Under the Spaniard's Lock and Key. Kim Lawrence

       Every inch of Rafael’s tall, lean, muscle-packed frame oozed sex—every hollow and plane of his dark face. Maggie’s eyes drifted from the full curve of his sensual upper lip to his hooded glittering gaze, and her level of anxiety went off the scale.

      ‘You’ve never had a one-night stand, have you?’

      Maggie considered lying, but decided it was doubtful she could pull it off. ‘Not as such…’ she conceded reluctantly.

      He leaned into her close, very close, but not touching. ‘But you came with me. What were you thinking of…?’

      Kim Lawrence lives on a farm in rural Anglesey. She runs two miles daily and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing! It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons, and the various stray animals which have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!

      Under The Spaniard’s Lock and Key

      BY

      Kim Lawrence

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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      CHAPTER ONE

      SUSAN Ward manoeuvred herself down the ramp into the kitchen, her daughter and husband protectively shadowing her progress.

      Propping her crutches against the chair her husband pulled out, Susan lowered herself into her seat, ignoring her nearest and dearest as they hovered anxiously.

      Maggie, watching the procedure apprehensively, released a relieved sigh when her mum was safely seated. ‘You’re getting pretty good on those things, Mum,’ she observed, privately concerned that she was also far too ambitious. It was lucky her dad was now retired from his job on the oil rigs so was around to keep an eye on things when she wasn’t.

      It had been three months since the experimental surgery, but to see her mum, who had been confined to a wheelchair for the last eighteen years, on her feet even for short periods still gave Maggie a thrill.

      And now, if things went according to plan, in a couple of months she would no longer need the chair or even the crutches.

      Susan dismissed the comment and turned her frowning regard on her daughter, who took a seat opposite. ‘Never mind that, how are you feeling? Really feeling,’ she added, holding up her hand in anticipation of her daughter’s reply. ‘She looks exhausted, doesn’t she, John?’ She appealed to her husband for support.

      John Ward’s warm glance swept his daughter’s pale face, touching the warm dark ebony curls that clustered around her heart-shaped face. ‘She looks beautiful.’

      Oh, well, Maggie reflected, at least I have got one fan even if he is my dad. ‘Thank you, though according to you I was beautiful when I was twenty pounds too heavy, had teenage acne and braces,’ she reminded him.

      ‘Don’t change the subject, Maggie,’ her mother said sternly.

      ‘I told you, I’m fine, Mum,’ she replied, pasting a determinedly cheerful smile on her face to illustrate the level of her fineness.

      She had perfected the ‘I’m fine’ smile a long time ago, because no matter how bad her day had been Maggie had always been pretty sure growing up that her mum’s had been worse.

      This conviction dated from the day when her dad had returned home from the hospital with her baby brother and no Mum—she had been four at the time.

      Her other brother Ben, at the noisy toddler stage, had run around the room while John Ward sat with baby Sam in his arms and explained to Maggie that Mum would not be coming home yet and when she did Maggie would have to be a big girl and help her because Mum was not well.

      Maggie had only vaguely understood the explanation of what was wrong with her mother, but she had known it was bad because her big strong dad didn’t cry.

      The tears had scared her and made her feel sick inside. She had begged him to stop crying, and promised that if he did she would never ever be a bad girl.

      Of course she had not been able to keep that promise, but the determination that had been born that day to protect her mum and stop her dad crying had never left her.

      Compared with what her mum had coped with, a broken engagement and a cancelled wedding faded into insignificance.

      ‘Seriously, I am fine,’ Maggie promised in response to the sceptical looks directed her way as she anchored her heavy dark hair at the nape of her neck with one hand and accepted the mug of coffee her father passed her. ‘I’m just sorry about messing everyone about this way,’ she added, her brow furrowing as she tried to calculate how much her parents had already laid out on the wedding.

      It was easier to address the practicalities of the situation than think about what an idiot she had been. ‘All that money,’ she fretted.

      ‘Forget the money,’ her father said firmly. ‘That’s not important—’ He broke off mid sentence as the door opened to let in a cold gust of air and two young men in muddy rugby kit.

      They ignored their sister, grunted in the direction of their father and mother before heading for the fridge.

      ‘Glass, Sam,’ Susan said out of habit as her younger son raised a carton of milk to his lips.

      He lowered the carton and said, ‘We lost, if anyone’s interested.’

      His older and slightly more intuitive brother nudged him with his elbow and removed the pad he was holding to his own cut lip. ‘They’re not interested, Sam. So what’s up, guys?’

      Maggie got to her feet. Telling her parents had been bad enough—they at least, bless them, had not asked any awkward questions even though she knew they were dying to. She could not, however, rely on her brothers to be similarly restrained. ‘Nothing. That lip could do with a stitch,’ she added, casting an expert eye over her brother’s mouth.

      Ben rolled his eyes and, taking the carton from his brother, took a swig of milk before subjecting his sister to an equally critical narrow eyed stare. ‘Sure. You always look like death warmed up.’

      ‘I’ve just worked a ten-night stretch in a busy casualty department,’ Maggie reminded him.

      ‘So?’ Ben retorted, looking unimpressed. ‘Nothing new there—you always work crazy hours. You have to be certifiably insane to be a nurse.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Maggie’s mouth twisted into a grim little smile.

      Simon had called her the perfect nurse. The recollection sent her stomach muscles into tight unpleasant spasm, though, to be totally accurate, apparently Simon had been quoting his mother, the possessive Mrs Greer, whom Maggie had found to be manipulative and very overprotective of her only child, when he said this.

      She