Misbehaving Under the Mistletoe (Mills & Boon M&B): On the First Night of Christmas... / Secrets of the Rich & Famous / Truth-Or-Date.com (Mb)

by Heidi Rice

  For him she would compromise. For him.

  ‘If we were to go with this?’ he said. ‘How big is that “if” exactly?’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘I love you,’ she said. She saw his eyes light up at that and it strengthened her resolve still further. ‘I’m willing to sign a pre-nup, if that’s what you want.’ She paused. ‘If that’s what you need.’

  He visibly tensed, and a light frown touched his face. Her hands were suddenly in his, surrounded by them.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She smiled a little.

  ‘But that won’t be necessary.’

  Her heartbeat jolted into action. She looked at him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m guessing the thought of a monetary get-out-clause isn’t something you want in your future, being as you have the one from hell in your past,’ he said. ‘So the answer is no, I won’t be wanting a pre-nup. I don’t intend to need one. I love you. I’ve never been more certain of anything.’

  He lifted one hand to her cheek, stroked it gently. Heat sparkled along her cheekbone as if it might burst into flames. Her stomach did a slow and delicious cartwheel. She felt such love for him that it made her throat dry, and she knew tears might follow pretty soon if she didn’t swallow hard.

  ‘Jen, will you quit with all the questions and marry me?’

  She waited a moment, just to let the full deliciousness of that question sink in and envelop her.

  He got her.

  It filled her with happiness. He lived his life with a safety net and he was letting that go. For her. Because he understood how important it was for her.

  As he opened the box she looked down in awe at the square-cut diamond, yet nothing could have meant more than the trust he was putting in her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, finally letting excitement bubble over. She wanted to jump up and down, leap around the bar.

  He slid the ring on her finger, then held her hand tightly in his. He leaned forward to give her a hot kiss that made the locals gawp, and then something occurred to her. She put a hand on his shoulder, broke the kiss gently.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you say there were a few points you wanted to bring up before I gave you my answer?’

  ‘I meant wedding details, you idiot. You can choose whatever you want—location, theme, guest lists. Anything. Just one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You have to include my family in there. I’ve got some bridges to build. Otherwise you get carte blanche. Marlon can do the styling, if you like. He really took to you.’

  They both turned at the sound of exaggerated throat-clearing.

  Elsie drew herself up to her full height.

  ‘If there’s any styling to be done,’ she said, an indignant tilt to her chin, ‘look no further.’

  Truth-Or-Date.com

  Nina Harrington

  NINA HARRINGTON grew up in rural Northumberland, and decided at the age of eleven that she was going to be a librarian—because then she could read all of the books in the public library whenever she wanted! Since then she has been a shop assistant, community pharmacist, technical writer, university lecturer, volcano walker and industrial scientist, before taking a career break to realise her dream of being a fiction writer. When she is not creating stories which make her readers smile, her hobbies are cooking, eating, enjoying good wine—and talking, for which she has had specialist training.

  CHAPTER ONE

  From: Andromeda@ConstellationOfficeServices

  To: saffie@saffronthechef

  Subject: Our least favourite school friend and online dating

  Hey Saffie.

  I know, I know. I should have listened when you tried to warn me against working part-time for Elise van der Kamp in the first place.

  Do you remember when Elise signed up with that expensive Internet dating agency for young executives? Well, now she has decided she is too busy to write her own emails and that I should do it for her. Write a few emails, she said. Then a few more. Just to get the ball rolling. After all, what else are personal assistants for?

  Right.

  I almost told her what to do with her job, but then she offered me a special bonus, which should be enough to pay for that professional illustrator’s course I’ve been yearning to go on. It would be perfect. And just what I need to be taken seriously as an artist.

  Not much has changed from school, has it? Elise knew I couldn’t turn it down.

  So guess who has been wooing potential Christmas party arm candy for our least favourite school friend every evening for the past week? Oh, yes.

  Well, things have just sunk to a new low.

  Ten minutes ago she texted me to say that she has to dash off to Brazil on some urgent business and—wait for it—she has changed her mind about the whole online dating thing. Apparently it is far too sordid and risky and she doesn’t want her reputation sullied by that kind of thing.

  Sullied! Can you believe it? I don’t think she even read one of the emails I sent or the lovely replies I got back from the boys who had rearranged their schedules to meet her for coffee this week.

  The real problem is that the first coffee date is tonight. As in half an hour from now, and it is far too late to cancel. This one’s username is #sportybloke and he sounds really nice over the Internet. I can’t stand the idea of the poor man sitting there all alone waiting for #citygirl Elise to show. I know what it’s like to be stood up and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And I do feel sort of responsible.

  Do you think I should go and meet him? And explain?

  Ahhrrggg.

  Hope that slave-driver of a master chef isn’t working you too hard in Paris.

  Wish me luck. Andy

  From: saffie@saffronthechef

  To: Andromeda@ConstellationOfficeServices Andy Davies, you are making my head spin. I cannot believe that you would agree to go onto an Internet dating site posing as Elise van der Kamp. I mean … Elise? Social skills of a piranha and twice as mean? Sheesh.

  I am not in the least surprised that she chose a friendly person to write her emails for her.

  As for the coffee date? I think you would feel better if you took a minute to go there and apologise in person. But be careful. Executive type? Being stood up and lied to? He could get cross. Use your charm. And take extra sharp pencils. Just in case.

  Love ya. Saffie the kitchen slave

  ANDROMEDA Davies stepped down from the red London bus and darted under the shelter of the nearest shop doorway. The November rain pounded on the fabric awning above her head and bounced off the pavement of the narrow street in this smart part of the city.

  Her gaze skipped between the pedestrians scurrying for cover until it settled on the giant mocha-cup bistro sign directly across the street.

  Light from within the coffee shop streamed out in vertical bands like strobe lights between the pedestrians onto the wet pavement. She had already been here twice that week on a mission to find the perfect location for a first Internet date for Elise. It was ideal. Central, well lit, spacious and very public. They served hot food and the coffee was pretty good too.

  Taking a deep breath, Andy tugged her shoulder bag across her chest, and hit the button on the handle of her umbrella with her thumb. It was so typical that the only umbrella she possessed was purple with pink cartoon flowers on the top and had been a gift from when she’d worked as a temp at a company that made novelty items for children’s parties.

  In her current financial state she was hardly one to complain and if it kept her dry that would be a bonus—but Elise would have taken one look at it and thrown it in the bin.

  Her cover story was that it was a unique design from an up-and-coming fashion designer who specialised in one-off graphics. Nobody else would have an umbrella just like it and …

  Lies, lies, lies, lies. All lies. Some little fluffy cloud white lies and some great big stonking massive thu
ndercloud of lies. But lies just the same.

  Andy closed her eyes and wallowed in ten seconds of self-pity and shame before shaking herself out of it.

  This had been her decision. Nobody had forced her to agree to impersonate Elise van der Kamp on the dating site. She could have refused and insisted that Elise write her own correspondence with these busy city boys. But Elise knew that she wouldn’t turn it down. Not when she was waving a sweet cash bonus as bait to lure her in.

  Andy dropped her shoulders, and shoved her free hand into the pocket of her trendy dark navy raincoat with white piping, which she had snatched up from a charity shop in an exclusive part of town.

  The things she did for her art!

  She really didn’t have to worry about her umbrella or how she looked as long as she kept to her plan. All she had to do was dash in, wait for #sportybloke to arrive, apologise politely on behalf of Elise and then leave. The whole thing would be over in ten minutes.

  Of course the girl he was expecting was the efficient and sophisticated executive director of one of the largest corporate promotion companies in Britain. Or, as Elise had insisted that she add to her online dating profile, aspiring marketing guru to the world.

  Gag.

  Ten minutes. And then she could get back on the bus and switch to being plain old Andy Davies, part-time personal assistant to Elise during the day, mostly unpaid illustrator in the evenings and weekend art historian, aspiring to pay the bills.

  She would not be here at all if Elise had not suggested that she could ‘take care’ of the first round of emails—’so that she was not wasting her time on the no-hopers’.

  Charming. And some of the men sounded lovely. On their profiles.

  ‘I know I can rely on you completely to manage my social diary,’ Elise had said with her full-beam smile. ‘There is simply no one else I could trust with my personal information. But we have been friends for so long, Andromeda. I just know that you will be totally discreet. Wonderful!’

  Um. Right. It had probably never even crossed Elise’s mind that Andy had to juggle her hours at the last minute to fit all of the work in. But she had done it—just. Maybe now that Elise had pulled the plug on the Internet dating, they could both go back to what passed for a normal life in her crazy world. Like planning the Christmas and New Year party circuit.

  Providing, of course, she survived explaining to #sportybloke that #citygirl had no intention of turning up to meet him.

  Now that did give her the shivers. That and the rivulet of rain water spilling out from the awning.

  Exhaling slowly, Andy glanced from side to side to find a gap in the stream of people who had their heads down, their umbrellas braced forward against the driving rain and oblivious to anyone who might walk in their way.

  Seizing on a momentary lull, Andy lifted her umbrella high and dashed out onto the road in the stationary rush hour traffic. She had almost made it, when she had to dive sideways to dodge a bicycle courier and planted her right foot into a deep puddle. Dirty cold water splashed up into her smart high-heeled ankle boots and trickled down inside, making her gasp with shock.

  Hissing under her breath, Andy stepped up onto the kerb, closed her umbrella, which had totally failed to keep her dry, and opened the door to the coffee shop and stepped inside.

  Water dripping from every part of her, Andy shook the rain from her hair and inhaled the glorious deep, rich aroma of the freshly ground coffee beans. She was looking forward to the day when she could afford real coffee at home to replace the cheapest supermarket-brand instant coffee. The aroma combined with the background noise of the coffee shop—a low steady hum of voices, coffee grinders and espresso machines—created a wonderful soundtrack that she had every intention of enjoying, seeing as Elise was picking up the bill.

  Andy gazed around the terracotta and cream walls to the groups of people sitting on the pale oak chairs behind red-and-white gingham check tablecloths.

  No sign of the Hawaiian shirt #sportybloke had said that he was going to wear—and she was not likely to miss that type of clothing on a cold wet evening in early November in the centre of London.

  Andy moved to the counter, bought her Americano coffee and took a seat at the small square table in the corner with her back to the wall. She propped her pink-and-purple umbrella against the wall, slipped off her raincoat over the back of the chair and ran her hands down the skirt of her favourite grey business suit.

  A flutter of nervous apprehension winged across her stomach.

  This was so ridiculous.

  She wasn’t here on a real date. There was no need to be nervous.

  She was here to apologise for Elise. That was all.

  So what if she had tried to imagine what #sportybloke would look like in person? You could only tell so much from an online thumbnail photograph, and they could certainly be deceptive.

  It was only natural to be curious, wasn’t it? Especially when #sportybloke told stories about the social life of a surfer in exotic places like Hawaii and California that had made her laugh out loud. He had a sense of humour … and he would certainly need one if he was dating Elise.

  Andy bit down on her lower lip. Maybe coming here was not such a good idea. What if he was a total disappointment? And Saffie had a point. He had every right to be annoyed with her—and Elise—for tricking him. But she had to put it right with #sportybloke, tell him the truth face to face and apologise in person. She owed it to him—and herself.

  Andy looked around the coffee shop at all of the happy couples, laughing and chatting merrily away over their lattes and pastries, and her heart twanged a little. But she sniffed and shook it off.

  She wasn’t looking for a date. Far from it—this was her time to do her own thing without having to worry about rushing back to the office where she had worked with her so-called ex-boyfriend, Nigel, to sort out his project for him. She had learnt her lesson. No more lies. No more half-truths and self-delusion. In fact, no more boyfriends at all, if her last one was anything to go by. She was quite happy on her own. Thank you!

  Andy checked her wristwatch. Ten minutes. Then she would finally be able to steal back the few spare hours she had in the day to work on the type of paperwork she loved most.

  Hiding a quick smirk, Andy dived into her large shoulder bag and pulled out her sketch pad and pencil. The museum she worked at part-time had agreed to see her five favourite hand-crafted Christmas card designs with the view to possibly selling them in their shop and she was so close to being finished! This was her chance to persuade the museum to showcase her calligraphy and artwork.

  Andy was so engrossed in a sketch of a decorative scroll of strawberries and clover leaves that it took a blast of cold damp air from the open door to snap her back into the present moment. She shivered in her thin suit and looked up in surprise.

  A towering dark-haired man filled the space where the entrance had been, before he closed the door behind him.

  His tanned face was glowing from the rain and wind and he ran the fingers of his right hand back through his long damp hair from forehead to neck in a single natural motion.

  The water droplets stood proud on the shoulders of a hip-length waterproof sailing jacket, which he was slowly unzipping as if he were a male stripper in a cabaret act. Umm. And she would be right there in the front row telling him not to rush.

  Wow. He certainly had the body to pull it off should he decide on a change in direction, and as he rolled back his shoulders with a casual shrug Andy sucked in a breath in anticipation, and then exhaled very slowly.

  Yup. Hawaiian shirt.

  His square jaw was so taut it might have been sculpted. But it was his mouth that knocked the air out of her lungs, and had her clinging onto the edge of the table for support.

  Plump lips smiled wide above his lightly stubbled chin, so that the bow was sharp between the smile lines. It was a mouth made for smiling, with slight dimples either side.

  The short-haired #sportybloke who had pose
d for the corporate shot on the online profile had been wearing a suit and tie and looked like a clone of all the other business execs. But the man in the flesh was something else. For once the photo had not done him justice. At all.

  His button-fly denims sat low on his slim hips but there was no mistaking that he was pure muscle beneath those tight pants. Because as he stood there for a second, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, looking from table to table, scanning the horizon that was the confines of the coffee shop, every movement he made seemed magnified and as glaringly in your face as the scarlet-and-blue tropical flowers on his shirt.

  The entire room seemed to shrink around him.

  How did he do that? How did he just waltz in and master the room as though he were in command of the space and everyone in it?

  This man was outdoors taken to the next level. No wonder he worked for a company making sports clothing. She could certainly imagine him standing at the helm of some racing yacht, head high, legs braced. The master of all he surveyed.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled with recognition. Her father had been like that once, when he worked in the city. So confident in his right to be the self-proclaimed master of the universe that when the financial crash came his world, his sanity and his identity tumbled down with it.

  It was a pity that she was on a boyfriend ban. Because #sportybloke was truly the best-looking man she had seen in a very long time.

  And then he saw her, but instead of giving her the up-and-down, toes-to-hair ‘beauty pageant’ special once-over, his gaze locked onto her face and stayed there, unmoving for a few seconds, before the corner of his mouth slid into a lazy smile.

  The corners of those amazing eyes crinkled slightly and the warmth of that smile seemed to heat the air between them. And at that moment, this smile was for her. And her heart leapt. More than a little. But just enough to recognise that the blush of heat racing through her neck and face were not only due to the piping-hot coffee she had barely sipped.