To Have A Husband

His mouth twisted disgustedly before he continued, “Could that be because I’m the one who pointed out your boyfriend’s little sideline in blackmail?”

Harrie felt the remaining color drain from her cheeks. “You—”

“I don’t think so, Harrie,” Quinn whispered grimly as he effectively prevented her hand from slapping the hardness of his cheek.

Harrie was completely unprepared for what happened next. She didn’t even have time to avoid Quinn’s mouth as it came down to possessively claim hers, his arms moving assuredly about her slender waist as he pulled her body in close to his.

Her limbs had all the response of jelly, knowing she would have fallen if it weren’t for the strength of Quinn’s arms.

What was she doing?

This man was her enemy!

Quinn had just kissed her. And far from being outraged and disgusted at the unprovoked intimacy, she found that every part of her body seemed to tingle and feel alive….

Meet the Summer sisters:

Harriet, Danielle and Andrea

(or Harrie, Danie and Andie to their friends!).

All three are beautiful, intelligent and successful; but they’ve always found their careers more satisfying than their love lives…. Until now!

The Summer sisters haven’t been looking for love—but then destiny causes Quinn, Jonas and Adam to cross their paths. Are these exceptional men going to pop The Question?

Don’t miss any of these

fabulous stories by popular Harlequin Presents® author CAROLE MORTIMER!

Harrie’s story:

To Have a Husband

Danie’s story:

To Become a Bride

Andie’s story:

To Make a Marriage

To Have a Husband

Carole Mortimer

MILLS & BOON

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My husband, Peter

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

‘IF I cross your palm with silver, are you going to tell me I’m going to meet a tall, dark, beautiful stranger?’

Harriet’s second reaction to this less than respectful remark to her role as Gypsy Rosa, Fortune-teller, was—you are a tall, dark, handsome stranger!

It had been her second reaction—because her first had been ouch!

After being stuck in this tent at the Summer Fête most of the afternoon—a typically damp, English June afternoon—these were the first free few minutes she’d had for a much-needed cup of tea. This man walking in here without warning had caused her to spill most of the hot liquid over her hand!

‘You are Gypsy Rosa, aren’t you?’ the man prompted mockingly at her lack of reply.

Lord, she hoped so, otherwise her fashion sense badly needed working on! She certainly didn’t usually wear flowery skirts that reached to her ankles, or low-necked white blouses designed to reveal rather than hide her cleavage. And her make-up wasn’t usually so garish, the red gloss on her lips matching the varnish on her nails. She also wore huge hoop earrings at her lobes, and her hair was completely covered by a bright red scarf.

Her only saving grace, as far as she was concerned, was that the lack of lightning in the closed-in tent, as well as making it stifling hot, also made it impossible for anyone to see her properly, and so recognise her. At least, she hoped it did!

Her sister Andie usually took over this role at the Summer Fête, and loved every minute of it, but this morning her sister had woken with the beginnings of flu. Everyone else, it seemed, already had their role to play at the fête, and so it had been left to her to—reluctantly—become Gypsy Rosa.

Until the last few moments, it hadn’t been too difficult. She’d lived in the village most of her life, and knew all of the people who lived here, so it wasn’t too hard to predict romances, weddings, even births in some cases, and the rest of what was said she just made up to make it sound more interesting.

Until the last few moments…

Because even in the subdued lighting of the tent, she knew she had never seen this man before!

Although she could obviously see he was tall. And dark. And his physique seemed to imply he was muscular as well as handsome. He was certainly a stranger, of that she was sure!

‘Please sit,’ she invited in the husky voice she had adopted for her role of Gypsy Rosa, indicating the chair opposite hers at the table, surreptitiously putting her mug down on the grass at her feet before wiping her wet hand on her skirt beneath the table—otherwise she would be crossing his hand with tea!

Close up she could see him a little better; he had dark hair and light-coloured eyes, either blue or grey. His face all hard angles, his chin square and determined, he wore a dark suit and a white shirt. Well, she could tell one thing just from looking at him—the way he was dressed, he had no more expected to be at a village fête this afternoon than she had expected him to walk into her tent to have his fortune told!

‘It started to rain again,’ the man drawled, looking across at her, his brows raised derisively.

Ah. In other words, he wouldn’t be in here at all if he hadn’t needed to step inside out of the rain that had dampened a lot of the afternoon!

She held back a smile at this disclosure: at least he was honest.

‘I’m afraid it takes a little more than silver nowadays,’ she murmured throatily. ‘The board outside tells you it costs a pound.’

‘That’s inflation for you,’ he acknowledged dryly as his hand went into his trouser pocket to pull out a pound coin and place it on the table between them.

‘Would you pass it to me, please?’ she invited—for what had to be the fiftieth time this afternoon!

It was amazing how many people, even though they knew it wasn’t a real ‘Gypsy Rosa’ inside this tent, still came in here hoping she would tell them some good news. Although it seemed rather sad to her that it appeared to be the lottery most people hoped to win nowadays rather than wishing for anything else good that could possibly happen to them.

He raised his brows even further as he complied with her request, although his mouth twisted mockingly as, instead of taking the money, she took his hand into both of hers to look down intently into his palm.

She knew absolutely nothing about palm-reading, but as the afternoon had progressed she’d realised you really could tell quite a lot about a person from their hands. And this man was no different. For one thing, his hand was quite smooth, meaning he didn’t physically work with his hands. It was also his left hand he had brought forward, a left hand bare of rings.

She glanced up at his face beneath lowered lashes. It was a hard, indomitable face, with a touch of ruthlessness if it should prove necessary to his plans.

No, she decided, that lack of a ring did not, in this man’s case, mean that he was unmarried; he was just a man who would resist any show of ownership, even that of a wedding ring.

But while he obviously didn’t do physical labour with his hand, it was nevertheless a strong hand. The nails were kept deliberately short; if he was a musician he certainly wasn’t a guitar player. She remembered quite vividly from her youth having to keep the nails on one hand long so that she could pluck at the guitar strings!

Well, she had decided what he wasn’t—now all she had to try and work out was what he was!

Quite honestly, she didn’t have a clue. Wealthy, from the cut of his suit, and the silk material of his shirt. And, as she knew from his entrance, he was possessed of a mocking arrogance that spoke of a complete confidence in himself and his capabilities. Wealthy, then, she decided.

But that only made his presence at a small village fête all the more an enigma!

Or did it…?

Perhaps not, if her guess was correct.

She moved further over his hand, frowning down as if in deep thought. ‘I see a meeting,’ she murmured softly.

‘That tall, dark, beautiful stranger?’ he taunted mockingly.

She shook her head slowly. ‘This is with another man. Although he is a stranger to you,’ she continued, frowning. ‘This meeting will take place soon. Very soon,’ she added as she felt the sudden tension in the hand she held in hers.

‘And?’ he prompted harshly.

Yes—and? She had worked out by a process of elimination who this man might possibly be, and it seemed from his reaction to what she was saying that she was probably right, but what did she say to him now?

At this moment she felt, with the rain teeming down outside, as if only the two of them existed, that the rest of the world were a long, long way away. It was almost as if—

She blinked dazedly as the tent-flap was thrown back suddenly to admit the light—and a young lady who looked very like a drowned rat at this moment, with her red hair plastered over her face from the deluge of rain still falling outside.

She glared at the man sitting opposite ‘Gypsy Rosa’. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she muttered accusingly, pushing the wet hair from her face.

The man stood up, smoothly taking his hand back as he did so. ‘Well, now you’ve found me,’ he drawled unconcernedly, although his eyes—now identifiable as aqua-blue—were narrowed coldly.

The young woman nodded. ‘I’ve come to take you up to the house.’ She indicated the umbrella in her hand—something she obviously hadn’t taken the time to use on herself on her run over here! ‘If you’ve finished here, that is?’ she added with a derisive twist of her lips.

The man glanced back at ‘Gypsy Rosa’, those strange-coloured eyes gleaming with mocking humour. ‘Yes, I believe I’ve finished here,’ he said dismissively.

They’d barely begun, but as ‘Gypsy Rosa’ really had nothing else to tell him, perhaps it was as well this particular fortune-telling had been interrupted!

She stood up, holding out his pound coin. ‘I believe you’re a man who makes his own fortune,’ she murmured dryly.

He gave an acknowledging inclination of his head, although he made no effort to take back the money she offered him. ‘Keep it to put in the fête’s funds; I believe it goes to a good cause.’

A party for the village children, where great fun was had by all. But she was surprised he’d bothered to find that out…

‘Thank you.’ She dropped the money into the jar with all the other pound coins she’d collected through the afternoon.

He turned back to the young woman standing near the entrance. ‘Then I’m ready whenever you are,’ he prompted.

The young woman with the red hair nodded tersely, turning outside to put up the umbrella, her impatience barely contained as she waited for the man to precede her out of the tent.

Uh-oh, ‘Gypsy Rosa’ winced inwardly as she watched the pair hurry across the lawn through the rain to the house. From her sister Danie’s behaviour towards him just then he had already done something to upset her this afternoon, and Danie certainly wouldn’t have kept that rancour to herself!

Which boded ill for the meeting that was about to take place inside the house…!

Talking of which, it was time that Harriet went back to being herself, and for ‘Gypsy Rosa’ to retire…

CHAPTER ONE

QUINN’S fingers tapped restlessly on the arm of the chair he sat in. Quite frankly, he was tired of waiting for the arrival of his host for the afternoon, Jerome Summer. Justifiably so, in his book.

He’d been flown in by helicopter to the Summer estate earlier this afternoon. After landing on the smooth lawn that backed onto the impressive manor house, he’d been informed by the pilot that the man he had come here to meet, Jerome Summer, had been called away elsewhere, but would hopefully be back later on this afternoon.

It had been that ‘hopefully’ that had rankled him the most about that statement. Jerome—Rome—Summer was obviously a busy man, hence this Saturday afternoon appointment in the first place, but Quinn’s time was no less valuable, and hanging around at the country fête that was being held on the estate, for most of the afternoon, was not using that time effectively as far as he was concerned.

Besides, it was one of the most boring afternoons he had spent for a very long time!

Well…except for the fortune-teller; she might have proved interesting. But he’d hardly begun to talk to her before being interrupted—by the red-haired virago he was quickly learning to dislike!—with instructions that he was wanted up at the house—now.

Well, he had been up ‘at the house’ for fifteen minutes now, and Jerome Summer still hadn’t put in an appearance. Quinn should have realised that the tea tray waiting for him in the sitting-room was rather ominous!

He would wait for another five minutes, he decided coldly, and then he would ask to be flown back to London. Which wasn’t in any way going to help solve the problem he’d come here to talk over with Jerome Summer, but at the same time Quinn refused to be treated offhandedly.

‘Ah, my dear Mr McBride, so sorry to have kept you waiting!’ greeted a jovial male voice seconds after Quinn had heard the door open behind him.

The man who’d entered the sitting-room was recognisable on sight as his host, Jerome Summer. The man’s photograph as often as not adorned the pages of the newspaper Jerome owned, admittedly usually on the financial pages, about one successful business feat or another. He was tall, blond-haired, with a still boyishly handsome face despite his fifty-odd years—those photographs in no way portrayed the sheer power of the man, both physically and charismatically.

He smiled cheerfully as Quinn slowly stood up, holding out his hand in greeting. ‘Estate business, I’m afraid,’ Rome excused his tardiness dismissively. ‘With a place this size, it’s never-ending.’ He shrugged good-naturedly.

Quinn knew something of the other man; he never liked to meet adversaries without being at least partially briefed. Jerome Summer had bought this estate, comprising the house and extensive grounds, including a deer-park, and half the cottages in the village itself, some twenty years ago. A widower for some years, he now lived here with his three children.

But, as Quinn also knew, those facts only told half the story. Jerome Summer was a self-made man. As the youngest son of a country doctor, he’d built up a financial empire over the last thirty years with various business enterprises, until now, aged fifty-four, he was one of the richest and most powerful men in England. And his complete ease of manner spoke of the confidence that wealth gave him.

It also explained why he’d felt no qualms about keeping Quinn waiting about for hours; if Jerome Summer was half the man of shrewdness Quinn guessed him to be beneath that boyish charm, then he would also have done his homework on him. The McBride family, of which Quinn was now the head, chaired and was the major shareholder of one of the most prestigious banks in London. But it was a bank with which Jerome Summer had no personal or business dealings.

‘Ah, good, you’ve been given tea.’ Jerome Summer indicated the tea tray on the table.

For all of Jerome Summer’s breezy attitude, Quinn was quite sure the other man was well aware of what his movements had been for the whole afternoon, tea being the last thing Jerome was interested in!

‘It’s probably cold by now,’ he told the other man dryly as his host poured tea into the second cup that had been on the tray when he’d arrived—giving Quinn the hope at the time that Jerome Summer himself would appear at any moment!

The other man looked up to grin at him. ‘Believe me, over the years I’ve become used to drinking tea in all sorts of guises.’ As if to prove his point he straightened to take a swallow of the lukewarm brew.

Quinn was becoming impatient again. He’d come here because he had something he needed to talk to this man about, something of great importance to him, and with this man acting as if he’d just called in on the off chance of being offered afternoon tea it was becoming increasingly difficult to bring the conversation round to what he wanted—needed!—to talk to Jerome Summer about.

‘Mr Summer—’

‘Please call me Rome,’ the other man invited lightly, relaxing back in one of the armchairs. ‘And do sit down, dear boy; you’re making me nervous towering over me like that!’ He laughed softly up at Quinn as he still stood.

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. ‘I doubt that very much— Rome,’ he bit out tersely, not fooled for a moment by the other man’s apparent friendliness. And he certainly wasn’t a ‘boy’, dear or otherwise. At thirty-nine, he’d controlled the McBride Bank for the last ten years, and very successfully too.

The other man continued to smile, giving an inclination of his head. ‘Perhaps so,’ he drawled in an amused voice. ‘But humour me anyway.’ He indicated the comfortable chair opposite his own across the coffee-table.

Quinn had an idea that most people humoured this man, for whatever reason. In his own case, he decided as he sat down, it was because the matter he wanted to talk to Jerome Summer about was urgent—and very personal. ‘I really do need to talk with you, Rome.’ He sat forward in his seat. ‘You see—’

‘Could you just wait a few more minutes, Quinn?’ the other man asked. ‘I’m expecting my lawyer to join us at any moment,’ he explained at Quinn’s frowning look.

Quinn stiffened in his chair. Lawyer? What the hell—?

‘I believe I explained to your secretary, when I made this appointment to see you, that this was a private matter?’ he bit out harshly. Damn it, he didn’t want a lawyer involved in this!

Rome gave another gracious inclination of that leonine head. ‘Of course, dear boy, but I’ve invariably found that the presence of a lawyer is always a good idea—in any situation,’ he added hardly, revealing some of the steel Quinn had been sure lay beneath that surface charm.

Quinn’s mouth tightened. This was personal, damn it. He didn’t want a lawyer present.

‘I can assure you that Harrie is the soul of discretion,’ Rome added dismissively, bending confidently forward to help himself to one of the sandwiches Quinn had ignored earlier and which were now starting to curl a little at the edges.

Quinn had no doubt that, over the years, discretion was something this man’s lawyer had been much in need of! Quinn’s expression was grim. He had, he already felt, been jerked around enough by this man for one day. Of course, that had always been the danger when agreeing to meet Rome Summer on his own home ground, but when Quinn had originally been offered this meeting at the Summer estate it had seemed better than no meeting at all. Now he wished he’d tempered his impatience and waited until the other man were free to see him in town. Except, as he inwardly acknowledged, neither he nor Corinne had that time to wait…

Although he’d already learnt enough about this man to know any sign of weakness on his part would quickly be spotted—and as quickly taken advantage of!—by this shrewd adversary.

Quinn drew in a softly controlling breath, deliberately maintaining his own relaxed posture. ‘I believe, in this case, you will find you have wasted your lawyer’s time,’ he drawled dismissively, his own eyes narrowed now, deciding he would hate to play chess with the other man!

Rome Summer shrugged. ‘It’s my time to waste,’ he murmured pleasantly.

‘But—’ Quinn broke off as he heard the door open behind him, noting the pleasure that lit up the other man’s face as he stood up. The shrewdness had gone from Rome Summer’s face now as he grinned boyishly before crossing the room to greet the person who had just entered.

‘Sorry I’m late; I was unavoidably detained,’ murmured a huskily soft voice in apology.

A female voice, Quinn noted with a frown, turning in his chair before slowly standing up to get a better look at the woman who had just entered the room.

Only to find himself looking at the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on!

She had long hair, the colour of midnight, which fell in soft tumbling curls down her back; while long lashes of the same colour surrounded eyes the colour of emeralds, her skin the colour of magnolia, her nose small and pert, covered by a sprinkling of freckles, her mouth wide and smiling, a poutingly sensual mouth, the red lip-gloss she wore a perfect match for the long painted nails on her slenderly expressive hands. She was tall and slender, the tailored grey suit and white blouse she wore adding to that impression of height; her legs were long and shapely beneath the knee-length skirt.

But it wasn’t only the woman’s obvious beauty that made Quinn stare across the room with narrowed eyes; Rome Summer had grasped both of those slender white hands in his, even as he bent down and kissed one pale magnolia cheek!

Quinn’s brows rose knowingly. Obviously—despite their own appointment today!—life wasn’t all business for the older man. But as Rome Summer had been a widower for the last ten years, and was obviously still a very attractive as well as powerful man, that wasn’t surprising. Quinn just wished the other man’s current girlfriend—for this young woman must be almost thirty years younger than Rome Summer—had waited until Quinn had finished his own business with the older man before disrupting their meeting!

Rome put his arm about the woman’s slender shoulders as he brought her further into the room, his grin more boyish than ever. ‘Come and say hello to Quinn McBride, darling,’ he invited softly.

The woman walked like a dream too, Quinn thought contemptuously, her movements fluid while at the same time totally feminine. Sheer perfection, in one five-foot-eight-inch package, Quinn acknowledged grimly. But then, with Rome Summer’s wealth, Quinn wouldn’t have expected anything less of the current woman in his life!

‘Mr McBride,’ the woman greeted huskily, standing only inches away from Quinn now.

He found himself looking down at one of those artistically slender hands, at the same time becoming aware of the light headiness of her perfume, a perfume that jolted a memory for him from somewhere, although for the moment he couldn’t remember where.

But one thing he was sure of, he’d never met this woman before; she wasn’t the sort of woman any man would ever forget once having seen her!

He took the slender hand in the largeness of his own—and almost pulled it away again as quickly!

Something that felt very like an electric shock had passed from the woman’s fingers through to his own; a slightly tingling sensation remained in his hand even now, although he resisted the urge to massage away that sensation with his other hand.

His eyes were narrowed to aqua-blue slits now as he looked at the woman for any sign in her own expression that she’d also felt that electrical charge. The gaze that steadily met his own was as cool and impersonal as the jewels they resembled.