Truth-Or-Date.com

‘I look forward to reading this author’s next release … and her next … and her next. It truly is a stunning debut, with characters that will remain in your thoughts long after you have closed the book.’

—pinkheartsocietyreviews.blogspot.com on Always the Bridesmaid

‘Rich with emotion, and pairing two truly special characters, this beautiful story is simply unforgettable.

A keeper.’

—RT Book Reviews on Hired: Sassy Assistant

‘A well-constructed plot and a scrumptious, larger-than-life hero combined with generous amounts of humour and pathos make for an excellent read.’

—RT Book Reviews

on Tipping the Waitress with Diamonds

About Nina Harrington

NINA grew up in rural Northumberland, England, and decided at the age of eleven that she was going to be a librarian—because then she could read all of the books in the public library whenever she wanted! Since then she has been a shop assistant, community pharmacist, technical writer, university lecturer, volcano walker and industrial scientist, before taking a career break to realise her dream of being a fiction writer. When she is not creating stories which make her readers smile, her hobbies are cooking, eating, enjoying good wine—and talking, for which she has had specialist training.

Truth-Or-Date.com

Nina Harrington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for Nina Harrington

About Nina Harrington

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

From: Andromeda@ConstellationOfficeServices

To: saffie@saffronthechef

Subject: Our least favourite school friend and online dating

Hey Saffie.

I know, I know. I should have listened when you tried to warn me against working part-time for Elise van der Kamp in the first place.

Do you remember when Elise signed up with that expensive Internet dating agency for young executives? Well, now she has decided she is too busy to write her own emails and that I should do it for her. Write a few emails, she said. Then a few more. Just to get the ball rolling. After all, what else are personal assistants for?

Right.

I almost told her what to do with her job, but then she offered me a special bonus, which should be enough to pay for that professional illustrator’s course I’ve been yearning to go on. It would be perfect. And just what I need to be taken seriously as an artist.

Not much has changed from school, has it? Elise knew I couldn’t turn it down.

So guess who has been wooing potential Christmas party arm candy for our least favourite school friend every evening for the past week? Oh, yes.

Well, things have just sunk to a new low.

Ten minutes ago she texted me to say that she has to dash off to Brazil on some urgent business and—wait for it—she has changed her mind about the whole online dating thing. Apparently it is far too sordid and risky and she doesn’t want her reputation sullied by that kind of thing.

Sullied! Can you believe it? I don’t think she even read one of the emails I sent or the lovely replies I got back from the boys who had rearranged their schedules to meet her for coffee this week.

The real problem is that the first coffee date is tonight. As in half an hour from now, and it is far too late to cancel. This one’s username is #sportybloke and he sounds really nice over the Internet. I can’t stand the idea of the poor man sitting there all alone waiting for #citygirl Elise to show. I know what it’s like to be stood up and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And I do feel sort of responsible.

Do you think I should go and meet him? And explain?

Ahhrrggg.

Hope that slave-driver of a master chef isn’t working you too hard in Paris.

Wish me luck. Andy

From: saffie@saffronthechef

To: Andromeda@ConstellationOfficeServices Andy Davies, you are making my head spin. I cannot believe that you would agree to go onto an Internet dating site posing as Elise van der Kamp. I mean … Elise? Social skills of a piranha and twice as mean? Sheesh.

I am not in the least surprised that she chose a friendly person to write her emails for her.

As for the coffee date? I think you would feel better if you took a minute to go there and apologise in person. But be careful. Executive type? Being stood up and lied to? He could get cross. Use your charm. And take extra sharp pencils. Just in case.

Love ya. Saffie the kitchen slave

ANDROMEDA Davies stepped down from the red London bus and darted under the shelter of the nearest shop doorway. The November rain pounded on the fabric awning above her head and bounced off the pavement of the narrow street in this smart part of the city.

Her gaze skipped between the pedestrians scurrying for cover until it settled on the giant mocha-cup bistro sign directly across the street.

Light from within the coffee shop streamed out in vertical bands like strobe lights between the pedestrians onto the wet pavement. She had already been here twice that week on a mission to find the perfect location for a first Internet date for Elise. It was ideal. Central, well lit, spacious and very public. They served hot food and the coffee was pretty good too.

Taking a deep breath, Andy tugged her shoulder bag across her chest, and hit the button on the handle of her umbrella with her thumb. It was so typical that the only umbrella she possessed was purple with pink cartoon flowers on the top and had been a gift from when she’d worked as a temp at a company that made novelty items for children’s parties.

In her current financial state she was hardly one to complain and if it kept her dry that would be a bonus—but Elise would have taken one look at it and thrown it in the bin.

Her cover story was that it was a unique design from an up-and-coming fashion designer who specialised in one-off graphics. Nobody else would have an umbrella just like it and …

Lies, lies, lies, lies. All lies. Some little fluffy cloud white lies and some great big stonking massive thundercloud of lies. But lies just the same.

Andy closed her eyes and wallowed in ten seconds of self-pity and shame before shaking herself out of it.

This had been her decision. Nobody had forced her to agree to impersonate Elise van der Kamp on the dating site. She could have refused and insisted that Elise write her own correspondence with these busy city boys. But Elise knew that she wouldn’t turn it down. Not when she was waving a sweet cash bonus as bait to lure her in.

Andy dropped her shoulders, and shoved her free hand into the pocket of her trendy dark navy raincoat with white piping, which she had snatched up from a charity shop in an exclusive part of town.

The things she did for her art!

She really didn’t have to worry about her umbrella or how she looked as long as she kept to her plan. All she had to do was dash in, wait for #sportybloke to arrive, apologise politely on behalf of Elise and then leave. The whole thing would be over in ten minutes.

Of course the girl he was expecting was the efficient and sophisticated executive director of one of the largest corporate promotion companies in Britain. Or, as Elise had insisted that she add to her online dating profile, aspiring marketing guru to the world.

Gag.

Ten minutes. And then she could get back on the bus and switch to being plain old Andy Davies, part-time personal assistant to Elise during the day, mostly unpaid illustrator in the evenings and weekend art historian, aspiring to pay the bills.

She would not be here at all if Elise had not suggested that she could ‘take care’ of the first round of emails—’so that she was not wasting her time on the no-hopers’.

Charming. And some of the men sounded lovely. On their profiles.

‘I know I can rely on you completely to manage my social diary,’ Elise had said with her full-beam smile. ‘There is simply no one else I could trust with my personal information. But we have been friends for so long, Andromeda. I just know that you will be totally discreet. Wonderful!’

Um. Right. It had probably never even crossed Elise’s mind that Andy had to juggle her hours at the last minute to fit all of the work in. But she had done it—just. Maybe now that Elise had pulled the plug on the Internet dating, they could both go back to what passed for a normal life in her crazy world. Like planning the Christmas and New Year party circuit.

Providing, of course, she survived explaining to #sportybloke that #citygirl had no intention of turning up to meet him.

Now that did give her the shivers. That and the rivulet of rain water spilling out from the awning.

Exhaling slowly, Andy glanced from side to side to find a gap in the stream of people who had their heads down, their umbrellas braced forward against the driving rain and oblivious to anyone who might walk in their way.

Seizing on a momentary lull, Andy lifted her umbrella high and dashed out onto the road in the stationary rush hour traffic. She had almost made it, when she had to dive sideways to dodge a bicycle courier and planted her right foot into a deep puddle. Dirty cold water splashed up into her smart high-heeled ankle boots and trickled down inside, making her gasp with shock.

Hissing under her breath, Andy stepped up onto the kerb, closed her umbrella, which had totally failed to keep her dry, and opened the door to the coffee shop and stepped inside.

Water dripping from every part of her, Andy shook the rain from her hair and inhaled the glorious deep, rich aroma of the freshly ground coffee beans. She was looking forward to the day when she could afford real coffee at home to replace the cheapest supermarket-brand instant coffee. The aroma combined with the background noise of the coffee shop—a low steady hum of voices, coffee grinders and espresso machines—created a wonderful soundtrack that she had every intention of enjoying, seeing as Elise was picking up the bill.

Andy gazed around the terracotta and cream walls to the groups of people sitting on the pale oak chairs behind red-and-white gingham check tablecloths.

No sign of the Hawaiian shirt #sportybloke had said that he was going to wear—and she was not likely to miss that type of clothing on a cold wet evening in early November in the centre of London.

Andy moved to the counter, bought her Americano coffee and took a seat at the small square table in the corner with her back to the wall. She propped her pink-and-purple umbrella against the wall, slipped off her raincoat over the back of the chair and ran her hands down the skirt of her favourite grey business suit.

A flutter of nervous apprehension winged across her stomach.

This was so ridiculous.

She wasn’t here on a real date. There was no need to be nervous.

She was here to apologise for Elise. That was all.

So what if she had tried to imagine what #sportybloke would look like in person? You could only tell so much from an online thumbnail photograph, and they could certainly be deceptive.

It was only natural to be curious, wasn’t it? Especially when #sportybloke told stories about the social life of a surfer in exotic places like Hawaii and California that had made her laugh out loud. He had a sense of humour … and he would certainly need one if he was dating Elise.

Andy bit down on her lower lip. Maybe coming here was not such a good idea. What if he was a total disappointment? And Saffie had a point. He had every right to be annoyed with her—and Elise—for tricking him. But she had to put it right with #sportybloke, tell him the truth face to face and apologise in person. She owed it to him—and herself.

Andy looked around the coffee shop at all of the happy couples, laughing and chatting merrily away over their lattes and pastries, and her heart twanged a little. But she sniffed and shook it off.

She wasn’t looking for a date. Far from it—this was her time to do her own thing without having to worry about rushing back to the office where she had worked with her so-called ex-boyfriend, Nigel, to sort out his project for him. She had learnt her lesson. No more lies. No more half-truths and self-delusion. In fact, no more boyfriends at all, if her last one was anything to go by. She was quite happy on her own. Thank you!

Andy checked her wristwatch. Ten minutes. Then she would finally be able to steal back the few spare hours she had in the day to work on the type of paperwork she loved most.

Hiding a quick smirk, Andy dived into her large shoulder bag and pulled out her sketch pad and pencil. The museum she worked at part-time had agreed to see her five favourite hand-crafted Christmas card designs with the view to possibly selling them in their shop and she was so close to being finished! This was her chance to persuade the museum to showcase her calligraphy and artwork.

Andy was so engrossed in a sketch of a decorative scroll of strawberries and clover leaves that it took a blast of cold damp air from the open door to snap her back into the present moment. She shivered in her thin suit and looked up in surprise.

A towering dark-haired man filled the space where the entrance had been, before he closed the door behind him.

His tanned face was glowing from the rain and wind and he ran the fingers of his right hand back through his long damp hair from forehead to neck in a single natural motion.

The water droplets stood proud on the shoulders of a hip-length waterproof sailing jacket, which he was slowly unzipping as if he were a male stripper in a cabaret act. Umm. And she would be right there in the front row telling him not to rush.

Wow. He certainly had the body to pull it off should he decide on a change in direction, and as he rolled back his shoulders with a casual shrug Andy sucked in a breath in anticipation, and then exhaled very slowly.

Yup. Hawaiian shirt.

His square jaw was so taut it might have been sculpted. But it was his mouth that knocked the air out of her lungs, and had her clinging onto the edge of the table for support.

Plump lips smiled wide above his lightly stubbled chin, so that the bow was sharp between the smile lines. It was a mouth made for smiling, with slight dimples either side.

The short-haired #sportybloke who had posed for the corporate shot on the online profile had been wearing a suit and tie and looked like a clone of all the other business execs. But the man in the flesh was something else. For once the photo had not done him justice. At all.

His button-fly denims sat low on his slim hips but there was no mistaking that he was pure muscle beneath those tight pants. Because as he stood there for a second, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, looking from table to table, scanning the horizon that was the confines of the coffee shop, every movement he made seemed magnified and as glaringly in your face as the scarlet-and-blue tropical flowers on his shirt.

The entire room seemed to shrink around him.

How did he do that? How did he just waltz in and master the room as though he were in command of the space and everyone in it?

This man was outdoors taken to the next level. No wonder he worked for a company making sports clothing. She could certainly imagine him standing at the helm of some racing yacht, head high, legs braced. The master of all he surveyed.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled with recognition. Her father had been like that once, when he worked in the city. So confident in his right to be the self-proclaimed master of the universe that when the financial crash came his world, his sanity and his identity tumbled down with it.

It was a pity that she was on a boyfriend ban. Because #sportybloke was truly the best-looking man she had seen in a very long time.

And then he saw her, but instead of giving her the up-and-down, toes-to-hair ‘beauty pageant’ special once-over, his gaze locked onto her face and stayed there, unmoving for a few seconds, before the corner of his mouth slid into a lazy smile.

The corners of those amazing eyes crinkled slightly and the warmth of that smile seemed to heat the air between them. And at that moment, this smile was for her. And her heart leapt. More than a little. But just enough to recognise that the blush of heat racing through her neck and face were not only due to the piping-hot coffee she had barely sipped.

In that instant Andy knew what it felt like to be the most important and most beautiful person in the room, but instead of squirming and wanting to slide under the table she lifted her chin. Heart thumping. Brain spinning. An odd and unfamiliar tension hummed down her veins. Every cell of her suddenly alive and tuned into the vibrations emanating from his body.

Suddenly she wanted to preen and flick her hair and roll her shoulders back so that she could stick her chest out.

It was as if she had been dusted with instant lust powder.

Wow.

#sportybloke had truly arrived.

Sitting up a little straighter on her chair, Andy quickly swept away her sketch pad and focused her gaze on the arrangement of the menus on the table, trying to find something to do with her hands, only too aware that he was still watching her.

She could practically feel the heat of that laser-beam gaze burning a hole through her forehead and was surprised that there was no smell of smoke or a scorch mark on the wall behind her.

Even though she had chosen the most spacious coffee shop she could find, this man weaving his way towards her seemed to block the light. According to his profile he was six feet two inches but he certainly filled every inch. He was tall and tanned and broad-shouldered and muscular and every ounce of his attention was totally focused on her.

His feet slowed as he reached her table and she looked up into a pair of eyes the colour of dark bitter chocolate below heavy dark eyebrows and wavy brown hair. He had eyes a girl could drown in and not want to come up for air. And they locked onto hers as though they could see into her soul, wander around for a while, looking for trouble, then move on leaving her lonely and bereft.

‘I’m a sort of a sportybloke. You may be expecting me, city girl.’

His transatlantic voice was rich, deep and came from low down in his diaphragm, giving it a certain roughness that resonated inside her head.

It was the kind of voice that should be on the radio promoting late-night ballads, but it had no place at all in a small London coffee shop where she was in touching distance of its owner.

He just stood there, patiently waiting for her reply, with a smile on his lips and a body aimed at her. A male cover model made flesh.

Just hearing his voice made her glad that she was sitting down and, judging by the glances from the other women on the nearby tables, allure this powerful had a range of at least ten feet.

What was he doing here? On an Internet date of all things? This man could win a gold medal in charming women without even trying hard!

‘Absolutely,’ she lied, horrified at how pathetic and squeaky her voice sounded, and she tugged at the lilac silk scarf Elise had chosen as her marker. ‘Scarf and all.’

‘I am sorry I’m late.’ He smiled, shrugging off his waterproof and throwing it casually onto the wooden floor behind her chair, showering the planks and smothering her umbrella in the process. ‘Had to take someone to the airport and the traffic was pretty bad. Thanks for waiting.’

‘No problem,’ she replied, and held out her hand. ‘It’s nice to finally meet you in person.’

He stepped forward and grasped hold of her hand and his long fingers wrapped around hers with a strong, masterful grip, which was probably perfect for grappling ropes on sailboats and back-slapping athletes, but left her fingers feeling as though she had been sitting on them for several minutes. But who needed blood anyway?

Inappropriate and totally crazy thoughts about the effect those same fingers could have on other parts of her body flitted through Andy’s mind and it was a relief when he broke contact first and slid down into the smallish wooden chair opposite, which seemed far too flimsy for his body.

‘You too. Corporate promotions. Tricky stuff.’

Andy felt her heart rate increase several notches as he moved even closer.

Keep to the script. Keep to the script. Give him five minutes to get a coffee, and then break it to him gently. Talk business. That usually works.

She took a long drink of coffee to give her brain a chance to catch up and form something close to a sensible reply. ‘It can be. But I suspect that every successful entrepreneur has to take risks. Even in sportswear.’

His brown eyes focused on her face, but there was just enough of a crunch between the dark brows to capture her attention. ‘Damn right.’

Then one side of his mouth lifted into a half-smile. ‘You could almost say that was the best part. Pushing yourself against the limits, knowing just what kind of risk you are taking. Yeah. I guess that we are both in the risk business. Can I get you another coffee?’

And without waiting for her reply he lifted his head and, like a genie from a lamp, the barista instantly appeared on their side of the counter. ‘Two of what the lady had and I’ll take an omelette. Three eggs, ham and mushroom. No onion, heavy on the herbs. And can you throw in some of those Panini and a couple of cookies? Cheers.’

Two fingers to the forehead and their server was gone. Amazing.

Andy looked in astonishment to the counter, where the two girls were feverishly working on the order, and then back to #sportybloke, who was sitting back, legs outstretched to one side. Watching her.

‘Do you always do that?’ She asked with a quick jab of her head towards the counter.

He blinked and hit her with a grin that displayed his straight white teeth to best effect. ‘Do what? Order coffee? Yeah, I might do that now and again. Especially in a coffee shop.’

‘I mean, do you always just shout out the order from your chair instead of going up to the counter like everyone else? And how do you know that I needed another coffee? I might have preferred a tea for a change. Or maybe even one of those hot steak sandwiches?’

His reply was to rest his bare arms on the table, hands loose and relaxed, and lean the top half of his long wide frame towards her from the hips so that she had to fight the urge to lean back against the wall and protect her space.

The top two buttons of his shirt stretched open as the fabric stretched over a broad chest, and revealed a hint of deeply tanned skin, and more than a few dark chest hairs.