“Nina, honey, I have to talk to you about your baby.”
Memories flooded back—a scrunched face, tiny fingers, a warmth against her breast. For a few minutes she’d known pure joy…then the nurse had taken her baby away and Nina had signed the adoption papers with tears blurring her vision. When she was sure her voice wouldn’t shake she said, “What about her?”
“She’s living forty miles south of Vancouver in Beach Grove,” Dora said softly.
“H-how do you know?”
“Her mother called me. Apparently the girl has run away and is looking for her biological parents.”
“Why did—?” She stopped. “I don’t even know her name.”
“Amy,” Dora replied.
“Amy,” Nina repeated. In her heart she’d always thought of her as Sweetpea. “Why did she run away?”
“She found out accidentally that she was adopted.”
“How did she find out?”
“She gave birth to a child of her own, a little girl,” Dora said. “She had complications and—”
“Wait a minute—Amy had a baby?” Nina whirled to face her mother. “I’m a grandmother?”
Dear Reader,
When I was growing up I lived a couple of miles from where Reid’s fictional house is set, high on the hill with a view of Boundary Bay and Mount Baker. I have so many fond memories of the beach, it seemed a natural place to set Beach Baby.
As a little girl I roamed happily over sandbars and shallows with my sisters and brother as we hunted for crabs and sand dollars. My mother taught us to swim in the sun-warmed waters and we built forts out of driftwood on the beach. As we grew older we rode our horses across the tidal flats.
When my own children were young I took them to the same beach and relived a happy childhood through their eyes. Now when I visit my hometown I walk along the dike and dream of the good old days.
If the idyllic summer setting of Beach Baby was an exercise in nostalgia, writing about parenting a mischievous toddler was a reminder of the busy, distracted life of a young mother. In Beach Baby Nina has the added challenge of dealing with an ex-fiancé, two teenagers and a whole host of extended and blended family.
I had a lot of fun writing this book, and I hope you enjoy reading it. I love to hear from readers. Please write to me at P.O. Box 234, Point Roberts, WA 98281-0234, or visit me at www.joankilby.com.
Sincerely,
Joan Kilby
Beach Baby
Joan Kilby
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When Joan Kilby isn’t working on her next romance novel she can often be found sipping a latte at a sidewalk café and indulging in her favorite pastime of people watching. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she now lives in Australia with her husband and three children. She enjoys cooking as a creative outlet and gets some of her best story ideas while watching her Jack Russell terrier chase waves at the beach.
To Becky, Gael and Johnny for many
happy childhood memories at the beach.
Contents
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 ONE
Midnight, Paris. Luke Mann lurked in a darkened doorway listening for muted footsteps. Tucked inside his leather bomber jacket were documents that could bring down a Middle Eastern government. A dash across the cobbled street and he would be inside the safe house, his mission accomplished. Spurred on by visions of a peaceful retirement in a sun-drenched Tuscan villa, Luke stepped out of the shadows.
An Uzi submachine gun rent the stillness. Rat-a-tat-tat—
REID ROBERTSON STARED at the computer screen. Now what? Why was he killing off Luke just as he was about to retire? Come to think of it, why was Luke retiring when he was only forty-five? Maybe Luke was merely wounded. Maybe the guy with the Uzi would miss. Maybe there was no Uzi. Maybe Reid wanted that villa in Tuscany.
From Tara’s upstairs bedroom came the reedy scrape of a bow traveling up and down a minor scale. Distracted, Reid dragged both hands through his hair. He shouldn’t complain; at least she was practicing. He gazed past the computer monitor, out the window of his beach house. Tidal flats shimmered under the hot August sun, yanking Reid’s mind further away from dark alleys.
Sales on his ten previous spy thrillers were respectable but Reid wanted this book to break out, maybe even make the New York Times bestseller list. If he didn’t fold under the pressure of the deadline his agent had talked him into so the book would be out in time for Christmas, the new Luke Mann story could lift Reid into the major leagues.
The doorbell rang. Reid groaned at the interruption. Daisy, his golden retriever, raised her muzzle off his bare toes and lumbered to her feet to follow him out of his office and down the hallway.
Reid opened the door. If this was another Boy Scout selling raffle tickets—
“Amy!”
His other daughter, the one he couldn’t acknowledge but who occupied a special place in his heart as his first born, stood on the doorstep. He hadn’t seen her for three years and suddenly, or so it seemed, the braces had come off, her skin had cleared and she was all grown up. In her arms she held a little girl about a year old with curly red hair and curious blue eyes.
“Hey, Reid. How’re you doing?” Amy licked her lips nervously as she shifted the child to her other hip. Her naturally blond hair swung almost to her waist and she wore a low-slung long cotton skirt and a batik top that left her taut midriff bare. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in.”
In the neighborhood? Amy lived clear across the country in Halifax. Although come to think of it, Reid hadn’t heard from her in over a year, even though he regularly sent cards and letters—in the guise of a favorite “uncle,” that is.
“Come in.” He stepped back, noticing now that her hair needed washing and her clothes looked as though she’d slept in them. With a glance at the toddler, he added, “Who’s this?”
“My daughter, Beebee,” Amy said.
Reid did his best to hide his shock. The last time he’d talked to Amy she’d been excited about getting the lead role in her high-school play. Now she was a mom and this was no dress rehearsal. But she was too young!
Despite his misgivings he was drawn irresistibly to stroke the child’s downy cheek. “Hi there, sweetheart.”
Amy tightened her grip with an anxious glance at her daughter. “She makes strange.”
Maybe, yet at Reid’s touch the little girl’s face crinkled into