All about the authorâ¦
Robyn Donald
Greetings! Iâm often asked what made me decide to be a writer of romances. Well, it wasnât so much a decision as an inevitable conclusion. Growing up in a family of readers helped, and shortly after I started school I began whispering stories in the dark to my two sisters. Although most of those tales bore a remarkable resemblance to whatever book I was immersed in, there were times when a new idea would pop into my brainâmy first experience of the joy of creativity.
Growing up in New Zealand, in the subtropical north, gave me a taste for romantic landscapes and exotic gardens. But it wasnât until I was in my mid-twenties that I read a Harlequin book and realized that the country I love came alive when populated by strong, tough men and spirited women.
By then I was married and a working mother, but into my busy life I crammed hours of writing; my family has always been hugely supportive. And when I finally plucked up enough courage to send off a manuscript, it was accepted. The only thing I can compare that excitement to is the delight of bearing a child.
Since then itâs been a roller-coaster ride of fun and hard work and wonderful letters from fans.
ABBY stared at the list of things to do before leaving, and let out a long, slow breath, her brows drawing together as another feather of unease ghosted down her spine. Every item had a slash through it, so her unconscious wasnât trying to warn her sheâd forgotten something.
It had startedâoh, a couple of months ago, at first just a light tug of tension, a sensation as though sheâd lost the top layer of skin, that had slowly intensified into a genuinely worrying conviction that she was being watched.
Was this how Gemmaâs premonitions had felt? Or had she herself finally succumbed to paranoia?
Whatever, she couldnât take any risks.
Driven into action by the nameless fear, sheâd resigned from her part-time job at the doctorâs surgery and made plans to disappear from the small town hard against New Zealandâs Southern Alpsâthe town that had been her and Michaelâs refuge for the past three years.
The same creepy sensation tightened her already-taut nerves another notch. She put the list down on the scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen and prowled once more through the cottage, switching lights on and off as she examined each room.
Back in the inconvenient little living room, chilly now that the fire had collapsed into sullen embers, she stopped beside the bag on the sofa that held necessities for tomorrowâs journey. Everything else she and Michael ownedâclothes, toys, booksâwas already stuffed into the boot of her elderly car. Not even a scrap of paper hinted at their three yearsâ residence.
Yet that persistent foreboding still nagged at her. All her life sheâd loved to lie in bed and listen to the more-pork call, but tonight she shivered at the little owlâs haunting, plaintive cry from the patch of bush on the farm next door. And when she caught herself flinching at the soft wail of the wind under the eaves, she dragged in a deep breath and glanced at her watch.
âStop it right now!â she said sturdily. âNothingâs going to happen.â
But the crawling, baseless unease had kept her wired and wide-eyed three hours past her normal bedtime. At this rate she wouldnât sleep a wink.
So why not leave now?
Although sheâd planned to start early in the morning, Michael would sleep as well in his child seat as he did in bed. He probably wouldnât even wake when she picked him up. No one would see them go, and at this time of night the roads were empty.
The decision made, she moved quickly to collect and pack her night attire and sponge bag and the clothes sheâd put out for Michael in the morning. She picked up her handbag, opened it and groped for the car keys.
Only to freeze at a faint soundâthe merest scrabble, the sort of sound a small animal might make as it scuttled across the gravel outside.
A typical night noise, nothing to worry about.
Yet she strained to hear, the keys cutting into her palm as her hand clenched around them. Unfortunately her heart thudded so heavily in her ears it blocked out everything but the bleating of a sheep from the next paddock. The maternal, familiar sound should have been reassuring; instead, it held a note of warning.
âOh, for heavenâs sake, stop being so melodramatic,â she muttered, willing her pulse to settle back into a more even rhythm. âNo one cares a bit that youâre leaving Nukuroa.â
Very few people would miss her, and if they knew that sheâd been driven away from their remote village by a persistent, irrational foreboding theyâd think she was going mad. After all, sheâd scoffed at Gemma.
But if she was heading for a breakdown, who would look after Michaelâ?