Harlequin Romance February 2016 Box Set

by Barbara Wallace

  She knew she was staring at him in shock but she couldn’t help it. He was smiling at her! And it felt like the best thing ever.

  She smiled back, beyond caring that she probably looked really goofy. And for a joyous few seconds they simply smiled at each other.

  Her heart was beating crazily, and her stomach felt as though it was an express elevator on a busy day.

  He was so gorgeous when he smiled. Dressed in a bespoke dark navy suit and a crisp white shirt open at the collar, he wore no tie. Other pedestrians did a double take as they passed him by. And if she’d been in their shoes she, too, would have walked by with her mouth open at the sight of the extraordinarily handsome man standing on the pavement, his eyes an astonishing translucent blue, a smile on his delicious mouth.

  Heat rushed through her body, quickly followed by a sharp physical stab of attraction.

  As she walked to him she tried to disguise the blush that burnt on her cheeks by fussing with the laptop and samples bags in her hands.

  ‘Hi. What are you doing here?’

  ‘You told me your last meeting of the day was here, so I thought I’d come and see how your day went.’

  He said it with such sincerity the air whooshed out of her lungs and she could only stand there, looking at him with a big soppy grin.

  This was all so crazy. How on earth had she ended up in the city of love with the most incredible and gorgeous guy in the world smiling down at her?

  ‘You look very happy.’

  ‘I’m working on not being taciturn.’

  She had to swallow a laugh as she eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you mocking me?’

  ‘Possibly. How does a martini sound?’

  She should say no. Pretend to have some work she needed to do back in his chateau. Keep her distance.

  But instead she said, ‘That sounds like heaven.’

  He signalled down the boulevard. Within seconds a dark saloon had pulled up beside them.

  * * *

  His chauffeur had dropped them at his favourite bar in Paris. It had been a while since he had been to the sleek hotel opposite the Jardin du Luxembourg, but it was still as fun and lively as he remembered. And it served the best martinis in the city.

  They had spoken little during the journey. The minute she had sat in the car she had slipped off her shoes, leant her head back on the headrest with a sigh and looked out at the familiar Parisian sights as Bernard took them down the Champs-Élysées, then Place de la Concorde, and crossed the river at Pont de la Concorde.

  ‘Are your feet still hurting?’

  She had looked at him warily. ‘Kind of.’ Then, with a rueful smile, she’d added, ‘Okay—I admit they’re killing me. Lord, I miss my old shoes. Stupid flood.’

  When she had earlier refused to use his car for the day, at first he’d been irritated at her stubbornness, but then he’d had to admit to himself a grudging admiration for her determination to be independent. But it did still irk him a little. Using his car would have been no big deal.

  The lighting in the bar was low, and light jazz music played in the background. Her eyes lit up when the waiter placed their drinks on the table with a flourish. A kick of awareness at just how beautiful, how sexy she was, caught him with a left hook again.

  Earlier that left hook had caught him right in the solar plexus when she had walked out on to the street from her meeting. Her black dress with its splatters of blue-and-cream print stopped at mid-thigh. And long, long legs ended in the sexiest pair of red shoes he’d ever seen. Red shoes that matched the red gloss on her lips. Lips he wanted to kiss clean, jealous of the effect they would have on any other man.

  Despite himself he hadn’t been able to stop smiling at her. And when she’d smiled back, for the first time in a long time, life had felt good.

  ‘So, how was your day?’

  It had been so long since anyone had asked him that question he was taken aback for a few seconds. She leant further across the table and looked at him expectantly, with genuine interest. Tightness gripped his chest. He had pushed so many people away in the past two years. And now this warm, funny and vibrant woman made him realise two things: how alone he had been and how much he must have hurt those he had pushed away.

  Would the same thing happen to her?

  He felt as though he was being pulled by two opposing forces: the need to connect with her versus the guilt of knowing that by doing so he was increasing the likelihood of hurting her when it was time for her to return to her cottage.

  But once again the need to connect won out.

  ‘It went well. I finalised my negotiations to buy out a mobile software application for hospital consultants.’

  ‘That’s brilliant. Congratulations.’

  She lifted her martini glass and together they toasted the negotiations. It felt good to celebrate an acquisition with someone after all this time.

  Her head tilted in curiosity. ‘What are you smiling about?’

  He scratched his neck and looked at her doubtfully. Oh, what the heck? He would tell her. ‘I was just thinking that sitting in a bar with you, toasting an acquisition, sure beats my attempts to train the dogs to high-five my acquisitions.’

  Her laughter was infectious, and they both sat and grinned at each other for a long while.

  ‘You can always pop down to my cottage to celebrate in future.’

  Instantly a bittersweet sadness reverberated in the air between them. Across the table her smile faded, and he could see her own doubt as to whether they could ever have such an easy relationship.

  He needed to get this conversation back on neutral ground. ‘Tell me about your day.’

  She gave a groan. ‘My first meeting was a disaster. It was with an ex-client who grilled me on the stability of my business and how I was going to deliver on projects now that I didn’t have a team behind me.’

  Her hand played with her glass and her chest rose heavily as she exhaled.

  ‘To be honest, after that meeting I was ready to give up and head home.’ A smile formed on her mouth. ‘But on the Métro I thought about what you said to me this morning—to believe in myself.’ She paused and ducked her head for a moment. When she looked up, there was a blush on her cheeks, but resolve fired in her eyes. ‘I decided you were right. So I dusted myself down and got on with the next meeting.’

  This morning she had been visibly nervous about her meetings, but he had deliberately not asked too many questions, nor overwhelmed her with his ideas on how she should approach things. He knew he needed to give her some space. Allow her to face this on her own.

  Her comments about him being controlling had hit home and he was consciously trying to curtail his perhaps, at times, overzealous attempts to help her. He would help—but at the pace she needed. That hadn’t stopped him from thinking about her all day. Or from leaving his meeting in the eighteenth arrondissement early to ensure he was there when she left her last meeting.

  ‘The rest of the day went much better, thankfully. At lunchtime I met up with a designer friend, Nadine, who is over here from London on business, too. She has just received a major order from a chain of exclusive US boutiques—it will completely transform her business. And she wants me involved, which is really exciting.’

  She smiled with such enthusiasm he was sorely tempted to lean across and kiss those full, happy lips.

  She scanned the room and gave a nod of approval. ‘Great choice of bar, by the way.’

  He had to lean towards her to be heard properly above the chatter and music surrounding them. ‘I used to live in St Germain before I moved to the chateau.’

  ‘You lived in St Germain! I’ve always dreamt of living in the centre of Paris. Oh, you were so lucky. No offence—your chateau is lovely and everything—but why did you move?’

  He wasn’t sure he liked the direction this conversation was going in, so he gave a noncommittal answer. ‘I like the space and peace of the chateau.’

  A shake of her head told him she
wasn’t going to let it go. ‘But you have that already, with Ashbrooke. Why would you want to live outside Paris when you have this incredible city to explore?’

  He took a sip of his martini. ‘I was tired of city life. And, like at Ashbrooke, I wanted peace and quietness in which to focus on my work.’

  She shook her head in bewilderment before saying, ‘Just for me, describe your apartment here.’

  He was about to say no, but she looked at him so keenly, so hungry for detail, that despite his better judgement he gave her a brief outline. ‘It was a two-storey penthouse in a Haussmann building overlooking Île de la Cité.’

  ‘So you had views of Notre-Dame and Sainte-Chapelle? Remind me again why you gave that up.’

  ‘For the peace of the countryside—for the space.’

  ‘But why do you have all that space if you have no one to share it with?’

  Taken aback by the bluntness of her question, and because it was too close to the bone, he speared her with a look. ‘You really don’t hold back, do you?’

  Her head tilted for a moment and then she said in a more conciliatory voice, ‘Not really... But why do you live in such isolated spots? What’s the attraction?’

  ‘I spent most of my twenties travelling the world to meet work demands. In recent years I’ve wanted more stability, a less chaotic and frantic pace. So I’ve opted to work out of Ashbrooke predominantly and travel only when necessary. And, anyway, I like the countryside. Who wouldn’t want the ocean views that are at Ashbrooke?’

  ‘I love the countryside, too... But you live behind tall walls, away from the rest of the surrounding communities. Do you never feel alone?’

  Lord, she was like a dog with a bone. With someone else he would have cut them off a long time ago, but she asked these questions with such genuine curiosity he found himself reluctantly answering them.

  ‘I don’t have time to even think of being alone, never mind feel it. Trust me—it’s not an issue in my life.’

  ‘What about friends and family? Do you see them often?’

  Right—he’d had enough of this. Time to change the subject. ‘I see them occasionally.’ He nodded at their now empty glasses and said, ‘Would you like to walk in the Jardin du Luxembourg before we head back home?’

  She nodded enthusiastically, and as they walked out of the bar together his attention was hijacked by the sensual sway of her hips in the high heels. Bewildered, he shook his head, trying to figure out just what was so hypnotic about her walk—and also how she’d managed to get him to talk about personal issues he had never discussed with a single other person before.

  * * *

  The martini and the relief of having survived the hurdle of visiting clients for the first time had combined to make her a little light-headed. So she had happily accepted his suggestion that they stroll through the park.

  The paths were busy with joggers and families. A few times she caught Patrick smiling at the antics of careening toddlers and something pulled tight in her chest.

  Did he ever want a family of his own? The question was on the tip of her tongue a number of times but she didn’t dare ask.

  They passed by a bandstand, where a brass band played happy, toe-tapping tunes to a smiling and swaying audience.

  ‘I spoke to William today. The renovations are going well. You’ll be glad to hear I will be out of your hair in less than a month after all. It might be three weeks, tops.’

  He glanced across at her and then away. ‘That’s good news.’

  A dart of disappointment had her asking, ‘That I’ll be gone soon?’

  He came to a stop and folded his arms. He looked down with good-humoured sternness. ‘No. That the renovations are going well.’

  Emotion swirled in her chest. She shuffled her feet on the gravel path and she, too, crossed her arms. ‘I’m really grateful for everything you have done.’

  He looked beyond her, towards a group of children sailing model wooden sailboats on a pond. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

  Of course it was a big deal. But he clearly didn’t want to make out that it was.

  Evening stubble lined his jaw, adding a rugged masculinity to his already breathtaking looks. How incredible it would be to feel free to run a hand against that razor-sharp jawline and to look into the eyes of this strong, honourable man. Her heart hammered at the thought that in the future some other woman might get close enough to him, might feel free to do exactly that. And he might welcome it.

  She pushed away the jealousy that twisted in her stomach. Instead she nodded towards the children he was looking at and said, ‘My dad’s hobby is model boats. As a child I spent a lot of my Sundays standing in the freezing cold in Herbert Park in Dublin, wishing his boat would sink so that I could go home.’

  He gave a bark of laughter and shook his head. ‘You sound like you were a wicked child.’

  ‘I used to get into a fair share of trouble, all right. I always blamed my two older brothers, though! Did Orla do that with you?’

  He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Don’t get me started. She used to insist on coming everywhere with myself and my friends. Half the time she would cause mischief—running through people’s gardens as a shortcut, helping herself to something from their fruit trees along the way. But when neighbours rang to complain it was always me they mentioned, never Orla. She was so small they couldn’t see her.’

  For the first time since they’d met he was speaking with genuine ease and affection about someone close to him. He was so animated and relaxed she longed for it to continue for a while.

  ‘What was the village you grew up in like?’

  ‘Everyone knew everyone. I went to the local school and spent my weekends with my friends—either on the beach or playing at our local Gaelic football club.’

  Referring to the two traditional Gaelic sports played in most clubs, she asked, ‘Hurling or football?’

  ‘Both, of course.’ For a while he paused, and then he said, ‘I still remember my first day going to the club. My mum took me down and I was so excited to be wearing the club jersey. All the other boys on the street wore it all the time.’

  Her chest tightened. ‘Do you remember a lot about your mum?’

  His voice was sad when he said, ‘Just snapshots like that.’

  And then he began to walk away.

  She had lost him. To that silence he often fell into. She wanted to bring him back.

  She followed him and after a while said, ‘So, do you get your good looks from her or your dad?’

  That elicited a smile. ‘So you think I’m good-looking?’

  ‘You know you are. I bet you were the heart-throb in school.’

  He laughed at that. ‘To answer your question—I take after my dad. Orla’s more like my mum.’

  ‘What was your dad like?’

  ‘Hard-working, loving, supportive. A family man and a good neighbour. Orla and I were the centre of his world. He worked several part-time jobs to ensure he was at home when we were. Money was pretty scarce. It used to worry me, but he would just shrug and say that as long as we had one another that was all that mattered. When Mum died he was determined we wouldn’t miss out. He even learned how to sew so that he could make us costumes for school plays.’

  A lump formed in her throat at hearing the love for his father in his words. In a quiet voice she said, ‘He sounds like he was a really good man.’

  His eyes met hers for a moment. She felt her breath catch to see the soft gratitude there.

  ‘He was. Each Christmas he would leave us both a memory chest under the tree, filled with little mementos he had collected for us during the year: our sporting medals, awful paintings and poems we’d created in school that only a parent could love, photos of our holidays.’

  He paused as a catch formed in his throat. It was a while before he continued.

  ‘In the chests he would also leave a handwritten list with all the reasons why he loved us.’

  Her own throat felt pretty
tight, but she forced herself to speak. ‘What a lovely idea.’

  He nodded to that.

  They walked beside the urn-lined Medici Fountain and paused where Acis and Galatea, the lovers from Greek mythology, carved in white marble, lay reclined in a lovers’ embrace. Their embrace was so intimate she had to look away.

  ‘You said you used to worry about money when you were younger? Is that what motivates you now?’ she asked.

  ‘Partially. But it’s also the challenge, and knowing that my products are making a difference in people’s lives. Especially in the medical field, where they can have a huge impact on how services are delivered to patients. I also like to know that I can provide for others, too.’

  She wondered if he meant Orla, but something in the look on his face kept her from asking.

  They continued walking, and she said after a while, ‘I’m sorry you lost your mum and dad... Patrick. It must have been very difficult.’

  ‘You just get on with it, don’t you? There’s no other choice.’

  ‘How old were you when you lost them?’

  He inhaled deeply before he spoke. ‘Seven with my mum...twenty-two with my dad.’

  He’d been so young. To lose your mum at seven... She couldn’t even begin to think about losing her parents, never mind at that age. ‘What age was Orla?’

  ‘She was just a baby with my mum—sixteen when my dad died.’

  ‘Oh, the poor thing.’

  He glanced towards her, and then away again quickly, but not before she saw the pain in his eyes. ‘Orla found my dad when she came home from school one day. He had died from an abdominal aneurysm.’

  For a while she was lost for words. What could she say about such a terrible loss? ‘I’m so sorry. It must have been a terrible shock for you both.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘I bet you were a great older brother, though, which must have helped her a lot.’

  Instantly he stiffened and a coolness entered his voice. ‘I tried to be.’ He gave his watch a quick glance. ‘We’d better get back. I have a conference call with Palo Alto in less than an hour.’