Marion Lennox - Nikki And The Lone Wolf / Mardie And The City Surgeon

Nikki and The

Lone Wolf

Mardie and The

City Surgeon

Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Nikki and The Lone Wolf

Marion Lennox

Dear Reader,

Every night around five o’clock my dog, Mitzi, starts pacing. She starts with a mournful sigh, then trudges to the door where her lead hangs, then back to me. Over and over. Finally, I relent. Snow, sleet or baking sun, off we go to our local lake, where I let her off the lead and she can run.

And she does run—a black and silver mini-schnauzer, the runt of the litter, a little dog in a huge dog’s body, mixing with all the other dogs who’ve had similar success getting their lead-holders out of their houses. We love it.

Mitzi’s best mates are wolfhounds—two vast mutts who play with her as if she’s an equal. She does doughnuts through their legs while I chat to their owner, Wolfhound Man, their equal in the large department—though a lot better-looking. A lot!

So for this story, when I needed a dog and a hero, there they were in my head—my wolfhound, Horse, and the man who loves him. Wolfhound Man has become Gabe, a sea captain and all-round hero, and of course there’s Nikki, a heroine deserving of both man and dog. I’m imagining you, my reader, as my heroine, and I hope you do, too. And you don’t even have to feed a wolfhound to do it.

I love the dogs in my life. I love the dogs in my books. But what I love most is when they come together with passion and laughter, and write themselves into love stories for you to enjoy with me.

Happy reading!

Marion

MARION LENNOXis a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a “very special doctor”, Marion writes Medical Romances as well as Mills & Boon ®Cherish ™. She’s now had over seventy-five romance novels accepted for publication.

In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost).

Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her “other” career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured what’s important, and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time!

To Gail and to Charles, for Bob, a gentle giant

with a heart as big as he was.

A WOLF was at her door.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite at her door, Nikki conceded, as she came back to earth. Or back to the sofa. The howl was close, though. Her hair felt as if it was spiking straight up, and for good reason.

It was the most appalling, desolate sound she could imagine—and she wasn’t imagining it.

She set her china teacup onto the coffee table with care, absurdly pleased she hadn’t spilled it. She was a country girl now. Country girls didn’t get spooked by wolves.

Yes, they did.

She fought for logic. Wolves didn’t exist in Banksia Bay. This was the north coast of New South Wales.

Was it a dingo?

Her landlord hadn’t mentioned dingoes.

He wouldn’t, she thought bitterly. Gabe Carver was one of the most taciturn men she’d ever met. He spoke in monosyllabic grunts. ‘Sign here. Rent first Tuesday of the month. Any problems, talk to Joe down at the wharf. He’s the handyman. Welcome to Banksia Bay.’

Even his welcome had seemed grudging.

Was he at home?

She peered nervously out into the night and was absurdly comforted to see lights on next door. Actually, it wasn’t even next door. This was a huge old house on the headland at the edge of town. Three rooms had been split from the rest of the house and a kitchen installed to make her lovely apartment.

Her landlord was thus right through the wall. They shared the entrance porch. Taciturn or not, the thought that he was at home was reassuring. The burly seaman seemed tough, capable, powerful—even vaguely scary. If the wolf came in …

This was crazy. Nothing was coming in. Her door was locked. And it couldn’t be a wolf. It was …

The howl came again, long, low and filling the night with despair.

Despair?

What would she know?

It was just a dog, howling at the moon.

It didn’t sound like … just a howl.

She peered out again, then tugged the curtains closed. Logical or not, this was scary. Barricade the door and go to bed. It was the only logical thing to do.

Another howl.

Pain.

Desolation.

Did pain and desolation make any kind of sense?

Step away from the window, Nikkita, she told herself. This is nothing to do with you. This is weird country stuff.

‘I’m a country girl.’ She said it out loud.

‘Um, no,’ she corrected herself. ‘You’re not. You’re a city girl who’s lived in Banksia Bay for all of three weeks. You ran here because your low-life boss broke your heart. It was a dumb, irrational move. You know nothing about country living.’

But her landlord was right next door. Dogs? Wolves? Whatever it was, he’d be hearing it. He could deal with it himself or he could call Joe.

She was going to bed.

* * *

The howl filled the night, echoing round and round the big old house.

There was a dog out there, in trouble.

It was not Gabe’s problem. Not.

The howl came again, mournful as death, filling his head with its misery. If Jem had been here she’d be off to investigate.

He missed Jem so much it was as if he’d lost a part of him.

He was settled in his armchair by the fire. Things were as they’d always been, but the place at his feet was empty.

He’d found Jem sixteen years ago, a scrappy, half grown collie, skin and bones. She was attacking a rotting fish on the beach.

He’d lifted her away, half expecting the starved pup to growl or snap, but she’d turned and licked his face with her disgusting tongue—and sealed a friendship for life.

She passed away in her sleep, three months back. He still put his hand down, expecting the warmth of her rough coat. Expecting her to be … there.

The howl cut across his thoughts. Impossible to ignore.

He swore.

Okay, he didn’t want to get involved—when had he ever?—but he couldn’t bear this. The howl was coming from the beach. If a dog was trapped down there … The tide was on its way in.

Why would a dog be trapped on the beach?

Why would a dog be on the beach?

The howl … again.

He sighed. Abandoned his book. Hauled on the battered sou’wester that, as a professional fisherman, was his second skin. Tugged on his boots and headed for the door.

There wasn’t a lot of use staring at the fire anyway. He’d made a conscious decision when his wife walked away to never live with anyone again. Emotional connection spelled disaster.