Christmas Reunion in Paris

by Liz Fielding

  A Parisian reunion

  With the one that got away!

  Celebrity chef James Harrington never expected to find himself face-to-face with Chloe, his first love, again... Especially with her working as a chambermaid at his luxury hotel! Their chemistry’s as strong as ever, but it’s clear she’s hiding a secret. This Christmas, can James convince Chloe that their love is worth taking a chance on—again?

  Christmas at the Harrington Park Hotel

  From London, with love...

  It’s official! The Harrington Park Hotel is finally back in the hands of the family that founded it. And James, Sally and Hugo—the children of the hotel’s late and great owner, Rupert—are determined to return it to its former glory. Just in time for the festive season!

  But it’s not just the Harrington Park Hotel that could do with a little holiday magic... It’s the love lives of the Harrington siblings, who until now had drifted apart. This Christmas in Regent’s Park, redemption and love might be closer than they think.

  Discover Chloe and James’s story in Christmas Reunion in Paris by Liz Fielding

  Available now!

  Read Edward and Sally’s story in Their Royal Baby Gift by Kandy Shepherd

  And look out for Erin and Hugo’s story in Stolen Kiss with Her Billionaire Boss by Susan Meier

  Coming soon!

  Dear Reader,

  Writing is hard work. Honestly. You’d think that working from home, never having to get out of your jammies—although it tends to startle the mailman—with the kettle within reach and endless quantities of your favourite biscuit on hand (Fox’s Jam ‘n’ Cream Rings if you’re interested) would be a piece of cake. Or maybe a biscuit.

  This is not so.

  The back complains, the brain does not always cooperate, the eyes get gritty. I know, first world problems.

  But then, once in a while, a book comes along that gives you the excuse to do something wild, behave the way the world believes romantic novelists live. Like hopping on the Eurostar and spending a weekend in Paris because that is where your book is set. And going to Galeries Lafayette with its amazing Christmas tree and riding around the city in an open-top bus—a bit cold in the last weekend in November, but no rain or snow. And call it work!

  I had fun and I hope you do, too, when you join Chloe and James as they meet again in Christmas Reunion in Paris.

  With love,

  Liz

  Christmas Reunion in Paris

  Liz Fielding

  Liz Fielding was born with itchy feet. She made it to Zambia before her twenty-first birthday and, gathering her own special hero and a couple of children on the way, lived in Botswana, Kenya and Bahrain—with pauses for sightseeing pretty much everywhere in between. She now lives in the west of England, close to the Regency grandeur of Bath and the ancient mystery of Stonehenge, and these days lets her pen do the traveling.

  For news of upcoming books visit Liz’s website, lizfielding.com.

  Books by Liz Fielding

  Harlequin Romance

  Destination Brides

  A Secret, a Safari, a Second Chance

  Summer at Villa Rosa

  Her Pregnancy Bombshell

  Romantic Getaways

  The Sheikh’s Convenient Princess

  Tempted by Trouble

  Flirting with Italian

  The Last Woman He’d Ever Date

  Vettori’s Damsel in Distress

  The Billionaire’s Convenient Bride

  Harlequin KISS

  Anything but Vanilla...

  For His Eyes Only

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Writing a miniseries with authors you love is a joy.

  Thank you Kandy Shepherd and Susan Meier for sharing the Christmas at the Harrington Park Hotel experience with me.

  And thank you to my editor, Bryony Green, who never once nagged, but waited patiently for me to get my act together and deliver the book!

  Praise for

  Liz Fielding

  “The most important thing I can tell you about this story is that it will grab your heart, squeeze it tightly, and then never let go. From the start, I fell in love.... I read this story in one sitting and it was just the entertainment I wanted.”

  —Goodreads on The Billionaire’s Convenient Bride

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Scandal and the Runaway Bride by Donna Alward

  CHAPTER ONE

  City Diary, London Evening Post,

  28th September

  Following a meeting with creditors of the Harrington Park Hotel, the owner, Nicholas Wolfe, announced today that he has filed for bankruptcy.

  Once a name breathed with a sigh of pleasure, the hotel was considered a home away from home by those wealthy enough to enjoy the Harrington experience. But the hotel began to lose its way following the death of Rupert Harrington two decades ago.

  Katherine, his widow, handed ownership of the hotel to her second husband, American businessman Nicholas Wolfe, in order to concentrate on her young family. Wolfe lacked the magic Harrington touch, however, and under his stewardship the brand lost its sparkle. Following Katherine’s death in a road accident the hotel’s decline, while slow, was terminal.

  Rumour has it that James Harrington, owner of the Michelin-starred restaurant L’Étranger, and the younger son of Katherine and Rupert Harrington, has teamed up with his interior designer twin, Sally Harrington, to put together a bid, hoping to restore this iconic London hotel to its former glory.

  CHLOE WAS RUNNING LATE. She should be on her way to another job, but an outbreak of flu had left the hotel short-handed and when the head of Housekeeping had asked her to extend her shift, refusal had not been an option.

  The double shift had left her exhausted, her legs, feet, head were aching, but this was the last guestroom. The room had been booked for a late arrival, but she was running out of time.

  Always uneasy about being upstairs when guests were beginning to return from shopping or sightseeing, she worked fast, but it had to be perfect. She needed this job and mentally ticked off a checklist, ensuring that everything was exactly as a guest who was staying in a luxurious boutique hotel in the heart of Paris would expect.

  The small fridge was fully stocked. The flowers perfect, the fruit without a blemish. A bottle of mineral water stood beside a gleaming glass. A small pink-lidded box containing two light-as-air macarons was on the tray beside the coffee machine.

  She took a breath, momentarily swept back to the taste of raspberry and rose petals melting in her mouth. A long-ago treat from the boy she loved...

  She’d spent too long daydreaming and the click of the key in the lock brought her back to reality with the arrival of madame to check the room.

  ‘J’ai terminé...’

  ‘Prends ton temps, madame...’ The man’s tone was reassuring, not madame, but the guest telling her to take her time as he dropped his bag and crossed to the window.

  He spoke in French and his accent was good, but he was English and her hand trembled as she smoothed back the cove
r.

  A complaint would have been bad, but far worse was the risk that she would come face to face with someone who might recognise her. Someone who had attended the same exclusive private boarding school.

  News of where she was, what she was doing—in mocking tones of scandalised amusement—would be flashed around social media within hours. She would have to leave Paris, start again somewhere else. That would cost money, put her dream further out of reach.

  The possibility, she told herself, was vanishingly small. She took a breath, reminded herself that staff were invisible. Even if she did come face to face with someone with whom she’d been at school, someone who knew her parents, they would only see the white shirt, the black waistcoat and skirt.

  The uniform, not the person.

  She straightened from her task, took one last glance around. The man was staring out at Paris, already ablaze with lights for the Christmas season, but she didn’t see the view, only the face mirrored in the glass.

  Chloe gasped his name.

  ‘James...’

  It was no more than a whispered breath, but his gaze flickered from the lights of the city to her own image mirrored alongside him.

  For a moment, as they looked into the reflection of each other’s eyes, her heart stood still. Would he recognise her? Remember her?

  The thought had barely formed before he spun around so fast that, as if he had disturbed the earth’s rotation, the room rocked.

  She flung out a hand as her world tilted, throwing her off balance, but there was only air to grasp until strong fingers clasped hers, his body steadying her world as he stepped into her, supporting her, holding her, saying her name.

  Not a ghost, but the living man with whom, a lifetime ago, she had shared an intense, passionate teenage love.

  A doomed romance that had brought disaster down on both their heads but, in his arms, she had forgotten reality, naively blanked from her mind the future planned for her by ambitious parents.

  For a few short months, lying spooned against his body, feeling the slow, steady thud of his heart beating against her ribs, the softness of his sleeping breath against her neck, anything had seemed possible.

  Now, unbelievably, he was here, grown into the promise of the youth whose every kiss, every touch had stolen her senses, his fingers entwined in her own, a hand at her back, holding her safe against the breadth of wide shoulders, their bodies touching close. Looking at her as if he could not believe what he was seeing.

  His eyes were still that thrilling swirl of grey and green that, for years, had haunted her dreams. To look at his wide, sensuous mouth was to feel his lips angled against hers, feel the heat of his need echoed in the desire pounding through her veins and for a moment, weakly, she leaned into him.

  ‘Chloe...’ He breathed her name into her hair, as uncertain as the first time he’d kissed her, as the first time they had made love. The same thrilling tremor rippled through her and for a heartbeat, maybe two, she was that girl again, in his arms, lifting her face to him, inviting more.

  And then he said her name again, not with that first rare wonder, but with disbelief written into the frown puckering his forehead.

  She was clinging to him, waiting for his kiss, while he was attempting to relate the glossy princess of the sixth form with whom he had fallen in love to the maid turning down his bed.

  His confusion brought her to her senses.

  James Harrington was living his dream, the one they had shared in grabbed moments of privacy, in the precious, never to be forgotten, stolen half-term week that her parents had thought she was spending with an aristocratic school friend. He’d rented a cottage on the coast. They’d swum in the cold sea, eaten luscious food in the middle of the night, made love in front of the fire, totally consumed by their passion.

  Blissful, precious days when they hadn’t had to hide, but had lived their dream, planning the life they would have together one day in Paris. A fantasy world where, for a few short days, nothing could touch them.

  And then the stick had turned blue.

  James had done his best to convince her that he could take care of her and their baby, that they would be together no matter what. She’d wanted to believe him, but that fantasy had died with morning sickness. That was something you couldn’t keep secret in the hothouse atmosphere of school. Someone had heard her and ratted her out to matron.

  ‘Chloe?’ James kept her hand in his as she took a step back, attempting to reclaim a little dignity.

  ‘No...’

  Rage, despair, long hours working three jobs had taken their toll and she was no longer that Chloe. His Chloe.

  She couldn’t bear for him to see her like this and she wrenched her hand away, throwing it up to keep him back as she stepped back towards the door.

  ‘No!’ she repeated more forcefully as he took a step towards her.

  The fierceness of her rejection stopped him, giving her time to wrench open the door.

  ‘Chloe, wait!’

  The uncertainty was gone, now. All doubt.

  Ten years older, without the dewy freshness, the gloss, of the girl he’d known, pretending not to know him, to only speak French—he might have hesitated, been left with that disturbed feeling you had when you saw a stranger who looked like someone you once knew.

  That might have given her enough time to escape.

  But he’d always been Jay to everyone.

  James, soft and sweet, was the name she’d used when they were on their own. A stranger would not have clung to him, lips parted, inviting a kiss. No maid would abandon her trolley and run, and she knew that he would come after her, demanding answers that she did not have.

  He’d grown up in a hotel, knew his way around behind the scenes; there would be no hiding place and she didn’t wait to explain, to change. She just grabbed her coat, bag, boots and made her escape down the narrow lane at the rear of the hotel, the thin soles of her flats slithering on the icy cobbles.

  Once in the street, she was quickly swallowed up by the Christmas-shopping crowds laden with glossy carrier bags from the designer stores on the Rue Saint-Honoré, but she didn’t slow.

  She kept running until she was below ground in the safety of the Metro where she boarded the first train to arrive, pushing into the crush, heart pounding, shivering more with shock than cold, gasping for breath, as the train sped through the dark.

  It was early evening and the train had the steamy heat of transport packed with people wanting only to get home to their families, food and warmth after a hard day.

  Chloe didn’t see them, hear the coughs, the grumbles.

  She was lost in the memory of the last time she’d woken in James’s arms. His repeated promise that they would be together, that he would be there for her, always. The brief stolen kiss when he’d received a text telling him that he’d been picked to join the cricket team for a grudge match with a rival school on the other side of the county.

  It had never occurred to either of them to be suspicious.

  There had been no hint of anything other than an ordinary school day until she’d been called to the head’s office.

  The head wasn’t there. Her parents were alone and so, she’d realised, was she. Matron had pretended to believe her diet story, but it was clear that she had not been fooled.

  While she had been listening to Miss Kent drone on about Hardy, someone had packed her belongings and within ten minutes of being delivered into the hands of her mother and father she had been driven away from school.

  She had been cut off from the moment she’d left the classroom; there had been no way for her to leave a note, a message.

  James had known where she lived but even if he’d come after her, he wouldn’t have found her. They hadn’t taken the road towards their Hampshire estate, or the motorway into London.

  Frightened, she had
asked her mother where they were going. Her only response had been to hand her a tissue and turn away.

  * * *

  James Harrington, stunned, scarcely able to believe his eyes, his ears, remained rooted to the spot.

  He had barely noticed the woman turning down his bed. He was still coming to terms with the sudden turn of events in London. The reappearance of his older brother after seventeen years of silence, the announcement that Hugo was the new owner of the Harrington Park Hotel.

  Once he’d recovered from the shock, heard his story, he’d been thrilled that his estranged older brother, Hugo, wanted both him and Sally to be involved in wiping out the bad years when their stepfather Nick Wolfe had been in control. Excited that he wanted them both to help him restore the hotel to the icon it had once been. But his return had dredged up brutal memories. That ghastly Christmas morning when he and Sally had woken up to discover that Hugo was gone, and no one would tell them where he was or when he’d be home.

  Their mother had done her best to fill the gap left by his absence, to be there for them. She had even signed the hotel over to Nick, no doubt convinced by him that it would give her more time to spend with her remaining children. The man was an ace manipulator.

  The car crash in which she’d died had shattered them both, and Nick Wolfe had been quick to rid himself of the burden of a couple of stepchildren.

  It had hit Sally especially hard and her reaction when Hugo had turned up out of the blue had been a release of all that anger, all the pain that had been bottled up inside her.

  He’d understood her inability to accept that Hugo had been forced to stay away, to empathise with what he’d been through, but it had been emotionally draining, his nights disturbed by the return of exhausting dream searches down endless corridors for those lost.

  His parents.

  Hugo.

  Chloe and the baby they had made.

  She had vanished off the face of the earth ten years ago and when he’d seen her reflection in the window beside him, he had thought for a moment that he was imagining it. That she was a phantom dredged up by those dreams.