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  The last thing Nick Hunter expects when he arrives at his remote cabin in the Adirondack Mountains is to be knocked out cold by a gorgeous, emerald-eyed woman. When he wakes to find out they are marooned there with one-year-old twins, he wishes he’d pass out again. Despite his desire to escape the civilized world, he finds himself caretaker, an instant father.

  Lani Cabot knows the situation is only temporary, but she is drawn to the enigmatic Nick, who has secluded himself in this wilderness, obviously trying to escape from a secret in his past. For a wonderful, brief time, she has a makeshift family—a family she could otherwise never have.

  Lani’s Makeshift Family

  by

  Lori Avocato

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Lani’s Makeshift Family

  COPYRIGHT Ó 2004, 2009 by Lori Avocato

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Rae Monet

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  2004 LTD Books

  First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2009

  Print ISBN: 1-60154-720-X

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my fellow CTRWA members, who have supported me throughout the years

  .

  Praise for Lori Avocado

  “A wonderfully romantic read. Find a comfy couch, a cup of coffee and this book.”

  ~Julia Jackson, Writers’ Group Romance Club

  Chapter One

  “Who the hell…”

  The gruff voice pierced Lani Cabot’s sleep. It was a deep voice, almost sensual, reaching into the haze of her mind. In her twilight sleep she thought it had to come from a male. A man! Suddenly her eyelids flew open. This wasn’t a dream!

  In the darkened shadows above the bed, a huge, blurry figure loomed. Her heart froze. A burglar in her new house! Paralyzed by fear, she held her breath. The figure moved closer. A hint of cologne and the size of the silhouette indicated it had to be a man. If she remained still, he might leave. But suddenly her grogginess cleared, and she remembered—she was not home alone.

  Her babies! She had to get past him and check on her girls.

  She reached out to clutch whatever she could find. Cold metal touched her palm. She clenched, yanked, and walloped the intruder with the bedside lamp.

  A heavy thud—a sickening sound of hurting someone—filled the room. She had no choice. Dropping the lamp, she thrashed her hands about in the darkness. She couldn’t find another light. A sliver of white came from the doorway. She jumped up and stepped over the body. One foot landed on some soft part. “Oh God, please help me!” She stumbled toward the light, felt for a wall switch, and shoved it up to see she stood in a strange bedroom. That’s right. She wasn’t home. She didn’t even know where this place was!

  That didn’t matter now. She looked down. He was out cold, so she ran from the room.

  The door to the spare bedroom remained partly shut as she’d left it before going to bed. With a sense of relief, she peeked in to see both girls safely snuggled and asleep. Thank you, God. But her prayers were soon interrupted with the thought—who was the intruder and what was she going to do about him?

  Several seconds passed before she moved. Not that she didn’t want to, but more she couldn’t. She swung around to make sure he wasn’t behind her. She’d heard no noise—that had to be a good sign. Summoning every ounce of courage she could muster, she forced herself to head back to the room where he still, hopefully, lay on the floor.

  The dim ceiling light shone in the master bedroom of the mountain house she’d broken into earlier that night. Sprawled across the floor was a giant. Golden brown hair tousled across his forehead and his eyes were shut. Oh God! She’d killed him!

  Over and over, she grasped one hand with the other, but they still shook. Her reaction had been self-defense, she told herself. But her mouth still dried, sweat trickled down her forehead, and her heart galloped inside her chest in a marathon. How could she have killed someone? Even in self-defense.

  The man sprawled across the wooden floor, brown climbing boots parallel with the foot of the bed. A small bump formed below the widow’s peak on his forehead, but there was no cut. His shoulders, as wide as the cross-board on the door, lined up near the pillows and, maybe she imagined it, but his head came up to the headboard. He had to be tall, at least six feet.

  Oh gosh! Should she start CPR? But she wasn’t trained. Nine-one-one. That was it. Oh damn, oh damn. Last night she’d searched the place from top to bottom for a phone and never found one. She looked down to see if he’d moved. Visions of her search last night popped into her head. With eyes closed, she pictured his face from the display of photographs she’d seen on a table in the living room.

  Well, at least he wasn’t a burglar.

  He belonged here. She was the intruder. Her hands shook so she shoved them into her pockets to think clearly as she looked down once again.

  He remained still.

  Her heart dropped in her chest like an elevator whose cable had snapped as she bent near. Well, she’d make an attempt at CPR anyway. If not, how was she going to carry a six-foot tall dead man outside?

  On shaky legs, Lani leaned closer, readied to place her hands on his chest, and then thank goodness, saw the man’s chest rise. Thank you, God. With a sigh, she leaned against the wall for a second, and then ran out of the room.

  ****

  “Geez!” Nick Hunter shouted. Cold, no, damned frigid liquid splashed across his face. He gasped. “What…the hell are you doing—”

  Pain bombarded the top of his head. Damn, his dreams had never been this vivid before. He even felt wet. With a swipe of his hands, he cleared his damp eyes enough to see the blurry culprit standing above him, holding his grandmother’s cast-iron frying pan in one hand. Rounded emerald eyes stared toward him.

  This time the woman haunting his dreams wasn’t Donna.

  No, this woman looked like a slender statue with creamy rose skin. He blinked and rubbed his tongue across his wet lips. Below heavy eyelids, he took one more look to be sure she wouldn’t soak him again. Despite the fear in her eyes, she was beautiful. Some dream he’d conjured up.

  His head pounded as if someone kept slamming the stupid frying pan into it. He managed to run his hand through his hair, but refused to force his eyelids open. He’d never had such a vivid dream before. All the times he’d dreamt…those dreams…. had distressed him, but this time he actually felt wet, and in pain. He damn well didn’t need a new version of the nightmare—the old one was effective enough.

  “Don’t hurt me or I’ll hit you,” she threatened. She waved the frying pan toward him.

  He flinched. By nightmare standards this one was a doozie. “I’m not going to touch you.” He growled and touched his forehead. “Go away. Disappear. Beat it.” He must have a concussion to be talking in his sleep.

  A baby whimpered, a distant yet familiar sound. Sorrow clenched his heart. Even the sobering pain in his head couldn’t hurt as badly. So many nights he’d heard similar cries, but tonight, tonight was different. The sound was too real. He shut his ea
rs, the sound intensified. In his groggy state, he reached for a pillow to cover his head and block out the sound. He grasped at nothing. With a groan, he squinted against the light to push himself up on his elbows. What the hell was he doing on the floor?

  “Are you all right?” the statue asked.

  “Oh great, now my hallucination talks.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I asked if you were all right?” it repeated.

  This dream was too real. He dropped down. “Geez!” The hardwood floor thudded pain into the back of his already throbbing head.

  “Don’t do that! You’re going to hurt yourself even more.”

  “What do you mean more?” He tried to un-jumble his brain. Where was he—a throb on his forehead reminded him. How did he get hurt? A faint memory flickered. That’s right, he’d come to the mountains to spend his usual three months. Rain, wind, he remembered. Oh yeah, the storm had fought him the entire trip from Albany through the Adirondack Mountains. At least it wasn’t snow yet.

  He rubbed his head again. A lump the size of a walnut and sore as hell was on the top near his forehead, but he didn’t feel anything sticky. No blood.

  Now he remembered coming into the cabin and seeing her, this emerald-eyed statue, sleeping in his bed. She must have whacked him with the pan. She stood there holding a glass in her other hand. Obviously, empty.

  His blood surged in anger. What was she doing in his cabin hitting him on the head? Despite the pain, he opened his eyes and forced himself to sit. Dizziness nearly knocked the wind out of him. Nausea welled up in his throat, but he forced it down. He’d be damned if he’d get sick in front of her…this…woman.

  “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Please let me help you up.”

  She touched his arms with a soft grasp. A scent, like someone who’d just showered, hovered around her. He inhaled then cursed to himself. Who cared what she smelled like? She didn’t belong here and had no damn right to hit him—or throw water on him. He whacked away her hand. Her widened eyes caught the light, sparking like brilliant gems. He growled again. What the hell was she looking so surprised about?

  “You don’t have to be so rude!”

  “Look, lady, statue, whoever-the-hell you are, I can get up by myself.” The groan that slipped out of his mouth made him angrier. Glaring at the innocent look on her face, and the slight pout to her coral lips, he cursed inside. Why he didn’t curse out loud he didn’t know, and the fact made him furious. Maybe the warm innocence of her eyes…. “Why the hell did you soak me?” He decided he wasn’t going to watch his language in his own cabin—no matter how she looked.

  “I…I thought you were dead—”

  “And you thought freezing water would raise me from the dead?”

  “No…I just wanted to be sure…I mean, when your chest moved, I realized you were alive.” She looked at him with doe eyes. “Maybe you should rest there a few minutes.”

  Just to spite her, he stood up by himself despite feeling horrible. The room spun, blurring his attacker’s form. Rebellious legs wobbled and he stumbled, heading directly for her.

  She reached out and steadied him.

  A baby sound, soft cooing, filtered through his cloudy thoughts. His eyes shut, and he willed the memory to leave. He couldn’t take it much more…

  “Maybe you should sit—”

  Resistant to following orders, he shifted away. “I can stand…” He swayed, grabbed for the end table, and flopped onto the bed. “Why the hell did you clobber me with that frying pan?”

  “I…I…” Her eyes welled with tears.

  “Hell, you’re not going to start crying, are you?”

  She pulled herself away from the wall. “No, I am not. And I didn’t hit you with this pan—”

  “What the hell’d you use?”

  “The lamp. See, I thought you were a burglar—”

  “In my own cabin?” He looked to see his bedside lamp sat on the floor, the bulb shattered. The lady had an arsenal of household weapons.

  “Well, how would I have known this was your cabin?”

  “You knew it wasn’t yours!” Damn it! Yelling made his head hurt more.

  “I’m sorry about…your head. I was in such a deep sleep, I thought I was home.”

  A slight pout gave her a damned adorable look. She shuffled her foot as if a little child. “I wish you were home, then I wouldn’t have this egg on my noggin.” The fact he kept noticing her angered him. Her eyes, her hair, her slender form. Hell, she could have killed him. He rubbed his head, but never took his gaze off her hand—the one with Nana’s pan.

  “I said I was sorry. I wouldn’t have hit you, if I weren’t confused and you didn’t shout at me.”

  “Hey, I didn’t ask to get whacked, lady.”

  “My name is Lani. Lani Cabot and—”

  He snorted at the way she pulled her shoulders straight. The action still didn’t make her look any taller. “Lani? What the hell kinda name is ‘Lani’”

  “It’s Hawaiian and—”

  He looked at her head. “Your hair’s too light for you to be Hawaiian.”

  “Actually, I’m Polish—”

  “Cabot is Polish?”

  She glared, one eyebrow rose. “We dropped the ‘ski,’ and if you’d let me finish a sentence, I can explain why I’m here.”

  Nick lifted his legs onto the bed and waved his hand for her to continue then crossed his hands behind his head.

  She remained still but the hand with the pan eased a bit. “My parents met in Hawaii, that’s how I got my name. It means sky.”

  “Interesting.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes.

  “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t smoke inside—”

  He ignored his throbbing head and let out a hoot. “I own this place, Lani Cabot. I’ll damn well smoke where I want to.” He lit the cigarette and blew an extra puff of smoke into the air. Who did she think she was?

  “Well, at least don’t smoke around my babies.”

  What? His hand stopped in midair. Babies. He’d heard the familiar cries and thought he’d dreamt of his children. Oh God, she had babies in his cabin.

  What a perfect topping to this mess.

  “Would you please not smoke inside?” she repeated much softer.

  He looked toward her. She’d painted this pleading look across her face while re-tucking her honey blond hair into a blue ribbon behind her head. With slender fingers, she didn’t have any trouble getting the errant strands back into place. He knew she did it on purpose to show off the beseeching look she aimed his way. All it showed off was her high cheekbones, and the fact that she didn’t have a blemish on her velvety skin, and those lush green eyes.

  “I asked if you would please—”

  “Please what?” he snarled, not caring about his irate tone. All he wanted was three secluded months in his cabin, and now he had to deal with this intruder. The last damned thing he needed here was a woman—

  “Please don’t smoke around my girls.”

  Your girls. The cigarette tasted foul. He added it to the pile of butts in the ashtray near him. It wasn’t hard to put out; he could care less about smoking. He only did it to test fate. After what he’d lost…what the hell difference did it make what happened to him.

  “Thank you. Please excuse me. I’m going to check on the babies again.”

  Before he could think, she spun and left in a wake of that damned clean scent.

  A moment later, Nick steadied himself against the doorframe of the spare bedroom.

  Lani Cabot sat with not one but two tiny figures, both brown headed, one straight, one with wisps of curls, wrapped in her embrace. She’d helped herself to his afghan that now packaged the pair in a fluff of colors.

  He slammed his eyes shut and forced the old pain deep inside.

  “These sweeties are my daughters. Alexandra, I call her Alexa—” Lani nodded toward the baby
with curly hair, then the other, “—and Ana, for Anastasia.”

  She didn’t look too comfortable holding both sleeping babies at once. He could see her arms straining as if she thought they’d tumble to the floor and her hands shook. She shifted in her seat, and one baby looked as if she’d fall.

  “Watch out!” He stepped forward and grabbed for the child.

  Lani pulled her baby tightly. “I have her.”

  “Maybe you should only hold one at a time.”

  He’d never guess a snippet of a woman could scowl like that. Okay, so he had no right to tell her what to do with her kids. But damn it all, this was his place and he didn’t want any lawsuit. He turned to leave.

  “What is your name?”

  “Hunter, Nick,” he said over his shoulder.

  In the living room, Nick grabbed a bottle of Scotch and filled the closest glass that he could reach. He should be shoving down aspirin, but this golden liquid would do the trick. It’d numb the pain of his headache, but each time he heard a soft cooing sound—nothing could ease that pain.

  “They’re still asleep. Thank goodness.”

  She spoke with a nervousness that he assumed came from being found in his cabin. His fingers gripped the glass.

  “Alexa usually takes much longer to put down. She’s…well, she requires more attention. Cries more than poor Ana.”

  He looked over his shoulder and wanted to say he could care less what her kids did but kept his mouth shut. When he turned back, he took a huge sip of Scotch and stifled the urge to cough. Reflected in the mirror, she stood in the doorway behind him. He hadn’t noticed before, but she wore a green flannel shirt, one that looked surprisingly like his green flannel, including the engraved “NH” on the pocket. This broad, no, she had a different air about her, she couldn’t be classified as a broad. This female had nerve. And long legs. His shirt fell just above her knees, like a dress.

  He turned and headed toward the fireplace. “How long have you been in my cabin?” With his glass tucked into his hand, he slumped down into the wicker rocker. Geez, his head hurt.

  “I’m sorry. In all the confusion I haven’t explained everything.” She remained standing, making her figure all the more visible.