Wendy Warren: Undercover Nanny

Slapping her hand over her mouth, D.J. gasped. “I didn’t realize I had a curfew! If I’d known I could have told you to… stick it in your ear.”

“Nice talk. They teach you that in nanny school?”

“What are you so upset about?” D.J. demanded to know. “Did your girlfriend leave early?”

An expression of such clear disdain crossed Daisy’s face that Max’s attitude took a sudden swing…for the better.

Hell, he loved it when she did that—tossed her head like a a sassy colt and gave him her best “I couldn’t care less” look. Because that’s when he knew she did care.

Dear Reader,

Well, it’s September, which always sounds like a fresh start to me, no matter how old I get. And evidently we have six women this month who agree. In Home Again by Joan Elliott Pickart, a woman who can’t have children has decided to work with them in a professional capacity—but when she is assigned an orphaned little boy, she fears she’s in over her head. Then she meets his gorgeous guardian—and she’s sure of it!

In the next installment of MOST LIKELY TO…, The Measure of a Man by Marie Ferrarella, a single mother attempting to help her beloved former professor joins forces with a former campus golden boy, now the college…custodian. What could have happened? Allison Leigh’s The Tycoon’s Marriage Bid pits a pregnant secretary against her ex-boss who, unbeknownst to him, has a real connection to her baby’s father. In The Other Side of Paradise by Laurie Paige, next up in her SEVEN DEVILS miniseries, a mysterious woman seeking refuge as a ranch hand learns that she may have more ties to the community than she could have ever suspected. When a beautiful nurse is assigned to care for a devastatingly handsome, if cantankerous, cowboy, the results are…well, you get the picture—but you can have it spelled out for you in Stella Bagwell’s next MEN OF THE WEST book, Taming a Dark Horse. And in Undercover Nanny by Wendy Warren, a domestically challenged female detective decides it’s necessary to penetrate the lair of single father and heir to a grocery fortune by pretending to be…his nanny. Hmm.

It could work….

So enjoy, and snuggle up. Fall weather is just around the corner….

Happy reading!

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for the Ladies of Love—Ginger Kentzell, Darla Lukenbaugh and Susan Lute—fellow writers, sisters, soul mates. How did we get so lucky? I love you, Ladies!

lives with her husband, Tim, a dog, a cat and their recent—and most exciting!—addition, baby daughter Elisabeth, near the Pacific Northwest’s beautiful Willamette River. Their house was previously owned by a woman named Cinderella, who bequeathed them a gardenful of flowers they try desperately (and occasionally successfully) not to kill, and a pink General Electric oven, circa 1958, that makes the kitchen look like an I Love Lucy rerun.

A two-time recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s RITA ®Award for Best Traditional Romance, Wendy loves to read and write the kind of books that remind her of the old movies she grew up watching with her mom—stories about decent people looking for the love that can make an ordinary life heroic. Wendy was an Affaire de Coeur finalist for Best Up and Coming Romance Author of 1997. When not writing, she likes to take long walks with her dog, settle in for cozy chats with good friends and sneak tofu into her husband’s dinner. She always enjoys hearing from readers, and may be reached at P.O. Box 1208, Ashland, OR 97520.

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

Wham!

Daisy June Holden slammed her fist into a stomach so dense it nearly broke her knuckles. Her victim jerked, but that was all. D.J. danced back, whirled and shot a roundhouse kick to his head.

Take that.

He never flinched.

Feet shuffling expertly, she ducked out of the way of a retaliatory punch and narrowed angry eyes at her assailant. You’re goin’ down.

His smirk pissed the hell out of her. She dove at him, throwing two unforgiving shots to his rib cage, an uppercut to the jaw and the final blow—a cruel, cruel strike to his groin.

Panting from exertion, D.J. hopped back, assessed her opponent’s condition and allowed herself a brief victorious smile. You lose, pal. Crime never pays.

Wiping the sweat from her brow with a bare forearm, she used her teeth to tug the boxing glove off her right hand and flexed her fingers.

“Sheesh, D.J., have a heart, would ya?” Angelo Fantozzi, owner-manager of Angelo’s Gym Downtown, looked mournfully at the man-shaped punching bag he provided for his clients. Helping D.J. off with her remaining glove, he tucked them both under his arm and massaged her sore fingers. “You keep whaling like that on my equipment, I’m going to have to get all new stock. What’s the matter? You get up on the wrong side of the bed or something?”

Immediately, D.J.’s stomach began to churn. Angelo was the best, a king-size teddy bear, but she had never discussed her problems with him. She’d come to the gym this morning so she could work out some of the tension that was turning her into an antacid junkie. When it came to conversation, however, she disliked turning herself inside out so other people could see her troubles.

No…that wasn’t true. She didn’t “dislike” it; she hated it. Chronicling her woes out loud made her feel weak, tragic.

Fixing her problems—that’s what D.J. liked.

She glanced back at Angelo. He was waiting for a response, and he didn’t look like he was going to take “No problem” for an answer, so she shrugged. “PMS.”

Immediately the giant man turned beet red. “Oh, yeah, okay, well, whatever.” He patted the air with a beefy hand and walked away.

D.J. smiled. Pity that her troubles couldn’t be averted as easily as Angie.

Taking a deep breath, she blew it out slowly then rolled her shoulders. Angelo’s punching bag wasn’t the only thing going down. Thompson Investigations, the detective agency D.J. worked for—had worked for in one capacity or another since she was sixteen years old—was about to sink faster than stones in a river…unless D.J. found a way to keep it afloat.

Her stomach gurgled unpleasantly, making her regret the Danish she’d eaten before her workout. Wiping her face with the thin towel she’d slung around her neck, D.J. had made it halfway to the women’s showers when the pager at her hip buzzed. Looking down, she read the numbers on the digital display, and her heart started pumping as if she’d begun her workout all over again. This was the call she’d been hoping for.

Rushing to her locker, she fumbled with the combination, dragged out her duffel bag and rummaged through its jumbled contents. Seizing her cell phone, she checked the pager again then punched in Loretta Mallory’s home phone number—the private line.

D.J. had met with the elderly woman yesterday to discuss Loretta’s needs, private-investigatorwise. The case she had in mind was a bit more involved than the missing persons or cheating spouse cases D.J. usually handled, but that was good; the fee would be greater than usual, too. Unfortunately for D.J.’s burgeoning ulcer, Loretta was also careful and conservative and had opted to sleep on her decision to use D.J.’s services.