Harlequin Romance April 2021 Box Set

by Rebecca Winters

  ‘Never grows old.’

  His chuckle had been deep and throaty. Genuine. It had been a nice surprise...his laughter...hers... The way they’d laughed together, melting all the ice.

  ‘It’s C-L-E-W,’ he’d explained afterwards, ‘not C-L-U-E.’

  And then he’d talked her through the whole anatomy of the mainsail as they’d folded it up—head and foot and tack and clew—but she hadn’t minded. Talking had discharged a little of the static she’d felt crackling between them every time their eyes had locked for longer than a moment or two. Static! She hadn’t felt anything like that for a long time. It was unsettling.

  She scooped up a handful of sand, letting it fall streaming through her fist. Being attracted to Joel wasn’t a crime—he was gorgeous—but he was also a guest on the island. Even if she’d been the type to consider a little holiday romance, which she wasn’t, dallying with a guest was completely out of the question. It wasn’t a stipulation of her contract; it was simple professionalism—and the last time she’d checked she still was a professional, even if she no longer had a restaurant, or a partner, or a best friend...

  She swallowed hard. That was what she’d been turning over in her head before Joel appeared. All the things she’d lost: all those years with Tom, all that time... And she’d been worrying that if she wasn’t run off her feet, if she wasn’t too busy to think, then those memories and thoughts would torment her. As the catamaran had touched the beach, she’d been simmering with all that hurt and anger and it had bubbled up inside her, sent her marching up to Joel, because in that moment, letting those feelings breach the surface, doing something with them, even if it was only ordering a trespasser off the beach, had seemed better than pushing them back down. But Joel was innocent. He wasn’t the problem.

  She closed her eyes, listening to the waves spilling on to the shore. If only she could view the prospect of having time to herself more positively. After all, this was paradise island! Green and golden, and turquoise. Warm and peaceful, and... Lonely. Her stomach clenched, then churned slowly. Before she’d even met him, she’d christened Joel ‘Lonely Larsson’, but maybe that said more about her than it did about him. He might well have come to the island by himself because he liked solitude, whereas she never had. For her, solitude meant loneliness. It meant being the odd one out. It meant being unwanted...

  She trailed her fingers through the sand. It was how she’d felt at home, growing up. Her older twin sisters had always been locked together in a way that had excluded her. The seven-year gap that separated her from them hadn’t helped... She bit her lips together. It was obvious that she hadn’t been planned. Her friends had all had siblings who were closer in age, siblings they could hang out with even if they didn’t always get along. She’d asked her parents about it once and they’d said that of course she’d been planned, then they’d laughed, said that she was the evidence of a healthy relationship. That had definitely been too much information, even if, on reflection, it was true.

  Her parents were one of those couples who’d always seemed to live in one another’s pockets. They’d been on parent–teacher committees together—chair and vice-chair. They’d been members of the same hiking club. They liked the same food, the same bands, the same movies, and, now that they lived in Abu Dhabi, they were golf partners and bridge partners.

  Pairs! Partners! That was what she’d known, growing up. It could have moulded her differently, made her fiercely independent, but it hadn’t. Instead, it had given her a map to follow. And she’d followed that map religiously, hadn’t she? Attaching herself to anyone who gave her the time of day. Always needing a best friend. Safety in numbers, better together—those were the pillars she’d clung to. It was why what had happened between Tom and Rachel felt like the ultimate betrayal.

  She stabbed her fingers hard into the sand, recoiling as a something sharp pricked her fingertip. She felt around it, excavating. It had to be a conch! These islands were famous for them. She’d read that conches were signifiers of optimism, courage and hope, all things she desperately needed! She freed it, brushing the sand off. It was lovely. Pale and ridged on the outside with little spurs sticking out, curving upwards. She turned it over, dipping her fingertip into the smooth, pink space that was once the creature’s doorway. A doorway to optimism, courage and hope...? She closed her fist around it, felt the spikes impaling her palm.

  ‘We need to talk...’

  She swallowed hard. At least she wasn’t crying. Tom’s voice, in her head, saying those words, usually tore her heart in two, but now, for some reason, she was thinking about the shell and the solitary creature that had lived inside it. She opened her hand. The little soft-bodied creature had built itself quite a fortress. She chewed her lip. Maybe she should do the same. She’d started going out with Tom when she was seventeen. She’d never stood on her own two feet, steering her own course. Perhaps Joel Larsson’s solitude was a blessing! With a dramatically reduced workload for the next three weeks, she could use the time to reset...to try find out who she was, who she could be... She’d have time to grow her own shell and learn how to be alone. Not lonely, but alone and happy!

  She scrambled to her feet, clasping the little shell tightly. For a dizzying moment, Joel’s steady blue-grey gaze filled her head, but she pushed it away. She liked Joel, but she couldn’t allow herself to think of him in a romantic way. She was done with men, done with love. It was time to put herself in the centre.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JOEL SLID HIS empty suitcase into the closet and closed the door, turning to look at the vast, airy bedroom that was going to be his for the next three weeks.

  It was larger than their—correction—his bedroom in Stockholm, which was painted in shades of grey and cream. This room was white, with dark glowing furniture and a mellow wooden floor. The upholstery and curtains were a lively, tropical green, but it wasn’t overdone; there was just enough colour to brighten the canvas. It was all very pleasant, with its mingling scents of clean bedlinen and warm wax polish.

  He breathed in slowly, felt his shoulders loosening, a vague sensation of unfurling. Jetlag kicking in, he decided, fatigue claiming him at last. Maybe he’d overdone it a bit, hiring the catamaran straight from the airport and sailing himself to the island. But the two flights he’d taken to get here had felt interminable and he’d been desperate to breathe fresh air, to feel sunshine on his face and a breeze on his skin. And of course then, on the beach, there’d been the unexpected additional exertion of capturing the runaway sail: going after it, catching it, losing it again because of...

  He crossed to sit on the ottoman that hugged the foot of the wide bed. Emilie! She was the reason he’d fumbled the sail. When she’d caught his eye for that tiniest of moments, he’d felt something shuttling between them, something that had skewed his senses and turned his bones to rubber. And then the sail had flown up the beach again, and they’d caught it together...and she’d been laughing about the clew. After that he’d had to keep on talking, telling her about the sail as she’d helped him to fold it, because otherwise he’d have lost himself completely in her sparkling hazel eyes and her luscious mouth, those sweetly curving lips...

  He blew out a long breath. He hadn’t been expecting Emilie, the chef, or Melinda, the housekeeper, for that matter. Melinda had given him a tour of the place shortly after he’d arrived. Full of smiles, she’d shown him the sitting room with its shuttered picture windows that could be slid back, giving access to the sweeping deck outside, the cinema with its sumptuous leather recliners, the library, the games room, the gym, the dining room, then she’d taken him outside so he could see the infinity pool and the terrace, and the panoramic views. Finally, she’d led him up the stairs and into the master suite, offering to unpack his suitcase if he wanted—as if—and then she’d said that when he was through with unpacking and freshening up, there’d be drinks and appetisers waiting for him on the terrace.

&
nbsp; He bent to pick up the battered loafers he’d kicked off earlier. When Nils had told him that he’d booked a house on a private island he’d pictured something smaller, less luxurious, not a place like this, with rooms for everything and a speedboat for his personal use. He shook his head. He might have guessed! Nils lived extravagantly and was generous to a fault. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind to find a more modest set up. He sighed. Melinda had definitely picked up on his incredulity. She’d barely been able to hide her amusement as she’d been showing him around. If only he’d read that damn brochure, he’d have known what to expect. He wouldn’t have looked like such an idiot!

  Dumskalle!

  He toyed with his loafers, fingering the faded leather. But he was an idiot, wasn’t he? Stupid enough to have thought that his life as a husband had been about to start.

  Astrid... Pale-lipped in the doorway. ‘Joel, we need to talk...’

  He felt his pulse fading, then thudding on thickly, filling his ears, filling his throat. Eight weeks! Astrid had called off their wedding just eight weeks before the big day, throwing away eleven whole years together—no—more than that, because he’d been with Astrid from when they were teenagers. And her reason? He felt the sudden drag of dizziness. Johan! His own brother!

  He gritted his teeth, swallowing hard. Way to capsize the boat! Way to dislocate the bones of a life! No wonder there was a humming black space where his heart used to be. Maybe his body was protecting him somehow, releasing an anaesthetic hormone into his bloodstream to stop the pain. But it was going on too long and he was sick of waiting for the pain to shred him. He wanted to feel it because he deserved to. He hadn’t paid enough attention to Astrid, or to their life together. He’d been lazy, taken everything for granted. It was as if the diamond ring he’d slid on to Astrid’s finger all those years ago had absolved him from thinking about love.

  Instead, he’d dedicated himself to building his business and then when he’d felt it was time, he’d nudged Astrid into setting a date for their wedding. And she had. She’d booked a wedding planner, bought a dress, booked their honeymoon. It had all been going so well and then... Tightness clawed at his chest. He’d always been the quiet one, the middle child of five, the lone wolf. He’d always felt separate, and he’d been happy to be separate, but now it wasn’t his choice. He was stranded. On the margins. Even if he’d wanted to talk to his family, he couldn’t, because Johan was his family and he couldn’t find the words anyway, couldn’t make sense of his feelings and the numbness. He was lost...unable to focus on anything.

  He took a deep breath and dropped his shoes on to the floor, working his feet into them slowly. He’d focused on Emilie, though, hadn’t he? Shamelessly, he allowed his gaze to travel over her body while she’d been busy with the sail. Hard not to. He was only human and Emilie was utterly desirable, but what did it say about him, or about his feelings for Astrid? Feeling such a raw attraction for someone just weeks after losing the love of his life couldn’t be right. There was obviously something deeply wrong with him.

  He sighed, staring at a patch of sunlight on the floor until it was a blur. Emilie! Her eyes, her smile, the way her sarong had hugged her hips... He felt his insides tightening, heat rising. Surely this craving had to be a rebound kind of thing, just the numb, dead part of himself needing to feel something primal, like simple, unadulterated lust. He forced himself to his feet. That had to be it! On the beach, she’d taken him by surprise, like that Bond girl in Doctor No. She was a fantasy, that was all, and the spark he’d felt shuttling between them, the fire it had ignited inside him, would just have to burn itself out, because he wasn’t a holiday fling kind of guy, and he wasn’t in the right frame of mind for anything more than that.

  Emilie was an indulgence he couldn’t afford. He’d come to the island to take stock of his life, to get his head straight again and, since just looking at her bent his head—and everything else—out of shape, giving her a wide berth was his only option.

  He moved to the door. Maybe keeping out of her way wouldn’t be so hard. She was the chef, so as long as he kept himself away from the kitchen, he’d be fine. He raked his hands through his hair, then reached for the door handle. Melinda had said something about drinks on the terrace and, after the day’s shocks and surprises, a drink suddenly seemed like a great idea.

  * * *

  ‘What are you making?’ Melinda was eyeing the mound of floury dough on the work surface suspiciously, her eyebrows arching all the way into the furrows on her forehead.

  Emilie smiled. ‘Dinner rolls.’

  ‘You haven’t made those before.’ For some reason, Melinda’s lips were pursing.

  ‘No, I haven’t, not here anyway...’ She kneaded the dough steadily, turning it round by degrees, stretching it, enjoying the elastic feel of it in her fingers. It was her grandmother who’d first introduced her to baking when she was about ten. They’d spent many a rainy afternoon making gingerbread men and cupcakes, then later, at home, after her sisters had left to go to university, she’d tried her hand at other things, discovered that she really did have a knack. Back then, she’d made bread all the time, especially on Sunday mornings. She looked up, catching Melinda’s eye. ‘I just had a notion...’

  ‘Hmm.’

  The small utterance carried a weight that belied its size. It was hard not to smile. ‘Don’t you approve of dinner rolls?’

  ‘Of course!’ Melinda’s eyes widened, then narrowed a little. ‘I was just looking at the time, that’s all...’

  ‘There’s time.’ She glanced at the wall clock. ‘These are quick to make. Fifteen minutes proving, twelve minutes baking, five minutes cooling. They can go to the table warm...they’re nicer that way.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  That was a loaded tone if ever there was one! She looked up, shrugging. ‘What...?’

  Melinda smiled slowly, her voice lilting with implication. ‘I always think of bread as a lovely, nurturing kind of comfort food...’

  ‘Maybe it is—for some people!’ She picked up her knife, started dividing the dough into pieces. She had no idea what Melinda was driving at, but she didn’t mind talking about comfort food. Recent events had turned her into something of an expert. ‘My favourite comfort food is chocolate cake—’ she looked up ‘—with a thick chocolate ganache.’

  ‘Mmm. Sounds heavenly.’ Melinda took a single, pristine napkin out of a drawer, bumping it shut with her hip. ‘Talking of heavenly, Mr Larsson is very handsome and very sexy, don’t you think?’

  Oh, God! Was Melinda matchmaking? She felt heat creeping up her throat towards her cheeks. She took a careful breath. ‘I can’t say I’ve noticed.’

  Melinda laughed roundly. ‘Then why are you blushing?’

  ‘I’m not!’ She looked down, carried on carving up the dough. ‘I’m just hot from kneading the dough, that’s all.’ Her pulse was fluttering. If only she hadn’t poured out her heartbreak over Tom to Melinda and Erris in that first week, she’d have been able to pretend that she had a boyfriend in England and was therefore uninterested in handsome, sexy guests. If she hadn’t told Melinda that she’d ‘bumped’ into Joel on the beach, she would have been able to pretend that she didn’t know what he looked like, but it was too late now. Melinda knew everything and, from the look on her face, she was only getting started.

  ‘Are you trying to nurture handsome Mr Larsson with your soft...warm...’ Melinda was purring out the adjectives ‘...delicious...dinner rolls?’

  ‘What?’ Her cheeks were prickling. ‘No! Of course not! That’s ridiculous!’ What was more ridiculous was that her heart was thumping hard. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t as if Melinda was right! Joel hadn’t been in her mind at all when she’d added sugar and water to the yeast, or when she’d taken the flour canister from the larder, but somehow Melinda had struck a nerve and struck it hard.

  She looked down, staring at the d
ough, breathing in the sweet-sour smell of yeast until she could taste it in the back of her throat, and it was rowing her back to her parents’ kitchen on a long-ago Sunday morning... It was taking her freshly baked bread rolls from the oven. It was hot quick fingers lifting them off the tray. It was breathing in that heavenly aroma, heart racing with anticipation, waiting for her parents to appear. It was that moment when they’d turned to look at her with warm, delighted smiles...

  Melinda’s voice jerked her back. ‘I was only playing with you.’

  She blinked, then met Melinda’s gaze. ‘I know.’ Melinda was mischievous, but she was also wise and warm, and wonderful. She felt a smile edging on to her lips. ‘But we should probably talk about this...’ She put the knife aside and scooped up a piece of dough, rolling in her hands. ‘Does Erris know that you’ve got the feels for our guest?’

  ‘Feels?’ Melinda’s mouth fell open and then she was laughing. ‘Don’t you be telling him any such thing—’ she waggled her eyebrows ‘—he’s a very jealous man.’

  ‘Who’s a very jealous man?’ Erris’s voice ballooned into the kitchen by way of the scullery, then the man himself appeared, his blue checked shirt buttoned tightly over his ample girth, his smile every bit as wide and as white as Melinda’s.

  ‘It’s a private conversation—’ Melinda tipped her a wink, then turned to her husband ‘—nothing to do with you, my love.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Erris folded his arms. ‘Well, if we’re keeping secrets, then I’m not telling you mine...’ He jammed his lips together, eyes twinkling.

  ‘What secret?’ She caught Melinda’s eye, laughing because they’d blurted it out together.

  Erris chuckled, his eyebrows lifting by degrees. ‘I just got a call...’

  ‘What call?’ Melinda was advancing towards him, scrutinising his face.

  ‘From Kesney...’