Anything but Vanilla...

by Liz Fielding

  Even more tempting than ice cream!

  Sorrel Amery is determined to make her summer event the talk of the town, and she knows just the way into people’s hearts—champagne sorbet! It’s the perfect strategy… Until the ice cream parlour’s owner runs off, leaving Sorrel’s plans melting faster than a sundae in the summer sun.

  All Sorrel wants is to get back into her comfort zone, but when the gorgeous Alexander West arrives to help pick up the pieces her life gets shaken up more than ever before! Especially as this globe-trotting adventurer is determined that nothing in Sorrel’s life should ever be boring old vanilla again…

  SNEAK PEEK EXCERPT FROM

  ANYTHING BUT VANILLA…

  Sorrel had assumed Alexander would take the spoon from her, but instead he leaned forward and put his lips around it.

  His hair fell forward and brushed against her wrist, giving her goose bumps. He put his hand beneath hers to steady it when it began to shake, then raised heavy lids to look straight into her eyes.

  They were dangerously close.

  She’d taken an involuntary step back, shocked by such a powerful response to a man who, while undeniably attractive, she was not predisposed to like. But lust had nothing to do with liking. It was an unthinking, mindless live-now-pay-later physical response to the atavistic need of a species to reproduce itself. A lingering madness, as outdated, as unnecessary, as troublesome as the appendix. Something she’d have had removed if it was an option.

  And yet, with his palm cradling her hand, face-to-face, the effect was amplified; not so much a ripple as a tsunami…

  Dear Reader,

  I have had an incredibly busy year this year—busy, but happy.

  Anything but Vanilla… has, as a result, taken rather longer than usual to finish, but I’m thrilled to offer my second visit to the Amery sisters and their growing ice cream business in the exciting new KISS series—sexy, romantic, flirtatious and fun—launched by Harlequin this year.

  This is Sorrel’s story—she’s the one who’s a whizz at finding fabulous clothes in charity and thrift shops. She’s an astute business brain and her ambitions are firmly set on becoming a millionaire by the time she’s twenty-five.

  She has some pretty strong ideas about the kind of man who would make the perfect husband, too—well groomed, focused on his career and, above all, ready to settle down. Alexander West fails on every single point. Except one. Unlike the safe candidate she has picked out for matrimony, he heats her up like the chili in her chocolate ice cream.

  It’s a fast and bumpy ride so hang on to your hats and never forget—“Man cannot live on ice cream alone. Women are tougher…”

  Happy reading!

  Liz

  Anything but Vanilla…

  Liz Fielding

  ABOUT 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 finally came to a full stop in a tiny Welsh village cradled by misty hills, and these days mostly leaves her pen to do the traveling.

  When she’s not sorting out the lives and loves of her characters, she potters in the garden, reads her favourite authors and spends a lot of time wondering, What if…?

  For news of upcoming books—and to sign up for her occasional newsletter—visit Liz’s website, www.lizfielding.com.

  This and other titles by Liz Fielding are available in ebook format—check out Harlequin.com

  This book is dedicated to the authors with whom I share my writing life. They are my support group, a cyber hug away when the writing is tough and, when life gives you lemons, they’re always on hand to make lemonade.

  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

  Excerpt

  ONE

  There’s nothing more cheering than a good friend when we’re in trouble—except a good friend with ice cream.

  —from Rosie’s ‘Little Book of Ice Cream’

  ‘Hello? Shop?’

  Alexander West ignored the rapping on the shop door, the call for attention. The closed sign was up; Knickerbocker Gloria was out of business. End of story.

  The accounts were a mess, the petty cash tin contained nothing but paper clips and he’d found a pile of unopened bills in the bottom drawer of the desk. All the classic signs of a small business going down the pan and Ria, with her fingers in her ears, singing la-la-la as the creditors closed in.

  It was probably one of them at the door now. Some poor woman whose own cash flow was about to hit the skids hoping to catch her with some loose change in the till, which was why this wouldn’t wait.

  He topped up his mug with coffee, eased the ache in his shoulder and set about dealing with the pile of unopened bills.

  There was no point in getting mad at Ria. This was his fault.

  She’d promised him that she’d be more organised, not let things get out of hand. He was so sure that she’d learned her lesson, but maybe he’d just allowed himself to be convinced simply because he wanted it to be true.

  She tried, he knew she did, and everything would be fine for a while, but then she’d hear something, see something and it would trigger her depression...get her hopes up. Then, when they were dashed, she’d be ignoring everything, especially the scary brown envelopes. It didn’t take long for a business to go off the rails.

  ‘Ria?’

  He frowned. It was the same voice, but whoever it belonged to was no longer outside—

  ‘I’ve come to pick up the Jefferson order,’ she called out. ‘Don’t disturb yourself if you’re busy. I can find it.’

  —but inside, and helping herself to the stock.

  He hauled himself out of the chair, took a short cut across the preparation room—scrubbed, gleaming and ready for a new day that was never going to come—and pushed open the door to the stockroom.

  All he could see of the ‘voice’ was a pair of long, satin-smooth legs and a short skirt that rode up her thighs and stretched across a neat handful of backside. It was an unexpected pleasure in what was a very bad day and, in no hurry to halt her raid on the freezer, he leaned against the door making the most of the view.

  She muttered something and reached further into its depths, balancing on one toe while extending the other towards him as if inviting him to admire the black suede shoe clinging to a long, slender foot. A high-heeled black suede shoe, cut away at the side and with a saucy bow on the toe. Very expensive, very sexy and designed to display a foot, an ankle, to perfection. He dutifully admired the ankle, the leg, a teasing glimpse of lace—that skirt was criminally short—and several inches of bare flesh where her top had slithered forward, at his leisure.

  The combination of long legs and dark red skirt, sandwiched between cream silk and lace, reminded him of a cone filled with Ria’s home-made raspberry ripple ice cream. It had been a while since he’d been within touching distance of temptation but now, recalling that perfect mix of fresh tangy fruit and creamy sweetness, he contemplated the idea of scooping her up and running his tongue along the narrow gap of golden skin at her waist.

  ‘I’ve got the strawberry and cream gelato and the cupcakes, Ria.’ Her voice, sexily breathless as she shifted containers, echoed from the depths of the freezer. ‘And I’ve foun
d the bread and honey ice cream. But there’s no Earl Grey granita, champagne sorbet or cucumber ice cream.’

  Cucumber ice cream?

  No wonder Ria was in trouble.

  He took a final, appreciative look at the endless legs and, calling the hormones to heel, said, ‘If it’s not there, then I’m sorry, you’re out of luck.’

  Sorrel Amery froze.

  Metaphorically as well as literally. With her head deep in the freezer and nothing but a strappy silk camisole between her and frozen to death, she was already feeling the chill, but either Ria had the worst sore throat in history, or that was—

  She hauled herself out of its chilly depths and turned round.

  —not Ria.

  She instinctively ran her hands down the back of a skirt that her younger sister—with no appreciation of vintage fashion—had disparagingly dismissed as little more than a pelmet. It was, however, too late for modesty and on the point of demanding who the hell the man leaning against the prep-room door thought he was, she decided against it.

  Silence was, according to some old Greek, a woman’s best garment and, while it was not a notion she would generally subscribe to, hot blue eyes above a grin so wide that it would struggle to make it through the door were evidence enough that he’d been filling his boots with the view.

  Whoever he was, she wasn’t about to make his day by going all girly about it.

  ‘Out of luck? What do mean, out of luck?’ she demanded. ‘Where’s Ria?’ Brisk and businesslike were her first line of defence in the face of a sexy male who thought all he had to do was smile and she’d be putty in his hands.

  So wrong—although the hand propping him up against the door frame had a workmanlike appearance: strong, broad and with deliciously long fingers that looked as if they’d know exactly what to do with putty...

  She shivered a little and the grin twitched at the corner of his mouth, suggesting that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  Wrong again.

  She was just cold. Really. She hadn’t stopped to put on the cute, boxy little jacket that completed her ensemble. This wasn’t a business meeting, but a quick in-and-out pick-up of stock.

  While the jacket wouldn’t have done anything for her legs, it would have covered her shoulders and kept her warm. And when she was wearing a suit, no matter how short the skirt, she felt in control. Important when you were young and female and battling to be taken seriously in a world that was, mostly, dominated by men.

  In suits.

  But she didn’t have to impress Ria and hadn’t anticipated the freezer diving. Or the audience.

  The man lounging against the door frame clearly didn’t feel the need for armour of any kind, beyond the heavy stubble on his chin and thick brown hair that brushed his shoulders and flopped untidily around his face.

  No suit for him. No jacket. Just a washed-out T-shirt stretched across wide shoulders, and a pair of shabby jeans moulded over powerful thighs. The sun streaks that brightened his hair—and the kind of skin-deep tan that you didn’t get from two weeks on a beach—only confirmed the impression that he didn’t believe in wasting his time slaving over a hot desk, although the suggestion of bags under his eyes did suggest a heavy night-life.

  ‘Ria’s not here.’ His voice, low and gravelly, lazy as his stance, vibrated softly against her breastbone, as if he’d reached out and grazed his knuckles slowly along its length. It stole her breath, circling softly before settling low in her belly and draining the strength from her legs. ‘I’m taking care of things.’

  She fumbled for the edge of the freezer, grasping it for support. ‘Oh? And you are?’ she asked, going for her ‘woman in command of her environment’ voice and falling miserably short. Fortunately, he didn’t know that. As far as he knew, she always talked in that weirdly breathy way.

  ‘Alexander West.’

  She blinked. ‘You’re the postcard man?’

  ‘The what?’ It was his turn to look confused, although, since he was already leaning against the door, he didn’t need propping up.

  ‘The postcard man,’ she repeated, desperately wishing she’d kept her mouth shut, but the nickname had been startled out of her. For one thing he was younger than she’d expected. Really. Quite a lot younger. Ria wore her age well, but wasn’t coy about it, describing her fortieth birthday as a moment of ‘corset-loosening’ liberation. Not that she’d ever needed a corset, or would have worn one if she had. ‘That’s what Nancy calls you,’ she explained, in an attempt to distance herself from her surprised reaction. ‘Ria’s assistant? You send her postcards.’

  ‘I send postcards to Nancy?’ he asked, the teasing gleam in his eyes suggesting that he was perfectly aware of her discomfort and the reason for it.

  ‘To Ria. Very occasionally,’ she added. Having regained a modicum of control over her vocal cords, if nothing else, she wanted him to know that she wasn’t impressed by him or his teasing.

  It wasn’t the frequency of their arrival that made the postcards memorable, but their effect. She’d once found Ria clutching one to her breast, tears running down her cheeks. She’d waved away her concern, claiming that it was hay fever. In November.

  Only a lover, or a child, could evoke that kind of response. Alexander West was a lot younger than she’d expected, but he wasn’t young enough to be her son, which left only one possibility, although in this instance it was a lover who was notable only by his absence. His cards, when they did arrive, were mostly of long white tropical beaches fringed with palm trees. The kind that evoked Hollywood-style dreams of exotic cocktails and barefoot walks along the edge of the shore with someone who looked just like Mr Postcard. Sitting at home in Maybridge, it was scarcely any wonder Ria was weeping.

  ‘Once in a blue moon,’ she added, in case he hadn’t got the message.

  Sorrel knew all about the kind of travelling man who took advantage of a warm-hearted woman before moving on, leaving her to pick up the pieces and carry on with her life. Her own father had been that kind of man, although he had never bothered with even the most occasional postcard. Forget moons—blue or any other colour—his visit was on the astronomical scale of Halley’s Comet. Once in a lifetime.

  ‘A little more frequently than that, I believe,’ he replied. ‘Or were you using the term as a figure of speech rather than an astronomical event?’ Fortunately, the question was rhetorical because, without waiting for an answer, he added, ‘I’m not often in the vicinity of a post office.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me,’ she said, making an effort to get a grip, put some stiffeners in her knees.

  Not at all.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ West let go of the door and every cell in her body gave a little jump—of nervousness, excitement, anticipation—but he was only settling himself more comfortably, leaning his shoulder against the frame, crossing strong, sinewy arms and putting a dangerous strain on the stitches holding his T-shirt together. ‘I thought perhaps you were attempting to make a point of some kind.’

  ‘What?’ Sorrel realised that she was holding her breath... ‘No,’ she said, unable to look away as one of the stitches popped, then another, and the seam parted to reveal a glimpse of the golden flesh beneath. She swallowed. Hard. ‘The frequency of your correspondence is none of my business.’

  ‘I know that, but I was beginning to wonder if you did.’ The gleam intensified and without warning she was feeling anything but cold. Her head might be saying, ‘He is so not your type...’ She did not do lust at first sight.

  Her body wasn’t listening.

  It had tuned out her brain and was reaching out to him with fluttery little ‘touch me’ appeals from her pulse points, the tight betraying peaks of her breasts poking against the thin silk...

  No, no, no, no, no!

  She swallowed, straightened her spine, hoping that he’d put that down to the cold air swirling up from the open freezer. She continued to cling to it, not for support, but to stop herself from taking
a step closer. Flinging herself at him. That was what her mother, who’d made a life’s work of lust at first sight and had three fatherless daughters to show for it, would have done.

  Since the age of seventeen, when that legacy had come back to bite her and break her teenage heart, she had made a point of doing the opposite of whatever her mother would do in any circumstance that involved a man. Especially avoiding the kind of rough-hewn men who, it seemed, could turn her head with a glance.

  Sorrel had no idea what had brought Alexander West back to Maybridge, but from her own reaction it was obvious that his arrival was going to send Ria into a meltdown tizzy. Worse, it would cause no end of havoc to the running of Knickerbocker Gloria, which was balanced on the edge of chaos at the best of times. The knock-on effect was going to be the disruption of the business she was working so hard to turn into a high-end event brand.

  Presumably Ria’s absence this morning meant that she was having a long lie-in to recover from the enthusiastic welcome home she’d given the prodigal on his return.

  He looked pretty shattered, too, come to think of it...

  Sorrel slammed the door shut on the images that thought evoked. It was going to take a lot more than a pair of wide, here-today-gone-tomorrow shoulders to impress her.

  Oh, yes.

  While her friends had been dating, she’d had an early reality check on the value of romance and had focused on her future, choosing the prosaic Business Management degree and vowing that she’d be a millionaire by the time she was twenty-five.

  Any man who wanted her attention would have to match her in drive and ambition. He would also have to be well groomed, well dressed, focused on his career and, most important of all, stationary.

  The first two could be fixed. The third would, inevitably, be a work in progress, but her entire life had been dominated by men who caused havoc when they were around and then disappeared leaving the women to pick up the pieces. The last was non-negotiable.