The Lawyer's Pregnancy Takeover (Destiny's Child Book 2)

by Zee Monodee

  Her Mauritius and Indian-based romances have all the classic makings of Bollywood-type drama: overbearing mothers, matchmaking aunties, ‘proper’ eligible suitors who look like frogs, race & class divides.

  Travel to the UK (Surrey & North Yorkshire), and you meet people—young and older—struggling to find ‘The One’ amid the drudgery of day-to-day life, never mind if they’re a simple graphic designer working from home, a world-renowned supermodel battling anorexia, or a reluctant heiress on the run.

  Take to the Corpus Agency mantle, and become lethal spies & assassins who nevertheless feel the call of love in their dark and shady lives…

  Of Indian origin & a 2x breast cancer survivor, Zee lives in paradise (aka Mauritius!) with her long-suffering husband, her smart-mouth teenage son, and their tabby cat who thinks herself a fearsome feline from the nearby African Serengeti plains. When she isn’t in her kitchen rolling out chapattis or baking cakes while singing along to the soundtrack of Glee, she can be found reading or catching up on her numerous TV show addictions. In her day job, she is an editor who helps other authors like her hone their works and craft.

  **Read about her life & her books at her website/blog http://www.zeemonodee.com/

  **Friend her on Facebook (she loves to make friends & meet new people!) https://www.facebook.com/#!/zee.monodee

  **Find her on Twitter, Pinterest, & Instagram: @ZeeMonodee

  **Email her at this addy (she loves to talk...prolly too much, even!) zeemonodee@gmail.com

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  Excerpt

  Prescription For Love

  Forensic pathologist Margo Nolan is wholly unprepared when she is named guardian to a girl she once loved as her own. Struggling to balance her professional life against sudden parenthood, she has no clue how to reach out to her ‘daughter,’ Emma. Complicating matters is the sexy—and much younger!—doctor-next-door, Jamie Gillespie.

  Jamie Gillespie volunteered to step in for his uncle, the village doctor—in part as a favour to the older man, and in part to stick it to his father’s lofty ambitions for him. The last thing he expected in this sleepy part of Surrey was to meet the tough and seemingly cold Margo. Everything about her aloof manner should push him away, but he cannot ignore his attraction for the woman or his need to help her out.

  The question is—can Jamie overcome Margo’s reticence towards love and build a proper life with her & Emma? Or will she let old fears and prejudices keep the hunky village doctor at arm’s length?

  Warning: Contains thoroughly British sensibility and humour, as well as a charm-your-socks-off doctor, tween angst, & a damsel not-exactly-in-distress but who’d welcome the help, anyway …

  Chapter One

  Emotion is something foreign—cold, rational facts, and proof, drive everything. Brain over heart, always.

  Every forensic pathologist knew his or her work boiled down to that line of conduct, and Margo Nolan lived her life by the principles of her job, too. Emotion existed as an unfamiliar concept most of the time, except for the rare occasions when the hurting would tear through her and she’d remain unable to tamp the suffering down into submission. During the long years away from the daughter of her heart, torture, sharp and visceral, would grip her whenever she thought of Emma. Though tragedy had reunited them, pain still sliced through her each time her gaze landed on the pretty girl fast blossoming into a beautiful young woman.

  How many years we’ve lost ... If only I’d sought her out ...

  But she couldn’t—shouldn’t—think of that. No, she had more pressing matters to deal with.

  Margo slowed her brisk pace in the lobby that also served as the waiting room for Dr. Gillespie—the only doctor in Camberry, a little village just outside London in the county of Surrey, where Emma, and now Margo, too, lived. Like most country doctors, Gillespie operated his practice from his house. Emma had been sick at school that day, and thus sent to see him.

  Under Margo’s stilettos, the wood planks of the big Victorian manor didn’t even creak or groan. Strange, since old houses always had a tell-tale creak or two in the parquet. That she couldn’t hear her steps also proved peculiar. No place echoed the click-clack of high heels louder than a silent morgue, and that sound almost felt like a soothing cloak that wrapped her in security. But she lacked this here. Despite the high-gleam finish of the wood, her feet didn’t skid on the glossy surface as she glided, more than walked, across the boards. Whiffs of beeswax and lemon wood polish tickled her nostrils—a scent worlds away from the usual sterile tang and formaldehyde-permeated atmosphere at the lab.

  She stopped at the doorway. Her focus settled on Emma, asleep on a high-backed, plush sofa. In slumber, the girl’s dainty features still showed the sweetness of childhood she discarded through her every waking moment. Under this light, she echoed so very much the likeness of the chubby-cheeked cherub with corkscrew, auburn curls Margo had had to leave seven years before—

  Don’t!

  That didn’t matter. Not anymore. Today, she’d returned to Emma, trying her damnedest best to bridge the gap between ages four and eleven, the time she hadn’t been there for her. Not by choice—

  Stop—!

  She straightened and pulled her wayward thoughts to a halt when a dark, looming shadow crept up on the tween. All her senses shot on high alert; she bristled and closed her hands into fists as her feet started moving of their own accord.

  The man, tall and imposing in the semi-darkness, bent and placed a wide palm on Emma’s forehead.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.

  Who on Earth is he? And why is he touching her?

  Margo crossed the distance between her daughter and the stranger in two long lunges, shouldering him aside before folding her body protectively over the top of the armchair.

  What the hell?

  She raked her gaze over him, taking in the faded, threadbare-at-the-knees jeans and the hint of a dark T-shirt under the baggy, slate-grey jumper with a hoodie that obscured his face.

  Who is this hooligan? What’s he doing here?

  Emma’s grandmother had moved to Camberry because the countryside had appeared safer for a growing girl than bustling London. Nevertheless, here was some man, alone in a room with her daughter.

  He gave a soft grunt. “Checking if her fever’s gone down.”

  Excuse me?

  Margo drew closer to Emma, her maternal instincts shooting sky-high. If anyone ever touched her daughter to harm her ... Now, she understood how women murdered in cold blood when their children got hurt, why they showed no remorse afterward.

  As she leaned over the prone girl, she shot a scathing glare towards the man again. She steeled her spine, tensed, and glowered at him. Seasoned police officers knew not to mess with her when she stood like that, and criminals always thought twice before bullshitting her when she gave them that narrowed look. Let him try to take her on—he had another think coming if he believed he’d get away scot-free today.

  “And how’s that any of your concern?” she asked.

  He sighed.

  Sighed! She couldn’t stop her eyes from widening with surprise, before she frowned again. Good grief! What had perverts come to, nowadays?

  “As her physician, that’s my job, don’t you think?”

  His low voice flowed, smooth and composed, reminiscent of police officers trying to calm a hysterical victim.

  Damn you. She frowned so hard, her forehead hurt, so she blinked to ward off the shard of pain that lanced behind her left eye. Nice try.

  “Where’s Dr. Gillespie?” she asked.

  “I am Dr. Gillespie. And you are?”

  She snorted, at both the calm confidence and the unashamed allegation. Which won her contempt more? No wa
y could he be the ‘good old doctor.’ She had met the bear of a man with the soft voice and gentle bedside manner a couple of weeks ago, when she’d come to settle here. Dr. Gordon Gillespie had been a far cry from the lean, intense young bloke before her. The old man had also come out clear on the background check she’d had a police contact run on him—and on anyone else involved in Emma’s life in this village.

  And to think this man had fallen through a hole in her security net? No, she refused to contemplate that.

  But, questions first, accusations later, when she had proof. The logic of her profession came like second nature to her.

  “Stop the act. You are not him.” She threw a glance around the room. “Where’s Helen? Why is Emma alone here?”

  “Helen just left for home. Past time she returned to her own children.”

  His tone conveyed cold reproach. Margo bristled, the barely veiled barb hitting home. She was late. But a string of autopsies had detained her at the lab. And no one had bothered to tell her Emma had been hurt during football practice. The morgue staff had ascribed Helen’s call to a prankster—Dr. Nolan had no life, let alone a daughter.

  “You are Ms. Milburn, I presume.”

  “Nolan.” She corrected him by reflex—no one addressed her by any other name.

  Did his jaw tense? He moved, and the hooded cap slid off his head, revealing sharp, angular features, messy dark hair, and the dark brown hues of his deep-set eyes.

  Dangerous. The rational whisper danced inside her head, forcing all her senses and her whole body on high alert.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Tingles of awareness and peril skittered up her spine, like the time on a crime location when the killer had managed to sneak up behind her. Trusting her gut that day—those shivers—had kept her alive. She hadn’t hesitated to look like a chicken and had called the chief inspector into the room with her.

  Her instincts urged her to call for backup now. Her hand itched where it lay against her trouser pocket. She needed to simply grab her cell phone and call her acquaintances in the police—in short, the whole London Metropolitan force.

  “I told you. I’m Dr. Gillespie, the one treating your daughter for that bad tackle.”

  She snorted. “I have met the man.”

  He rolled his eyes and sighed. “You met my uncle. He’s away, and I’m filling in for him.”

  “Oh.”

  His explanation—logical, calm, and rational—killed the wind in her sails. Some of the pent-up tension left her body, and she winced at the weary ache that settled in her stiff muscles. Looking him over, she reckoned he didn’t lie. Nothing in his body language betrayed him, and his eyes didn’t dart left or right when he spoke to her, instead focusing on her face. She’d watched enough interrogations to pick up body language cues.

  Still not a hundred percent convinced, she squinted, and hoped the harsh planes of his face, the pointed chin and nose, and the shaggy dark locks would come together into an expression that would clue her in about him. After a moment of rude staring, she gave up. Corpses clued her in on their deaths—and lives—while the living proved almost an alien race she couldn’t even hope to decipher.

  Still, her suspicions had allayed a little, and she relaxed her shoulders, before drawing to her full height.

  So he is the doctor. Damage control—how to bring that into play now?

  Margo stroked a wayward curl from Emma’s forehead. “She isn’t running a fever.”

  He crossed his arms, strong hands coming to rest on his jumper sleeves as his body slackened into a casual pose and he rested one hip against the side of the high-backed sofa. “Not anymore. Seems she fell and grazed her shin yesterday. Left untreated, the wound got infected.”

  Her heart clenched in a vise of pain. Oh, Em. Why didn’t you say anything?

  Because Margo hadn’t been around—that’s why.

  She hung her head. The lab had her on call 24/7. Men thrived in her line of work; women, not so much. The demands on the pathologist’s private life turned out to be all-consuming. There existed no place to fit in a child or a semblance of family life. What would she do with a daughter?

  Three weeks ago, she’d received the call that had changed her life. Edna Milburn, Emma’s maternal grandmother, was dying, with Margo next in line to become Emma’s guardian.

  She’d rushed to the hospital, for the first time in her life leaving an autopsy halfway through, to find her baby girl grown into a tall, beautiful, auburn-haired tween, her former best friend dead since five years, and a whole muck up worthy of a soap opera scenario. Emma had taken one look at her in that sterile hospital corridor and rushed into her arms.

  They hadn’t looked back ... But she hadn’t looked forward, either. How would she accommodate a child in her life? The sleeping girl before her needed a mother ...

  Emma whimpered. Margo shushed her with a soothing caress on her forehead as she sat on the armrest. Nothing should distress her little girl.

  “Mummy.”

  The word came out soft, groggy, full of trust and the conviction that “mummy” would make everything all right.

  “I’m here, luv.”

  The phrase barely made it past the lump in her throat. Mummy had been Emma’s first word, spoken to her, and not to Cora, her birth mother. Cora, who had gallivanted around like a flitting butterfly, content to leave her baby girl in Margo’s care at home, in the tiny flat they shared near the Cambridge university campus. Between studying for her many exams and looking after Emma, Margo’s life had been full. But with Harry gone at the time—

  Don’t think of Harry.

  She forced her mind to return to the present.

  Even after all these years, Emma still thought of her as her ‘other Mum.’ Should she be grateful and embrace the title, or be scared out of her wits at the terrible job she’d most certainly do as a mother?

  “Ms. Nolan?”

  Margo tore her misting eyes from the tween and blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “She’ll be okay.”

  “Yes. Yes, she will.”

  She’d make sure of that. Seven years ago, Cora had torn Emma from her care and from her world. Fate had given her another chance, one she wouldn’t relinquish without a fight.

  So she took a deep breath, staring at the doctor then at Emma, and then at him again. “What do we do from here on?”

  He straightened and uncrossed his arms, letting them fall to his sides. From her position on the arm of the sofa, she had to crane her neck to look at him. Six-four, at least, with wide shoulders in perfect proportion to his big stature.

  Her mouth went dry, and she gulped. Here stood a man with a daunting physical presence. The skitters of unease flittered over her spine again. Who would come to save her from him?

  Get a grip! She didn’t need saving. Anyway, she had her stiletto heels she could totally wield as a weapon. Right?

  “Come to the desk. Emma will be fine for a few minutes.”

  With reluctance, she peeled herself from where she sat.

  Be on your guard, her brain screamed.

  “I’m Jamie Gillespie. We haven’t been properly introduced.” He stood on the other side of the wide oak table, and didn’t extend his hand.

  She hitched her arms to her sides and nodded. “Margo Nolan.”

  Once at the desk, she settled into a chair opposite him. “How is she faring? I mean, really. Please don’t hide anything from me.”

  If he heard the worry and panic in her voice, she didn’t care.

  “Not too bad. Just, like I told you, the wound on her leg got infected. She developed a fever, and a dizzy spell on the pitch meant she fell and twisted her ankle.”

  “But, she’ll be okay?” Never mind that she herself had graduated a medical doctor before specialising as a forensic pathologist. Facts and logic had left, creating a wide berth for emotion to play havoc with her mind.

  Jamie chuckled. “No need to be so worried. She’ll be good as new
in a few days. The fever’s come down, but ...” He paused. “You didn’t notice she was running a high temperature this morning?”

  Margo glanced away from his intent eyes, then returned her gaze to his face. Cursed be the good manners her mother had instilled in her, namely, to always look squarely at a person when addressing him. “I wasn’t with her today. I had to stay overnight at work.”

  He clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring slightly.

  He probably thought her one of these career-minded mothers whose only claim to motherhood came through having carried a child in her womb for nine months.

  And that would not even apply to her.

  “Listen,” she said, then thought better of trying to explain the technicalities of her so far incompetent journey into parenthood. Why did she care what he thought of her as a mother? “Can I take her home?”

  His thick brows furrowed. “Yes. Just make sure the fever doesn’t return. Five hundred milligrams of paracetamol every four to six hours should do the trick. I’ll see her again for the sprain in two days. If there’s anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Will do.” Margo stood, only to stare at the sleeping Emma. How would she get her home? Paracetamol and painkillers had probably knocked the girl out.

  “Is your car outside?” Jamie asked.

  “I parked in front of the porch.”

  “I’ll carry her, if you want.”

  She acquiesced with a nod and a sigh of relief, grateful for his help. Emma wasn’t a big girl; still, the tween’s weight wouldn’t be easy for her to manage all the way into the car. Doing autopsies day in, day out didn’t build strong arm muscles. She didn’t even have a life, so when would she have time for the gym?

  Jamie scooped Emma up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow.

  Men. She shook her head. Nature had blessed them with physical strength. Many abused that God-given privilege, though, as she saw too often in her line of work.