The Unmarried Bride
A Strange State of Affairs Sharing the same island hideaway with gorgeous Selby Farnsworth and his mischievous son wasn't Abby's idea of heaven - especially with all the chaos created by the two Farnsworth men. TLC was in short supply and Abby seemed destined to dole it out in large doses.Selby, in return, seemed determined to dazzle her with kisses. Slowly but surely, the island was becoming paradise. Until a throng of reporters showed up demanding to know what Congressman Farnsworth was doing there - and just who was the lovely woman with him? And that's when Selby told them Abby was his wife!
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
ABIGAIL CONSTANCE SPENCER arched her back to relieve the strain, swept up her skirts under her, and sat down on the stone step that guarded the front porch. Behind her, through the open door, the hall gleamed and the kitchen sparkled. This morning at six Abby had looked pert and determined, while the house had looked as if Attila the Hun had dropped by; now, in the softness of a late summer twilight, the house sparkled and gleamed, while Abby drooped.
She dropped her head forward on to her arms, her straw-blonde hair falling like a mist around her head. It had all been worth it, she told herself. Uncle Theodore, after eighty-nine cantankerous years, had upped and died, leaving the tiny island and his good wishes to his great-grandniece Abigail Spencer.
‘My house and anything she can find in it,’ his will said. ‘She is the only relative I have who refuses to bicker with me.’ It must have been sarcasm, she chuckled to herself. Of all his living relatives, Abby was the one Uncle Teddy had spent years carefully avoiding, which made the bang-up arguments he was always seeking with other family members impossible with her. And besides, she liked the old codger.
Certainly he would never have considered it an advantage that his house stood isolated at the top of one of the two small hills on Umatec Island, looking down on to the hurrying waters of Narraganset Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Isolated, but picture-perfect for a woman who made a precarious living reviewing the endless horde of mediocre novels that rolled off the presses, all for the edification of the readers of the Washington Sunday Mirror.
She had come late in the holiday season because of Aunt Letty. Great-aunt Letty, that was. ‘You’re worn to a frazzle, girl. Practically all bones, you are. You suffer from over-management,’ her great-aunt had lectured. ‘Your mother, your brothers, that crazy newspaper editor—all of them sworn to manage your life for you. Go up to Umatec, and relax.’
So here I am, Abby told herself. Bound and determined to relax. Just as soon as I get all those little jobs finished, I’m determined to relax!
Soft fur caressed Abby’s ankle. She opened one green eye. Cleo, her almost pure-bred collie, was rubbing the silver-grey fur on top of her head against Abby’s bare feet. ‘Pure-bred,’ Abby said, teasing. ‘Hah! Your father was a sheep-dog and your mother came from the South Sea Islands—or something.’ Her dog stared at her from solid green eyes, and turned disdainfully away.
Uncle Teddy had hated dogs! He had certainly been far out to sea concerning Cleo, she thought. Despite the complimentary thought the collie offered one very snobbish sneer down her long nose and wandered away. Tired, Abby dropped her head on her arms again and closed her eyes. How about that? she told herself. Even your own dog won’t talk to you! And then she dozed.
‘What are you doin’ to my house?’ An insistent male demand, coming just forward of her chin. Abigail snapped her head up and opened one eye. Umatec was one tiny spot of an island, one of the chain of Elizabeth Islands that stretched from the underflank of Cape Cod down into Long Island sound. Certainly it was no place to expect a determined four-foot taffy-headed male dressed in a nondescript pair of swimming-trunks and a belligerent look. The look covered more than the swimming-trunks did.
Abby had seen her share and more of belligerent males; it was one of the reasons she had fled the city with her bulging briefcase. Nothing seemed to sting the psyche of endless male detective story-writers more than to read her usually gentle comments in the Sunday Mirror. Why her editors referred to her as the ‘vitriol lady’ she could never understand. And if the writers ever discovered that Cicero was a female the skies would fall.
But this particular male, although out of place, did not seem large enough to cause any serious trouble. She bit on the challenge. ‘As it happens, it’s my house, young man, and I’m cleaning it. Just what the devil are you doing here?’
The freckled face screwed itself up. ‘No, it ain’t your house. I live here. Me and my dad.’ And then a wave of suspicion. ‘Did my dad sell you my house?’
‘I don’t suppose he did.’ Abby patted the step beside her in a tacit offer of debate. The little boy looked her up and down cautiously and backed off one step. He folded his hands behind his back, as if he was not willing to take any chances with the woman in front of him.
‘I inherited this house—and the island too, for that matter, from my uncle Theodore,’ Abby continued. ‘And now that I’ve got the house cleaned up I intend to live here.’
The boy’s upper lip began to quiver. ‘You can’t do that to my house,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna tell my dad. He’ll have you arrested and thrown in gaol. What do you think about that?’
‘I can’t say that I’m terribly pleased. Where is this dad of yours? Hiding?’
