His Little Girl
Daddy on the run!When John Gannon turned up on her brother-in-law's doorstep one cold, stormy night there was nothing Dora could do but let him in. It wasn't so much his devastating charm and slow, sexy smile that convinced her she should help a man clearly on the run, but the adorable little girl in his arms.But, even though Gannon was long on charm and short on explanation, Dora believed his story enough to help him. It was obvious that whatever else Gannon was, he was a devoted father, and would do anything to keep little Sophie safe. Too bad the only thing keeping Dora safe from Gannon was his misconception that she was Richard's wife.
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“Just how many laws have you broken?”About the AuthorTitle PageCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCopyright
“Just how many laws have you broken?”
“I wasn’t counting. Let’s see. There’s removing a child from a refugee camp without permission. Then there is the small detail of smuggling her across more international borders than I can at this moment recall....”
“Is that it?”
“Apart from breaking and entering, of course. But you already know about that one. Will you press charges, Dora?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Gannon. I’m already an accessory after the fact in that one. I meant serious stuff. If I’m going to ask friends for favors, I need to know that you’re not...” A crook. Using Sophie as a shield. Using me. “Well, I don’t know a whole lot about you,” she finished, somewhat lamely.
“I just wanted to get my daughter to safety, Dora. Bring her home.”
“But if she’s your daughter, Gannon, why didn’t you just go through the proper channels?”
“Have you any idea how long it would have taken? I was desperate. It was that or leave her there while the wheels of bureaucracy ground ever so slowly.” Despite the pain and weariness his look was suddenly razor sharp. “You wouldn’t have left her in there, would you, Dora?”
Born and raised in Berkshire, Liz Fielding started writing at the age of twelve when she won a hymn-writing competition at her convent school. After a gap of more years than she is prepared to admit to, during which she worked as a secretary in Africa and the Middle East, got married and had two children, she was finally able to realize her ambition and turn to full-time writing in 1992.
You can visit Liz Fielding’s Web site via Harlequin at: http://www.romance.net
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CHAPTER ONE
SOMETHING woke Dora. One minute she was sleeping, the next wide awake, her ears straining through all the familiar night noises of the countryside for the out-of-place sound that had woken her.
She had fled to the country for peace, but after the constant traffic noise of London she’d found the quiet almost eerie the first night she’d stayed alone at Richard and Poppy’s cottage. Soon, though, her ears had adjusted to the different sounds of the countryside, and she’d realised that what had at first seemed like silence was subverted by all manner of small noises.
Now she lay quite still, listening to the familiar night time orchestra. The gentle gurgling of the small river less than a hundred yards from the door of the cottage as it swirled through the reeds; the slow trickle of rain along the guttering; the sombre dripping as the trees shed the water dumped by a passing scurry of rain.
Punctuating these watery sounds there was the irritable grumbling of a duck, itself disturbed by something. A fox, perhaps? The first time Dora had heard the unearthly rattle made by the night-time hunter her blood had run quite cold; after a week at the cottage she was not so timid.
She swung out of bed and crossed swiftly to the window, ready to fling abuse, and whatever else came to hand, at the marauding intruder. But the landscape, momentarily bleached by a high, white moon as the scudding rainclouds cleared, revealed the dark humps of sleeping ducks. On the surface the riverbank seemed peaceful enough. Not a fox, then.
She propped her elbows on the window ledge for a moment, resting her chin on her hands, and leaned forward to breathe in the night air. It was full of the rich, mingled scents of honeysuckle, stocks and the roses climbing against the wall beneath her window, underscored, after the sudden shower of rain, by the heavy sweetness of damp earth. It was such an English smell, she thought, something to be treasured after the stomach-churning horrors she had encountered in the refugee camps.
Then, in the far distance, there was a glimmer of lightning followed by a low rumble of thunder moving away with the rainclouds. Dora gave a little shiver and pulled the window shut. It was undoubtedly the thunder that had woken her, and, trapped in the Thames Valley, it would be back. The thought raised gooseflesh that shivered over her skin.
She rubbed her arms and turned quickly from the window to reach for her silk wrap, knowing that with thunder on the loose she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. Downstairs she could switch on the hi-fi to drown out the noise, and she could always catch up on sleep later—one of the many pleasures of being entirely on her own, with a telephone number that no one but close family knew.
She raised the latch on the bedroom door, stepped onto the landing. She’d make some tea first and then...
And then she heard the sound again, and knew that it hadn’t been thunder that had woken her.
