The Trouble with Valentine's

Accidentally educated in the sciences, KELLY HUNTER has always had a weakness for fairytales, fantasy worlds and losing herself in a good book. Husband … yes. Children … two boys. Cooking and cleaning … sigh. Sports … no, not really—in spite of the best efforts of her family. Gardening … yes. Roses, of course. Kelly was born in Australia and has travelled extensively. Although she enjoys living and working in different parts of the world, she still calls Australia home.

Visit Kelly online at www.kellyhunter.net

The Trouble with Valentine’s

Kelly Hunter

To generous hearts

CHAPTER ONE

HALLIE BENNETT HAD BEEN selling shoes for exactly one month. One long, mind-numbing month working solo at the exclusive little shoe shop in London’s fashionable Chelsea, and she really didn’t think she’d last another. Back in the storeroom she’d sorted every pair of shoes by designer, then model and finally by size. Out here on the shop floor she’d arranged the stock by colour and, within the colours, by function. Dusting and vacuuming? Done. Serving customers? Not yet but hey, it was only midday.

It was also Valentine’s Day, and Hallie had been charged with convincing all her non-existent customers that high-end shoes were the new chocolate. Ruby-red heart-shaped helium balloons bumped across the ceiling. Two dozen heart-shaped shoe boxes sat on the counter ready for the filling. The shop window boasted two dozen long-stemmed roses. Good things happened on Valentine’s Day. Unexpected things like, for instance, a sudden rush of customers.

A shoe shop girl could hope.

Hallie added a few of the heart-shaped shoe boxes to the shop window. Who said she didn’t have marketing initiative? All those gentlemen looking for the perfect gift – the ones who actually knew their beloved’s shoe size – they’d be here any minute now.

Because there were so many of them.

Hallie picked up the nearest shoe, a pretty leopard-print open-toed sandal with an onyx heel, and tried to figure out why anyone would actually pay three hundred and seventy-five pounds for a pair of them. She dangled the dainty shoe from her fingertips, turned it this way and that before finally balancing it on her palm.

‘So what do you think, shoe? Are we going to cram a sweet size six like you onto a size eight foot today?’

A quick jiggle made the shoe nod.

‘I think so too but what can I do? They never listen. These women wouldn’t be caught dead in a size eight shoe. Now if they were men it’d be different. As far as men are concerned, the bigger the better.’ The door to the shop opened, the bell tinkled, and Hallie hurriedly set the shoe back on its pedestal and turned around.

‘Darling, what a thoroughly delightful shop! Why I’ve never noticed it before, I have no idea. And then when you started talking to the shoe I just knew I had to come in.’

The woman who had spoken was a study in contradictions. Her clothes were pure glamour and her figure was a triumph over nature considering that she had to be in her late fifties. But her wrinkles were unironed, her hair was grey, and her ‘darling’ had been warm, possibly even genuine.

‘Please do,’ said Hallie with a smile. ‘Look around. Trust me, they never talk back.’

‘Oh, you’re an Australian!’ said the woman, clearly delighted with the notion. ‘I love Australian accents. Such marvellous vowel sounds.’

Hallie’s smile widened, and she spared a glance for the woman’s companion as he followed her into the shop, a glance that automatically upgraded to a stare because, frankly, she couldn’t help it.

As far as women’s fashion accessories went, he was spectacular. A black-haired, cobalt-eyed, dangerous-looking toy who no doubt warned you outright not to bother playing with him if you didn’t like his rules. He was like a Hermès handbag; women saw and women wanted, even though they knew the price was going to be astronomical. And then he spoke.

‘She needs a pair of shoes,’ he said in a deep gravelly baritone that was utterly sexy. ‘Something more appropriate for a woman her age.’

‘You’re new at this, aren’t you?’ muttered Hallie before turning to stare down at the woman’s shoes, a stylish pair of Ferragamo man-eaters with a four inch heel. They were a perfect fit for the woman’s perfectly manicured size-six feet. They were fire-engine red. ‘There is nothing wrong with those shoes,’ said Hallie reverently. ‘Those shoes are gorgeous!’

‘Thank you, dear,’ said the woman. ‘Why a woman turns fifty and all of a sudden certain people to whom she gave birth start thinking she should be wearing orthopaedic shoes is completely beyond me.’ The woman seemed to age ten years as wrinkles creased and unshed tears leached even more colour from eyes that would have once been a bright sparkling blue. ‘Your father would have loved these shoes!’

Ah. It was all starting to make sense. He of the indigo glare was the woman’s son and right now he was in big trouble. ‘Right,’ said Hallie brightly. ‘Well, I’ll just be over by the counter if you need me.’

He moved fast, blocking her escape. ‘Don’t even think of leaving me alone with this woman. Give her some shoes to try on. Anything!’ He picked up the open-toed leopard-print sandal. ‘These!’

‘An excellent choice,’ she said, deftly plucking it from his hand. ‘And a steal at only three hundred and seventy-five pounds. Maybe your mother would like two pairs?’

His eyes narrowed. Hallie smiled back.

‘If only I had something to look forward to,’ said the woman with a sigh that was pure theatre as she sat on the black leather sofa and slipped off her shoes. ‘Grandchildren, for instance. I need grandchildren.’

‘Everyone needs something,’ said her son, looking not at his mother but at her. ‘What do you need?’

‘Another job,’ said Hallie, kneeling to fit the sandals. ‘This one’s driving me nuts.’ She sat back on her heels and surveyed the sandals. ‘They fit you beautifully.’

‘They do, don’t they?’

‘How do you feel about travel?’ he asked her while his mother preened.

‘Travel is my middle name.’

‘And your first name?’

‘Hallie. Hallie Bennett.’

‘Nicholas Cooper,’ he said and gestured towards the woman. ‘My mother, Clea.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Clea, her handshake warm and surprisingly firm. ‘Nicky, she’s darling! She’s perfect! You need a wife, you said so this morning. I think we’ve just found her.’

‘Wife?’ said Hallie. Wife? That’d teach her to shake hands with strangers. Nicholas Cooper’s smile was lazy. His mother’s was hopeful. Probably they were both mad. ‘Is this a Valentine’s Day prank?’

‘Of course not,’ said Clea. ‘It’s fate.’

‘Fate,’ echoed Hallie. ‘Of course. My mistake.’ Rule number one of customer service – the customer was always right.

‘He’s loaded,’ said Clea encouragingly, getting back to the matter at hand –which clearly wasn’t the buying of shoes.

‘Well, yes.’ Hallie could see that from the way he dressed. He was also far too amused for his own good. ‘But is he creative?’

‘You should see his tax return.’

‘I don’t know, Clea. I think I prefer my men a little less …’ What? She slid Nicholas Cooper another quick glance. Sexy? Wild? Gorgeous? ‘Dark,’ she came up with finally. ‘I prefer blonds.’

‘Well, he’s not a blond,’ conceded Clea, ‘But look at his feet.’

Everyone looked.

He wore hand-stitched Italian leather laceups. Size 12. Wide.

‘Of course, as his mother I can’t let you marry him unless you’re compatible so maybe you should just kiss him and find out.’

‘What? Now? Ah, Clea, I really don’t think—’

‘Don’t argue with your future mother-in-law, dear. It’s bad form.’

‘No, really, I can’t. It’s not that, er, Nicky, doesn’t have a lot going for him—’

‘Thanks,’ he said dryly. ‘You can call me Nick.’

‘Because clearly he does. It’s just that, well …’ She cast about for a reason to resist. Any reason. Yes, that would do. It wasn’t quite the truth, but little white lies were allowed in sticky situations, right? ‘I wouldn’t be very good wife material right now. I have a broken heart.’

‘Oh Hallie, I’m so sorry,’ said Clea in a hushed voice. ‘What happened?’

‘It was terrible,’ she murmured. ‘I try not to think of it.’

Clea waited expectantly.

Obviously she was going to have to think of something. Hallie leaned forward and tried to look suitably woebegone. ‘He was secretly in love with his football coach the whole time we were together!’

‘The cad!’ said Clea.

‘Was he blond?’ said Nick. ‘I’m betting he was blond.’ He was standing beside her, close, very close, and she was kneeling there, her gaze directly level with his … oh … my!

‘Are you sure you’re not interested?’ asked Clea.

Hallie nodded vigorously and dropped her gaze, looking for carpet and finding feet. Big feet. ‘It’s this job,’ she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Probably he was bluffing. Probably he had regular size eight feet tucked into those enormous shoes. Her hand shot out of its own accord, spanning the soft leather of his shoe, testing the fit for width and finding it tight. Uh, oh. She pressed her thumb down and felt for toes, found them at the very top of the shoe. ‘Phew!’ She felt breathless. ‘It’s a tight fit.’

‘Always,’ he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. ‘But I’m used to it.’

Hallie smiled weakly and scrambled to her feet as warmth spread rapidly through her cheeks. It was his eyes. His voice. Possibly his feet. Any one of them was a guaranteed temptation, but all three together? No wonder she was blushing.

‘What my mother meant to say was that I need someone to pretend to be my wife for a week. Next week to be precise. In Hong Kong. You’d be reimbursed, of course. Say, five thousand the week, all expenses covered?’

‘Five thousand pounds? For a week’s work?’ There had to be a catch. ‘And what exactly would I have to do to earn that five thousand pounds?’

‘Share a room with me but not a bed, which is fortunate considering your broken heart.’

Was he laughing at her? ‘What else would I have to do?’

‘Socialize with my clients, act like my wife.’

‘Could you be a little more specific?’

‘Nope. Just do whatever it is wives do. I’ve never had one, I wouldn’t know.’

‘I’ve never been one. I wouldn’t know either.’

‘Perfect,’ said Clea, bright-eyed. ‘I’m believing it already. Of course if the kiss isn’t convincing it’s just not going to work.’

‘No kissing,’ said Hallie. ‘I’m heartbroken, remember?’

‘There has to be kissing,’ he countered. ‘It’s part of the job description. Who knows? You might even like it.’ There was a subtle challenge to his words and lots of amusement.

‘Kissing would cost extra,’ she informed him loftily. What did she have to lose? It wasn’t exactly the sanest of conversations to begin with.

‘How much extra?’

Hallie paused. She needed ten thousand pounds to finish her Sotheby’s diploma in East Asian Art; she had five of it saved. ‘I’m thinking another five thousand should do it.’

‘Five thousand pounds for a few kisses?’ He sounded incredulous, still looked amused.

‘I’m a very good kisser.’

‘I think I’m going to need a demonstration.’

Uh oh. Now she’d done it. She was going to have to kiss him. Fortunately common sense kicked in and demanded she make it brief. And not too enthusiastic. One step put her within touching distance; a tilt of her head put her within kissing range. She stood on tiptoe and set her hands to his chest, found his shirt soft and warm from the wearing, with a hard wall of muscle beneath. But she digressed. With a quick breath, Hallie leaned forward and set her mouth to his.

His lips were warm and pleasant; his taste was one she could get used to. She didn’t linger.

‘Well, that was downright perfunctory,’ he said as she pulled away.

‘Best I can do given the circumstances.’ Hallie’s smile was smug; she couldn’t help it. ‘Sorry. No spark.’

‘I’m not sure I can justify paying five thousand pounds for kisses without spark.’ His lips twitched. ‘I’m thinking spark is a must.’

‘Spark is not part of the negotiation,’ she said sweetly. ‘Spark is a freebie. It’s either there or it’s not.’

‘Ah.’ There was a gleam in his eyes she didn’t entirely trust. ‘Turn around,

Mother.’ And, without waiting to see if his mother complied, Nicholas Cooper threaded his hands through her hair and his mouth descended on hers.

Hallie didn’t have time to protest. To prepare herself for his invasion as he teased her lips apart for a kiss that was anything but perfunctory. Plenty of chemistry here now, she thought hazily as his lips moved on hers, warm, lazy, and very, very knowledgeable. Plenty of heat as her mouth opened beneath his and she tasted passion and it was richer, riper than she’d ever known. She melted against him, sliding her hands across his shoulders to twine around his neck as he slanted his head and took her deeper, tasting her with his tongue, curling it around her own in a delicate duel.

If this was kissing, she thought with an incoherent little gasp, then she’d never really been kissed before. If this was kissing, imagine what making love to him would be like …

His smile was crookedly endearing when he finally lifted his mouth from hers, his hands gentle as he smoothed her hair back in place. ‘Now that was much better,’ he said in that delicious bedroom voice and she damn near melted in a puddle at his size twelve feet. ‘We’ll take the shoes.’

Right. The shoes. Hallie boxed the sandals with unsteady hands, swiped his credit card through the machine, fumbled for a pen and waited for him to sign the docket before she risked looking at him again. His hands were large like his feet, and his hair was mussed from where her hands had been.

What would it be like to pretend to be this man’s wife for a week? Foolish, certainly, not to mention hazardous to her perfectly healthy sex drive. What if he was as good as his kiss implied? Who would ever measure up to him?

No. Too risky. Besides, she’d have to be crazy to go to Hong Kong for a week with a perfect stranger. What if he was a white slave trader? What if he left her there?

What if he was perfect?

He was halfway across the room before she opened her mouth. Almost to the door before she spoke. ‘So you’ll get back to me on the wife thing?’

At five thirty-five that afternoon, Hallie counted the day’s takings. It wasn’t hard; she’d only made three sales and that included the shoes Nicholas Cooper had purchased for his mother. Next, she shut the customer door, turned the elegant little door sign to ‘closed’, and was about to set the alarm system when a breathless courier rapped on the display window and held up a flat rectangular parcel.

Not shoes, thought Hallie. Shoes did not arrive by courier in flat little parcels, even designer ones. But the courier’s credentials looked real, the address on the parcel was that of the shop, and the name on the paperwork was hers so she opened up with a sigh, signed for the parcel, and locked up behind him before turning back to the parcel.

It was a brown-paper package tied up with string. Hard to resist, what with it being a favourite thing and all. Besides, it was Valentine’s Day. Good things happened on Valentine’s Day. Unexpected things. Hopefully it wasn’t a bomb.

Hallie snipped and ripped to reveal a slim travel guide to Hong Kong and Nicholas Cooper’s business card. The card said he was a gaming software developer. Good to know. She flipped it over and discovered a message on the back.

‘Marco’s on Kings’, it read in bold black scrawl, and beneath that, ‘7 pm tonight, Nick’.

Presumptuous, yes, he was certainly that. His kiss had been presumptuous too.

Not to mention annoyingly unforgettable.

So what if Marco’s was one of the best seafood restaurants this side of heaven? So what if raindrops on roses might conceivably be in Nick Cooper’s repertoire? No sensible woman would even consider his proposal. Pretending to be a complete stranger’s wife for a week was ridiculous, even by her standards.

And yet …

Hallie reached for the travel guide and smoothed it open, first one page, and then another.

Hong Kong; gateway to the Orient. Money and superstition. Heat and a million camera shops. A squillion neon signs.

‘An enchanting blend of East meets West,’ read the travel guide. Half a world away from this shoe shop, whispered her brain. Ten thousand pounds.

So there were a few drawbacks.

Lies. Deception. Nick Cooper’s kisses. Hallie tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and closed the book with a snap.

Big drawbacks.

And yet …

Twenty minutes later, Hallie let herself in through the front door of her brother’s Chelsea flat and dumped her handbag on the sideboard. Why Tris had bought the little two-bedroom apartment when he never stayed more than a year in any one place was a mystery, but she certainly appreciated the use of it. No telling what Tris would make of Nicholas Cooper’s offer.

Probably best not to tell him.

Ten thousand pounds, whispered her brain as she slipped off her shoes and padded down the hallway.

No.

Dinner at Marco’s, then. It’s only dinner.

No it’s not. If you go to dinner you’ll ask him why he needs a wife for a week and then where will you be? Next thing you know, you’ll be agreeing to go to Hong Kong with him.

So?

Travel was her middle name.

Oh, boy. Hallie stumbled over the hallway runner and wondered just what it was about Nicholas Cooper that made her lose her mind.

He had a wicked smile. No doubt about it.

And his offer was definitely intriguing.

A rueful smile tugged at her lips. Best not to even think about his kisses.

Come ten to seven, Hallie had finished her argument and was in the bathroom, hurriedly applying makeup, when she heard the front door open and close, followed by the sound of a man’s long, loping strides down the hall. Moments later Tris appeared in the doorway, little more than a vague shadow at the edge of her vision. ‘You’re back,’ she said, busy with the mascara. ‘I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.’

‘Plans change,’ he said. ‘Going somewhere?’

‘Dinner at Marco’s on Kings Road.’

‘Classy.’ Was it just her imagination or was Tris a whole lot more preoccupied than usual? ‘Who with?’

Ah. That was more like it. ‘Nick.’

‘Nick?’

‘We met today. At the shop.’

‘He wears ladies’ shoes? Is this supposed to be reassuring?’

‘He came in with his mother. He bought her some shoes.’

‘Run,’ said Tris. ‘Run the other way.’

‘Nope. I’ve made up my mind. It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m embracing the unexpected. I’m having dinner with him.’ She finished with the mascara, reached for a smoky grey eyeliner.

‘So …’ said Tris. ‘Does Nick have a last name?’

‘Of course he does but if I tell it to you you’ll run a check on him at work and come home and tell me what kind of toothpaste he uses. Where’s the fun in that? Besides, it’s not even a date, exactly. More of a business opportunity.’

‘What kind of business opportunity?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’ No need to bore him with details. ‘Something involving travel.’

Tris sighed, heavily. ‘And you believed him.’

Time to change the subject. ‘There’s leftover lasagne in the fridge,’ she said as she dropped her lipstick into her evening bag and turned to leave the bathroom, halting abruptly as she took her first good look at her brother. ‘Whoa.’ His dark, shaggy hair was filthy, his left hand was carelessly bandaged and his clothes looked like they’d been dragged through a sewer with him still wearing them but it was his eyes that bothered her most. Because they were full of frustration and pain. ‘You look terrible.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Liar.’ He was holding himself so stiffly. Ribs, maybe. He sagged against the doorframe, his shoulder hunched and Hallie revised her opinion. ‘Shoulder?’

Tris nodded. Every so often he dislocated his left shoulder. The first time he’d done it he’d been six and their father had rushed him to the hospital. These days Tris opted to do without the six hour wait in A&E and sort it out himself.

‘Have you ever considered a different line of work?’ asked Hallie, mainly because it needed to be said and who better than a sister to say it? ‘Because seriously, this undercover gig isn’t doing you any favours.’

‘You’d rather I sold shoes?’

‘Well, yeah,’ she drawled, and then forgot all about the insult to her current occupation when Tris leaned his head against the doorframe and closed his eyes. ‘You want me to put your shoulder back in?’

Tris nodded, opened his eyes, pushed off the doorframe and went and sat on the edge of the bath. Hallie got up into his space, put the heel of her hand to his shoulder and lined up her weight behind it, ready for the hard, sharp push she was about to deliver. Better she put the shoulder back in than Tris trying to fix it himself using the doorframe. That never ended well. ‘On three, okay?’

Tris leaned into her, as relaxed as he was going to get. ‘Just do it.’

‘Patience, grasshopper. Ready?’ Time to count off. ‘One.’

Hallie shoved hard and in it went. Tris groaned and almost landed in the tub.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered hoarsely.

‘Not my pleasure.’ Hallie found painkillers in the bathroom cabinet, tipped three of them into her brother’s palm and watched him swallow them dry.

‘You done in here?’ he asked. ‘I could use a shower.’

‘No kidding.’ She hated to see him hurting. She was also reconsidering her dinner plans. ‘You want me to stick around?’

‘What? You’re going to cancel a free feed at Marco’s to stay here and fight me for the last of the lasagne?’ Tris summoned a faint smile. ‘Touching, yet stupid.’

‘The job went bad, didn’t it?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it, Hal.’

Hallie sighed. He never did. Tris didn’t talk about his work. Ever.

‘Go,’ he said, waving her away with his bandaged hand. ‘I’m gonna take a shower and get cleaned up. There’s nothing you can do. Eat. Be merry.’

And from within the confines of the bathroom as he shut the door behind him, ‘Don’t talk toothpaste.’

Nick Cooper always gave a woman fifteen minutes’ grace. Any longer than that and he was inclined to leave or start without them. Fact was, women enjoyed keeping men waiting. They did it deliberately to heighten anticipation and make a man wonder. To make a man want. All part of the game, but then games were Nick’s specialty. For every attack, there was a counterattack, no matter how good your opponent. And Hallie Bennett’s fifteen minutes were almost up.

Not that Nick was even sure she was dining with him – as she hadn’t called – but he’d headed for Marco’s regardless. A man had to eat. And call it a hunch but he thought she’d show. He browsed the blackboard specials, scanned the printed menu, looked around for a waiter and saw, instead, the delectable Hallie Bennett heading his way. Botticelli’s Renaissance, her colouring; she of the Titian hair, creamy complexion and golden-brown eyes. But her hair was cropped to chin length and her face was pure arthouse Animae; all big eyes, clean lines and memorable mouth.