The Holiday Triplets by Jacqueline Diamond Page A

sleepers, tiny fingers flexing, little bow mouths pursing as they dreamed their baby dreams. In the stillness, she listened to the murmur of their breathing.
    For the first time since the press conference, Sam had a moment of actual peace and quiet. It felt like an unbelievable luxury.
    The doorbell rang.
    She jumped. The babies barely stirred, but she hurried to answer before it rang again.
    Not the press, she hoped. O’Donnell had reported the story on the six o’clock news. With the TV playing in the background while she and Lori fed the triplets, Sam had caught glimpses of herself, Candy and the infants. The report had mentioned the fundraiser so briefly that most viewers probably missed it. Thank goodness the newspaper’s website, which Jennifer had checked, cited the event prominently.
    Reporters who’d missed the impromptu presentation would be trying to make up for lost time. Sam sure hoped some overeager newshound hadn’t dredged up her home address.
    She supposed she ought to drag a brush through her hair and put on lipstick. But if she stopped to do that, the fool might punch the bell again.
    On the doorstep, she found a welcome surprise. Sam’s frazzled nerves hummed harmoniously as she took in Mark Rayburn, tie askew and his jaw covered in five o’clock shadow, carrying a sack that smelled like heaven. Garlic, tomato sauce—Italian food. The scent reminded her that she’d missed dinner.
    Sam didn’t care what a mess she must look. “You were sent by the angels,” she said as she ushered him inside.
    â€œThat’s what I keep telling the corporate honchos. I don’t know why they ever doubt it.”
    At the moment, Sam didn’t know, either.
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    M ARK FELT AS IF HE’D STEPPED inside a rainbow. Colored glass vases, candleholders and bowls filled china cabinets and spilled onto the coffee table and end tables. The shimmering effect reminded him of a cut-glass crystal vase his mother used to treasure—until she smashed it against the fireplace one night in an alcohol-fueled rage over one of his father’s affairs.
    â€œSo this is what’s meant by decorating,” he said.
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me it’s overkill,” Sam replied. “I’ll pack the loose pieces away before the babies start crawling.”
    He hadn’t meant to criticize. Best to let it pass. “I hope you’re hungry. Papa Giovanni’s makes the best ravioli this side of Italy.”
    â€œStarved. Right this way.” Navigating between pieces of newly arrived baby equipment, she led him into the dining room, where she removed a stack of medical reports from the antique-style table. “I’ll grab plates.”
    While she went into the kitchen, Mark lifted take-out containers from the sack. “I take it the babies are sleeping,” he said when she returned.
    â€œDozing.” She set out the plates and glasses of water she’d carried on a tray. “Don’t try to be polite. Go ahead and tell me I’m a nutcase. I won’t be offended. Much.”
    He helped place the silverware. “You aren’t crazy. I love kids, too. In small doses.”
    She filled her plate from the containers. “Pardon me for being rude, but I’m starving. Aren’t you?”
    â€œThe restaurant plied me with breadsticks while I was waiting for my order.”
    â€œLucky you,” she mumbled, and dived into her food.
    During the meal, Mark took an appreciative look at the watercolor paintings splashed across the walls. A jacaranda tree abloom in lavender blossoms. A seascape carved by a bougainvillea-draped bluff. A waterfall creating its own rainbow. The profusion of colors soothed him.
    â€œThese are beautiful,” he observed. “It’s not what I expected to find in your house. Your offices are so Spartan.” The one assigned to her in the hospital as head of pediatrics was practically bare. Her