“Look, I’ve already called the police,” Frankie lied, “so if I were you, I’d just leave.”
“You would?” Arlo’s cool dark gaze made breathing a challenge. “But things are just starting to get interesting.” She tugged the quilt more tightly around her body as he looked down at her. “In fact, you should probably give the police a call back. Ask them to bring a ball. Then we could actually make use of that bat you’re waving around so enthusiastically.”
What?
Frankie looked at him in confusion.
She could count the number of conversations she’d had with burglars on one finger, but surely this wasn’t how they were supposed to go.
“Do you think this is funny?” she snapped.
“No, I don’t.” His gaze bored into her. “Do you?”
“Of course not—”
“In that case—” he paused, his eyes narrowing on her face with such a mixture of exasperation and hostility that she had to look away “—do you think it would be too much trouble to tell me exactly what you’re doing in my bed?”
Louise Fuller was a tomboy who hated pink and always wanted to be the prince—not the princess! Now she enjoys creating heroines who aren’t pretty pushovers but are strong, believable women. Before writing for Harlequin, she studied literature and philosophy at university, then worked as a reporter on her local newspaper. She lives in Royal Tunbridge Wells with her impossibly handsome husband, Patrick, and their six children.
Books by Louise Fuller
Harlequin Presents
Craving His Forbidden Innocent
The Rules of His Baby Bargain
The Man She Should Have Married
Italian’s Scandalous Marriage Plan
Secret Heirs of Billionaires
Kidnapped for the Tycoon’s Baby
Demanding His Secret Son
Proof of Their One-Night Passion
The Sicilian Marriage Pact
The Terms of the Sicilian’s Marriage
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Louise Fuller
Beauty in the Billionaire’s Bed
To Larry, Leonard, Neil and Neville. For forcing me into the fresh air and occasionally bringing clarity to my thoughts.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EXCERPT FROM THE ONLY KING TO CLAIM HER BY MILLIE ADAMS
CHAPTER ONE
THE TRAIN BURST out of the tunnel into the fading light. Frankie Fox flinched as the carriage jerked sideways.
It had taken just over two years of persistence and hard work, but finally it had happened. Two days ago her social media profile—@StoneColdRedHotFox—had reached the milestone of a million followers.
Better still, the man of her dreams had invited her to spend the weekend at Hadfield Hall, his family’s home in Northumberland.
She should have been feeling on cloud nine, but instead she was staring morosely through the grimy window at a darkening landscape.
It was her fault she was feeling this way.
For the first time in two years she had let herself dream, let herself hope that she might be given a second chance to belong. That maybe she had done enough to earn a place in someone’s life.
And the day had started so promisingly...
After weeks of rain, she had woken up to a pale March sun in a sky of clear harebell-blue.
Miraculously, she had got to the station with time to spare and, best of all, Johnny had been waiting beneath the clock, just as he’d said he would be.
They’d met just shy of three months ago at a product launch. Technically, she had been working, but that had been quickly forgotten because for her it had been love at first sight.
Johnny Milburn was an actor—the kind described as ‘hot’ and ‘up-and-coming’. He certainly looked like a leading man, with that lean body and clean-cut superhero features, the floppy blond hair, a smile that could power the National Grid, and the most beautiful meltingly soft chocolate-coloured eyes.
She had been the one melting when he’d taken her hands last Saturday and told her that she was working too hard. That somebody had to tell her she needed a break, and that person was him.
She breathed out unsteadily, remembering how his eyes had been fixed on her face as if there was nobody in the world but her. He hadn’t kissed her, but incredibly—unbelievably—he had invited her to spend the weekend with him at Hadfield Hall, his family’s estate on a tidal island off the coast of Northumberland. It had all sounded swooningly romantic. Like something out of a Georgette Heyer novel...
She glanced across the table to where Johnny should have been sitting.
Except romantic novels needed a hero and a heroine, and right now her hero was somewhere over the Atlantic on his way to an audition in Los Angeles, and she was on her way to Northumberland alone.
Slumping back in her seat, she sighed.
She’d tried telling Johnny that she couldn’t possibly just turn up at his family’s house on her own, but he wouldn’t listen to her.
‘Please, Frankie. It’s bad enough that I can’t go, but if you don’t go either then I might as well call off the trip to LA, because I won’t be able to stop thinking about how I messed everything up for you.’
‘But what am I supposed to say to your brother?’ she’d asked.
Remembering how Johnny’s expression had changed from pleading to relief, she let her head fall against the train window. She’d been trying to make him see the impracticality of what he was suggesting, but instead she had simply given him the means to make refusing impossible.
‘Arlo?’ He’d frowned. ‘You won’t have to say anything to him. I thought he was home, but apparently he’s on some ice floe in the Antarctic. He probably won’t be back for months.’
That at least was something, she thought, gazing up at the rain-spattered glass.
Johnny’s brother, Arlo Milburn, was not just a decorated former marine and a renowned expert on all things environmental, he was also a polar explorer. She had been dreading meeting him with Johnny there, but doing so on her own—
She shivered.
It was just lucky for her that he was away, because guilt had made Johnny unusually single-minded.
‘Look, it’s perfect for you.’ He’d held up his phone to show her. ‘For starters, it’s basically off-grid. Plus, you can have the run of the place. Nobody will be there except Constance—’
‘Who’s Constance?’
He’d frowned. ‘She looks after the house.’
‘Won’t she think it a bit odd, me just turning up on my own?’
‘No,’ Johnny had said firmly. ‘She hates it when Arlo’s away. Honestly, she’ll love having you there. And you’ll love it too. It’ll be like a home from home.’ He’d taken her hand and squeezed it. ‘Besides, I’ve already called her and left a message saying you’re coming, so you have to go now, Frankie.’
He’d been so racked with remorse, so contrite, so very handsome...
And, anyway, what would the alternative have been? Running home with her tail between her legs?
It was getting dark now outside, and for a moment she stared at her reflection.
And then what?
If she went out then she would have to pretend everything was fine, and she just didn’t have the energy to do that. But if she stayed in then she would be alone with her thoughts...
No, with or without Johnny, she needed a break—a change of scene. A few days away in Northumberland was exactly what the doctor ordered.
Suddenly her heart was racing, and even though she could feel her hands, could see the jutting bleached-out knobs of her knuckles, it felt as though she was losing substance.
Of course the opposite was true.
She alone had survived.
Her shoulders jerked. Even now it was a physical pain. Knowing that everyone she loved, everyone who had loved her, was gone.
Her family had been coming back from a summer holiday in Provence. Her father had been flying the plane when it had crashed. The crash had killed him, her mother, and her twin brother and sister.
She alone had survived.
And every day she wondered why.
‘This train will shortly be arriving at Berwick-upon-Tweed.’
The automated voice broke into her thoughts as she fought for calm.
‘Please remember to take all your belongings with you before you leave the train.’
Her fingers tightened on the armrest. After the shock had worn off there had been endless paperwork to fill in, meetings with solicitors, and then finally the inquest.
A shiver ran over her skin.
She had told the truth, but nothing she’d said had made any difference. That was when she’d started blogging and she hadn’t stopped since. But working non-stop for eighteen months had taken its toll. She was sleeping badly, had trouble concentrating, and lately she had a strange, disquieting feeling of being erased...like a drawing that wasn’t quite good enough—
Jolted back into the present, and glancing around, she saw that the carriage was empty. Standing up, she pulled her suitcase down from the overhead luggage rack.
Everything would be fine. Once she reached the Hall, she could relax and unwind. And if she felt like doing something more strenuous she could go for a walk along the beach or just do some cloud-spotting.
* * *
And there were plenty of clouds to spot, she thought twenty minutes later, as she hugged her beautiful but utterly ineffective quilted jacket around her shivering body. In fact, the sky was pretty much one huge, dark cloud, and the half-hearted rain from earlier was now sheeting down in force as she rapped on the door with the huge cast-iron knocker.
She waited, squinting up at the immense grey stone house rising above her, her heart beating in time to the raindrops hitting her face.
In her head, she’d imagined Constance opening the door, smiling warmly. But there was no sign of any housekeeper, with or without a smile, and all the windows looked ominously dark...
Trying to still the jittery feeling in her legs, she pulled out her phone. Perhaps she should call Johnny.
No service.
She bit her lip. So did that mean Constance had never got Johnny’s message about her coming alone?
Turning, she felt a quiver of apprehension scamper down her backbone as she watched the taillights of the taxi she’d hired at the station disappear into the rain.
There was no way she was walking back over that cobbled causeway in this weather. And it wasn’t as if she would be breaking in or anything...
Turning her back against the thundering rain, she found the key Johnny had given her, pushed it into the lock, and turned it.
It was toe-curlingly dark inside. Her heart thudding, she fumbled for a light switch.
Oh, wow.
She was standing in a tennis-court-sized entrance hall. Water was dripping down her legs into her trainers, but she was too distracted to care.
Home from home, Johnny had said. Clearly that depended on your definition of ‘home’, she thought, gazing up at the huge mahogany staircase, the stucco ceiling, and innumerable gold-framed oil paintings on the walls.
She had known Johnny came from money. Not the professionally earned sort, but old money—the kind that came with a small but exclusive circle of acquaintances, a flat in Eaton Square, and a country estate. She knew, too, that he had a cousin who was a lord or an earl or something.
Only she had never really put it into context until now.
Her stomach twisted. What would it be like to live here? To be the lady of the house? But of course ordinary people like her didn’t actually live in places like this. At most they stayed for a weekend—or, in her case, one night.
Tomorrow she would pay whatever it cost to take a taxi to the nearest hotel. Johnny would understand.
Her heart leapt in her throat as a noisy cluster of raindrops hit the windows.
Maybe in the morning she might take a quick peek around the house. Right now, though, she just wanted to go to bed.
Upstairs, there was an unbelievable number of bedrooms, all awash with heavy fabrics and Persian rugs and paintings of horses. Feeling like Goldilocks, she wandered from one room to another, pressing her hand against the velvet bedspreads to test the mattresses.
That one was too soft, this one was too hard, but this one...
Like all the other rooms, this one was large, but it had a different feel to it. There was an overflowing bookcase, a battered trunk at the end of the bed, and a large shabby wicker dog basket beneath the window.
The mattress dipped as she sat down on the edge of the mahogany-framed four-poster bed.
This one was just right.
She washed her face and brushed her teeth in the large and very austere en suite bathroom. No toiletries. Just dark grey tiles, a bath the size of a boat, and a leather armchair that looked like something from a gentlemen’s club.
Oh, and a cricket bat leaning incongruously against the wall, as if someone had just walked in off the pitch.
She stared at it in silence, frowning, and then picked it up. She might be on an island, in a house that looked as if it had been built to keep out invaders from across the sea, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra protection to hand.
Back in the bedroom, she peeled off her damp clothes and reached into her suitcase for the old dress shirt of her dad’s that she wore to bed.
Instead her hand brushed against something seductively soft and she pulled out the whisper of midnight-blue silk she had packed, in case ‘something happened’ with Johnny.
Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the moment when she’d seen it in the shop.
She’d wanted to look cool and confident and sexy. That was who she was, after all. A stone-cold, red-hot fox. Or at least it was who she was pretending to be. In reality, she felt anything but.
Throat tightening, she closed her fingers around the flimsy fabric.
She might as well wear it. Who knew when—if—she would have an opportunity to do so again?
Wriggling under the quilt, she gazed up at the heavy draped tapestry curtains. She felt as if she was in a fairy tale. If only Johnny were here with her, it would be perfect.
But he wasn’t.
Grabbing one of the pillows, she hugged it close to her body.
Life was not a fairy tale—at least not her life, anyway. And her supposed prince would be on the other side of the ocean by now.
Reaching over, she switched off the light.
Instantly the empty house creaked into life. Pipes hummed, windows rattled, and there was a distant thump like a door slamming.
Rolling onto her side, she yawned. The sound of the rain was making her feel sleepy...
And then she heard it. The sound of footsteps.
She sat upright so fast she thought her spine would snap. Her pulse was racing, her heartbeat bouncing off the walls.
It’s just your imagination, she told herself, feeling the hairs on th
e back of her neck stand up.
Except the footsteps were getting closer.
Her ears pricked, she groped frantically in the darkness for the cricket bat—and then almost jerked out of her skin when the door clicked open.
‘What the—?’
There was a crash, and then a thump, as someone—no, not someone...a man—collided with something solid in the darkness and she heard him swear explosively.
She felt a jolt of panic. Her heart was thumping uncontrollably, her fear so intense that she was shivering all over, and then sudden light blinded her.
Blinking, she stared across the room.
Her suitcase was lying on its back, rocking from side to side like an upended turtle. A man was standing next to it, his huge shoulders filling the doorway, his face shrouded beneath a hood, a bulky-looking dark leather bag in his hand and a dog quivering beside him.
Terror doused her like a bucket of cold water as he dropped the bag and took a step forward. Edging back against the headboard, she held the cricket bat out threateningly in front of her, tension bunching her muscles.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ she managed.
There was a silence, and then the man reached up and pushed back the hood. Eyes the colour of the storm clouds outside locked onto hers.
‘Or what?’
His voice sounded as if it was rolling across shingle.
‘Come closer and you’ll find out,’ she said hoarsely.
He leaned almost casually against the doorjamb, his lips twisting into something halfway between a smile and a sneer, so that she caught a glimpse of straight white teeth.
‘Is that an invitation?’
She felt goosebumps erupt over her skin.
An invitation!
Shocked, she gazed up at him, open-mouthed.
Not in a million years was her first response.
He was tall, and even though she couldn’t see beneath the bulky jacket he was wearing there was a sense of restrained power beneath the almost languid pose. But she liked her men pretty, and this man was not pretty. In fact, his features were strikingly discordant—part-Modigliani, part-Picasso, part-Border Reiver.
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