id="ua69bb23c-d2dd-52e5-8417-774d7476076f">
“I just have to say it, don’t I? Steve, I’m pregnant.”
Whump!
That was the sound of his backside hitting the couch with force. He suddenly knew what the expression “legs turning to jelly” meant, in a way he never had before. Beyond the beating of blood in his head, he had wit enough to understand at once that his first reaction to this news was critical. Still, the only thing he could come up with at first was “That’s a surprise.”
“I know.” She nodded. She flushed, then smiled, and that gave him his first clue.
She’s thrilled.
It’s possible one day I’ll regret that I wrote this book. I love my American heroine, Candace, with her combination of strength and vulnerability. I don’t regret her. She really deserves Steve Colton, the sexy Australian doctor who comes into her life. I love the way their story develops—sex comes early and real life hits them hard soon afterward. I love the atmosphere of surgery and the cast of minor characters, particularly Candace’s mother. No regrets there, either.
What I’ll regret is the fact that I’ve given away one of Australia’s great, undiscovered secrets—the beautiful coastline south of Sydney, stretching for miles and miles. As you’ll find out when you read The Surgeon’s Love-Child, some of those gorgeous beaches are deserted enough that you can walk for an hour and scarcely see another human being…or make love in the dunes after dark without fear of discovery.
I hope you love Candace and Steve’s story, and that the setting inspires some of you to come for a visit. But please don’t tell anyone. We want to keep the place to ourselves, don’t you think?
Lilian Darcy
The Surgeon’s Love-Child
Lilian Darcy
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
CONTENTS
HE WAS holding up a sign with her name on it, but he wasn’t Terry Davis.
Definitely not.
Terry wouldn’t have needed a sign. He and Candace had known each other, on and off, for years. She would have recognised his weatherbeaten face at once, and he would have seen her coming towards him through the milling crowd of arrivals at Sydney’s international airport. He would have smiled.
This man wasn’t smiling. He hadn’t seen her yet. He hadn’t realised that Candace had spotted her name, scrawled quickly by hand in black felt-tip pen on a makeshift rectangle of cardboard, and that she was zeroing in on it.
This man looked much younger than Terry. Early thirties, tall and fit and medium dark, with a body that somehow managed to be both solid and lean at the same time. He was wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt that hugged his form closely. In contrast, Terry was well past fifty, and had always looked his age. He never wore jeans.
Candace herself—DR CANDACE FLETCHER, as the sign correctly stated—was thirty-eight years old and intensely conscious of the fact. She had been for months and was, suddenly, particularly conscious of it now. It had been twenty-four hours since she had left Boston. She must look like a dog’s breakfast, despite a recent freshening in the unappealing cubicle of the aircraft toilet.
She reached the stranger and his sign, and was tempted to wave a hand in front of his face. Hell-o-o-o! I’m here! He was still scanning the crowd with a frown etched across his high, squarish forehead. Apparently, she didn’t look like her name.
‘Are you waiting
