Shelley couldn’t believe her ears.

“You heard,” Drew whispered softly. “You’ve become one of those women who know the cost of everything and the value of nothing, haven’t you, Shelley? Seems like I had a lucky escape.”

“Or maybe you just don’t like the way I dress because the clothes I wear indicate that I’m an independent woman now?”

“Independent?” His lips curled like an old-fashioned movie star’s. “I don’t think so! Being a rich man’s plaything doesn’t usually fall into the category of independent.”

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 to 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 xxx

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.

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…

The Final Seduction

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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With thanks to Simon for beautiful Hillyard Boats

and to John for making Milmouth come alive!

Oh, and a great big “miaow” to Arthur at the Westover Hall.

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Acknowledgement

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

AS SOON as she heard him call her name she knew that something was wrong.

Very wrong.

‘Shelley?’

Shelley frowned at the intercom. ‘Yes, Marco?’

‘Are you busy?’ He spoke every word as if it were poetry. Sexy, deep, strong, lyrical. The kind of voice that drove women crazy. Shelley had seen it for herself, time after time.

Waitresses would go ga-ga for that voice. Female bank employees would flutter their eyelashes—even women who were old enough to know better started coming on to him like small-town hookers. Actually, they were the worst. Rich, confident, bored middle-aged women who fancied the idea of an Italian lover in their bed. And out of it!

Shelley wondered if he was being hounded by one of the more persistent females. It happened. Maybe that was why he wanted to speak to her—to ask her to let his pursuer know in the nicest possible way that he was definitely not available!

‘No, I’m not especially busy.’ She glanced down at the glossy catalogue she had been studying on his behalf. Marco was currently the hottest art dealer on the international circuit, and Shelley made sure he kept his crown by oiling the wheels of his life—so that it ran as smoothly as possible. ‘What’s up?’

‘We need to talk.’

‘I’m all yours, Marco.’ She closed the catalogue and pushed it to the front of her desk.

‘Good.’ Seconds later he appeared at her door, almost as if he had been lingering outside in the corridor, like a person waiting to be interviewed.

Shelley stared at him. Something was different. ‘Is everything okay?’

He hesitated, thick black lashes shading the ebony glitter of his eyes. ‘I’m not quite sure how to answer that.’

She watched while he came into the dazzling light-filled room which she was lucky enough to call her office. Watched his air of distraction as he walked over to the window to gaze out at the lake beyond. The morning sun made the waters glitter and throw back the intense golden light—as if someone had scattered the surface with sequins.

He turned back to face her and, as always, Shelley derived intense pleasure just from looking at him. It was like looking at a beautiful painting or a perfect sky. She knew how lucky she was and how many people envied her—with her perfect job and her perfect boss.

‘Shall I make us some coffee?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Thanks.’

For the first time, she noticed the unfamiliar shadows beneath his eyes and deep in her subconscious little warning bells began ringing sounds of danger. Marco always slept like a baby. ‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’ she said.

He sat down opposite her and spread his hands expansively, in a very Italian way. ‘Not wrong—just different. Something has changed.’

‘Don’t speak in riddles, Marco,’ she implored. ‘You know I can’t stand suspense! I’m the kind of person who reads the reviews of films before I go to see them, just so I can find out the ending!’

‘There is no easy way to say this, Shelley—’

And then she guessed. ‘You’ve met someone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve fallen in love.’

‘Yes, again.’

‘It’s obviously serious.’

‘It… Yes,’ he admitted, and for a moment his face looked almost severe. ‘Yes, it’s serious. Very serious.’

‘Serious in that you’ve already shared breakfast in bed?’

‘Shelley!’ he protested, but he was smiling. ‘How can you ask me such a question?’

‘Because I’m a woman, and because I’m curious! Or did you imagine I’d find it painful?’

‘I guess I did. Well, not painful exactly. Difficult.’

‘Because I’ve lived with you for three years and every woman in Italy would like to scratch my eyes out because of that?’

‘Shelley!’ He hesitated. ‘You know—if I could change things I would.’

‘Fall out of love again, you mean?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Rewrite history.’

‘Well, you can’t,’ she said flatly. ‘No one can.’

‘But I took you away,’ he said slowly, painfully. ‘I took you from Drew.’

Drew.

His name washed over her like the morning tide.

She had seen him in her dreams so often—especially at the beginning, when everything was still so raw, and so painful. But it was a long time since either she or Marco had spoken that name aloud and, oddly, it hurt more than it should have done. Even after all this time.

Shelley shook her head, mainly to rid herself of the face which had swum into her memory with pin-point clarity. Sapphire eyes and honey-tipped hair. The body of a labourer, with the face of an angel.

‘Please don’t say that you “took” me, Marco!’ she protested softly. ‘It makes me sound like a piece of merchandise to be picked up at the supermarket—a can of beans!’

‘But I did!’ he gritted. ‘You know I did!’

‘And you certainly didn’t take me from Drew!’ she contradicted. ‘That would imply that he owned me. And he didn’t—even if he thought that he did. No one can own another human being, however much they try.’

‘But you were engaged to him,’ he pointed out gently. ‘Weren’t you?’

‘I wore a cheap little ring on my finger!’ she cried. ‘A mark of possession—that’s all engagement rings ever are! A metal circle which said “Keep off—she’s mine! And I can do what I like with her because she wears my ring!”’

She blinked back the sudden and mysterious tears which had made her eyes go all blurry. She hadn’t thought about that ring for a long time, but now she had more important things to think about. Like doing the decent thing and leaving as quickly as possible. Not standing in Marco’s way. The way they’d always agreed. ‘Can you arrange an early flight for me, Marco?’

‘Of course. But where will you go?’ he questioned quietly.

‘Why, back to Milmouth, of course.’ She gave him a gentle smile. ‘Where else would I go?’

‘It will be—painful?’

‘Very probably,’ she agreed. ‘And difficult too, I expect. But Milmouth is my home. It’s where I grew up. More importantly, I have a house there—and I’ll need somewhere to live while I make up my mind what I want to do next.’

‘You’ll go and live there?’ he breathed in surprise.

‘You find that so strange to imagine?’ she asked. ‘Why—because it’s a tiny little place compared to the near-palaces I’ve lived in with you?’

‘I think you’ll find that you’ve outgrown what you had there.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘But more than that—aren’t you forgetting the one big difficulty of going back there?’

She met his eyes, knowing what he meant, but needing to hear him say it. ‘Like what?’

‘Why, Drew of course. Drew still lives there, doesn’t he?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what Drew does. I don’t know anything about his life. Which is hardly surprising really, is it, Marco? I cut my ties with Milmouth a long time ago. And since my mother died there’s been no one there to keep me up to date with what’s happening. I’m too much of the bad girl and the black sheep for anyone to want to bother with me.’

He hesitated. ‘I’ll give you a breathing space. A month or so—before I make any kind of announcement.’

Her face showed her surprise as she rose to her feet, smoothing her sleek cream dress down over her narrow hips. ‘You’re going to make a statement?’

‘Yes, I am.’ His face was calm and serious. He looked happier than she had seen him look for a long time, but she was aware of the burden which hovered over his shoulders. ‘I no longer intend living a lie.’

‘Good.’ She nodded. ‘Me, neither.’

‘Shelley?’ The voice was lower now. Honey and stone. Soft yet forceful. Rich and deep. Once she had been unable to resist that voice, but she had been weaker then. And foolish. Now she was a woman, and she had grown. She had.

‘Mmm?’

‘I’m going to miss you.’

She gave him a smile which was more wistful than sad. ‘I’m going to miss you, too,’ she said, and turned and walked out of the door, realising as she did so that it was the only time she had spoken in English during the entire conversation.

CHAPTER TWO

THE sleek grey car bumped over the dip in the road and Shelley craned her neck.

Just here. Here. If you looked really closely, you would catch your very first glimpse of the sea. Every time she had ever travelled this road it had been there to greet her, like an old friend.

She screwed her eyes up, making out the deep sapphire slash which contrasted against the paler blue of the sky. Beautiful. Why did the sea always look so blue from a distance even when up close it seemed murky and dull? She put her foot down on the accelerator and drove on.

The car was new and unfamiliar, just as the roads seemed unfamiliar—even though she knew them like the back of her hand. But it seemed strange to be driving on the other side of the road after Italy, towards a place which she had once called home. She hadn’t been back since her mother’s funeral, and that had been almost two years ago.

Two years. And things would have changed. She knew that. She was prepared for that.

The signpost for Milmouth pointed to the right but Shelley was headed straight on, where her mother’s old house lay just beyond the cute part of the village. Just one of a small cluster of houses—simple, rather stark houses—whose main function had been to provide homes for the poorly paid workers of Milmouth.

She slowed the car down. It made more sense to go home first. She badly needed to freshen up and let some air into a house she knew would be dusty with neglect. But instead she found herself indicating right, curious to see the small seaside town she had grown up in. The house could wait, but Shelley couldn’t. It had been too long, and she needed to see the sea again and breathe in the salty tang of the air which always made you feel so alive.

Nearly three years away in all, and in that time she had changed out of all recognition. Had the town changed alongside her? Old buildings torn down and replaced with shiny new ones? New families come to replace the ones she’d grown up with?

The sun splashed golden patches over the green, giving the place a curiously restful feel, and she eased the car into a vacant parking spot just behind the war memorial. There was scarcely a soul in sight. Still, it was Sunday afternoon and not much happened anywhere on a Sunday afternoon. Let alone Milmouth.

She got out of the car and locked it, thinking that it seemed like a long time since Marco had turned her untroubled world upside down with his news, but the reality was two days. Two days of cars and planes, delays and a few major readjustments along the way.

Shelley stretched her arms and began to walk towards the sea, passing a small boy clutching a football beneath his arm, his father at his side. With big eyes, the boy stared up at her as they walked past and she smiled back at him.

‘Who’s that woman?’ she overheard him asking his father.

‘Shh. I don’t know. Don’t stare, Michael. It’s rude.’

Did she look that remarkable, then? She supposed that maybe she did, in her linen suit and long leather boots—more suited to the high-fashion city of Milan than to this tiny backwater of a place.

It was a brilliantly cold autumn day and the wind tugged at her short hair as she walked past the tidy houses with their immaculate gardens and shamelessly corny name-plates. Sea-View. Island-View. Ocean-View.

And then the wind became stronger—the light shining and brilliant in the vast sky—and Shelley drew in a long breath as she reached the pebbly beach and got her first real glimpse of the sea.

The platinum-blue waters were topped with palest, purest gold and in the distance a scarlet-sailed boat bobbed up and down on the metallic waters, looking like an illustration in a children’s book. Directly ahead, the Isle of Wight lay crouched low in the water, like a sleeping cat. Although the island was four miles away, perspective tricked you into thinking it was closer and Shelley had spent many hours on the beach as a child, fruitlessly skimming stones towards it. Trying to hit the wretched thing!

Years later there had been moonlit parties on this same beach and later still, whipped by wind against the sea wall, Drew had first taken her into his arms and kissed her…

With only the mournful call of the gulls puncturing the rhythm of the waves, she stood staring at the water for ages, until a movement caught her eye and she slowly turned her head to look up towards the western shore.

The only activity was the dark shape of a man walking towards her, the pale blur of a dog frolicking beside him. Idly, she screwed up her eyes and watched them for a moment.

The dog kept running into the bubbling foam on the shoreline and then barking back to the man again, clearly trying to catch his attention. But the man remained oblivious, his head bent, deep in thought.

There was something terribly compelling about the duo and then Shelley found herself frowning with disbelieving recognition as they grew closer, her heart jerking painfully in her chest as suspicion became certainty.

Drew!

She shook her head. It was fantasy. She had magicked him up with her thoughts. She swallowed and looked away, then back again. He was almost upon her now and unmistakable, his long-legged stride effortlessly covering the distance, his head still bent as he crunched his way over the pebbles.

He still hadn’t noticed her but the dog had, and Shelley felt her mouth drop open in disbelief. ‘Fletcher!’ she breathed, and whistled to him before she could stop herself.

The dog pricked its ears up and then came charging at her full-pelt. Shelley shrieked as a flurry of pale gold fur and scrabbling eager paws almost knocked her off her feet. ‘Fletcher!’ she protested weakly.

And then she did go down, slap-bang hard as her bottom hit the stones. Her breath was jolted out of her as the dog attempted to lash its rough tongue over her cheeks. ‘Ow!’ she yelped. ‘Get off!’

‘Duke! Down!’ came a deep, furious command and the dog fell away immediately, dipping his head low and dropping his tail as the man approached. ‘Get off her, Duke!’ he yelled, and the dog, clearly unused to such a violent command, whimpered and slunk off to cower behind the wind-break.

Shelley blinked in confusion as she tried to catch her breath. Duke? She was winded, her legs sprawled out in front of her, the linen skirt riding high up her thighs as she gazed up into a pair of disbelieving blue eyes.

‘Shelley Turner,’ he stated flatly.

‘The very same,’ she whispered back, and braced herself for his reaction, unprepared for the soft venom which dripped from his voice.

‘And which big, bad fairy brought you back into town, kitten?’

The ‘kitten’ bit was habit, but it still hurt. The first time he’d ever said it to her she’d felt as if she’d hit the jackpot. ‘No fairy—bad or otherwise. Just a car,’ she smiled, as though she confronted men like dark, avenging angels every day of her life!

‘And what are you doing here?’

‘You mean right now? I’m sitting on these damp pebbles getting my bottom wet!’

His face stayed stony, but he automatically put his hand out to help her up. ‘Here!’

‘Thanks!’ She caught it. Her cold fingers seemed bloodless in his warm, calloused grasp and her breath was lost on the wind.

He bent and, with his other hand, cupped her elbow, so that he was able to swing her easily to her feet, but he didn’t let go. Not straight away. As if he could tell that her knees were still too shaky to support her. He didn’t speak again, either, just subjected her to a hard, silent scrutiny while she dragged the salty air back into her lungs.

She hadn’t seen him since her mother’s funeral—where he had stood in the shadows at the back of the church. He had been wearing a brand-new suit—the first time anyone in Milmouth could remember seeing him in a suit. He must have bought it specially. She had been moved by that. More than moved.

But they had hardly spoken—other than Shelley thanking him for coming, and him stiltedly saying that she knew how much he’d loved her mother. Which was true. And he had looked ill at ease. Not surprisingly. As if he had been dying to say something not very nice to her, but hadn’t been able to as a mark of respect.

Ever unconventional, he had sent a big bunch of tiny pale mauve Michaelmas daisies, with their yellow centres glowing like miniature suns. Her mother’s favourite flower. And when Shelley had seen those she hadn’t been able to stop crying…

Now her heart drummed with the vibrant reality of seeing him again. It had been a long time—in fact it gave her a real jerk when she realised just how long it had been.

She stared at him.

A couple of the lines on his face weren’t quite as faint as before. And the eyes had lines at the corners which had not been there before, either. Crinkly little laughter lines, which made Shelley wonder who had put them there. The hair was still thick, still ruffled—all dark and windswept with the ends lightened to honey by the sun.

He was taller than Marco—taller than nearly all the men she had ever met, and most of that seemed to be leg. His faded denims matched the sky, while the navy sweater matched his eyes.

Her first, instinctive thought was that she must have been mad to ever leave him. But that wasn’t a very smart thing to think. You shouldn’t wish for the impossible, and you couldn’t rewrite history. And the unfriendly look in his eyes told her that he certainly wouldn’t want to—even if you could.

‘Hello, Drew,’ she said at last, and with that he let her go. She half stumbled and she saw him tense as if to save her if she fell again. But she didn’t. Just tottered for a moment on the too high heels of her leather boots. She smiled up at him, as anyone would in the face of such courtesy. ‘Thank you for coming to my rescue.’

He didn’t bother with any niceties. And he didn’t smile back. ‘Don’t make me out to be Sir Galahad,’ he drawled. ‘He shouldn’t have knocked you over. He knows he’s not to jump up at people like that.’

‘It was my fault.’ She looked over at the dog and realised her mistake. The animal was paler and thinner and much younger than the dog she remembered. ‘It isn’t Fletcher?’

‘How could it be?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Fletcher was almost crippled when you left—not jumping around like a puppy. I know they say that the Milmouth air is rejuvenating but that would be a little short of miraculous!’

‘Still, I shouldn’t have called him like that.’

‘No, you shouldn’t,’ he agreed shortly.

‘He’s lovely, Drew,’ she said, meaning it. ‘When did you get him?’

‘He isn’t mine.’ His eyes were wintry. ‘I’m just walking him for somebody else.’

‘Anybody I know?’ The question came out before she realised that she had no right to ask him things like that.

He clearly thought so, too. ‘What would you say if I told you I was out walking him for a sweet, little old lady?’

The trouble was that she would believe him. ‘I’d say that you were a model citizen. An upstanding member of the community.’

‘Would you?’ he queried softly, and let his gaze drift unhurriedly over her face. ‘Would you really?’

Shelley shifted. She was used to men staring. That was what men did in Italy. It was acknowledged and recognised as perfectly normal to gaze at a woman in open appreciation, as you would a fine painting, or a delicious meal. But the way Drew was looking at her was making her feel uncomfortable. As if she were some bit of flotsam he had found washed up on the beach.

And he was shaking his head, as though he didn’t like what he saw. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?’ he demanded in a low, incredulous voice.

He made her feel like Cinderella before the transformation scene. ‘Done to myself?’ Her indignation was genuine. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, the dog wouldn’t have knocked you over if you hadn’t been so damned skinny.’

‘Skinny?’ she gritted. The word was insulting—as he had obviously meant it to be. ‘Don’t you know anything, Drew? That a woman can never be too thin—’

‘What a load of rubbish,’ he interrupted with quiet, curling distaste. ‘Haven’t you heard that the waif look is out? You look like you haven’t eaten a square meal in years.’

Should she bother telling him that women in Milan watched their figures like hawks? Which was why they looked beautiful and elegant in the wonderful fashions which the city was so famous for. ‘Clothes look much better if you aren’t carrying any excess flesh,’ she told him smugly. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘Well, I prefer to see a woman out of clothes,’ he drawled, noticing with pleasure that she flinched when he said that. Good! He smiled as his gaze lingered in a way which was now very Italianate. ‘And when a woman is naked a few curves are infinitely preferable to looking like a bag of bones.’

‘Bag of bones?’ she repeated in horrified disbelief, feeling quite sick at the thought of him with naked women. ‘Are you saying that I look like a bag of bones?’

He shrugged. ‘Pretty much. You sure as hell don’t look great. Mind you—’ and his gaze narrowed ‘—the clothes don’t help—and what on earth have you done to your hair?’

Shelley could hardly believe what she was hearing! She had learnt a lot about looking good while she had been living with Marco. From a rather wild and windswept girl, she had become high-maintenance woman. She had transformed herself from small-town hick to city slicker. People admired the way she looked these days—her hips were as narrow as a boy’s and she only ever wore neutrals.

But Drew didn’t seem to be one little bit impressed by her new-found fashion know-how.

She glanced down at her admittedly rather crumpled grey linen suit—and then back up into a pair of judgemental navy eyes.

‘I agree that this isn’t what I would normally wear to walk on the beach,’ she allowed. ‘But this suit was designed by one of Milan’s most desirable couturiers.’ She saw him pull a face, and as the events of the last days took their toll something inside her snapped.

‘Most women would give their eye-teeth to own an outfit by this designer!’ she fumed. ‘And as for my hair! For your information, it is shaped and tinted with highlights and lowlights every six weeks, by one of Milan’s finest cutters. Have you,’ she heard herself asking inanely, ‘any idea of how much it costs to look like this?’

But as soon as the words were out and she saw the look on his face she wished she could unsay them.

Distaste wasn’t the word.

‘I should have guessed that money would have been at the top of your agenda! So no change there.’ He gave a scornful little laugh. ‘Well, for your information, kitten—you were done.’

‘Done?’

‘Yeah, done. Conned. Fleeced. Cheated.’

Shelley couldn’t believe her ears. ‘What?’

‘You heard,’ he whispered softly. ‘You’ve become one of those women who know the cost of everything and the value of nothing, haven’t you, Shelley? Seems like I had a lucky escape.’

‘Or maybe you just don’t like the way I dress because the clothes I wear indicate that I’m an independent woman now?’

‘Independent?’ His lips curled like an old-fashioned movie star’s. ‘I don’t think so! Being a rich man’s plaything doesn’t usually fall into the category of independent.’

She didn’t have to defend herself to him, so why did she suddenly feel as though she was in the witness box?

She chipped the words out like ice. ‘I virtually ran the art gallery in Milan, for your information!’

‘What? Flat on your back?’

Shelley opened her mouth to snap back at him, but no words came. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She had imagined seeing Drew again one day; of course she had. Every woman thought of the man they had almost married from time to time. And she had had lots of imaginary conversations with him inside her head. But they had been nothing like this. Rather, some of them had gone along the lines of him narrowing his eyes in appreciation and giving a long, low whistle while a look of profound regret would give his body a kind of deflated look, before he said something like, ‘Wow!’

Others had been stupidly unrealistic versions involving white lace and rice and confetti, but she had banished those very early on. They used to make her pillow damp with tears.

But not this. She met the mockery in his eyes.

‘Actually,’ she said, with acid-sweetness, ‘while you’ve been busily hammering nails into pieces of wood, I’ve learnt to speak fluent Italian, as well as how to—’ She looked pointedly at where the denim was at its thinnest, stretched tautly over his mouthwatering thighs. She swallowed. ‘Dress.’

‘Just not very attractively,’ he amended silkily. ‘Shelley, your arrogance is simply breathtaking.’

‘Then it’s a good match for yours, isn’t it, Drew?’

‘So where is he?’

She played dumb. ‘Who?’

‘Your lover, your mentor, your stallion—’

‘Please don’t call him that!’

‘Why not? Does the truth offend you?’ He looked around the empty beach with exaggerated scrutiny. ‘I expect he’s somewhere warm and comfortable, is he, polishing the leather of his hand-made shoes?’

‘Why, you…you…Philistine!’ Her eyes swivelled to his feet. He wore a scruffy old pair of canvas deck-shoes, without socks. Without socks! Marco would have sooner gone to prison than gone out in footwear like that! He would have said that those were shoes for a tramp. And yet somehow Drew managed to look nothing like a tramp. He looked, Shelley realised with a lurch of horror, he looked incredibly sexy…

‘You look like you should be standing on a street corner begging for small change!’ She glared at him.

His body tensed, as though he was fighting some dark, internal demon, and then he shook his head slightly. ‘I guess we’ve traded all the insults we need to. Why don’t you tell me how long you’re here for, Shelley? Just passing through? Or have you come to put your mother’s old house on the market?’

She didn’t stop to think, but then maybe she didn’t need to. Maybe she had known all along just what her answer to this would be. ‘Why would I be passing through? Milmouth doesn’t take you anywhere. No, I’ve come home, Drew,’ she told him, observing his frozen reaction more with pain than with pleasure. ‘Home to stay.’

The screech of a gull could be heard over the whining wind and the relentless smack of the waves hitting the beach.

‘You’re staying?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘For how long?’

‘I haven’t decided—and if I had I wouldn’t be telling you! My plans are flexible.’

He considered this. ‘And where exactly will you be staying, Shelley?’

‘At my mother’s house, of course. Where else?’ She glared at him again. ‘Sorry. Have I said something funny?’

He shook his head, still laughing. ‘Ironic more than funny.’

‘That’s a little too subtle for me, Drew. Care to let me in on the joke?’

He shrugged, and Shelley’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to the hard, strong body moving beneath the thick knit. ‘Just that I can’t imagine your rich lover gearing up for a night of passion in your mother’s old house. Apart from the limitations imposed by the room sizes—the walls are paper-thin!’

‘That’s not only coarse, it’s also inaccurate. Marco has never been a snob!’

‘No? Well, then it must be you who has the image problem, mustn’t it, Shelley? Because you never brought him back to Milmouth, did you? Not once!’ he accused. ‘Not even—’ and he drew a deep breath ‘—to your mother’s funeral!’

Should she tell him that it hadn’t seemed right to do so? That her mother had hated Marco nearly as much as she had adored Drew? It would have seemed disrespectful to her mother’s memory to bring along the man she had never stopped blaming for the disintegration of her dreams.

For in Veronica Turner’s mind Shelley and Drew would still have been engaged if Marco had not happened along. For a long time Shelley would have agreed with her, but now she recognised that Marco had probably done her a big favour.

Shelley herself had been sick with grief and regret. In fact she had barely been able to function. But apparently that was the normal reaction to sudden death. It had seemed the easier option to handle things on her own. To avoid situations which might create ugly scenes…

‘Oh, what’s the point in trying to explain?’ she questioned tiredly. ‘You’ll only believe what you want to believe. And I know how much you hate me, Drew.’

‘Hate you?’ He looked at first surprised and then very slightly perplexed, as if she were being hysterical. ‘Hating you would imply that you have some significance in my life, Shelley. And you don’t. None at all. Not any more. Duke!’ The dog came loping over. ‘Come on, time to go.’

And he strode off without a word, or even a glance of farewell. Just like that.

She watched him walking away from her across the pebbles and a great tidal wave of sadness rocked her, overwhelming her with its force. Because she had lost everything that once existed between her and Drew, and that was the brutal reality.

The water on the western side of the shore was a deeper shade of blue than the washed-out sky and in his navy sweater and faded jeans Drew seemed to blur and blend into the landscape itself. Shelley watched him and felt a sudden wrench as she remembered the way he had been able to make her laugh.

Remembered the way he had always looked at her—as though someone had just given him a wonderful present. Compare that, she thought, as she swallowed back the memories, with the icy disapproval she had seen on his face just now.

They had been friends, she realised—really good friends. And she had thrown it all away. With one irrevocable gesture she had sacrificed that friendship and everything that went with it.

She had made her choices willingly—no one had held a gun to her head. But the reality of what those choices had done to her life invaded Shelley’s memory like a dark, stormy cloud.

CHAPTER THREE

SHELLEY had known Drew Glover for as long as she remembered, and she must have known him before that as well.

They had grown up next door to each other in the small, boxy houses which were clustered on the poorer side of Milmouth—a million light years away from the imposing Edwardian villas which overlooked the sea on the western side of the village. She was almost eight years younger than him, and the same age as his youngest sister, Jennie.

Shelley had been brought to Milmouth as a baby, an unsettled, grizzly child whose nature had been forged by uncertainty and insecurity. According to her mother, Drew would bend and pick up the toys she hurled out of her pram and solemnly hand them back to her. But then he had two younger sisters of his own.

‘He was such a sweet-natured boy,’ Veronica Turner had told her daughter with a beaming smile, the day Shelley and Drew decided to get married. ‘And he still is.’

Shelley remembered his curiosity. His protectiveness. He had been the first person who had ever stood up for her—when he overheard one of the other children taunting her.

‘So why haven’t you got a father, Shelley Turner?’

She had been about seven at the time, an age when she’d desperately wanted to be like everyone else. And Milmouth was so small and provincial. Everyone else had two parents.

Her face had started working and her mouth had wobbled and she didn’t know what she would have answered when Drew had appeared from out of nowhere—tall and tough and teenaged—and had announced scornfully, ‘Of course she’s got a father! Everyone’s got a father—hers just doesn’t live with her, that’s all.’

‘Where does he live, then?’ one of the others had been bold enough to ask.

Even now Shelley remembered looking into Drew’s eyes—so deep and blue and encouraging—and knowing that she should never be ashamed of the truth. If only she had remembered that…‘He lives in America,’ she’d told the child steadily. ‘He’s a dentist.’

These two impressive facts had kept the other children quiet for a while, but Shelley had remained an outsider. Veronica Turner had taught her daughter to keep her head down and not make waves. Not to invite people back to the house unless she was really certain that she liked them, and, more importantly, that they liked her. It was better to be considered cold than to risk rejection.

But then, Shelley’s mother had known all about rejection. It was a force that had shaped her whole life—a dark, shameful secret she’d kept hidden away. Only Drew knew the full story and Shelley still remembered the day she had told him.

She had been counting cars, sitting on a low wall which separated their little group of houses from the big main road which brought all the holiday-makers into Milmouth during the summer months.

A red car had whizzed by and Shelley had stuck her tongue out between her lips and wrote it down in her notebook.

Drew had been on his way home from the boatyard, where he worked after school, drinking from a can of cola. He’d peered over her shoulder as he passed, then paused.

‘What are you doing?’

Shelley shrugged. ‘Counting cars.’

He grinned. ‘Oh? Make a habit of that, do you?’

‘It’s for my maths,’ she explained. ‘Averages and probability.’

He pulled a face and came to perch beside her. ‘Who’s winning?’

‘Blue,’ she said. ‘I’ve counted eleven, so far.’

‘Oh.’ He offered her the can. ‘Fancy a slug?’

Shelley shook her head. Money was tight in the Turner household. Never take what you can’t repay—her mother had drummed that in to her time and time again. ‘No, thanks.’

He stared at her serious little profile. ‘Why do you never see your father?’ he asked suddenly.

Shelley shrugged. If it had been anyone other than Drew who had asked it, she might have told them to mind their own business. But Drew was Drew.

‘I saw him once,’ she explained. ‘When I was a baby.’

‘Just the once?’

‘That’s right. I was three weeks old.’

‘And didn’t he want to see you again?’

Shelley blinked furiously as she ticked off another black car in her column. ‘That’s seven black,’ she gulped.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said instantly. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s all right for you!’ she said, her voice wobbling. ‘You’ve got a mother and a father, and two sisters!’

He laughed cynically. ‘Oh, yeah—it’s all right for me! When there are five of us crammed into a house you can’t swing a cat in. And my parents are always arguing. So are my sisters! I’ll tell you something, Shelley—sometimes I just want to smash my way out of there and never come back!’ His blue gaze was piercing. ‘Do you really think that everyone’s life is so perfect except your own?’

Shelley shook her head in amazement. Drew felt like that inside? ‘Of course I don’t!’

‘I won’t ask you about your father again,’ he told her gently. ‘It isn’t important.’

But it was important. He had taken her into his confidence and she wanted to tell him. Secrets could become unbearable burdens if you didn’t share them.

‘My father was…is a dentist. My mother used to work for him—she was his nurse. They had, like, a big romance. Well, my mum thought it was a big romance,’ Shelley shrugged. ‘She’d come down from Scotland and she didn’t know very much about men.’

Drew nodded thoughtfully, but he didn’t say anything.

‘Then she found out she was pregnant with me, so she told him…she told him…and he got really mad with her. Said that it had all been a big mistake. And that there was no point in her trying to trap him into marriage—because he already had a wife and children, and they were his “real” children—’

Drew scowled. ‘And your mother didn’t know that?’

Shelley rounded on him. ‘Of course she didn’t know that! If she had done she would never have got involved with him in the first place! What sort of woman do you think she is?’

‘I didn’t mean to insult your mother, Shelley,’ he told her, with dignity. ‘It just makes me mad when men treat women that way.’ He brushed dark, untidy hair back from his face. ‘So what happened?’

‘Oh, he went back to America with his wife and “real” children and Mum brought me here to live. That was the last she ever saw of him.’

‘And why Milmouth?’ he asked, with interest.

She was grateful for the fact that her instinct had been correct—that Drew wasn’t judging her or her mother and finding them wanting.

‘She wanted somewhere cheap to live, and couldn’t face going back to Scotland with a baby and no father. And she loves the sea.’

He smiled. ‘So do I, as a matter of fact. I never want to be away from the sea.’

‘Me neither,’ she said shyly, smiling back, realising that she had found her true-life hero.

But after that she rarely saw him—their lives diverged and the age-gap was all wrong. Seven years could seem like a generation gap. She knew that he had done well in his school exams, and knew that his teachers had been disappointed when he became an apprentice carpenter. Everyone thought that he’d go away to college.

‘It’s because he’s good at making things,’ his mother explained to Shelley on the way back from the shops one day. ‘Good with his hands. And he likes the open air—says he doesn’t want to be cooped up inside in an office all day. Good luck to him, I say!’

Shelley saw him on the day he left school, with the best grades of his year, and it took every bit of courage she possessed to go up to him and congratulate him. ‘I hear you’re going to be a carpenter?’

He narrowed his blue eyes at her assessingly. ‘What’s the matter, Shelley—don’t you think I’m aiming high enough?’

She shrugged her shoulders awkwardly. She was only eleven—so what did she know? ‘It’s not that,’ she lied.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No. I just thought that you’d be—’

‘A pilot?’ he grinned. ‘Or a doctor?’

‘Maybe.’

‘It’s an insecure world, kitten—and people always need houses.’

‘I guess they do.’ And she blushed with pleasure to hear him call her ‘kitten’.

Sometimes, when Shelley was up in her bedroom reading, she used to glimpse him wandering home, stripped to the waist, all honed muscle and bronzed perfection. And the words used to dance like hieroglyphics on the page in front of her.

She was seventeen when he went travelling, originally for a year, but the wanderlust caught him and he was gone for much longer.

She remembered one of the last times she had seen him before he’d left. She’d gone sunbathing further up the bay with a couple of schoolfriends—hidden, they thought, by a large screen of rocks. Feeling liberated and daring, they had removed their bikini tops. But Drew had been out running along the beach, and had seen them. He had gone absolutely ballistic, with Shelley in particular, and her friends had teased her afterwards and said that must mean that he fancied her. And she’d told them that of course he didn’t fancy her, because he had barely spoken to her again after that.

And suddenly he had gone.

Shelley had missed him. Missed him like mad. Sometimes she used to go out with his sister Jennie, on Saturday nights. They would go to the Smugglers pub or occasionally to one of the dances at the village hall, or get the bus into Southchester. She’d look at every man and find him wanting, by simple virtue of the fact that he wasn’t Drew.

‘Has your brother mentioned anything about coming home?’ she asked Jennie casually one evening.

Jennie grinned. She was used to women asking her questions about her handsome big brother.

‘Nope. Shall I write and say you were asking?’

‘Just you dare!’

He came back three years later, just before Christmas—when the fairy lights in the pubs twinkled like rainbow drops, reminding him of everything he had missed about England.

Shelley was on her way home from her job as receptionist in Milmouth’s upmarket car showroom when she saw him, and had to bite back her pleasure, because she didn’t want to gush all over him like a silly little girl.

‘Hello, Drew,’ she said softly. ‘Jennie said you were coming home.’

‘Is that really you, Shelley Turner?’ he enquired, almost groaning when he realised that this tousled-haired stunner from next door was even more gorgeous than when he’d left. He hadn’t thought that was possible. But some time in the last three years she had developed the kind of figure that drove men to sin, and her hair was a glossy sheet—the colour of caramel. And he’d forgotten how delicate her skin was and how pale the aquamarine of her eyes.

‘Of course it’s me!’ she giggled. ‘Who else did you think it was?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he answered slowly, his blue eyes looking dazzling in his tanned face. ‘Are you going out tonight?’

‘Just try and stop me! It’s my birthday tomorrow,’ she confided. ‘And a whole gang of us are meeting up in the Smugglers.’

‘Your birthday?’ He frowned as alarm bells rang loudly in his brain. ‘How old are you?’

She was slightly disappointed that he couldn’t remember, but clever enough not to show it. ‘I’ll be twenty.’

‘Wow! You’ll be twenty? Well, isn’t that just dandy!’ His grin showed his relief. ‘Mind if I join you?’

Mind? She would have spent all her birthday money on a red carpet if it hadn’t looked so obvious! ‘No, I don’t mind at all,’ she answered coolly.

He gave her a boab nut he’d picked up on his travels, with a piece of glittery tinsel tied round it, and sat beside her in the pub, and Shelley didn’t want to talk to anyone else but him.

‘So did you miss me, little girl?’ he quizzed.

She had not yet learnt guile. ‘Yes.’ But something told her not to let him know how much. ‘And I’m a big girl now.’

‘So I see.’ A pulse began to work in his temple. ‘So I see.’ To her surprise, he trailed a finger along her cheek and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then frowned. ‘Since when did you start wearing mascara?’

She blinked at him, perplexed. ‘But I’m not.’

‘You mean your lashes have always been that long?’ he teased. ‘And that dark?’

She laughed. ‘I think so! Have you only just noticed, Drew?’

‘Mmm. Right this very moment.’ He looked terribly thoughtful, and suddenly leaned across and kissed her softly on the lips, in front of the whole pub—and that was that. They became an overnight item. Drew and Shelley. Shelley and Drew. As inseparable as eggs and bacon or peaches and cream.

Drew worked hard for his money. He took a regular job at the boatyard and any other job which came his way—and plenty did. Craftsmen of his calibre were rare enough but coupled with youthful vigour and dedication—well, it seemed that everyone wanted a piece of him. Once a week he went on day release to college and night-times he studied for higher certificates in construction and building.

And the only person who seemed to be missing out was his girlfriend…

‘Oh, Drew!’ Shelley sighed, one day, when he’d snatched a moment to eat his lunchtime sandwiches with her, sitting side by side on the sea wall. ‘You’re always working!’

‘Listen, kitten, the money’s good and it’s money we need if we want any kind of future together.’

‘But I never see you any more!’

‘You’ll see as much of me as you like once we have a place of our own,’ he promised, and kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one. ‘And guess what?’

‘What?’

‘The coastguard’s cottage is still on the market!’ He could barely contain his excitement.

‘What, that old place?’ Shelley elongated her mouth into a grimace. ‘I’m not surprised! They probably can’t give it away. You’d need to virtually knock it down and start again to make it habitable!’

‘But I can do that,’ he shrugged modestly. ‘That’s what I’m training for. That and making you happy.’

‘You do,’ she pouted, so that he would kiss her.

And when he’d kissed her so that she could barely catch her breath he grinned and said, ‘Want to get married?’

‘Oh, yes, please!’

‘Soon?’

‘How soon?’

‘Very soon!’ he groaned.

He even asked her mother’s permission, and Shelley couldn’t ever remember seeing her mother look so happy and relieved. Glad that Shelley would have the emotional security she had always longed for.

He bought her a tiny diamond ring which twinkled discreetly on her finger when she held it up to the light.

‘It’s very small,’ someone remarked nastily.

‘No, it’s perfect,’ she disagreed fiercely. ‘And you’re just jealous!’

They decided that they would get married just as soon as they had saved up enough money to buy the coastguard’s cottage and everything was nearly perfect.

But they never made love. Not all the way.

Behind the wooden huts on the windswept beach, their kisses grew wilder, their caresses more frantic—but Drew always calmed things down, made them stop. Shelley felt churned up and bewildered.

She knew that there had been women on his travels. Nothing he’d said, but little things he’d let slip. Sometimes a letter would arrive from some far-off destination and he would scour the envelope and toss it into the bin unread. Once, she saw a postcard from a woman called Angie, the contents of which were graphic enough to make her feel sick.

‘And who the hell is Angie?’ she demanded.

‘She was just a girl I knew,’ he answered quietly, ripping the card into tiny little pieces and tossing them into the bin.

She felt sick with jealousy at the thought of what he might have done with Angie and others like her, and she couldn’t understand his reluctance to do the same with her.

‘You’re different,’ he told her softly.

She was still smarting over Angie’s postcard. ‘You’ll have to come up with something better than that!’

‘Okay. Let me put it this way, then. I don’t want you to get pregnant before we’re married. It would totally freak your mother out. Shelley, she made me promise to take care of you—and I gave her my word that I would.’

‘There are such things as precautions, Drew. We both know that.’

‘And they all have risks. We both know that, too. And I want to do things properly with you. You’re different,’ he said again. ‘I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And the best things in life are always worth waiting for. Trust me.’

But they argued and Shelley ended up feeling head-achy and out of sorts and the very next day Marco walked into the showroom to buy a car. He had come all the way from Italy looking for a certain model, and they just happened to have the model he wanted in Milmouth…

Shelley was sitting at her desk, listlessly sorting out some paperwork, when he walked in, looking as if he should be auditioning for the romantic lead in an art film with subtitles.

His physical impact was outstanding—she couldn’t deny that, not even to herself. That luminous skin, that crisp black hair. His dark eyes flicked over her casually, like a man used to looking at women. And women not minding a bit.

‘Well, hel-lo,’ he murmured.

She was furious with her heart for beating so fast—furious with herself for reacting. She was an engaged woman—she wasn’t supposed to find other men attractive. She put on her most repressive expression. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked him primly.

‘Well, that rather depends, doesn’t it?’ He smiled appreciatively and Shelley was dazzled, flattered. She blushed and his smile curved.

She had never met anyone like him in her life. There was something frighteningly potent about his lazy Latin allure. His was an instinctive sensuality, sweet and seductive as sugar. He was the apple in her Garden of Eden.

He pointed to a long, low silver model—the most expensive in the showroom. ‘Will you take me for a drive in that, cara?’

‘Me?’ Shelley shook her head. ‘Oh, no—I can’t do that. I’ll have to get Geoff for you. I’m afraid I don’t drive.’

‘Oh, yes, you do.’ He smiled again. ‘You must drive men crazy all the time—with those aquamarine eyes, set in skin the colour of alabaster.’

She couldn’t help blushing again at the outrageous compliment. Afterwards she wondered why he had been attracted enough to flirt with her. Her hair had been scraped back into a simple chignon and she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up. Later still she realised that it had been her innocence which had ensnared him, just as it had ensnared Drew.

Unusually, he persuaded Geoff to let him take Shelley for a drive in the car, but then Shelley thought that he probably could have persuaded the tide to turn back, if he’d wanted it to. He was an art dealer—he had his own gallery in Milan. He used extravagant words to describe the paintings he bought and Shelley was fascinated. He told her she was as pretty as a picture, and he would give her a job any time she wanted one.

He bought the car—in cash—to Geoff’s delight, and the following day sent flowers to thank her for her help. A subtle, fragrant mass of sweet peas, and she guiltily buried her nose in the bunched pink and mauve blooms and breathed in their scent. But she left the flowers on her office desk—she didn’t dare take them home in case her mother quizzed her about them—and by the next day they had wilted.

She was edgy. Drew had been working so hard that she had hardly seen him. She was getting on for twenty-one and life seemed to stretch out in front of her like a flat, straight road. So when Marco casually offered to take her for a drink after work she found herself wavering. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘You have a boyfriend?’

She held her left hand up. ‘Fiancé,’ she said pointedly.

‘Maybe I should ask his permission?’

‘Oh, no—don’t do that!’ said Shelley hastily.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m going back to Italy next week,’ he explained. ‘Maybe I’ll call you next time I’m over. Can you get up to London easily?’

It would be easier to get to Mars! She would never see him again. And he was exciting, different, Italian. Drew had travelled the world and met lots of interesting people like Marco. What, then—what harm could come of a simple drink?

She had never drunk in the Westward Hotel before. It was on the other side of the village and only the richer tourists could afford to go there, even though the splendour of the place was gradually becoming faded with time.

He led her to a table with a breathtaking view of the sea, and the smell of old leather and the dazzling views and the iced champagne went to her head and made her dizzy.

When Marco drove her home, he stopped a little way from her house and it was like watching a film of someone else’s life when he leaned over to kiss her. Shelley told herself it was nothing more than curiosity which made her open her lips beneath his. She’d only ever been kissed by Drew before.

But the kiss was like chocolate; she couldn’t stop at one. And it took every bit of will-power she possessed to tear herself out of his arms and run towards the house—with the sound of Fletcher barking madly in her ears and guilt staining her cheeks.

And she hadn’t seen the dark figure who stood watching from the shadows of the trees…

The memories dissolved like a dream, and Shelley glanced down at her watch to see that she had been standing gazing at the empty beach for almost an hour. So did that mean Drew really had been here, or had she dreamed that up, too?

Slowly she made her way back along the sea-road to where she had left her car, feeling as flat as last night’s champagne.

It was ironic, really. She had been thinking how much she had changed and matured. But if that were the case, then how could she so badly have underestimated the impact of seeing him again?

Had she thought she would be immune to him after all this time? Or—worse—imagined that he would pull her into his arms and tell her that he’d never forgotten her?

She slid into the driver’s seat and started up the engine.

Time to go home.

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