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FIONA HOOD-STEWART
“This huge, action-packed saga is a feast for anyone who yearns for a long, rich read.”
—Romantic Times on The Stolen Years
“A gripping, sensual tale. The characters are very rich, and they draw you into their story. The story is a page-turner, and you can’t help but get sucked into this romance.”
—Romantic Times on At the Spanish Duke’s Command
SHARON KENDRICK
“Sharon Kendrick pens a dynamite tale of love, passion, betrayal and revenge. Her hero is to die for, and the passion…scorches the pages.”
—Romantic Times on The Desert Prince’s Mistress
“This book is sizzling hot, with a saucy heroine and a dynamite hero. The scenes are full of passion and emotion.”
—Romantic Times on The Future King’s Bride
JACKIE BRAUN
“Intense emotion, a heartbreakingly vulnerable heroine, a wonderful hero, a beautiful setting and truly compelling story make Jackie Braun’s novel a poignant delight.”
—Romantic Times on True Love, Inc.
“Jackie Braun’s latest story is truly remarkable, mainly because of its humor, its edge and its cast of realistic, vulnerable characters.”
—Romantic Times on In the Shelter of His Arms
DEAR READER LETTER
By Sharon Kendrick
Dear Reader,
One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.
There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.
I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”
So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?
I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.
Love,
Sharon Kendrick
SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, 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 her 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…
Marriage Scandal, Showbiz Baby!
Sharon Kendrick
www.millsandboon.co.uk
MATT & JEN IN RED CARPET SHOWDOWN!
Hollywood superstars Matt and Jen surprised fans when they both turned up to their film premiere in Cannes yesterday, despite their recent acrimonious breakup. The tension was fierce between them, but they put on brave smiles for the cameras and even sat next to each other throughout the steamy movie
Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for these bestselling authors
Dear Reader
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bonus Articles
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
A THOUSAND FLASHGUNS LIT the sky and the Mediterranean night was turned into garish day as the crowd surged forward.
‘Jennifer!’ they screamed. ‘Jennifer!’
Jennifer paused and smiled, the way the studio had taught her— “Don’t show your teeth, honey—they’re so English!”—but the irony of the situation didn’t escape her. You could be adored from afar by so many—yet inside be as lonely as hell.
She placed one sparkle-shoed foot on the step of the red carpet—the famous red carpet which slithered down the steps of the Festival Theatre like a scarlet snake. Oh, yes. A snake. Lots of those around at the Cannes Film Festival.
At the back of the building lay the fabled promenade of La Croisette, where lines of palm trees waved gently in the soft breeze. Beyond foamed the sapphire-edged waters of the Mediterranean, into which the evening sun had just set in a firework display of pink and gold. But, despite the warmth of the May evening which caressed her bare shoulders, Jennifer couldn’t stop the tiptoeing of regret which shivered over her skin.
Memories stayed stubbornly alive in your head, and you couldn’t stop them flooding back—no matter how hard you tried. She’d been in Cannes with Matteo during that first, blissful summer of their ill-fated romance, and she associated the whole dazzling coastline with him. Matteo had introduced her to the South of France and the heady world of films—just as he had introduced her to white wine and orgasm. Everything in life she thought worth knowing he had taught her.
‘You okay, Jen?’ came the gruff voice of her publicist, Hal, who—along with an assistant, had been shadowing her like a bodyguard all day, as if afraid that she wouldn’t actually turn up for the screening of her film tonight. And, yes, she’d been tempted to hide away in the luxury of her hotel room—but you couldn’t hide from the world for ever. Sooner or later you had to come out—and it was better to come out fighting!
Weighted by her elaborate blonde hairstyle, Jennifer dipped her head so that her low words could be neither lip-read nor heard by the crowds who were pushing towards her from behind the barrier ropes.
‘What do you think?’ she questioned softly. ‘I’m being forced to parade in front of the world’s media and pretend I don’t care that my husband has been flaunting his new lover.’
‘Hey, Jennifer,’ said Hal softly. ‘That sounds awfully like jealousy—and you were the one who walked out of the marriage, remember?’
And for good reasons. But she knew it was pointless trying to explain them. People like Hal thought she was mad. They had told her in not so many words that she couldn’t expect a man like Matteo to be faithful. As if she should just be grateful that he had cared enough to put a shiny gold band on her finger. Well, maybe her expectations were higher than those of other people in the acting world, but she wasn’t about to start lowering them now.
‘It’s just harder than I thought it would be,’ she murmured.
They’d only split six months ago, and yet already the press had started describing her as ‘lonely’ and ‘unlucky in love’—because, unlike Matteo, she had not fallen straight into the arms of a new lover. Maybe it was different for women. Didn’t they say that men recovered more quickly from a break-up?
Her pride had been wounded and she wasn’t sure she was ever going to be able to replace the man who had been her husband—though that was what the world seemed to want. She just wanted to get through this first public appearance at the world’s most famous film festival—then surely anything else would be easy-peasy. Please God, it would.
‘Jennifer!’ screamed the crowd again.
‘Don’t even attempt to sign autographs,’ warned Hal. ‘Or there’ll be a riot!’
‘You mean there isn’t already?’ she joked.
‘That’s better,’ Hal murmured approvingly. ‘Just keep smiling.’
But as Jennifer began to slowly mount the staircase she heard different voices, which somehow managed to penetrate the clamour of her fans. The clipped, intrusive tones of professional broadcasters. Here we go, she thought.
‘Hey, Jennifer—have you met your husband’s new lover yet?’
‘Jennifer! GMRV news! Any plans for a divorce?’
‘Jen—are the rumours that Sophia is pregnant true?’
Pregnant? Surely that must be some kind of cruel joke? Jennifer gripped onto her sapphire silk clutch-bag so hard that her knuckles showed up white, but then she automatically relaxed them just in case a camera should pick up the tell-tale tension.
‘Jennifer—how do you feel about seeing your husband here tonight?’
At first Jennifer thought that she must have misheard the last statement—her ears playing tricks with her and plucking a wrong note from out of the sea of sound. Matteo wasn’t here tonight—he was miles away, in Italy, and she had agreed to attend the Festival because she had known that. They hadn’t seen each other in months, and Jennifer was still emotionally wobbly. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that their paths would never cross, but had just hoped that it would be without an audience. Especially so soon.
Like a child swimming in choppy waters and searching for a life-raft, she looked round at Hal—but the sudden frozen set of his shoulders made her tense with a terrible growing suspicion.
She tried to catch his eye, but he was steadfastly refusing to meet her gaze. And then the press pack were closing in again, and Jennifer’s gaze was drawn upwards, as if compelled to do so by some irresistible force.
Until she saw him—and her ears began to roar as the world closed in on her.
It couldn’t be. Please, God—it just couldn’t be.
But it was. Oh, it was—for there was no mistaking the dynamic presence that was Matteo d’ Arezzo.
Jennifer felt sick and faint—but somehow she sucked in a slow breath of oxygen and managed to keep the meaningless smile on her face as she gazed in disbelief at the man who was standing at the top of the red carpet, surrounded by a small bunch of sychophants—as if he were king of all he surveyed.
His Italian looks were dark and brooding, and his body was lean and honed and shown off to perfection in the coal-black dinner suit. Legs slightly parted, his hands deep in the pockets of his elegant trousers, his casual stance stretched the material over his thighs—emphasising their hard, muscular shafts…leaving nothing about his virile physique to the imagination. Long-lashed jet eyes glittered in the olive-gold of his face, and they flicked over her now in a way which was achingly familiar yet heartbreakingly alien.
Jennifer’s heart contracted in her chest. It had been so long since she’d seen him. Too long, and yet not long enough.
And women were screaming his name.
Screaming it as once she had screamed it, in his arms and in his bed.
Matteo.
She felt like a mannequin in a shop window—with the look of a real person about her, but a complete inability to move.
But she had to move. She had to.
The cameras would be trained on both faces. Looking for a reaction—any reaction, but preferably one which would provide the meat for a juicy story.
She willed some warmth into her frozen smile and began to walk up towards him, thanking her impossibly tight silk dress for the slowness of her steps.
It was a walk which seemed to go on for ever. The roar of the crowd retreated and the blur of their faces merged, and as she grew closer she could see the dark shadowing of his jaw and the cruel curve of his lips. Men like Matteo did not grow on trees, and his outrageous beauty and sex-appeal often made the casual observer completely awestruck. Well, he would not intimidate her as he had spent his life intimidating the studio. He was her cheating ex-husband—nothing more and nothing less—and she needed to take control of the situation.
She lifted her head as she reached him. ‘Hello, Matteo,’ she said coolly.
To see her was like being struck by lightning, and Matteo could feel the hot rods of desire as he saw the creamy thrust of her breasts edged by silk as deeply blue as the ocean. He tensed, his mind racing with questions as he stared down at his estranged wife.
Che cosa il hell stava accendo?
But his face stayed unmoving, even though his groin had begun to tighten, and he cursed his erection and despised the unfathomable desire which made him so unbearably hard. For there were women more beautiful than Jennifer Warren—but none who had ever made him feel quite so…so…
He swallowed down thoughts of what he would like to do, and how much he despised himself for wanting to do it. Weak was not a word he would ever use to describe himself—but something about the physical spell his wife had always cast over him was as debilitating as when Delilah had shorn off Samson’s hair…
What the hell was she doing here? And why the hell had he not been told?
He knew that the cameras were trained on him—and on her—waiting for their reactions. A flicker of emotion here. A tell-tale sign there. Something—anything—to indicate what either was thinking. And if they couldn’t find out, then they’d make something up!
Training took over from instinct and he kept the tightening of his mouth at bay. Only the sudden steeliness of his eyes hinted at his inner disquiet, and that was far too subtle to be seen. He would give them nothing!
The glance he gave Jennifer was cursory, almost dismissive—but visually it was encyclopaedic to a man who had grown up appreciating women, who could assess them in the blinking of an eye. He felt the quickening of his pulse and the silken throb of his blood, for the bright blue silk of her dress clung indecently to every curve of her magnificent body.
For a moment he ran his eyes proprietorially over the soft swell of her breasts and the narrow indentation of her waist, and he did so without guilt. Why the hell should he feel guilt? She was still his wife—maledicala—even though her greedy lawyers were picking over the carcass of their marriage.
Two of the Festival staff moved towards him to usher him inside, but he waved them away with a dismissive gesture.
Should he turn his back on her? That was what he wished he could do. But he decided against it—for would that not just excite more comment from the babbling idiots who would fill their gossip columns with it tomorrow?
Instead, he gave a bland and meaningless smile as she reached him, and looked down into her sapphire eyes, which were huge in a china-white face and blinking at him now in that way which always made him…
Don’t do vulnerable, Jenny, he thought. Don’t turn those big blue eyes on me like that or I may just forget all the anger and the rifts and do something unforgivable, like taking you in my arms in full view of the world and kissing you in a way that no man will ever come close to for the rest of your life.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she said weakly.
‘Wondering if you’re wearing any knickers,’ he murmured.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t worked that out for yourself—women’s underwear is your specialist subject, isn’t it?’
How crisp and English she sounded! Just like when they’d met—and then he’d been blown away by it. That cool wit and ice-hot sexuality. But—like a rare, hot-house flower—she had not survived the move to the tougher climes of Hollywood. Her career had flourished, but their relationship had withered.
‘Oh, cara, don’t you know that when you’re angry you’re irresistible?’
She wanted to tell him that she didn’t care. But it wasn’t true. Because if she didn’t keep a tight rein on her feelings then she might just let it all blurt out and tell him things that he must never know.
That the pain of seeing him was almost too much to bear, and that in the wee, small hours of the morning she still reached for the warmth of her husband in the cold, empty space beside her.
Then remember, she told herself fiercely. Remember just why you’ve haven’t seen him in so long.
‘I had no idea you were going to be here,’ she said, gritting her teeth behind her smile.
‘Snap!’
‘You didn’t know either?’
His black brows knitted together. ‘You think I would have come here if I had?’ he demanded softly. ‘Cara, you flatter yourself!’
Oddly enough, this hurt more than it had any right to and almost as an antidote to meaningless pain, Jennifer forced herself to ask the question which twisted her gut in two. ‘Is your girlfriend with you?’
His mouth hardened. ‘No.’
Jennifer expelled a low breath of relief. At least she had been spared that. Fine actress she might be, and pragmatic enough to accept that her marriage to Matteo was over, but she didn’t think that even she could have borne to see the smug and smiling face of her husband’s new lover. ‘I’m going inside,’ she said, in a low voice.
He gave a cold smile as he walked up the red carpet beside her and into the glittering foyer. ‘Looks like we’ve got each other for company,’ he drawled. ‘Pity we’re both on the guest-list, isn’t it, Jenny? I guess that’s one of the drawbacks of a couple making a film together and then separating soon afterwards!’
‘Matteo!’ It was Hal’s voice. He had obviously judged it safe to talk to them.
Jennifer and Matteo both turned and—for all their differences—their expressions were united in a cold-eyed assessment of their publicist as he panted his way up the stairs and gave them both an uneasy smile.
Matteo spoke while barely moving his mouth. ‘You’re history—you know that, Hal,’ he said easily. ‘You tricked me to get me here, and you bring me face to face with my ex-wife in the most awkward of circumstances. I am appalled—furious—at my stupidity for not having realised that you would stoop to this level in order to publicise your damned film. But, believe me, I shall make you pay.’
‘Now, let’s not be hasty,’ blustered Hal.
‘Oh, let’s,’ vowed Jennifer, her bright smile defusing the bitter undertone in her voice. ‘This is the most sneaky and underhand thing you’ve ever done.’
An official appeared by their side, a brief look of perplexity crossing his brow as he sensed the uncomfortable atmosphere. He made a slight bow. ‘May I show you to your seats, monsieur, madame?’
Matteo raised his elegant dark brows. ‘What do you want to do, Jenny? Go home?’
She wanted to tell him not to call her that, for only he had ever called her that. The soft-accented and caressing nickname no longer thrilled her or made her feel softly dizzy with desire. Now it mocked her—reminding her that everything between them had been an utter sham. And did he think she was going to hang her head and hide? Or run away? Was his ego so collossal that he thought she couldn’t face sitting through a performance of a film she had poured everything into?
‘Why should I want to do that?’ she questioned with a half-smile. ‘We might as well gain something from this meeting. And at least the publicity will benefit the box office.’
Matteo’s mouth twisted. ‘Ah, your career! Your precious career!’
Censure hardened his voice, and Jennifer thought how unfair it was that ambition should be applauded in a man but despised in a woman. When she’d met him he had been the famous one—so well-known that she had felt in danger of losing herself in the razzle-dazzle which surrounded him.
It had been pride which had made her want a piece of the action herself—to show the world that she was more than just Matteo’s wife—but in the end it had backfired on her. For her own rise to superstardom had taken her away from him and spelt the beginning of the end of their marriage.
She didn’t let her smile slip, but her blue eyes glinted with anger. ‘We’re separated, Matteo,’ she murmured. ‘Which no longer gives you the right to pass judgement on me. So let’s skip the character assassination and just get this evening over with, shall we?’
‘It will be my pleasure, cara,’ he said softly. ‘But you will forgive me if I don’t offer you my arm?’
‘I wouldn’t take it even if you did.’
‘Precisely.’
Jennifer had been dreading the première, but it was doubly excruciating to have to walk into the crowded cinema with her estranged husband by her side. All eyes turned towards them with a mixture of expectancy and curiosity as they took their seats in a box. For a few seconds conversation hushed, and then broke out again in an excited babble, and Jennifer wished herself anywhere other than there.
But there was no comfort even when the lights were dimmed, because for a start she was sitting right next to him—next to the still-distracting and sexy body. And the giant image which now flashed up onto the screen made it worse. For it was Matteo. And Jennifer. Playing roles which they must have been crazy to even consider when their marriage had been showing the first signs of strain.
They’d been cast as a couple whose marriage was being dissected in an erotically charged screenplay. There were other characters who impacted on the relationship—but the main one was the other woman. The irresistible other woman, who threatened and ultimately helped destroy the happiness of the couple who’d thought they had everything.
Art imitating life—or was it life imitating art?
It wasn’t real, Jennifer told herself fiercely. If she and Matteo had been strong together, then no woman—no matter how beautiful—could have come between them.
But it was still painful to watch. And even if she closed her eyes she couldn’t escape, for she could still hear the sounds of their whispered lines, or—worse—the sounds of their faked cries of pleasure. Hers and Matteo’s. His and the other woman’s. How easy it was to imagine the other woman in his arms as Sophia, and how bitterly it hurt.
Jennifer watched as her own screen eyes fluttered to a close, her lips parting to utter a long, low moan as her back arched in a frozen moment of pure ecstasy.
‘I’m coming!’ she breathed.
All around her Jennifer could hear the massed intake of breath as the people watched her orgasm—watched her real-life husband follow her, his dark head sinking at last to shudder against her bare shoulder.
She closed her eyes to block out the sight and the sounds—but nothing could release her from the torment of wondering what the audience were thinking and feeling. Perhaps some of them were even turned on by the blatant sexuality of the act.
It was a ground-breaking film, but now Jennifer suppressed a shudder. It no longer looked clever and avant-garde, but slightly suspect. What kind of job had she been sucked in to doing—to have stooped so low as to replicate orgasm with her real-life husband while the cameras rolled?
And then—at last—the final line. The amplified sound of herself saying the words ‘Now she’s gone. And now we can begin all over again.’ The screen went black, the credits began to roll and there was a moment of stunned silence as the cinema audience erupted into applause.