ceiling, because he didn't know a better way to relieve stress than to beat the hell out of that bag. Boxing had gotten him through some tough times, given him a sense of control over himself and the chaos that had once been his life.

At some point, he'd have to invest in some furniture — or maybe not. Who knew how long he'd stay in San Francisco? Who knew how long he'd stay anywhere? His life had been a series of entrances and exits, new places, new faces.

The phone rang again and Matt's muscles tensed. For a second he was tempted to let it ring, but he'd never been one to run from a fight or avoid a confrontation, although there had been plenty of people in his life who had told him to do just that. He reached for the phone again and said, "Winters."

"Congratulations," David Stern replied.

Matt relaxed at the sound of his editor's voice.

"I can't wait until the morning paper hits the streets," David crowed. "Your story will rock this town."

"As long as Keilor doesn't file a libel suit."

"Let him try. You covered your ass quite well."

"Yours, too," Matt reminded him.

"That's why I pay you the big bucks."

"Yeah, right." Matt walked across his living room with the portable phone in one hand. "What's next?"

"Why don't you take a break? You've been on this story nonstop since you landed in town six weeks ago. Take some time off. A few days in Lake Tahoe wouldn't do you any harm."

Matt didn't want a few days off. Vacations were for people who wanted to relax, to think, to philosophize, and he wanted to do none of the above. Too much time on his hands would only make him...