Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set

by Michelle Douglas, Jessica Gilmore, Jennifer Faye

  ‘I hope so. And I had a new bride in to see me this morning. That’s my favourite bit of my job,’ Claire said. ‘Turning a bride-to-be’s dreams into a dress that will suit her and make her feel special.’

  ‘That’s why you called your business “Dream of a Dress”, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Half of the reason, yes.’

  ‘And the other half?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Because it’s my dream job,’ she said.

  He looked surprised, as if he’d never thought of it that way before. ‘OK. But what if a bride wants a dress that you know wouldn’t suit her?’

  ‘You mean, like a fishtail dress when she’s short and curvy?’ At his nod, she said, ‘You find out what it is she loves about that particular dress, and see how you can adapt it to something that will work. And then you need tact by the bucketload.’

  ‘Tactful.’ He tipped his head on one side and looked at her. ‘But you always say what you think.’

  ‘I do. But you can do that in a nice way, without stomping on people.’

  The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘I’ll remember that, the next time you don’t mince your words with me.’

  She laughed back. ‘You’re getting a bit more bearable, so I might be nicer to you.’

  He bowed his head slightly. ‘For the compliment.’ Then he took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressed a kiss into her palm, and folded her fingers round it.

  It made her knees go weak. To cover the fact that he flustered her, she asked, ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Full of meetings.’

  No wonder he found it hard to relax and go with the flow. He was used to a ridiculously tight schedule.

  But at least he seemed to relax more once they were in the capsule and rising to see a late summer evening view of London. Claire was happy just to enjoy the view, with Sean’s arm wrapped round her.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said softly. ‘I owe you pudding and coffee. I have good coffee back at my place.’

  ‘Would there be caramel hearts to go with it?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘There might be,’ he said, the teasing light back in his eyes.

  This sounded like a spontaneous offer rather than being planned, she thought. So maybe it could make up for the earlier part of the evening. ‘That sounds good,’ she said. ‘Coffee and good chocolate. Count me in.’

  And, to her pleasure, he held her hand all the way back to his place. Now they weren’t on a schedule any more, he was less driven—and she liked this side of him a lot more.

  The last time Claire had been to Sean’s house, she’d waited on the path outside while he picked up his luggage. This time, he invited her in. She discovered that his kitchen was very neat and tidy—as she’d expected—but it clearly wasn’t a cook’s kitchen. There were no herbs growing in pots, no ancient and well-used implements. She’d guess that the room wasn’t used much beyond making drinks.

  His living room was decorated in neutral tones. Claire was pleased to see that there were lots of family photographs on the mantelpiece, but she noticed that the art on the walls was all quite moody.

  ‘It’s Whistler,’ he said, clearly realising what she was looking at. ‘His nocturnes—I like them.’

  ‘I would’ve pegged you as more of a Gainsborough man than a fan of tonalism,’ she said.

  He looked surprised. ‘You know art movements?’

  ‘I did History of Art for GCSE,’ she said. ‘Then again, I guess those paintings are a lot like you. They’re understated and you really have to look to see what’s there.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘if that was meant to be a compliment.’

  ‘It certainly wasn’t meant to be an insult,’ she said. ‘More a statement of fact.’

  He poured them both a coffee, added sugar and a lot of milk to hers, and gestured to the little dish he’d brought on the tray. ‘Caramel hearts, as you said you liked them.’

  ‘I do.’ She smiled at him, appreciating the fact that he’d remembered and made the effort.

  ‘You can put on some music, if you like,’ he suggested, indicating his MP3 player.

  She skimmed through it quickly and frowned. ‘Sean, I don’t mean to be horrible, but all your playlists are a bit—well...’

  ‘What?’ he asked, sounding puzzled.

  ‘They’re named for different types of workouts, so I’m guessing all the tracks in each list have the same number of beats per minute.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s sensible. It means everything’s arranged the way I want it for whatever exercise I’m doing.’

  ‘I get that,’ she said, ‘but don’t you enjoy music?’

  He frowned. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I can’t see what you listen to for pleasure. To me this looks as if you only play set music at set times.’ Regimented again. And this time she couldn’t just let it go. ‘That works for business but, Sean, you can’t live your personal life as if it’s a business.’

  ‘Right,’ he said tightly.

  So much for reaching an understanding. She sighed. ‘I’m not having a go at you. I’m just saying you’re missing out on so much and maybe there’s another way of doing things.’

  ‘Let’s agree to disagree, shall we?’

  Sean had closed off on her again, Claire thought with an inward sigh—and now she could guess exactly why his girlfriends didn’t last for much longer than three weeks. He’d drive them crazy by stonewalling them as soon as they tried to get close to him, and then either he’d gently suggest that they should be just friends, or they’d give up trying to be close to him.

  She also knew that telling him that would be the quickest way of ending things between them; and from the few glimpses she’d had she was pretty sure that, behind his walls, the real Sean Farrell was someone really worth getting to know.

  ‘OK, I’ll back off,’ she said. ‘But you have absolutely nothing slushy and relaxing on here.’

  He coughed. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m male.’

  She’d noticed, all right.

  ‘I don’t do slushy,’ he continued. ‘But...’ He took the MP3 player gently from her and flicked rapidly through the tracks.

  When the music began playing, she recognised ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’, but it was a rock version of the song.

  ‘The band played this at Ashleigh’s wedding,’ he said, ‘and I found myself looking straight at you—that’s why I asked you to dance.’

  ‘And there was I thinking it was because it was traditional,’ she deadpanned.

  ‘No. I just wanted to dance with you.’

  His honesty disarmed her. Just when he’d driven her crazy and she was thinking of calling the whole thing off, he did something like this that made her melt inside.

  He drew her into his arms, and Claire was surprised to discover that, even though the song was fast, they could actually dance slowly to it.

  ‘And then, when I was dancing with you,’ he continued, ‘I wanted to kiss you.’

  She found herself moistening her lower lip with her tongue. ‘Do you want to kiss me now, Sean?’

  ‘Yes.’ He held her gaze. ‘And I want to do an awful lot more than just kiss you.’

  Excitement thrummed through her, but she tried to play it cool. ‘Could you be more specific?’

  ‘I want to take that dress off,’ he said, ‘lovely as it is. And I want to kiss every inch of skin I uncover.’

  ‘That sounds like a good plan,’ she said. ‘So what do I do?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m surprised you don’t already know that one. Isn’t it what you’re always saying? Be spontaneous. Follow your heart. Go with the flow.’

  ‘So that means,’ she said, ‘I get to take that prissy suit off you?’

  �
��Prissy?’ he queried. ‘My suit’s prissy?’

  ‘It’s beautifully cut, but it’s so neat and tidy. I’d like to see you dishevelled,’ she said, ‘like you were that morning in Capri.’

  ‘Would that be the morning you threw me out of your bed?’

  ‘Yes, and don’t make me feel guilty about it. That was mainly circumstances,’ she said.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Besides, I can’t throw you out of your own bed,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Now that’s impeccable logic.’ He frowned. ‘Though, actually, if you said no at any point I hope you realised I’d stop.’

  She stroked his face. ‘Sean, of course I know that. You’re...’

  ‘Dull?’

  She shook her head. ‘I was going to say honourable.’

  He brushed the pad of his thumb across her lower lip, making her skin tingle. ‘You normally call me regimented.’

  ‘You can be. You were tonight, and I nearly left you to it and went home.’ She smiled. ‘But there’s a huge difference between regimented and dull.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Let me show you,’ she said. ‘Take me to bed.’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  To her surprise, he scooped her up and actually carried her up the stairs. She half wanted to make a snippy comment about him being muscle-bound, to tease him and push him, but at the same time she didn’t want to spoil the moment. She was shocked to discover that she actually quite liked the way he was taking charge and being all troglodyte.

  Once they were in his room, he set her down on her feet.

  His bedroom was painted in shades of smoky blue—very masculine, with a polished wooden floor, a rug in a darker shade that toned with the walls and matched the curtains, and limed oak furniture. But what really caught Claire’s eye was his bed. A sleigh bed, also in limed oak, and she loved it. She’d always wanted a bed like that, but there really wasn’t the room for that kind of furniture in her flat. Sean’s Victorian terraced house was much more spacious and the bed was absolutely perfect.

  ‘The last time you took your dress off for me,’ he said, ‘your underwear matched. Does it match today?’

  ‘That’s for me to know,’ she said, ‘and for you to find out.’

  ‘Is that a challenge?’

  ‘In part. It’s also an offer.’ She paused. ‘Um, before this goes any further, do we have Monday’s problem?’

  ‘We absolutely do not,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Good.’ Because she was going to implode if she had to wait much longer.

  He drew the curtains and turned on the bedside light; it was a touch lamp, so he was able to dim the glow. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Show me,’ he invited.

  She unzipped her dress and stepped out of it, then hung it over the back of a chair.

  ‘What?’ she asked, seeing the amusement in his face.

  ‘You’re a closet neat freak,’ he said.

  ‘No. Just practical. This is linen. It creases very, very badly. And I’m not walking out of here looking as if I’ve just been tumbled in a haystack.’

  He gave her a slow, sexy smile. ‘I like that image. Very much. You, tumbled in a haystack.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not at all romantic, you know. Straw’s prickly and itchy and totally unsexy.’

  ‘And I assume you know that because you’ve, um, gone with the flow?’

  ‘Listen, I haven’t slept with everyone I’ve dated, and I certainly haven’t slept with anyone else as fast as I fell into bed with you,’ she said, folding her arms and giving him a level stare.

  He stood up, walked over to her and brushed his mouth against hers. ‘I’m not calling you a tart, Claire. We both have pasts. It’s the twenty-first century, not the nineteen-fifties. I’m thirty and you’re twenty-seven. I’d be more surprised if we were both still virgins.’ He traced the lacy edge of her bra with one fingertip. ‘Mmm. Cream lace. I like this. You have excellent taste in clothing, Ms Stewart.’

  ‘It’s oyster, not cream,’ she corrected.

  He grinned. ‘And you have the cheek to call me prissy.’

  ‘Details,’ she said. ‘You need to get them right.’

  ‘We’re in agreement there.’

  She coughed.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m in my underwear. You can see that it matches, so I’ve done my half of the bargain. And right now, Mr Farrell, I have to say that you’re very much overdressed.’

  ‘So strip me, Claire,’ he said, opening his arms to give her full access to his clothes.

  It was an offer she wasn’t going to refuse.

  * * *

  Afterwards, curled in Sean’s arms, Claire turned her face so she could kiss his shoulder. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Not yet. This is comfortable.’ He held her closer. ‘Stay for a bit longer. I’ll drive you home.’

  So Sean the super-efficient businessman was a cuddler? Ah, bless, Claire thought. And, actually, she rather liked it. It made him that much more human. ‘OK,’ she said, and settled back against him.

  Funny how they didn’t really need to talk. Just being together was enough. It was peaceful. Something else she would never have believed about herself and Sean; but she liked just being with him. When he wasn’t being super-organised down to the last microsecond. And it seemed that he felt the same.

  So maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t all going to end in tears.

  When she finally got dressed and he drove her home, he parked outside her flat. ‘So. When are you free next?’ he asked.

  ‘Sunday?’ she suggested. ‘I have the shop on Saturday.’

  ‘Sunday works for me.’

  ‘You organised tonight, so I’ll organise Sunday,’ she said. ‘And that means doing things my way.’

  ‘Going with the flow.’ He looked slightly pained.

  ‘It means being spontaneous and having fun,’ she said. ‘I’ll pick you up at nine. And I won’t be late.’

  ‘No?’ he asked wryly.

  ‘No.’ She kissed him. ‘The first bit of tonight was, um, a bit much for me. But I loved dinner. I loved the London Eye and just being with you. Those kind of things works for me. It’s just...’ She shook her head. ‘Schedules are for work. And I keep my work and my personal life separate.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, and she knew he wasn’t convinced. But then he made the effort and said, ‘I enjoyed being with you.’

  But the fact she’d been late had really grated on him. He didn’t have to tell her that.

  He kissed her lightly. ‘I’ll walk you to your door.’

  ‘Sean, it’s half a dozen paces. I think I’m old enough to manage.’

  He spread his hands. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘I’m not pushing you away,’ she said softly. ‘But I don’t need protecting—the same as you don’t.’ She already had one overprotective male in her life, and that was more than enough for her. And it was half the reason why she’d always chosen free-spirited boyfriends who wouldn’t make a fuss over everything or smother her.

  Though maybe she’d gone too far the other way, because they’d all been disastrous.

  But could Sean compromise? Could they find some kind of middle ground between them? If not, then this was going to be just as much a disaster as her previous relationships.

  ‘Thank you for caring,’ she said, knowing that his heart was in the right place—he just went a bit too far, that was all. ‘I’ll see you Sunday.’

  ‘Spontaneous. Go with the flow.’

  ‘You’re learning. Carpe diem,’ she said with a smile, and kissed him. ‘Goodnight.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN CLAIRE WENT to pick Sean up on Sunday morning he was wearing
formal trousers, a formal shirt and a tie. At least this time it wasn’t a complete suit, but it still didn’t work for what she wanted to do. And they looked totally mismatched, given that Claire was wearing denim shorts, a strappy vest and matching canvas shoes. Sean looked way too formal.

  ‘Do you actually own a pair of jeans?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  It was just as well she’d second-guessed. ‘Right, then.’ She delved into her tote bag and brought out a plastic carrier bag bearing the name of a department store.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Pressie. For you.’ When he still looked blank, she added, ‘The idea is that you wear it. As in right now.’

  He looked in the bag. ‘You bought me a pair of jeans?’

  ‘Give the monkey a peanut,’ she drawled.

  ‘How do you know my size?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I measured you for a wedding suit, remember?’

  He sighed. ‘Claire, you didn’t need to buy me a pair of jeans.’

  ‘You don’t own any. So actually, yes, I did.’

  He looked at her, and she sighed. ‘Sean, don’t be difficult about this. I bought you a present, that’s all. It’s what people do when they date.’

  He still didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Look, you bought me those gorgeous flowers, and I don’t think you’d enjoy it if I bought you flowers—well, not that I think you can’t buy a man flowers,’ she clarified, ‘but I don’t think you’re the kind of man who’d really appreciate them.’

  ‘Probably not,’ he admitted.

  ‘Most people would buy their man some chocolate, but I can hardly give chocolate to someone who owns a confectionery company, can I? Which leaves me pretty stuck for buying you a gift. It’s just an ordinary pair of jeans, Sean. Nothing ridiculously overpriced. So come on. Do something you haven’t done since you were a teenager,’ she coaxed, ‘and wear the jeans. And swap those shoes for your running shoes.’

  ‘My running shoes?’ he queried.

  She nodded. ‘Because I bet you don’t have a pair of scruffy, “go for a walk and it doesn’t matter if they’re not perfectly polished” shoes.’