Renee Roszel - Coming Home To Wed

“You’re very cute, Doc, but you’re not my type.”

Marc blinked and sat back. The fact that he wasn’t her type was certainly no news flash, but her bluntness startled him. Clearly she was feeling no pain. How ironic that her whispered vow was painful for him. Not that he’d wanted her to chase him around the office, but the idea of, well, a little mutual chasing had crept into his thoughts. “I—uh—appreciate your frankness.”

“It’s like this,” Mimi whispered. “I won’t be here for long, and no matter what you think, I don’t jump into the sack for sport.”

He clenched his teeth. Yes, he had made a crack like that, hadn’t he? Leaning forward, he started to speak, then saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. That stopped him dead.

“You don’t like me, Doc.” It wasn’t a question.

He cleared his throat. “I—of course I like you, Miss Baptiste.” I don’t want to like you, he went on mentally, and I’ll be relieved when you’re gone. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not my type, either.”

Dear Reader,

I had so much fun with my ENCHANTED BRIDES trilogy, I decided it would be exciting to write a series about three brothers. I envisaged each brother to be tough and successful in his own right, but lonely—whether he realizes it or not. Then I decided to place these men on a mountain of emeralds located on their own private island.

The heirs to the Merit emerald dynasty, Jake, Marc and Zack are as different as brothers can be. But what they have in common is that they are all gorgeous men—each about to meet one special woman for him.

I hope you enjoy Marc’s story, Coming Home to Wed. Once a doctor in a big city, he yearned for a simpler life. He’s returned home to Merit Island to settle down and the last person he expects to be attracted to is free spirit, Mimi Baptiste.

All my best,

P.S. I love to hear from readers so do, please, write to me at P.O. Box 700154, Tulsa, Oklahoma 74107.

Jake’s story in Honeymoon Hitch #3599.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Linda Fildew

An editor with pizzazz

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE fog that swept stealthily over the surface of the Atlantic didn’t bother Marc. He liked the fog, its cloistered quiet, after long days of taking care of patients. The hours of tending to his charges were endless, but he was content. Six months after taking over old Doc Fleet’s practice, he could make the crossings between Merit Island and the surrounding rocky islets with his eyes closed. Which was lucky, since his radar had gone out earlier that afternoon.

Marc inhaled the damp sea air. He smiled. The night had closed around him like a comfortable old coat, and there wasn’t a sound except for the low growl from his cruiser engine as he slowly made his way home. The ocean was calm. His patients were all bandaged, medicated and reassured. Life was good, if a bit lonely.

The only trouble with being back on Merit Island was the lack of eligible women. His latest nurse, Ursula, had been attractive and enthusiastic about making their doctor-nurse relationship more than it should be. But she hadn’t liked the isolation—or the fact that Marc was not as inclined toward an affair as she. So she’d quit, yesterday. Just like that. Poof! She was gone.

He was overworked and shorthanded as it was. But what country doctor wasn’t? He made a small adjustment in course, sensing more than seeing his way.

That morning he’d put an ad for a nurse in several national medical publications. The salary he offered was exceptional so he knew he’d have a new assistant in a couple of weeks. Three at the most. He winced at the thought of two or three weeks without help and exhaled wearily. Meanwhile—

A jolt and a reverberating boom brought Marc out of his mental meanderings. “What the…?” Something had rammed his cruiser amidships, just behind where he sat at the helm. He flipped on the cargo lights and jumped off his seat to find out what idiot had run into him.

Moving to the side where he’d been hit, he squinted into the fog, now brightly illuminated. It wasn’t hard to distinguish the front of a small catamaran, since the bows of both parallel hulls were crumpled against the side of his cruiser, exposing the smaller boat’s foam-composite core. The fiberglass on the side of his cruiser was badly dented and the gelcoat finish torn up.

He bit back a curse. Out of the corner of his eye, Marc saw somebody slowly rise to stand, hooking an arm around the mast to steady herself on the canvas trampoline. Marc’s frown deepened when he realized the one-man strike force was a petite blonde. What was she doing out here alone in a fog?

After a quick, horrified look at the mangled hulls of her boat, she let out a wail and fisted a hand in her unfettered mass of hair. “Oh, no!” Her gaze lifted to fix on Marc and she jabbed a finger at the damage to her prow. “Look what you did to my boat!”

Marc eyed her with annoyed disbelief. “How thoughtless of me to ram the side of my boat into the front of yours.” He made the remark with distinct, sarcastic overtones. “Try to forgive me.”

She ran a shaky hand through her hair, plainly agitated. “But—but this isn’t even my boat!”

“I suppose you were just passing by when you heard the crash and decided to investigate?”

Her glance shot from the damage back to his face. “Not that I don’t appreciate stinging satire!” she shouted. “But it’s not particularly helpful at the moment.” Making a pained face, she shook her head. “What am I going to do? I can’t sail this thing back to shore like this! It’ll sink!”

“I doubt that, but you won’t be able to steer it,” Marc said. Something dark began to ooze down her forehead and he experienced a prick of concern. “You’re bleeding.” He indicated the spot on his own forehead. “You must have hit your head.”

“Of course, I hit my head! I was in an accident!” She touched the trickle and grimaced at the blood on her fingers. “This is just perfect!”

“I’d better take a look at it.” He pulled some rope from a storage cabinet, deciding he had no choice but to tie the catamaran to his cruiser. He couldn’t leave a bleeding, possibly concussed woman out in a fog on a damaged boat.

“Don’t bother about me, mister,” she called. “I can take care of myself.”