Triplets Under The Tree
This Christmas, he’ll meet his three babies for the first time…and desire their mother in a whole new way!After a plane crash robs him of his memory, billionaire fighter Antonio Cavallari comes home for the holidays to find triplets—and their “mother”—waiting. Antonio doesn’t remember surrogate Caitlyn Hopewell, but he has triplets depending upon him. Who else can he turn to except the woman raising his children…and making him burn with desire?Caitlyn has longed for Antonio secretly for years. Now she’s living in his home, loving his babies…living the life with him she’s always wanted. But then Antonio’s memory returns. And the secrets he’s forgotten will change everything…
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âWe have challenges in front of us. Iâd like to focus on them without ⦠complications.â
That part wasnât the whole truth, but it was certainly true enough.
It didnât matter. No more kissing. That was the rule and she was sticking to it.
âCaitlyn. You focus on your challenges your way, and Iâll focus on my challenges my way.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â she whispered, afraid she wasnât going to like the answer.
Antonio looked at her. âIt means Iâm going to kiss you again. Youâd best think of another argument if you donât want me to.â
* * *
Triplets Under the Tree is part of Mills & Boon Desireâs number 1 bestselling series, Billionaires and Babies: Powerful men ⦠wrapped around their babiesâ little fingers.
KAT CANTRELL read her first Mills & Boon novel in third grade and has been scribbling in notebooks since she learned to spell. What else would she write but romance? She majored in literature, officially with the intent to teach, but somehow ended up buried in middle management in corporate America, until she became a stay-at-home mum and full-time writer.
Kat, her husband and their two boys live in north Texas. When sheâs not writing about characters on the journey to happily-ever-after, she can be found at a soccer game, watching the TV show Friends or listening to â80s music.
Kat was the 2011 Mills & Boon So You Think You Can Write contest winner and a 2012 RWA Golden Heart Award finalist for best unpublished series contemporary manuscript.
To Diane Spigonardo.
Thanks for the inspiration.
Contents
Near Punggur Besar, Batam Island, Indonesia
Automatically, Falco swung his arm in an arc to block the punch. He hadnât seen it coming. But a sense he couldnât explain told him to expect his opponentâs attack.
Counterpunch. His opponentâs head snapped backward. No mercy. Flesh smacked flesh again and again, rhythmically.
The moves came to him fluidly, without thought. Heâd been learning from Wilipo for only a few months, but Falcoâs muscles already sang with expertise, adopting the techniques easily.
His opponent, Ravi, attacked yet again. Falco ducked and spun to avoid the hit. His right leg ached with the effort, but he ignored it. It always ached where the bone had broken.
From his spot on the sidelines of the dirt-floored ring, Wilipo grunted. The sound meant more footwork, less jabbing.
Wilipo spoke no English and Falco had learned but a handful of words in Bahasa since becoming a student of the sole martial arts master in southern Batam Island. Their communication during training sessions consisted of nods and gestures. A blessing, considering Falco had little to say.
The stench of old fish rent the air, more pungent today with the heat. Gazes locked, Falco and Ravi circled each other. The younger man from a neighboring village had become Falcoâs sparring partner a week ago after heâd run out of opponents in his own village. The locals whispered about him and he didnât need to speak Bahasa to understand they feared him.
He wanted to tell them not to be afraid. But he knew he was more than a strange Westerner in an Asian village full of simple people. More than a man with dangerous fists.
Nearly four seasons ago, a fisherman had found Falco floating in the water, unconscious, with horrific injuries. At least that was what heâd pieced together from the doctorâs halting, limited English.
He should have died before heâd washed ashore in Indonesia and he certainly should have died at some point during the six-month coma his body had required to heal.
But heâd lived.
And when he finally awoke, it was to a nightmare of physical rehabilitation and confusion. His memories were fleeting. Insubstantial. Incomplete. He was the man with no past, no home, no idea who he was other than angry and lost.
The only clue to his identity lay inked across his left pectoral muscleâa fierce, bold falcon tattoo with a scarlet banner clutched in his talons, emblazoned with the word Falco. That was what his saviors called him since he didnât remember his name, though it chafed to be addressed as such.
Why? It must be a part of his identity. But when he pushed his memory, it only resulted in his fists primed to punch something and a blinding headache. Every waking momentâand even some of those dedicated to sleepâhe heard an urgent soul-deep cry to discover why heâd been snatched from the teeth of a cruel death. Surely heâd lived for a reason. Surely heâd remember something critical to set him on the path toward who he was. Every day thus far had ended in disappointment.
Only fighting allowed him moments of peace and clarity as he disciplined his mind to focus on something other than the struggle to remember.
Ravi and Wilipo spoke in rapid Bahasa, leaving the Westerner out of it, as always.
