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Abby and the Bachelor Cop / Misty and the Single Dad: Abby and the Bachelor Copy / Misty and the Single Dad
Marion Lennox
Abby and the Bachelor Cop Lawyer and bride-to-be Abigail had her life mapped out. Good job, wealthy fiancé – it was perfect…too perfect. Then gorgeous bad-boy-turned-cop Raff re-entered Abby’s life, landing her with an adorable homeless dog and a whole lot of trouble… Misty and the Single DadTeacher Misty cherishes a secret list of faraway dreams. Until tall, dark and delicious Nicholas turns up in her classroom, with his son Bailey and an injured stray spaniel in tow. Misty soon falls for all three. Yet will following her heart mean giving up her dreams?Lost Dogs Heal Lonely Hearts…
ABBY AND THE BACHELOR COP
MISTY AND THE SINGLE DAD
MARION LENNOX
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
As I write my books, I work with what Edith Wharton described as ‘a heartbeat at my feet'. Mitzi is totally devoted. She’s often smelly, she’s sometimes scratchy, and she’s occasionally impatient. She doesn’t understand I need to finish the next scene—she wants walks. If you ask if I could write without a dog at my feet, I’ll confess I’ve never tried. Before Mitzi there was Harry. Before Harry, Chloe, Pete, Radar, Buster …
So finally, after years of writing with dogs, I’ve decided to write about dogs. Dogs I’ve known. Dogs I’ve loved. Only the names have been changed, to protect the not so innocent.
Kleppy is a kleptomaniac, a fabulous thieving dog. Living with him is a rollercoaster of a ride, always keeping just one tail-length from the law. But he charms my lovely heroine, lawyer Abigail Callahan, into rescuing him, and shows her how to follow her heart right into the arms of the man she hasn’t dared to love—gorgeous cop Raff Finn.
Welcome to Banksia Bay, where love is unleashed. Kleppy is the first of many. Enjoy.
Marion Lennox
ABBY AND THE
BACHELOR COP
MARION LENNOX
About the Author
MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a ‘very special doctor', Marion writes Medical Romances as well as Mills & Boon Romance (she used a different name for each category for a while—if you’re looking for her past Mills & Boon Romances, search for author Trisha David as well). She’s now had over eighty romance novels published.
In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost).
Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her ‘other’ career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured what’s important, and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate.
Preferably all at the same time!
With huge thanks to the wonderful Kelly Hunter,
who gave me Kleppy, to the fabulous Anne Gracie,
and to all the Maytoners, whose friendship
brings my stories to life.
To Radar, who was Trouble. I look back on every
moment with laughter and with love.
CHAPTER ONE
IF YOU couldn’t be useful at the scene of an accident, you should leave. Onlookers only caused trouble.
Banksia Bay’s Animal Welfare van had been hit from behind. Dogs were everywhere. People were yelling at each other. Esther Ford was having hysterics.
Abigail Callahan, however, had been travelling at a safe enough distance to avoid the crash. She’d managed to stop before her little red sports car hit anything, and she’d done all she could.
She’d checked no one was hurt. She’d hugged Esther, she’d tried to calm her down and she’d phoned Esther’s son who, she hoped, might be better at coping with hysterics than she was. She’d carried someone’s crumpled fender to the side of the road. She’d even tried to catch a dog. Luckily, she’d failed. She wasn’t good with dogs.
Now, blessedly, Emergency Services had arrived. Banksia Bay Emergency Services took the shape of Rafferty Finn, local cop, so it was definitely time for Abby to leave.
Stay away from Raff Finn.
It wasn’t past history making her go. She was doing the right thing.
She tried to back her car so she could turn, but the crowd of onlookers was blocking her way. She touched her horn and Raff glared at her.
How else could she make people move? She did not need to be here. She looked down at her briefcase and thought about the notes inside that she knew had to be in court—now. Then she glanced back at Raff and she thought … She thought …
She thought Rafferty Finn looked toe-curlingly sexy.
Which was ridiculous.
Abby had fallen for Raff when she was eight. It was more than time she was over it. She was over it. She was so over it she was engaged to be married. To Philip.
When Raff had been ten years old, which was when Abby had developed her first crush on him, he’d been skinny, freckled and his red hair had spiked straight up. Twenty years on, skinny had given way to tall, tanned and ripped. His thick curls had darkened to burned copper, and his freckles had merged to an all-over tan. His gorgeous green eyes, with dangerous mischief lurking within, had the capacity to make her catch her breath.
But right now it was his uniform that was causing problems. His uniform was enough to make a girl go right back to feeling as she had at eight years old.
Raff was directing drivers. He was calm, authoritative and far more sexy than any man had a right to be.
‘Henrietta, hold that Dalmatian before it knocks Mrs Ford over. Roger, quit yelling at Mrs Ford. You drove into the dog van, not Mrs Ford, and it doesn’t make a bit of difference that she was going too slow. Back your Volvo up and get it off the road.’
Do not look at Raff Finn, she told herself. Do not.
The man is trouble.
She turned and tried again to reverse her car. Why wouldn’t people move?
Someone was thumping on her window. The door of her car swung open. She swivelled and her heart did a back flip. Raff was standing over her—six foot two of lethal cop. With dog.
‘I need your help, Abby,’ he growled and, before she could react, there was a dog in her car. On her knees.
‘I need you to take him to the vet,’ Raff said. ‘Now.’
The vet?
The local veterinary clinic was half a mile away, on the outskirts of town.
But she wasn’t given a chance to argue. Raff slammed her car door closed and started helping Mrs Ford steer to the kerb.
There was a dog on her knee.
Abby’s grandmother had once owned a shortbread tin adorned with a picture of a dog called Greyfriars Bobby. According to legend—or Gran—Bobby was famous for guarding his master’s grave for almost fourteen years through the bleakest of Edinburgh’s winters. This dog looked his twin. He was smallish but not a toy. His coat was wiry and a bit scruffy, sort of sand-coloured. One of his ears was a bit floppy.
His eyebrows were too long.
Did dogs have eyebrows?
He looked up at her as if he was just as stunned as she was.
What was wrong with him? Why did he need to go to the vet?
He wasn’t bleeding.
She was due in court in ten minutes. Help.
What to do with a dog?
She put a hand on his head and gave him a tentative pat. Very tentative. If she moved him, maybe she’d hurt him. Maybe he’d hurt her.
He wiggled his head to the side and she tried scratching behind his ear. That seemed to be appreciated. His eyes were huge, brown and limpid. He had a raggedy tail and he gave it a tentative wag.
His eyes didn’t leave hers. His eyes were … were …
Let’s cut out the emotion here, she told herself hastily. This dog is nothing to do with you.
She fumbled under the dog for the door catch and climbed out of the car. The dog’s backside sort of slumped as she lifted him. Actually, both ends slumped.
She carried him back to Raff. The little dog looked up at her and his tail still wagged. It seemed a half-hearted wag, as if he wasn’t at all sure where he was but he sort of hoped things might be okay.
She felt exactly the same.
Raff was back in the middle of the crashed cars. ‘Raff, I can’t …’ she called.
Raff had given up trying to get Mrs Ford to steer. He had hold of her steering wheel and was steering himself, pushing at the same time, moving the car to the kerb all by himself. ‘Can’t what?’ he demanded.
‘I can’t take this dog anywhere.’
‘Henrietta says it’s okay,’ Raff snapped. ‘It’s the only one she’s caught. She’s trying to round up the others. Come on, Abby, the road’s clear—how hard is this? Just take him to the vet.’
‘I’m due in court in ten minutes.’
‘So am I.’ Raff shoved Mrs Ford’s car another few feet and then paused for breath. ‘If you think I’ve spent years getting Wallace Baxter behind bars, just to see you and your prissy boyfriend get him off because I can’t make it …’
‘Cut it out, Raff.’
‘Cut what out?’
‘He’s not prissy,’ she snapped. ‘And he’s not my boyfriend. You know he’s my fiancé.’
‘Your fiancé. I stand corrected. But he’s definitely prissy. I’ll bet he’s sitting in court right now, in his smart suit and silk tie—not like me, out here getting my hands dirty. Case for the prosecution—me and the time I can spare after work. Case for the defence—you and Philip and weeks of paid preparation. Two lawyers against one cop.’
‘There’s the Crown Prosecutor …’
‘Who’s eighty. Who sleeps instead of listening. This’ll be a no-brainer, even if you don’t show.’ He shoved the car a bit further. ‘But I’ll be there, whether you like it or not. Meanwhile, take the dog to the vet’s.’
‘You’re saying you want me to take the dog to the vet’s—to keep me out of court?’
‘I’m saying take the dog to the vet’s because there’s no one else,’ he snapped. ‘Your car’s the only one still roadworthy. I’ll radio Justice Weatherby to ask for a half hour delay. That’ll get us both there on time. Get to the vet’s and get back.’
‘But I don’t do dogs,’ she wailed. ‘Raff …’
‘You don’t want to get your suit dirty?’
‘That’s not fair. This isn’t about my suit.’ Or not very. ‘It’s just … What’s wrong with him? I mean … I can’t look after him. What if he bites?’
Raff sighed. ‘He won’t bite,’ he said, speaking to her as if she were eight years old again. ‘He’s a pussycat. His name’s Kleppy. He’s Isaac Abrahams’ Cairn Terrier and he’s on his way to be put down. Put him on your passenger seat and Fred’ll take him out at the other end. All I’m asking you to do is deliver him.’
It was twelve minutes to ten on a beautiful morning in Banksia Bay. The sun was warm on her face. The sea was glittering beyond the harbour and the mountain behind the town was blue with the haze of a still autumn morning. The sounds of the traffic chaos were lessening as Raff’s attempts at restoring order took effect.
Abby stood motionless, her arms full of dog, and Raff’s words replayed in her head.
He’s Isaac Abrahams’ Cairn Terrier and he’s on his way to be put down.
She knew Isaac or, rather, she’d known him. The old man had lived a mile or so out of town, up on Black Mountain where … well, where she didn’t go any more. Isaac had died six weeks ago and she was handling probate. Isaac’s daughter in Sydney had been into the office a couple of times, busy and efficient in her disposing of Isaac’s belongings.
There’d been no talk of a dog.
‘Can you get your car off the road?’ Raff said. ‘You’re blocking traffic.’
She was blocking traffic? But she gazed around and realised she was.
Somehow, magically, Raff had every other car to the side of the road. Raff was like that. He ordered and people obeyed. There were a couple of tow trucks arriving but already cars could get through.
There was no problem. All she had to do was get in the car—with dog—and drive to the vet’s.
But … to take a dog to be put down?
‘Henrietta should do this,’ she said, looking round for the lady she knew ran the Animal Shelter. But Raff put his hands on his cop hips and she thought any minute now he’d get ugly.
‘Henrietta has a van full of dogs to find,’ he snapped.
‘But she runs the Animal Shelter.’
‘So?’
