Motherhood
without
Parole

November, 2006
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When forty-two year old workaholic Kate marries a widower with children, she knows it won't be easy to build a family.  What she didn't know was that her husband would be sentenced to half a year at a minimum security prison after he's arrested and put on trial during the first few months of their marriage.

Which leaves her alone with two kids who still miss their late mother and absolutely no domestic skills...

Excerpt from Motherhood without Parole:

Kate's first thought was that she was being watched--the kind of focused, silent stare that might come from a dog who needed to be let out for his morning constitutional.  Slowly recalling that she didn't own a dog, she struggled to open her eyes.   

Her gaze immediately collided with a small boy's.  PJ.  Reality clicked into place--the kids were back from their grandparents' and today would be her first full day alone with them.  Her heart thudded in her ears. If she were awake enough to think rationally, she would remind herself she'd known this was coming.  She could handle it. . .she hoped.

 "Morning, PJ."  Since she was lying on her side and he was leaning against the mattress, his face was mere inches from hers.  Unaccustomed to waking under close scrutiny, at least she'd managed not to scream, curse or otherwise traumatize him.

 He blinked, his face a miniature of his father's except for his mother's hazel eyes.  "Do you know how to make waffles?"

 "Good question."  She yawned, trying to remember if they had any waffles in the freezer.

 "Your breath is stinky."

 That's what you get for standing so close, kid.  Was she supposed to reprimand him for being rude, or applaud his truthfulness?  "Let me brush my teeth, then we'll talk about waffles."

 "Okay."  He waited until she stood, then fell in step with her.  "Neve says you probably can't cook."

 "I can cook some things."  Including a shrimp pasta dish that was her single cooking-for-a-date meal and a layered dip that was her fallback dish for social events.  Unfortunately, that repertoire got old fast and would be of no help for breakfast.  She paused in the doorway.  "PJ, I have to go to the bathroom now."

 "Okay," her new shadow responded.

 "Alone, all right?"

 "Sure.  I'll wait here."  He didn't let the closed door between them slow down his half of the conversation.  "Do you ever watch cartoons?  That's what I was doing, but my show went off.  Neve's taking a shower and couldn't play with me.  She said when she's done, she'll find me some Pop-Tarts or something, but I want waffles.  And she takes too long in the bathroom.  Always brushing her hair and stuff.  Are you done yet?"

When she opened the door, PJ practically fell onto the tile floor.  It didn't take a child psychologist to understand why he might be a little clingy right now.  Kate would be patient with his being underfoot.

 As long as she could avoid tripping over him, they would be fine.  "So. . .waffles, huh?  Let's see what I can do."

 A search of the freezer revealed that there were no instant waffles to be found. Maybe she had a recipe?  It dawned on Kate that she only owned one cookbook--a gag gift on cooking for your lover.  She gestured toward the family room, visible through the wall cut-out above the kitchen sink.

 "Do you want to watch television?  Maybe you can find more cartoons.  I'll call you when the waf--when breakfast is ready," she amended, hedging her bets.

 "Okay."

 "Thanks, buddy."  Appreciating his agreeable manner, she surprised herself by ruffling his hair.  When he shot her a warm, approving smile, confidence filled her.  She could definitely do this.

 The mothering part, anyway.  The waffling part grew fuzzier as she pulled one foreign apparatus after another from the cabinets in search of the waffle iron.  Her attempt to separate eggs was only partially successful, but how much damage could a little yolk do to the recipe?  She'd begun pouring lumpy batter into the iron when her stepdaughter suddenly made her presence known.

 "What is that?"

 Kate jumped, glancing at the book open on the kitchen island.  "A cookbook."  The waffle recipe was on the right hand page, opposite a tasteful yet provocative breakfast-in-bed photo.

 "But he's not wearing a shirt.  And. . ." Neve took a closer look. "You're not supposed to let us see stuff like that."

 "Then stop looking."  Kate shut the book with a snap, then shoved it behind her back for good measure.  "Speaking of clothes, what are you wearing?"

 Neve glanced down, her expression genuinely quizzical.  "Shirt and jeans."

 Yes, but the sparkly blue shirt had the word Juicy emblazoned across the chest.  What was that supposed to mean?  Then again, Kate wasn't about to start making parental objections before their first breakfast.  She'd learned enough from her friends to have decided to choose her battles, which didn't include what Neve wore around the house.  "All right. I--"

"Are your waffles burning?"

 "Dammit.  Shoot. . .that's not what I meant.  The first thing."

 Grinning, Neve leaned against the kitchen island, as if waiting to hear other things Kate shouldn't say in front of them.

 "Why don't you go keep an eye on your brother?"

 "He's just watching TV. I can see him from here."  Neve peered around Kate. "You have batter left. If you want, maybe I could make the waffles. I used to help my. . ."

 Her mother?  That would explain why Paul owned a waffle iron in the first place. "Thank you.  I still need a shower.  Are you responsible enough to take over kitchen duty?"

 "Of course."  The nostalgic expression was replaced by one of almost haughty adolescent confidence.  "Not like I'm gonna burn down the house."

 "Great."  Because I'm not sitting through an arson trial, too.

 Copyright  by Tanya Michaels  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.  The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.  For more romance information, surf to:  http://www.eHarlequin.com .