Hot Christmas Nights: Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding / His for Revenge / Mistletoe Not Required

Hot Christmas Nights

Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding

Sharon Kendrick

His for Revenge

Caitlin Crews

Mistletoe Not Required

Anne Oliver

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

Title Page

Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

His for Revenge

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Mistletoe Not Required

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Copyright

Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding

Sharon Kendrick

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition by describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring often stubborn but always to die for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life….

This book is dedicated to the Hempstock family – with whom I used to spend many happy times in Dronefield as a child.

Chapter One

THERE was something about him which made her think of danger. Something dark and tantalising which drew her gaze like a magnet. Cassie felt the rush of blood to her cheeks and the sudden pounding of her heart as she stared at the man across the busy holiday rush of the department store.

He was gorgeous. Too gorgeous to be real, surely? Why, if she hadn’t been surrounded by tinsel, fairy lights and a packed working schedule until the big day itself she might have thought that Christmas had come early.

Not that she had a lot to compare him with. It was only the second time she’d been away from rural Cornwall—where most of the men she met wore cheap aftershave and trod on your toes while you were dancing. And when you got up close for the slow numbers you could see little pieces of blood-stained tissue paper on their chins, where they’d cut themselves shaving.

Which was why landing this temporary job in London’s most glitzy department store over the festive season was Cassie’s chance to get away from the predictable world she’d grown up in and to live the dream. And London at this time of the year was a dream—an enchanted world of fairy lights and fake snow and an air of expectation. She loved Christmas.

Even working on the ‘Seasonal Candle’ section—a fir-festooned grotto selling a variety of upmarket candles—was a dream. One which remained intact despite the best efforts of mealy-mouthed Lindy in nearby Cosmetics and the fact ten hours of standing made your feet scream with protest. Daily, Cassie dealt with stick-thin society matrons and laughing students and over-excited small children filing past her on their way to see Santa.

Only today, she could see someone rather different from her usual customer—a tall, brooding man with skin the colour of burnished olive. Clad in a dark cashmere overcoat, his face proud and aristocratic, his lips mockingly sensual—and yet there was a cold, hard glint to his eyes of pure ebony.

Cassie’s heart started racing. Racing hard enough to burst. She was certain he wasn’t interested in buying a candle—in fact, she was surprised to see him shopping at all. He looked like the sort of man who would have minions to do the more mundane chores in life and one who would never cut himself shaving. She didn’t imagine he’d be tempted by her sales pitch, either—but something made her walk up to him, her bright professional smile fixed firmly in place.

Never in her life had Cassie been so conscious of anyone’s presence. He seemed to own the space around him simply by existing in it and exuded a rare kind of charisma which made people stop and take a second look.

Suddenly dizzy and wondering what insane instinct had propelled her into his vicinity, she drew a deep breath. ‘Good afternoon, sir—I wonder can I interest you in one of these beautiful candles?’

Giancarlo’s brows knitted together as a banal little sentence interrupted his reverie and he found himself staring into a pair of violet eyes of extraordinary beauty. He was used to the adulation of women in general and salesgirls were no exception—and he really wasn’t in the mood to be engaging. But he was supposed to be buying Christmas gifts for all his admin staff and the girl who was trying to sell him something was very pretty—so he gave her his attention. ‘A candle?’ he drawled.

Cassie nodded. His sexy Italian accent matched his Mediterranean looks, adding yet another layer to his allure—and silently she despaired at her own stupidity.

She might not have a wealth of experience about the opposite sex but she was intuitive enough to recognise when a man was completely out of her league. And this one most definitely was. Why, his clothes just screamed class and quality and his demeanour was more than impressive—it was daunting. So don’t just stand there gawping at him like a stranded fish—say something!

‘That’s right, sir. But not just any candle—this is the biggest selection you’ll find in London. Irresistible specialities for the festive season.’ Cassie widened her smile and wondered whether his face was always so dark and so forbidding. ‘It is Christmas. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

Giancarlo gave a shrug. It wasn’t his favourite time of year, no—but on closer inspection his attention was captured by more than the seasonal mayhem going on around him. Because she was exquisite. Absolutely exquisite. With skin like quietly gleaming satin and hair like silk. And a body which should have carried a health warning—even though she was wearing the rather plain store uniform. Through the faint miasma produced by jet lag and overwork, he felt the sudden prickling of his senses.

‘Christmas?’ he murmured. ‘Would that have anything to do with the choir of angels I’m hearing—or is that the effect you have on all your customers?’ He saw the colour rise in her cheeks and gave a lazy smile. ‘Look, why don’t you tell me what it is you’re selling and we shall see if you can persuade me to buy?’

Cassie nodded. Trying to ignore the now frantic crashing of her heart, she drew an arc with her hand in front of the glittering display as she slipped smoothly into the script of her sales patter. ‘Well, these candles all come in a wide range of scents. The Christmas Chocolate has proved to be one of our most popular varieties this year. It’s dark and spicy—with subtle undertones of mulled wine.’

‘And is that your favourite?’

‘My…my favourite?’

‘Mmm. Surely you must have a favourite?’

For a second, her sales pitch deserted her. She hadn’t been asked that before. And when he asked it, he made her feel special. Different. Oh, but she was an idiot! But she still looked into the gleam of his black eyes and answered as honestly as she could. ‘To be honest, I like this one best. It smells of sweet oranges. And cloves. Sort of…traditional. And nostalgic. Everybody loves them. All ages. They have universal appeal. Especially at this time of year.’

There was a pause and Giancarlo felt another quick beat of desire as he heard the wistful little note in her voice. ‘You’ve got a deal,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll take half a dozen.’

Cassie opened her eyes wide. ‘You mean six?’ she squeaked.

‘Unless the definition of half a dozen has changed since the last time I heard it?’ he questioned gravely.

‘N-no. Certainly, sir. Six it is.’

While she was wrapping them—with fumbling fingers which seemed much less dextrous than usual—he asked her a series of questions, and in view of the commission she was going to make on the sale, it seemed rude not to answer them. No, she didn’t live in London, she was only here for the holiday season, and no, she wasn’t wearing coloured contact lenses—her eyes really were that colour. But in truth, his presence was so distracting that she could barely think straight.

Giancarlo watched as she snipped the end of a claret-coloured ribbon and tugged at the finished bow with a flourish. She was just too good to walk away from, he decided—with that pale blonde hair and violet eyes and a body shaped like a bottle of Verdicchio.

He’d spent most of the past month in New York—labouring away on a tough deal he’d only just pulled off by the skin of his teeth. One of those deals which had seen him still at his desk at midnight and beyond. His name had been splashed all over the financial papers, he’d stacked up a few million dollars—and then quietly siphoned off a substantial portion to a cause far more worthy than his already bloated bank account. All in all, it had been a successful trip—just like the one before, and the one before that. But success could be draining—sometimes it took you away from the fundamentals in life. And he was sick of the relentless march of Christmas with its in-your-face commercialism and over-the-top celebration.

What he needed was a little light relaxation with a female of the species. And not some ball-breaking woman who liked to work and play as hard as a man and gave you a lecture on equality if you so much as opened a door for her. Until you made the mistake of taking her away for a long weekend—when suddenly she was talking three-carat diamond rings and church weddings.

No. He wanted someone soft and unchallenging. Someone easy on the eye and easy on the mind. Someone who would massage his ego and a lot more besides. Like this sassy little thing with her soft, curving breasts and her peachy little bottom. He couldn’t imagine her wanting to talk stocks and shares with him—or angling for a winter break in Hawaii!

‘What time do you finish work?’ he questioned as she took his credit card from him.

Cassie hesitated. ‘Six-thirty,’ she said, feeling on rather shaky territory here—but surely it would be rude not to answer a customer when he asked you a direct question?

‘And you’ll be going out for dinner afterwards?’

Cassie thought of the pan full of pasta and pesto which was sitting on the fat-spattered cooker back at the shared apartment which was currently her temporary home. As accommodation went it was pretty basic, but she was grateful to her old school-friend, Gavin, for letting her stay—even if it meant sleeping in a room which was little more than a cupboard.

‘Well, sort of,’ she prevaricated.

‘Sort of?’

‘I told my flatmates I’d have dinner with them.’

‘And what if I asked you to have dinner with me instead?’

‘I can’t,’ she breathed.

‘Why not?’

She stared into his narrowed black eyes and her stomach gave a funny little lurch. ‘Because I don’t…I don’t even know you.’

‘So why don’t I introduce myself and we’ll get that problem out of the way?’

A hand was extended, and with proprietary ease, it captured hers. Cassie’s hand had been shaken many times in her life—often by departing guests at the little B&B run by her mother. Or when she’d won a prize for ice-dancing, which was something she was particularly good at.

But never had it felt quite like this before…

His big hand made hers seem so tiny—and the warm touch of his bare skin against hers seemed, well…intimate, really. Or was that because his thumb brushed almost negligently against her palm—a movement so brief that she might almost have imagined it? Except the responding shiver of her skin told her she hadn’t imagined anything.

‘My name is Giancarlo Andrea Vellutini,’ he said softly. ‘I am Tuscan by birth and global by nature. What else would you like to know? That I have a house in London and my diary is empty tonight? I was planning to catch up on a stack of paperwork, but you…’ he leaned forward and read her name badge ‘…Cassandra Summers…have tempted me into changing my plans.’

Cassie couldn’t deny being tempted, too—and not just because the way he said her name made it sound like pure poetry. Invitations to dinner were pretty thin on the ground—and nobody remotely like this man Giancarlo had ever asked her out before. In fact, the most recent date she’d been on had consisted of someone from the computer department who’d taken her for a disgusting burger in a fast-food chain—and then claimed to have forgotten his wallet!

Yet instinct warned her against accepting this far more tantalising offer. That same deep instinct which had alerted her senses when she’d first set eyes on him. The one which told her that this man was dangerous—and not for the likes of her. He was too good-looking. Too urbane. Too rich. Too everything. And wasn’t it more than a little arrogant of him to assume that she would drop everything and fit in with him just because he had decided he would change his plans?

‘It’s very sweet of you, but I’m afraid I can’t let my flatmates down,’ she said apologetically.

Giancarlo’s eyes narrowed. The little shop-girl was turning him down? Inconceivable! ‘You have a boyfriend?’ he questioned curiously. ‘Someone waiting at home for you?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s no one. But my flatmates are relying on me to bring half their supper home from the delicatessen here.’

He wondered if she was playing games with him. Perhaps imagining that she would make herself more desirable by playing hard to get. Or was it possible that here was a woman who wasn’t his for the taking—a woman with enough self-respect to say no? His lips curved into a thoughtful smile. Doubtful.

Pulling a thick cream business card from his wallet, he slid it between her unresisting fingers. ‘Well, why don’t you call me if you change your mind?’

She met his eyes, again feeling the unmistakable tingle of her skin where he’d touched her and wondering if he could feel it, too. She swallowed, plucking up every bit of courage she had. ‘Or perhaps you could always come in another day?’

Dark eyebrows were elevated. ‘And ask you again?’

‘Well, yes.’

She thought he was about to start haunting the department store like some lovelorn young suitor? ‘I don’t think so,’ he said silkily. ‘Ciao, bella.’

And to Cassie’s consternation, he turned on his heel and walked away—just like that. For a moment she stood there watching the tall, striking figure in the cashmere coat until he had disappeared—and began to wonder if she had imagined the entire interlude. And then she looked down at the neatly wrapped package which was still sitting next to the till and realised that he had forgotten to take his candles and that it was too late to run after him.

All the way home on the bus, with the brightly wrapped candles lying on her lap, Cassie could have kicked herself. How stupid could she have been? Batting his invitation away as if men like him were queuing round the block to date her. How many times in life did an opportunity like that present itself—a gorgeous man offering to sweep you off your feet?

Her father’s prolonged illness had been heartbreaking and she had been longing to get away from Cornwall. But hadn’t she also come to London partly because she felt her life was passing her by and she wanted a little adventure? And surely it would be difficult to imagine a greater adventure than some tantalising Tuscan asking her to have dinner with him.

Still, at least she could comfort herself with the thought that she was a loyal friend and flatmate—and that she hadn’t let the others down. Until she let herself into the apartment to find that the flat was empty and all the pasta had been eaten. Gavin had left her a note saying they’d all got too hungry to wait and had gone to the pub—and would she care to join them?

Well, what else was she going to do—scrub around in an empty fridge, trying to find something on the TV which wasn’t a game show and trying not to think about what she could have been doing? An image of Giancarlo’s mocking eyes swam into her memory as, with a frustrated little yelp, she slung the salad and the garlic bread into the empty fridge and went to change.

Wearing a pair of jeans and a warm coat over her sweater, Cassie walked through the cold night air to the pub. Her footsteps rang out on the icy pavement and bright stars spangled the clear skies. Even from the end of the road she could hear the noise and the bustle and when she opened the door of the pub, she was hit by a solid wall of sound.

Every inch of the place was packed. Beneath a swirl of paper streamers, people were swaying and singing along to a song about wishing it could be Christmas every day—which had been played every year since Cassie could remember. And, given the current decibel level and crush of bodies, it was not a sentiment she currently agreed with.

The queue to get to the bar was five-deep and heaven only knew where Gavin and the others were. Could she face battling her way through the crowds to sit nursing a mediocre glass of warm white wine for the rest of the evening and shouting to make herself heard above the noise?

No, she could not. With a decisiveness which surprised her, she turned and walked out of the pub again—her feet taking her straight back to the flat while a preposterous idea grew in her mind.

Only, maybe it was not so preposterous at all. He had given her his phone number, hadn’t he? Told her to call him—and she had a good reason to call him, even if you discounted the fact that he was the most exciting thing to ever happen to her.

Letting herself into the apartment with a fast-beating heart and grateful for the quietness, Cassie punched out his number with a trembling finger before she could change her mind. She could hear the phone ringing and ringing. Maybe he was one of those people who screened their calls and, since he didn’t recognise the number, wasn’t going to bother answering. She was just about to hang up when she heard a click—and then that distinctive velvety, accented voice sounded in her ear.

‘Pronto. Giancarlo Vellutini.’

‘Giancarlo?’ She swallowed down her nerves. ‘It’s me…Cassie.’

‘Chi?’ There was a pause. ‘Who?’

This was humiliating. He didn’t remember. Of course he didn’t remember. He’d spoken to her for about five minutes and given her his business card on a whim. Cassie would have hung up there and then if it hadn’t been for the candles which were still sitting on the side, wrapped in glittery gold and claret paper. ‘Cassandra Summers. I work at Hudson’s department store. We met today—do you remember? You bought some—’

‘Sì, sì, senz’altro—scusi, scusi.’ His voice dipped effortlessly into English. ‘Cassandra Summers with the amazing eyes. How could I possibly forget?’

Cassie swallowed as nerves began to assail her. Don’t back him into a corner. Show that you have a legitimate reason to ring him in case he’s looking for an out. ‘Actually, I’m ringing up because you forgot your candles?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You bought six very expensive c-candles and you didn’t take them with you.’

His long legs sprawling in front of him as he reclined in a squashy leather sofa, Giancarlo looked up at the huge canvas which dominated the wall above the blazing log fire, and gave a slow smile. ‘So I did. And that’s the only reason you’re ringing me, is it?’

‘Well, I…’ Flustered now, Cassie didn’t know how to respond. Did she tell him that maybe she’d been a bit too hasty in turning him down—and that dinner sounded wonderful—or would that make her sound like some sort of desperado?

‘Or maybe you’ve changed your mind about having dinner with me?’ he prompted silkily.

Just say yes…he isn’t planning to kidnap you and send you to the ends of the earth. Just say yes! ‘That would be very…nice,’ said Cassie blandly.

Giancarlo gave a soft laugh. Nice wasn’t what he had in mind. Nothing near ‘nice’, in fact. Something dark, erotic and horizontal was closer to the mark—he knew that and he suspected that deep down she knew that, too. Because nobody could deny the sparks which had flown between them today—sparks hot enough to make him act on impulse, to chat up the kind of woman he would never have met at a dinner party.

And yet, in a way, he had preferred her a little more when she’d lifted her chin and fixed him with those violet eyes and proudly said she was doing something else tonight. Wasn’t it slightly disappointing that she’d rung and become just like all the others—joining the endless line of women who wanted him and didn’t mind showing him how much? In a few short moments she’d gone from goddess to doormat and he’d known enough of those in his time. His mouth flattened. Wouldn’t it have excited him if he’d had to do the chasing for once—instead of the inevitability of yet another luscious creature falling into his bed because he had snapped his fingers?

Still, he shouldn’t knock it. At least, not until he’d tried it.

‘So what time shall I expect you?’ he murmured.

‘Expect me?’ Cassie squeaked. ‘You mean have dinner with you tonight?’

‘Of course. What did you mean? Unless you have eaten already?’

‘Well, no—but it’s…’ Cassie glanced down at the bright pink waterproof watch which encircled her slender wrist. ‘It’s getting on for nine o’clock!”

‘So?’

‘Well, isn’t that…?’ Something stopped her from expounding her mother’s theory that food lay heavy on your stomach if it was consumed too late in the evening. He didn’t seem the kind of man who would be interested in that kind of information. ‘A bit late to eat?’

‘Not at all. In Spain, they eat at eleven.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

‘You’ve never been to Spain?’

‘Never.’

‘Then maybe I shall take you there one day,’ he murmured. ‘We could drink Rioja under some of the starriest skies in the world and eat tapas with our fingers. But in the meantime—why don’t you get in a cab and come over here and we’ll see what we can find in my cupboard? Where do you live?’

‘Greenford.’

‘Near Park Lane?’

‘No, no—that’s Green Park,’ she corrected, because it was a common mistake. As if she could ever afford to live anywhere near Park Lane! ‘I’m miles out,’ she forged on. ‘Even with a fast car I couldn’t possibly get there much before ten and—no matter what they do in Spain—that really is too late for dinner. Especially when I have to get up early for work tomorrow.’