It Takes Two

“I have rules of my own.”

“Oh?” Abby raised an eyebrow.

“Once we’re on board, I’m the captain and what I say goes. If I think the situations warrant it, your plans may have to change. I won’t put us or this boat in danger. Can you live with that?”

“I think so,” Abby said. “I have to ask, though… Well, you know I’m here to do research, and you’ve already made your feeling on that score pretty clear. Why are you agreeing to my chartering your boat?”

Marc shrugged. “Simple economics. You need a boat and I have a boat. Besides—” he grinned “—what’s the old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

Abby smiled back, and he was suddenly struck by how beautiful she was.

“True,” she said, “but are you sure you want to strike a deal with the devil?”

“As long as the devil’s paying, you bet.”

Dear Reader,

There is something magical about the village of Tadoussac, Quebec. Maybe it’s the bay that’s ranked as one of the thirty most beautiful in the world. The town is on the North Shore where the Saguenay River fjord meets the St. Lawrence River. That’s certainly the draw for the resident pods of beluga, minke and even the occasional blue and fin whales who call the area home. Then again, it could be the miles of trails and paths crisscrossing the wooded hills, or the scores of artisans, musicians and gourmet chefs who contribute so much to the local flavor.

I fell under the spell the first time I rode the ferry across the Saguenay River. As if on cue, a small pod of brilliant white beluga appeared. Since then, I’ve been back several times and the beluga are always there to greet me.

I have tried to remain true to the village’s unique character. There really is a marine interpretive center and I encourage you to visit the Centre d’Interprétation des Mammifères Marins (the Marine Mammal Interpretive Center) if you go. There, the staff with the Group for Research and Education on Marine Mammals is doing some excellent and important work. Check it out at www.gremm.org.

One of those people is Lucia DiIorio, a scientist researching the impacts of man-made sound on the beluga. Lucia’s willingness to share information was of great help. Likewise was the rest of the staff and I hope they forgive the architectural license I took.

But that’s the thing about Tadoussac; it’s full of welcoming people eager to share their special knowledge and talents. People like Bruno at Mer et Monde Ecotours who patiently guided me on my very first sea kayak excursion (www.mer-et-monde.qc.ca).

As for the allure of Tadoussac, don’t just take my word for it. The folks at [e-mail] are ready to help you plan your adventure, and whether you’re into nature, whales, music, art, history, food or all of the above, get ready to make some wonderful memories. Oh, and be sure to say hi to the beluga for me.

Joanne Michael

It Takes Two

Joanne Michael

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joanne Michael would be the first to say making the jump from print and photojournalist to romance writer was neither the easiest nor most expected turn her life has taken. But four years ago, jump she did. After spending nearly twenty years reporting on everything from crime to politics to local festivals and personalities, Joanne got her introduction to the world of romance writing from fellow Harlequin author Nadia Nichols. (Nadia is also the one who got Joanne into dogsledding, but that’s another story.) Together they coauthored Her Sister’s Keeper under the name Julia Penney.

Now Joanne writes books full-time, but still manages to keep her fingers in the world of news as a freelancer. When not writing, Joanne can be found on the trails with a team of huskies, or exploring the roads of northern Maine by bicycle (depending on the time of year, of course). She lives at the top of Maine with her husband and best friend Patrick, her father, Mike, a small kennel of sled dogs, one very spoiled house dog, two cats and a variety of forest critters that wander through.

Joanne Michael can be reached at [e-mail].

For Lowell

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 SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER ONE

NO ONE HAD SAID ANYTHING about needing reservations. If they had, Abby Miller knew she wouldn’t be sitting here now, near the end of a long line of cars waiting for the few remaining slots on the Matane-Baie-Comeau ferry.

“Who’d have thought so many people wanted to get across the Saint Lawrence Seaway this time of year?” she said. In the back seat, Figgy pricked up her ears and made a low chuffing sound. “Go back to sleep, girl,” Abby said. “There’s no reason we should both be up at this ungodly hour.” The small brown dog obligingly put her head back down on her front paws, sighed mightily and closed her eyes.

Abby glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. According to the brochure of ferry schedules open on the passenger seat next to her, the Felipe was due to depart the docks at six-ten. Abby had arrived at the terminal fifteen minutes earlier, thinking that would give her more than enough time to purchase a ticket and board the ferry for the two-hour crossing.

No such luck. She leaned back against the headrest and watched enviously as Québec Maritime terminal staff directed the rapidly dwindling line of cars in the Passengers with Reservations Only lane. The Felipe had a capacity of six hundred cars, and Abby had tried to count the vehicles as they drove into the cavernous opening. But so many had boarded before she arrived that she soon gave up, knowing it was an exercise in futility.

Next to the ferry brochure was her much read and well-creased road map, the route from her apartment in Andover, Massachusetts, to Tadoussac, Québec, highlighted in bright red. The helpful agent at AAA had assured Abby the drive would be a scenic one, albeit long, and had been telling the truth. Abby had made a right turn out of her driveway early the previous morning and had driven north in a straight line ever since. About halfway through the trip, late yesterday afternoon, she had left the interstate for the more rural highways of northern Maine. By evening, she had cleared Canadian customs and crossed the border into New Brunswick, Canada, picked up the Trans-Canada Highway and entered the province of Québec around midnight.

So near and yet so far, Abby thought, looking out her windshield at the choppy waters of the Saint Lawrence.

She sat up straighter as the last of the cars eased over the ramp between the dock and ferry. Abby could barely make out the ferry’s darkened interior, but it looked like there could be enough room for all the cars in her lane. Her optimism, however, was premature.

Just as she was keying her ignition back on, she watched in horror as the terminal workers switched their attention to the scores of big rigs, panel trucks and large flatbeds that had been idling in the lane to her left.

When the last the of the trucks had been allowed on board, Abby saw the brake lights on the lead car in her lane flash. As if that were the signal, all the remaining cars roared to life and the line slowly inched forward. A terminal worker approached each car, handed the driver a slip of paper and then waved the vehicle on. The closer Abby got, the more convinced she became that she would have to make a reservation on the next available ferry—eight hours later or drive miles and hours out of her way to Québec City and the bridge.

She was now so close to the ferry, it blocked out the sky. She watched as the car in front of her—a late-model Saab with two mountain bikes lashed to the back bumper—was waved aboard. The attendant approached her car, the coveted white boarding slips in his hand. Rolling down the window, Abby offered him what she hoped was her most engaging smile, as if charm alone could magically create a space for her.

“Good morning,” she said brightly to the young man, his Québec Maritime Windbreaker zipped to his chin, the hood pulled low over his eyes against the raw wind whipping off the Saint Lawrence. “Gosh, there are so many cars and I know I should have called ahead, but I really need to get across this morning and—” Abby knew she was babbling but couldn’t help it.

The young man glanced in the car, saw Abby was the only passenger, mumbled something indecipherable, scribbled on the paper and handed it to her with one hand, pointing to the ferry with the other.

Abby accepted the slip with a genuine “thank you,” clutching it in one hand even as she steered onto the ramp.

Once on the ferry, another Québec Maritime worker directed her to a spot behind the Saab and against the boat’s port side hull. “We made it,” she said exuberantly to Figgy, who was now sitting up and looking around, the noises of the ferry’s interior—parking cars, slamming doors, metal clanging and the steady throb of the boat’s engine—having wakened her.

Curious about the fate of the drivers behind her, Abby looked in her rearview mirror to see just how close she had come to being left behind. With the limited space behind her, it was obvious that, while she was not the last to board, not much of a cushion had remained. Her view was blocked as an older Jeep Wagoneer pulled up behind her, so close its grill filled the mirror.

“Okay,” she said. “What say we get our stuff and head above decks?”

Thanks to her proximity to the inner hull, Abby had to squeeze out of the car. She then walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and began gathering her purse, some bottled water, the previous day’s newspaper and Figgy’s leash. Snapping the leash to the dog’s collar, she stood and pulled gently for Figgy to follow her. Startled, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

A crew member was standing just behind her, saying something in French.

“Pardon?” she said.

The crewman, with obvious impatience, repeated himself, and Abby did her best to follow his rapid speech.

Dammit, she thought, why didn’t I pay better attention in high school French?

She said, “I’m sorry, please slow down, I don’t understand.”

Glowering at her, the man pointed at Figgy and then jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a sign on the far wall. Looking past him, Abby felt her heart drop when she saw the illustration of a dog on a leash with a fat red line through it. She didn’t have to be fluent in any language to know that symbol meant dogs were not welcome, allowed or wanted on the Felipe’s upper decks.

“You mean I have to leave her here? In the car? What if something happens and I have to get to her?” Abby was horrified. Figgy had been her companion for the past five years, and there was no way she could leave her beloved pet alone in the dark musty hold.

Then she realized there was another option. “Never mind,” she said to the crewman, not caring if he understood her or not. “I can ride down here. I can even take a nap.”

She bent to put her things back in the car and again felt a tap on her shoulder.

The crewman had obviously been through this before with countless other passengers and their pets. Shaking his head, he pointed to another sign, this one with instructions in several different languages, including English. Passengers are forbidden to stay with their cars.

“Listen,” she said, “I can’t leave her down here. Can’t you make an exception? Please?”

The crewman was looking at her impassively and Abby had the distinct feeling she’d have a better chance pleading her case to the nearby bulkhead.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. She knew she was being foolish, that Figgy would be fine down here for a couple of hours. But she couldn’t get the image of some kind of maritime disaster out of her head. Abby knew she was tired; worn out from the stress of an all-night drive and then the uncertainty of getting on the damned ferry. All she wanted was to get up to the main deck, pay her fare, buy a large cup of coffee and find a sunny place to sit and enjoy the scenery for the next two hours.

She opened her mouth, unsure of what was going to come out, when a masculine voice to her right said, “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping, but can I help?”

Turning, she saw it was the driver of the Jeep Wagoneer. Given the tight quarters on the car deck, he had been unable to get past Abby’s car since she and the ferry worker were blocking the narrow aisle.

“What?” she said.

The man smiled and, without a word to Abby, turned to the crewman and spoke in French. Abby couldn’t keep up, but she could have sworn she heard him say something about a doctor.

After a further exchange, during which the worker cast several questioning looks at Abby, the driver of the Wagoneer extended his hand for the crewman to shake. Smiling briefly, the man shook hands and looked at Abby again, then left.

Was that fear in his eyes? she wondered. No, she was just tired and seeing things.

“Okay,” the driver said. “You’re all set.”

“What do you mean all set?”

“You and your dog. You can take him up with you.”

“Her,” Abby said, stunned at the change in fortune.

“What?”

“He’s a her. That is, my dog, she’s a female.”

“Fine, you can take her up with you.”

He turned to walk away and Abby called out to him. “Wait a minute! How did you—what did you, I don’t understand. Dogs aren’t allowed.”

The man laughed. “I just told the guy I’m your doctor and you are under treatment for an emotional disorder. That’s your therapy dog and I can’t be responsible for what might happen if he separated you two.”

“You told him what?” Abby asked, incredulous.

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

“And he believed you?”

He grinned. “Guys like that never want to hear more than they have to about emotional problems when it comes to women.”

Abby got the feeling he was viewing the entire thing as one big joke. Whether it was on her, the ferry line or both, she couldn’t tell. But she found herself smiling back at him. “I’m not sure if I should be insulted or grateful. But thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, again moving off. “I always like to start my day by saving a damsel in distress.” He stopped. “But listen, just in case. Try to keep a low profile up there, okay?”

“I will,” Abby said, “And thanks again, I mean it.”

THE SUN radiating off the brilliantly whitewashed outer hull of the Felipe was a deliciously warm counterbalance to the chilly morning air. Abby clasped her cup of coffee in one hand, breathed in its strong aroma and finally felt herself begin to relax. Figgy lay at her feet, tucked under the wooden bench on which Abby sat. The little dog was fast asleep, lulled by the ferry’s steady vibration as it plowed through the waves toward the industrial city of Baie-Comeau on the far shore. Despite the clear weather, the cool temperatures meant most of the ship’s other passengers were indoors, enjoying breakfast in one of the ferry’s two restaurants or sitting in one of the lounges. As a result, Abby had the stern-side deck to herself.

They had been underway for more than thirty minutes and the hills around Matane had slipped from view below the southern horizon. With no land visible, it was easy for Abby to imagine they were in the middle of the Atlantic, not crossing one of North America’s mightiest rivers.

More than one passenger had done a double take when Abby had stepped up to pay her fare, Figgy obediently at heel. But no one had said anything. She had been prepared for another go around with the ferry’s personnel about the no-dogs-on-deck policy, but they must have figured that if she’d made it past the sentinels down below, there was an official reason for this particular canine to be with a passenger.

Her only regret was not getting her benefactor’s name. But by the time she had gathered her things and convinced Figgy to jump out of the car, Mr. Wagoneer, as she had dubbed him, had vanished.

Taking another sip of coffee, she gazed out at the sparkling blue waters topped by a confusion of whitecaps. Breezy, yes, but not a strong enough wind to explain the water’s turbulence. No, she figured the intense wave action had more to do with their proximity to the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, where the river met the Atlantic. It was an area of strong crosscurrents, which she suspected made for a tricky passage at the best of time for the ferry captains.

The sun was rising higher and the glare off the water made Abby squint. She was digging into her purse for her sunglasses when she heard the hatch next to her bench open and close and someone step out onto the deck.

“When I said to keep a low profile, I didn’t mean you had to sit out here and freeze to death,” a familiar masculine voice said.

Abby shaded her eyes against the sun and recognized Mr. Wagoneer smiling down at her.

“Mind if I share your bench?” he asked.

“No, not at all.”

Stepping around her and turning the collar of his brown canvas coat up against the chill, he sat down on the bench, stretching his legs out until his booted feet almost touched the rail.

“So, I take it you had no trouble getting your small passenger on deck?”

“No,” Abby said. “The hardest part was getting past the guy downstairs—and you did that for me.”

He smiled, and held out a hand. “I’m Marc, by the way.”

Abby shook his hand. “Abby. Abby Miller, it’s very nice to meet you.” How could she not have noticed down below just how handsome he was? Curly brown hair edged the navy-blue watch cap he was wearing and the corners of his clear-blue eyes crinkled with lines that come from a lifetime of laughing or working in the outdoors or both.

“And your friend?” Marc nodded toward the sleeping Figgy.

“That’s Figgy Piggy,” Abby said, laughing self-consciously.

“Figgy Piggy?” Marc’s eyebrows rose.

At the mention of her name, Figgy got up, stretched, walked out from under the bench and sat staring at the man and woman.

“It’s a long story,” Abby explained.

“Well, it’s a long crossing,” Marc said. “Hey, are you hungry?” He leaned away from her and dug in the large outer pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a slightly crumpled white paper bag, he held it out to her. “I picked these up just before I got to the dock.”

Abby peered inside to see a half-dozen glazed doughnuts. As the smell reached her nose, she suddenly remembered she hadn’t eaten since the previous day’s rushed supper on the road. She heard her stomach rumble and hoped Marc didn’t catch it over the sound of the ferry’s engines.

“Wow, thanks, yes, I’d love—Figgy! No!”

To Abby’s horror, Figgy jumped up, put both front paws on Marc’s chest and tried to stick her head into the bag.

“Whoa girl, down.” Marc held the bag out of reach with his right hand and used his left to gently take Figgy’s paws from his chest and push her back to the deck.

“I’m sorry,” Abby said. “She’s really such a good dog but she’s a shameless beggar.”

As if to prove the point, Figgy cocked her ears, put her head on Marc’s lap and looked up at him with pleading brown eyes.

“She does have it down to a fine art,” Marc said. “When’s the last time you fed her?”

“This morning when we got to the dock. Figgy, come here.” Abby tugged firmly on the dog’s leash.

Instead of complying, the dog cast Abby a disdainful look, put her head back down on Marc’s leg and drooled slightly.

“Okay, that’s it—get over here,” Abby ordered.

With great reluctance, Figgy began to back off, but Marc said, “Don’t worry about it. I like dogs. And this one’s a real character.”

“No, I don’t want her to bother you,” Abby insisted.

“It’s no bother. Besides, it’s my own fault for getting her here in the first place. Can I give her a little piece of doughnut?”

“Sure, and if you do, I guarantee you’ll have a friend for life.”

“In that case, here’s one for you, too.” Marc handed Abby a doughnut before he pulled a chunk off his own and handed it to Figgy, who downed the morsel in one gulp.

“One piece is enough for you, okay?” Marc said to the dog.

“Yes, now lie down,” Abby commanded.

Looking from one to the other, Figgy lay down directly at Marc’s feet, keeping a watchful eye for any crumbs.

Satisfied that Figgy was not contemplating another sneak attack on Marc’s bag of doughnuts, Abby sat back and enjoyed the fresh pastry and hot coffee.

“Now I’m doubly in your debt,” she said, licking the last of the glaze from her fingers. “Dog lover and provider of treats.”

“All in a day’s work,” Marc said loftily.

“What a morning. First I wasn’t sure if I was even going to make it onto the ferry and then the whole thing with Figgy—”

“No reservations?”

Abby shook her head. “I guess you didn’t have any either. I mean, you were behind me.”

“Nah, I don’t bother. I can usually pretty well guess my odds and what time I should get in line. Even then, it’s not worth breaking a sweat over. There’s always another one, right?”

Abby laughed. “That’s a healthy attitude.”

“So, where are you headed?” Marc asked.

“Tadoussac. It’s on the north shore, about ninety miles west of Baie-Comeau.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you from Québec?”

Marc nodded. “Born and raised. What brings you to Tadoussac? On holiday?”

“No, work.”

“No kidding? Doing what?”

Abby smiled and had to consciously force herself not to feel for the well-worn envelope inside her shirt pocket. She had read the letter so often it was now committed to memory:

Dear Dr. Miller, it is with great pleasure that the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute informs you of the board’s decision to fund for a period of one year your research into the effects of noise pollution and related human contact activities on the social behavior of beluga…

“Hey, you still with me?” Marc asked.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking of how lucky I am. I’m going to be a visiting scholar based at the research center for marine mammals. Do you know it?”

When Marc didn’t answer right away, Abby added, “It’s right in Tadoussac.”

“I know where it is.” Marc’s tone had lost some of its earlier warmth. “So, what, you’re a scientist or something?”

“Actually, yes.” No doubt about it, his attitude toward her had cooled several degrees.

“Great,” he said, “Just what we need.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” Marc said, standing. “I’d better get back inside. Enjoy the rest of the crossing.”

Abby felt confused by his sudden leave taking. “Okay, I will. Thanks again for all your help and for being so nice to Figgy.”

“Sure,” he said, stepping over the dog. “See ya.” And he was gone through the hatch.

A SCIENTIST, Marc thought in disgust, sitting behind the wheel of his Jeep as he watched Abby and her dog get into her car and wait with the rest of the passengers for the ferry to dock at Baie-Comeau. It figures. Would he have stepped in like that to plead her case to the ferry worker had he known? Her brake lights flashed as she keyed the car to life. He sighed. Probably. Wasn’t often he’d seen a woman that pretty on the Matane to Baie-Comeau run. Check that, he’d never seen a woman that pretty on the ferry.