FALLING FOR THE PLAYBOY MILLIONAIRE
BY
KATE HARDY
Kate Hardy lives in Norwich, in the east of England, with her husband, two young children, one bouncy spaniel, and too many books to count! When she’s not busy writing romance or researching local history, she helps out at her children’s schools. She also loves cooking—spot the recipes sneaked into her books! (They’re also on her website, along with extracts and stories behind the books.) Writing for Mills & Boon has been a dream come true for Kate—something she wanted to do ever since she was twelve. She’s been writing Medical™ Romances for nearly five years now, and also writes for Modern Heat™. She says it’s the best of both worlds, because she gets to learn lots of new things when she’s researching the background to a book: add a touch of passion, drama and danger, a new gorgeous hero every time, and it’s the perfect job!
Kate’s always delighted to hear from readers, so do drop in to her website at www.katehardy.com
Recent titles by the same author:
Medical™ Romance
THE CHILDREN’S DOCTOR’S SPECIAL PROPOSAL (The London Victoria duet)
THE GREEK DOCTOR’S NEW-YEAR BABY (The London Victoria duet)
THE SPANISH DOCTOR’S LOVE-CHILD
THE DOCTOR’S ROYAL LOVE-CHILD (Brides of Penhally Bay)
Modern Heat ™
TEMPORARY BOSS, PERMANENT MISTRESS
PLAYBOY BOSS, PREGNANCY OF PASSION (To Tame a Playboy duet)
SURRENDER TO THE PLAYBOY SHEIKH (To Tame a Playboy duet)
CHAPTER ONE
‘ISN’T that Sophia over there?’ The blonde indicated the far side of the room with her champagne glass.
James knew he ought to change the subject or just walk away, but he couldn’t help himself. He looked.
And there she was. Sophia Alexander, society’s favourite party girl. Draped over yet another good-looking man, laughing as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
Which, to be fair, she probably didn’t.
‘Mmm,’ James replied, trying to sound noncommittal.
‘She’s not with that Italian model any more, then.’
The one she’d been photographed with on his father’s yacht, a mere six months after their wedding. The pictures of his topless wife and her lover had been splashed across newspapers around the globe.
Though that was old news. Very old news. After the Italian, Sophia had had an affair with a Spanish actor: lover number two on his divorce papers. And then a Brazilian footballer, who’d been squiring her around in the week before what should’ve been her first wedding anniversary with James.
‘I hear he’s a French chef,’ the blonde added.
Indeed. No doubt the guy would be cooking Sophia a ‘happy divorce’ meal tonight. Among other things.
Ha. And to think James had come out tonight to celebrate his freedom—the sheer relief that his marriage was legally over. He should’ve guessed that his ex-wife would be partying even harder. Showing him in the best way she knew that she didn’t give a damn, and she was going to enjoy every penny of her extremely generous settlement.
‘What do you think it’ll be next? A Greek restaurateur?’ the blonde asked.
If this was the woman’s way of trying to find out if he really was over his ex-wife, she could’ve found a more tactful way to ask. James was about to say something extremely cutting—and then he saw something in the woman’s eyes. Something that told him she wasn’t merely a guest, or just supremely tactless. The blonde was a journalist, after a story, and she knew very well what today was for him.
Decree absolute day.
The day he’d hoped that Sophia would change her surname back to Carvell-Jones, and the press would stop tormenting him.
How naive he’d been.
‘I really have no idea. I don’t keep tabs on my ex-wife,’ James drawled, with emphasis on the ex. ‘Excuse me. There’s someone I need to see by the bar.’
It was a lie, and they both knew it. But she let him go without further question, and he made his escape from the party as soon as he could.
No doubt the tabloids would all be full of the story tomorrow. How poor, heartbroken surgeon James Alexander had been forced to watch his ex-wife celebrating with yet another of her lovers on the day their divorce was finalised. And then there would be speculation about who would mend the heart surgeon’s heart.
You couldn’t get much further from the truth. James was hardly poor, despite the settlement, and he was very far from heartbroken. He’d stopped caring about Sophia a long time ago. It was just a pity that he’d been too smitten with her to see her for what she was before he’d married her: a spoiled socialite who didn’t think any further ahead than the next party.
KATE HARDY
‘What was I supposed to do, James? You never paid me any attention. You practically pushed me into his arms.’ The words echoed in his head: words she’d flung at him when he’d confronted her about the yacht episode and demanded to know what the hell she was playing at.
But she’d married a surgeon, not a socialite. James had never made a secret of the fact that his career was important to him. Cardiothoracic surgery was the most competitive specialty going, and he’d excelled at it—taking all his exams early and coming top in every single one. He loved what he did. He loved making a difference, giving someone their future back. Surely Sophia had been able to understand that he couldn’t leave a patient halfway through an operation just because she didn’t want to be late for a party? For pity’s sake, he wouldn’t leave the hospital until his patient was out of the recovery room and had been settled for at least an hour. He was a surgeon, and he believed in living up to the responsibilities that went with it.
Or maybe she’d thought that he would change, for her. That he’d switch specialties, go into plastics or something similar, and have a high-profile clinic on Harley Street. A job where he’d work nine to five at most, where all his surgical cases were elective rather than emergency, where he’d earn obscene amounts of money from pandering to the vanity of celebrities.
Just as he’d been naive enough to think that Sophia would understand the demands of his job as a children’s heart surgeon and make allowances for them, instead of flouncing off in pique, straight into the arms of the first gorgeous hunk who smiled at her.
Their marriage had crashed as spectacularly and publicly as it had begun. And the only reason James hadn’t served Sophia with divorce papers the week she’d been cavorting with her Italian and the paparazzi had taken snap after snap after snap had been because the law said you couldn’t get a divorce until you’d been married for a year. He’d had to wait for six excruciating months before he could apply for a divorce. Six months where he’d been forced to endure his wife flaunting a string of lovers in the gossip magazines.
At least Sophia hadn’t contested his grounds. Then again, with the amount of evidence in the press, she could hardly have denied adultery.
James let the front door click to behind him and deadlocked it. Right at that moment, he was sick of London. Sick of parties. Sick of everything—even the glittery charity fundraisers he’d once loved doing for his hospital. He could really do with some time away. Sure, he could call his father and go to one of the family’s private resorts, but he knew he’d still have to face the same old thing. Parties like tonight’s, full of debs and celebs.
What he really wanted was to chill out, somewhere quiet and peaceful. Somewhere where there weren’t any supermodels or society party girls who did nothing but shop and look for rich husbands they were going to cheat on within months of their flamboyant and expensive weddings.
Not that such a place existed.
Or did it?
He’d trained with Jack Tremayne in London. Jack had known how to party with the best of them; but then he’d moved back to Cornwall, to where he’d grown up. James hadn’t gone to Jack’s wedding in Penhally, simply because he hadn’t been able to face the happy couple while his own
marriage had been collapsing around his ears. He’d sent an expensive present and a feeble excuse.
Though he’d also wondered why on earth Jack had been mad enough to bury himself in such a backwater. Why go back to a little seaside town when he could’ve had so many more opportunities in London?
But maybe Jack had the right idea.
Maybe in Cornwall, miles away from London, James could find some peace.
He picked up the phone and dialled Jack’s number. It rang and rang, and he was just about to give up when a sleepy voice answered. ‘Hello?’
James glanced at his watch. For pity’s sake, it was a Saturday night and it wasn’t even midnight. The Jack Tremayne he knew would barely have started partying at this time of the evening. ‘Jack? It’s James. Sorry, did I wake you?’
‘Don’t worry. Just napping when Helena sleeps,’ Jack mumbled.
Of course. The new baby. It had slipped his mind. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, guilt flooding through him.
‘Everything all right?’ Jack asked.
‘Yes.’ No. ‘Look, I was wondering…You said a few months back, if I wanted to come and spend a few days…’
‘Uh…’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,’ James said immediately. How selfish and thoughtless could he get? ‘Not when you have a new baby.’
‘No, no, of course you can come and stay. Alison won’t mind.’
James rather thought she might. And he didn’t blame her. ‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll stay in a hotel or something. But it’d be nice to catch up. Have a beer together.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Jack seemed to be waking up now. ‘Are you all right, James? You sound a bit flat.’
‘Just had enough of London.’ He wasn’t going to mention the divorce. It wasn’t fair to dump that on a sleep-deprived new father. Even though Jack was about the only person he knew who’d understand what it was like to have the press on your back—Jack had had his fair share of flak from the tabloids in the past. ‘Hey, I’ll let you get back to sleep. I’ll call you at a more sociable hour tomorrow.’
Jack laughed. ‘You mean when you crawl out of bed in the middle of the afternoon.’
James forced himself to laugh back. ‘Something like that.’
‘If you’re serious about wanting to get out of London, I might be able to help. There was a job on the bulletin board at work last week that’s right up your street. Registrar on the cardiac surgery team. Why don’t you come down and take a look?’
It would be a sideways move. But the chances were, in a smaller place, he’d get more responsibility. At twenty-nine, James knew he needed more experience before he took the next step up, and this could be a really good opportunity. ‘I might just do that.’
‘St Piran’s is a good place to work,’ Jack said. ‘I’m really happy here.’
Yeah. Because Jack had met the love of his life.
As if Jack had picked up on James’s thoughts, he continued, ‘And you never know, you might find someone here who’ll be able to make you forget Sophia.’
James gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You must be joking. I’m not getting involved with anyone, ever again. Been there, done that.’ And the whole lot had been documented in the press. In every single squalid, sordid detail. He didn’t believe in love any more. ‘No, from now on, it’s no strings and no involvement.’
To his relief, Jack didn’t argue. ‘Give me a ring tomorrow, when I’ve had a chance to talk to Alison.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘And think about the job. It might be just what you need.’
Maybe, James thought as he replaced the receiver, just maybe, his friend had a point.
‘Did you hear a single word I just said?’ Nick asked his niece, looking pained.
‘I…No,’ Charlotte admitted. ‘Sorry, Nick. I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘Just that your head’s full of plans for the new centre.’
Yes, she thought. And the new cardiac surgeon at St Piran’s, James Alexander. Why on earth the head of surgery had given the job to a man who spent more time at parties than with his patients, she’d never know. The son of a supermodel and an international businessman, James was prime fodder for the gossip pages—and she’d seen his face splashed across enough magazines brought in by visitors to the ward. Usually posed on a red carpet, in full evening dress with a smile so perfect that it had to be the result of expensive cosmetic dental work, and some gorgeous supermodel with legs up to her armpits draped over his arm.
A man like that, used to partying with A-listers in exclusive clubs and hotels, would be bored stiff around here within a matter of hours. He wouldn’t see the beauty of this quiet corner of Cornwall—just that it was a backwater.
And then he’d be off again in search of the bright lights, dropping his responsibilities without a second thought and leaving everyone else to pick up the pieces. Marvellous.
‘Charlotte?’
‘Sorry.’ She gave her uncle a rueful smile. ‘I’m wool-gath-ering again.’
‘It’s not just the centre, is it?’
For a moment, she thought about fibbing. But Nick Tremayne had been good to her. He’d offered her a bolthole when she’d needed it most, two years ago, when she’d left Liverpool after the court case. And, considering that right now she was sitting in her uncle’s kitchen and drinking his coffee, the least she could do was be honest. ‘I’m fretting because of the new guy at work,’ she admitted.
‘You’re worried about him?’ He reached over and squeezed her hand.
She smiled at her uncle, knowing exactly what he’d been too tactful to say aloud. ‘Not in that way, Nick.’ She was well past the days when she’d been too nervous to stay in a room with anyone male. ‘No, I just think he’s going to be a waste of space. A party boy. I wish they’d chosen someone who would at least be dedicated to the job and work with the team, instead of grabbing all the glory for his personal headlines.’
Nick raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m the last person to make a comment there, considering how I behaved towards Jack.’
‘He’s forgiven you. And you’re close now. That’s all that matters.’
‘Maybe,’ Nick suggested, ‘this guy won’t be quite as bad as you think.’
She scoffed. ‘Even allowing for press exaggeration, I don’t think James Alexander’s going to fit in.’ Catching her uncle’s expression, she frowned. ‘What?’
‘Did you say James Alexander?’ Nick queried.
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘He’s a friend of Jack’s. Or, at least, he was, in London.’
‘Back in Jack’s wild days?’ At Nick’s nod, she said, ‘Then I rest my case.’
‘People change, Charlotte. Give the man a chance.’
‘Hmm.’ She switched the subject, not wanting to be drawn. In her experience, men didn’t usually change. Well, Nick had, a bit—he’d learned to get along with his children and pull together as a family after his wife’s death, but it had taken a lot of effort on the part of Jack, Lucy and Edward. Jack had settled down, too, thanks to Alison, but in Charlotte’s view Nick and Jack were the exceptions that proved the rule. ‘It’s two weeks until the rape crisis centre opens. My friend Maggie’s almost finished setting up the website.’
‘That’s good.’ Nick smiled at her. ‘Annabel would’ve been so proud of you, you know. She always said you were sensible and clever and kind.’
‘So was she.’Charlotte had adored her aunt. She still missed Annabel’s kindness and her common sense.
‘You remind me of her,’ Nick said softly. ‘Not just because of the way you look. You’ve got the same inner strength she had. And I’m as proud of you as she would’ve been. It takes a lot of guts to do something like this when…’ His voice faded.
‘When I’ve been through it myself?’ Charlotte wrapped her arms round herself. ‘That’s why I’m doing it, Nick. Because I’ve been there. Yes, it hurts. It brings back things I’d rather not remember. But because of…’ Her
mouth filled with bile and she swallowed it back. ‘Look, it’s just easier talking to someone who’s been there and doesn’t make you spell every single thing out. If I shrink away from this, I’m letting Michael win.’ She lifted her chin. ‘And that’s not going to happen, Nick. I’m not letting him win. I’m going to help other people get over it, just as people helped me get over what happened to me.’
‘But you’re still not completely over it, are you?’ Nick asked. ‘You haven’t dated since it happened. Three years is a long time, love.’
‘And your way’s better, is it?’ Charlotte parried. ‘Dating as many people as possible, so you don’t have time to think?’
Colour shot into his face. ‘There’s no need to be rude.’
She winced at the rebuke. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Not to you, of all people. Without you, I wouldn’t have a place for the centre.’ Nick, as the senior partner at the surgery in Penhally, had generously agreed to let her use a room in the surgery every Wednesday for the rape crisis centre. And in return she’d promised to run some sessions in the surgery at Penhally about heart health, including some especially for postmenopausal women at Gemma’s well-woman clinic.
‘You would’ve found somewhere you could use.’
‘But Penhally’s perfect. There’s something about the place—something…It’s going to sound daft, but something healing.’
Brides of Penhally Bay - Vol 4 Page 32
