Their Miracle Baby. Caroline Anderson
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Welcome to Penhally Bay!
Nestled on the rugged Cornish coast is the picturesque town of Penhally. With sandy beaches, breathtaking landscapes and a warm, bustling community—it is the lucky tourist who stumbles upon this little haven.
But now Mills & Boon® Medical™ Romance is giving readers the unique opportunity to visit this fictional coastal town through our brand-new twelve-book continuity… You are welcomed to a town where the fishing boats bob up and down in the bay, surfers wait expectantly for the waves, friendly faces line the cobbled streets and romance flutters on the Cornish sea breeze…
We introduce you to Penhally Bay Surgery, where you can meet the team led by caring and commanding Dr Nick Tremayne. Each book will bring you an emotional, tempting romance—from Mediterranean heroes to a sheikh with a guarded heart. There’s royal scandal that leads to marriage for a baby’s sake, and handsome playboys are tamed by their blushing brides! Top-notch city surgeons win adoring smiles from the community, and little miracle babies will warm your hearts. But that’s not all…
With Penhally Bay you get double the reading pleasure… as each book also follows the life of damaged hero Dr Nick Tremayne. His story will pierce your heart—a tale of lost love and the torment of forbidden romance. Dr Nick’s unquestionable, unrelenting skill would leave any patient happy in the knowledge that she’s in safe hands, and is a testament to the ability and dedication of all the staff at Penhally Bay Surgery. Come in and meet them for yourself…
THEIR MIRACLE BABY
AND
MAKING MEMORIES
Caroline Anderson
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
‘DADDY!’
‘Hello, pickle!’ Mike scooped Sophie up into his arms and whirled her round, their laughter ringing round the yard and echoing off the old stone walls of the barn, bringing a lump to her throat.
These two adored each other, and now both their faces were lit up with a joy so infectious Fran couldn’t help but smile.
‘How’s my favourite girl today?’ he asked, hugging her tight and looking down into her beaming face.
‘I’m fine—Daddy, where’s Fran? I’ve got something really special to show her—Fran! Look!’ she yelled, catching sight of her and waving madly.
She wriggled out of his arms, running across and throwing herself at Fran. She caught her little stepdaughter, hugging her close and laughing, kissing her bright, rosy cheek and holding out her hand for the little box Sophie was thrusting at her eagerly.
‘It’s a model—I made it at school!’ she confided in a stage whisper. ‘It’s Daddy milking a cow—see, here’s Amber, and this is Daddy, and this is the cluster…’
She pointed underneath the misshapen reddish blob that could just conceivably have been a cow, and there was a thing like a mangled grey spider stuck on her underside. She supposed if the blob could be Amber, then the spider could be a milking machine cluster. Why not? And as for Mike…!
‘I’m going to give it to him for his birthday,’ she went on, still whispering loud enough to wake the dead. ‘We’ve got to wrap it. Have you got paper?’
Fran smiled and put the lid back on the box. ‘I’m sure we’ve got paper,’ she whispered back. ‘It’s lovely. Well done, darling. I’m sure he’ll be really pleased.’
A flicker of doubt passed over Sophie’s earnest little face. ‘Do you think so? Amber was really hard to make.’
‘I’m sure, but you’ve done it beautifully. He’ll be so pleased. He loves everything you make for him. It makes him feel really special.’
Sophie brightened, her confidence restored, and whirling round she ran back to her beloved father and grabbed his hand. ‘I want to go and see the cows—Oh, Brodie!’ she said, breaking away again and dropping to her knees to cuddle the delighted collie who was lying on her back, grinning hideously and wagging her tail fit to break it. ‘Hello, Brodie,’ she crooned, bending right down and letting the dog wash her face with meticulous attention.
‘Sophie, you mustn’t let her do that!’ Kirsten protested, but Sophie ignored her mother, laughing and hugging the dog while Brodie licked and licked and licked for England.
‘Yeah, not your face, it’s not a good idea,’ Mike chipped in, backing Kirsten up simply because he just did. It was one of the many things Fran loved about him, the way he defended Sophie’s mother’s decisions to their daughter even if he didn’t agree, and then discussed it with her rationally when Sophie wasn’t around.
The fact that Brodie washed his face whenever it was in reach was neither here nor there! Now he held out his hand to Sophie and pulled her to her feet—and out of range of Brodie’s tongue—with a grin.
‘Come on, scamp, say goodbye to your mum and then let’s go and see the cows. I’m sure they’ve missed you.’
Missed the treats, no doubt, because the six-year-old always seemed to have her little pockets bulging with pellets of feed, and she’d happily give it to them despite the cows’ slippery noses and rough, rasping tongues. Nothing fazed her, and she was deliriously happy trailing round after her father and ‘helping’ him.
‘Fran?’ Sophie said, holding out her hand expectantly after they’d waved Kirsten off, but she shook her head. This was their time, precious and special to both of them, and she wouldn’t intrude.
‘I’ve got to make supper,’ she said with a smile. ‘You go with your father and say goodnight to the cows. I’ll see you both soon.’ And with a little wave she watched them head off towards the field where the cows were grazing, Mike shortening his stride to accommodate his little sprite, Sophie skipping and dancing beside him, chattering nineteen to the dozen while her pale blonde bunches bobbed and curled and flicked around her head.
They went round the corner out of sight, Brodie at their heels, and with a soft sigh Fran went back inside, the little cardboard box containing Mike’s present in her hand. She opened the lid and stared down at the little lumps of modelling clay so carefully and lovingly squashed into shape, and her eyes filled. He was so lucky to have her. So very, very lucky.
If only it could happen to them.
They’d come so close—twice now.
It often happened, she’d been told. Miscarriages were common, and her first, three years ago—well, that had just been one of those things, they’d said. It probably wouldn’t happen again.
And it hadn’t, of course, because she hadn’t conceived again, and so they’d undergone endless intrusive and humiliating tests, all of which had proved nothing except that there wasn’t any obvious reason why they hadn’t had a baby yet.
So they’d gone through the difficult and challenging process of a cycle of IVF, and she’d become pregnant, and then,