Nanny Makes Three. Joan Kilby

      Gregory cleared his throat.

      “I, uh, want you to know, although it goes without saying… I mean, you don’t have to worry that I’ll, ahem, take advantage of our situation.”

      “What do you mean?” Melissa turned to face him, soapy water dripping from her hands.

      “You’re a young attractive woman living in a house with a single man – ”

      “Oh, that!” Melissa said, astonished. “I never imagined that you and I… Why, you’re too ol – ”

      Old. He raised his dark brows. “I’m too what?”

      “O-old-fashioned,” she stammered. “I mean that in the nicest sense possible. You’re a gentleman.” She took a deep breath. “Besides, you’ve made it quite clear you think I’m a loon.”

      He smiled tightly, still stinging from her assessment. He wanted to tell her that younger women than her had given him the eye. “Loon might be a little harsh.”

       ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      When Joan Kilby isn’t working on her next romance novel, she can often be found sipping a latte at a pavement café and indulging in her favourite pastime of people watching. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she now lives in Australia with her husband and three children. She enjoys cooking as a creative outlet and gets some of her best story ideas while watching her Jack Russell terrier chase waves at the beach.

      Dear Reader,

      I couldn’t wait to go back to Tipperary Springs to write about Melissa, Ally’s sister from Party of Three. I knew even then that Julio, the Argentinian acrobat, wasn’t right for her. But what man could hold her interest and keep her feet on the ground?

      Melissa is, let’s face it, a bit of a ditz. Her hero had to be strong, unruffled and deeply caring. Gregory juggles a law practice with running a rare-breed pig farm and bringing up Alice Ann. On the surface, Melissa doesn’t appear to be the best person to help others. But as it turned out, there was a whole lot more to her than even she knew.

      I had so much fun researching the Wessex Saddleback pigs that Gregory raises. I visited a couple of real farms and discovered for myself how delightful and individual these creatures can be. Like Melissa, at one point I was surrounded by a dozen young pigs all nibbling at my boots and pants. I was surprised to learn that when startled, the pigs bark like a dog, just before running away.

      I hope you enjoy Melissa and Gregory’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at www. joankilby. com or write to me at PO Box 234, Point Roberts, WA 98281-0234, USA.

       Joan Kilby

      Nanny Makes Three

      JOAN KILBY

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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      I’d like to thank Fiona Chambers of Fernleigh

      Farms, who generously took time out of her

      busy work day to show me her gorgeous Wessex

      Saddleback pigs and answer my many questions.

      Anthony and Tina Dusty were also extremely

      helpful, providing information and anecdotes

      that played an important part in writing

      this story.

      CHAPTER ONE

      MELISSA CUMMINGS BUZZED down Balderdash Road in her apple-green Volkswagen Beetle, flipping between stations in search of country music. A little Keith Urban would be nice, or Missy Higgins. All she could find were ads and news.

      …fine and warm this autumn afternoon in Melbourne…

      …woman and two children missing from their Ballarat home…

      …two for one at Carpet Emporium…

      Dappled light filtered through the towering gum trees that crowded the narrow road. Melissa rounded a bend and shrieked as a figure darted in front of the car. She swerved, barely missing a boy of about eight years old. She had a fleeting glimpse of carrot-red hair and a blue T-shirt before the kid, his small limbs churning, dived into the thick undergrowth.

      Melissa brought the car to a skidding halt, her heart racing.

      Where had the boy gone? Was he hurt?

      In the rearview mirror she saw a toy fire engine lying on its side across the center line.

      Slowly she reversed, winding down the window. “Hello, little boy? Are you all right?”

      The hot afternoon was heavy with the throb of cicadas and the resinous scent of eucalyptus. A magpie lifted his black-and-white head and sent forth a liquid warble. Melissa gripped the wheel with one hand and worried at a hangnail on the other with her teeth. Had she actually hit the boy? She couldn’t remember feeling any impact. But if he wasn’t hurt, why hadn’t he come out of the bushes? He could be lying in there, unable to move. What if he needed a doctor?

      She turned off the engine and climbed out of the car.

      Picking up the fire engine, she wobbled into the bush in her high heels. “Helloo,” she sang out. “I’m coming.”

      Dear God, please don’t let him be dead.

      The dry grass brushed against her bare legs and left tiny seeds caught on the lace hem of her skirt. She forced herself to move steadily through the thick undergrowth. A trickle of perspiration dripped down her back beneath the sleeveless top. She crept to one side of a shrub and pulled back the leafy branches. A small boy, dirty and disheveled, peered up at her, clearly terrified.

      “Thank goodness you’re alive.” Melissa held out his toy. “Are you hurt?”

      The child snatched it from her hand and ran, only to stumble on a fallen limb hidden in the grass. He fell with a cry and rolled to one side, clutching his leg. Blood streamed from a gash on his shin.

      At the sight of the blood, spots swam in front of Melissa’s eyes. She was going to faint. Deep breath in, deep breath out. First—stop the bleeding. She couldn’t even think until the boy’s leg was bandaged.

      “Don’t worry,” she said, as much to reassure herself as him. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in my car.”

      “Mum! Where are you?” The boy struggled to his feet, ignoring the blood still running down his leg. His ankle buckled under him.

      “Josh!” A petite blond woman popped out from behind a bush a few yards away and pushed through the tall grass. She had a leather purse slung over her shoulder, and in her other hand she carried a plastic grocery bag. Her taupe linen top and khaki capri pants were smudged with dirt, and the scratches on her tanned calves were beaded with blood. When she reached the boy she threw her arms around him.

      “Mummy!” A little girl of about six, with strawberry-blond hair, emerged from