A Nanny For Christmas. Sara Craven

      Cover Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN Endpage Copyright

      Dear Santa,

      

      Please can I have a new nanny?

      

      I’d like her to be good at stories, games and kind to teddy bears and to Daddy....

      

      I really want a mommy but Daddy says she isn’t coming back, and he’s doing his best to get me a new one but in the meantime I have to have a nanny to look after me.

      

      Love,

      

      Tara

      Dear Reader,

      

      A perfect nanny can be tough to find, but once you’ve found her you’ll love and treasure her forever. She’s someone who’ll not only look after the kids but could also be that loving mom they never knew. Or sometimes she’s a he and is the daddy they are wishing for.

      

      We hope you have enjoyed our compelling series, NANNY WANTED! This month’s book, A Nanny for Christmas, is from bestselling author Sara Craven.

      

      Happy reading!

      

      The Editors

      A Nanny For Christmas

      Sara Craven

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘YOUR favourite customer is back.’ Lynn shouldered her way through the swing doors into the kitchen with a tray of dirty crockery.

      ‘That little girl again?’ Phoebe glanced up, frowning, from her task of adding a salad garnish to a plate of egg mayonnaise sandwiches. ‘Is she still on her own?’

      ‘As ever was.’ Lynn began expertly to pack the dishwasher. ‘Odd, isn’t it?’

      Phoebe’s frown deepened. ‘I think it’s downright irresponsible of someone,’ she said roundly. ‘She’s far too young to be wandering around the streets alone. I wouldn’t say she was much more than seven.’

      ‘She’s safe enough in here,’ Lynn pointed out fairly. ‘The Clover Tea Rooms isn’t exactly a meeting place for kidnappers and perverts.’

      ‘As far as we know,’ Phoebe said grimly, filling a milk jug and placing it on her own tray together with a teapot, a sugar basin and the sandwiches.

      As she carried it through to the dining room she cast a worried glance towards the comer table by the window and its small occupant.

      The child had been coming in for the past three days, at the same time each afternoon. On the first occasion Phoebe had assumed she was waiting for some adult to join her.

      Instead, the little girl had asked for a menu.

      ‘Would you like me to tell you what there is?’ Phoebe had suggested, receiving a look of utmost scorn for her pains.

      ‘I can read it for myself, thank you,’ a clear, remarkably self-possessed voice told her, before placing an order for a sultana scone and a cup of hot chocolate.

      Even then, Phoebe hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to wait for the rest of your family? Our food is quite expensive, you see.’

      Scorn deepened into outrage in the child’s eyes. ‘I can afford to pay,’ she announced with immense dignity. She delved into her tote bag and produced a crisp five-pound note. ‘Will that be enough?’

      ‘More than enough,’ Phoebe allowed evenly, and went to get the order.

      Her meal finished, the little girl paid, worked out a tip with frowning concentration and left. A pattern that had now become established, although it made Phoebe no happier.

      This time, the child asked for hot milk with honey and nutmeg and some home-made biscuits.

      ‘You’re becoming quite a regular,’ Phoebe remarked, trying to sound casual as she placed the order on the table. ‘But, unlike most of our customers, we don’t know your name.’

      There was a pause, then the little girl said doubtfully, ‘I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.’

      ‘And quite right too,’ Phoebe approved warmly. ‘But I’m hardly a stranger. For one thing I feed you every day, and, for another, my name’s pinned on my shirt. So...?’ She waited expectantly.

      There was a pause, then the child said reluctantly, ‘I’m Tara Vane.’

      ‘That’s a pretty name.’ Phoebe gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Do you live in Westcombe?’

      This brought a decisive shake of the head. ‘I live at Fitton Magna.’

      Phoebe was silent for a moment, angry to realise that her heart was pounding suddenly. It’s only a place, she reminded herself. And what happened was six years ago. It has nothing to do with here and now.

      ‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Then you have a long journey home.’

      Tara gave her a superior look. ‘It’s fifteen miles. It doesn’t take long in the car.’

      ‘Ah.’ Phoebe relaxed with an effort. ‘Then you go home with Mummy.’

      She saw the small back stiffen. ‘I haven’t got a mummy. Not any more.’

      Oh, God, Phoebe groaned inwardly. She said quietly, ‘I’m very sorry, Tara. It—it’s something we have in common, I’m afraid.’

      Tara gave her an interested look. ‘Then do you live with your daddy too?’

      Phoebe bit her lip as the pain of all too recent events slashed at her again. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

      ‘I expect he’s away on business,’ Tara said thoughtfully. ‘My daddy’s away all the time. That’s why I have Cindy to look after me.’

      Oh, do you? thought Phoebe. Then she’s not making a very good job of it.

      Aloud, she said gently, ‘Everyone needs someone, Tara. And it’s good that we’ve got to know each other a little. Now we can say hello if we meet in the street.’

      ‘I’m