Cavanaugh Strong

“Well, rumour has it she’s been engaged twice.”

“She broke it off?” Duncan guessed.

Holloway shook his head, looking like the proverbial cat that had gotten into the cream. “Nope, she didn’t have to. They both died. She didn’t even get to walk up to the altar once.” Pausing dramatically, Holloway gave it to the count of two before adding, “The first one left her pregnant.”

Because he belonged to an extended family that could have easily acquired its own zip code, Duncan’s interest went up a notch. “She has kids?”

“Kid,” Holloway corrected, holding up his forefinger. “One.”

“A daughter. Her name’s Melinda. She’s almost six. Anything else you want to know?” a melodious low voice coming from directly behind him said, completing the picture.

Duncan turned his chair around a hundred and eighty degrees to face her. Up close the energy almost crackled between them. He would have to be dead not to notice.

Cavanaugh

Strong

Marie Ferrarella

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARIE FERRARELLA, a USA TODAY bestselling and RITA^>® Award-winning author, has written more than two hundred books for Mills & Boon, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website, www.marieferrarella.com.

To

Patience Bloom, who lets me spin stories and makes my dreams come true

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“C’mon, Henry, I know you’re in there. Did you forget about our lunch date?” Lucinda O’Banyon paused to press her ear against the door she’d just been knocking on, trying to ascertain if she heard any movement within the closed-off room. Though she was well into her seventies, her hearing was still good. “Open up, Henry. I can stand out here longer than you can play possum, old man. You know that.”

Lucy took a step back, keeping her eyes on the door.

It remained shut.

Lucy blew out a breath and frowned. This wasn’t like Henry.

She and Henry Robbins had an “unofficial” standing date for every other Thursday afternoon for several years now, ever since, in a fit of depression, her friend had sold his house and moved in to the Happy Senior Retirement Home.

As far as Lucy was concerned, the latter was a misnomer if she’d ever heard one.

“There’s nothing ‘happy’ about shoehorning a bunch of older people into tiny rooms and dictating every facet of their lives from here on in,” she had told Henry when she’d heard what he planned on doing.

Only a year older than she was, after one surgery had left him feeling weak and far from his old fit self, Henry had been advised by his doctor that he might be better off in a place where help was available 24/7. And even though Lucy had reminded her childhood friend several times that she was only a phone call away, Henry had sold his house and thus opted to “withdraw from life,” as she had phrased it.

After she had reconciled herself to his decision, she’d begun visiting him at The Home—and watched, to her horror, Henry become progressively more morose. Which was why she’d made up her mind that today, as tactfully as she could, she was going to suggest that Henry move in with her—strictly on a platonic basis. She intended to make sure he understood that part. They were friends, always had been. It had never gone beyond that.

A year ago, her stipulation would have gotten a wicked response from Henry who fancied himself to be somewhat of a ladies’ man. But he’d changed in the past year.

Blessed with incredible health and excellent eyesight, Lucy still had her driver’s license at seventy-eight and she made a point of driving Henry as far away as possible from this so-called “happy” home.

He still wasn’t opening the door. What was that man up to? she wondered.

“Henry, you leave me no choice. I hope you’re decent because I’m coming in,” Lucy announced, putting her hand on the doorknob.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a pleasant, albeit somewhat condescending and authoritative, voice behind her said before she could turn the doorknob and let herself into Henry’s room.

Surprised, Lucy turned around to see Amanda Wright. The rather attractive, statuesque dark-haired woman, who volunteered a couple of days a week at the home, was standing almost directly behind her.

“Henry likes his privacy,” Amanda told her.

Lucy’s back went up. She resented this woman, in her early fifties, presuming to know her lifelong friend better than she did.

For the sake of peace, Lucy took a breath in order to subdue her temper and then said, “Honey, Henry and I go way back. I knew him when he used to smile,” she added after a beat.

Amanda raised her chin. Taller by five inches, the woman gave the impression that she was looking down at her. “Henry told me that he wasn’t feeling well after breakfast. I suggest that you let him rest,” the volunteer told her. “Perhaps even come back later for your little visit.”