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WANT TO KNOW MORE?
HALLIE Bennett had been selling shoes for exactly one month. One long, mind-numbing month working solo at the exclusive little shoe shop in London’s fashionable Chelsea, and she really didn’t think she’d last another. Back in the storeroom she’d sorted every pair of shoes by designer, then model and finally by size. Out here on the shop floor she’d arranged the stock by colour and within the colours, by function. Dusting and vacuuming? Done. Serving customers? Not yet but hey, it was only midday.
Hallie picked up the nearest shoe, a pretty leopard print open-toed sandal with an onyx heel and tried to figure out why anyone would actually pay three hundred and seventy five pounds for a pair of them. She dangled it from her fingertips, turned it this way and that before finally balancing it on her palm.
“So what do you think, shoe? Are we going to cram a sweet size six like you onto a size eight foot today?”
A quick jiggle made the shoe nod.
“I think so too but what can I do? They never listen. These women wouldn’t be caught dead in a size eight shoe. Now if they were men it’d be different. As far as men are concerned, the bigger the better.” The door to the shop opened, the bell tinkled, and Hallie hurriedly set the shoe back on its pedestal and turned around.
“Darling, what a thoroughly daunting shop! I swear, until I saw you talking to that shoe I didn’t dare come in.”
The woman who had spoken was a study in contradictions. Her clothes were pure glamour and her figure was a triumph over nature considering that she had to be in her late fifties. But her wrinkles were unironed, her hair was grey, and her "darling" had been warm, possibly even genuine.
“Come on in,” said Hallie with a smile. “Look around. Trust me, they never talk back.”
“Oh, you’re an Australian!” said the woman, clearly delighted with the notion. “I love Australian accents. Such marvelous vowel sounds.”
Hallie’s smile widened, and she spared a glance for the woman’s companion as he followed her into the shop, a glance that automatically upgraded to a stare because frankly, she couldn’t help it.
As far as women’s fashion accessories went, he was spectacular. A black haired, cobalt eyed, dangerous looking toy who no doubt warned you outright not to bother playing with him if you didn’t like his rules. He was like a Hermes handbag; women saw and women wanted, even though they knew the price was going to be astronomical. And then he spoke.
“She needs a pair of shoes,” he said in a deep baritone that was Sean Connery and Russell Crowe and utterly sexy. “Something more appropriate for a woman her age.”
“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” muttered Hallie before turning to stare down at the woman’s shoes, a stylish pair of Ferragamo man-eaters with a four inch heel. They were a perfect fit for the woman’s perfectly manicured size six feet. They were fire engine red. “There is nothing wrong with those shoes,” said Hallie reverently. “Those shoes are gorgeous!”
“Thank you, dear,” said the woman. “Why a woman turns fifty and all of a sudden certain people to whom she gave birth start thinking she should be wearing orthopaedic shoes is completely beyond me.” The woman seemed to age ten years as wrinkles creased and unshed tears leached even more colour from eyes that would have once been a bright sparkling blue. “Your father would have loved these shoes!”
Ah. It was all starting to make sense. He of the indigo glare was the woman’s son and right now he was in big trouble. “Right,” said Hallie brightly. “Well, I’ll just be over by the counter if you need me.”
He moved fast, blocking her escape. “Don’t even think of leaving me alone with this woman. Give her some shoes to try on. Anything!” He picked up the open-toed leopard print sandal. “These!”
“An excellent choice,” she said, deftly plucking it from his hand. “And a steal at only three hundred and seventy-five pounds. Maybe your mother would like two pairs?”
His eyes narrowed. Hallie smiled back.
“If only I had something to look forward to,” said the woman with a sigh that was pure theatre as she sat on the black leather sofa and slipped off her shoes. “Grandchildren, for instance. I need grandchildren.”
“Everyone needs something,” said her son, looking not at his mother but at her. “What do you need?”
“Another job,” said Hallie, kneeling to fit the sandals. “This one’s driving me nuts.” She sat back on her heels and surveyed the sandals. “They fit you beautifully.”
“They do, don’t they.”
“How do you feel about travel?” he asked her while his mother preened.
“Travel is my middle name.”
“And your first name?”
“Hallie. Hallie Bennett.”
“Nicholas Cooper,” he said and gestured towards the woman. “My mother, Clea.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Clea, her handshake warm and surprisingly firm. “Nicky, she’s darling! She’s perfect! You need a wife, you said so this morning. I think we’ve just found her.”
“Wife?” said Hallie. Wife? That’d teach her to shake hands with strangers. Nicholas Cooper’s smile was lazy. His mother’s was hopeful. Probably they were both mad.
“He’s loaded,” said Clea encouragingly.
“Well, yes.” She could see that from the way he dressed. He was also far too amused for his own good. “But is he creative?”
“You should see his tax return.”
“I don’t know, Clea. I think I prefer my men a little less…” What? She slid Nicholas Cooper another quick glance. Sexy? Wild? Gorgeous? “Dark,” she came up with finally. “I prefer blondes.”
“Well, he’s not a blonde,” conceded Clea, “But look at his feet.”
Everyone looked.
He wore hand stitched Italian leather laceups. Size 12. Wide.
“Of course, as his mother I can’t let you marry him unless you’re compatible so maybe you should just kiss him and find out.”
“What? Now? Ah, Clea, I really don’t think-”
“Don’t argue with your future mother in law, dear. It’s bad form.”
“No, really, I can’t. It’s not that, er, Nicky, doesn’t have a lot going for him-”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “You can call me Nick.”
“Because clearly he does. It’s just that, well…” She cast about for a reason to resist. Any reason. Yes, that would do. It wasn’t quite the truth, but little white lies were allowed in sticky situations, right? “I wouldn’t be very good wife material right now. I have a broken heart.”
“Oh Hallie, I’m so sorry,” said Clea in a hushed voice. “What happened?”
“It was terrible,” she murmured. “I try not to think of it.”
Clea waited expectantly.
Obviously she was going to have to think of something. Hallie leaned forward and tried to look suitably woebegone. “He was secretly in love with his football coach the whole time we were together!”
“The cad!” said Clea.
“Was he blonde?” said Nick. “I’m betting he was blonde.” He was standing beside her, close, very close, and she was kneeling there, her gaze directly level with his…oh…my!
“Are you sure you’re not interested?” asked Clea.
Hallie nodded vigorously and dropped her gaze, looking for carpet and finding feet. Big feet. “It’s this job,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Probably he was bluffing. Probably he had regular size eight feet tucked into those enormous shoes. Her hand shot out of its own accord, spanning the soft leather of his shoe, testing the fit for width and finding it tight. Uh, oh. She pressed her thumb down and felt for toes, found them at the very top of the shoe. “Phew!” She was breathless, practically speechless, “It’s a tight fit.”
“Always,” he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. “But I’m used to it.”
Hallie smiled weakly and scrambled to her feet as warmth spread rapidly through her cheeks. It was his eyes. His voice. Possibly his feet. Any one of them was a guaranteed temptation, but all three together? No wonder she was blushing.
“What my mother meant to say was that I need someone to pretend to be my wife for a week. Next week to be precise. In Hong Kong."
Excerpts published by arrangement with Harlequin Mills & Boon Ltd.
WANT TO
KNOW MORE?
THE man who came striding through the arrival terminal doors was not wearing black but boy he would have looked good in it. He’d opted instead for scuffed steel capped boots, green cargo trousers and a grey t-shirt, but that was where Mr. Average ended and the fantasy began because the body beneath the everyday clothing was superb.
He was broad shouldered, slim hipped; everything about him lean and powerfully muscled. His hair was black and carelessly cut and his face was as near to perfection as the gods would allow. He also, thought Erin, looked tired. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with a long haul flight and everything to do with a weariness that went soul deep. He was all shut down, which was probably just as well. Because heaven help womankind if he smiled.
He glanced around and started towards her so she headed for the back of the car and pushed the boot open with her fingertips. He was beside her now, and up close she could see that his eyes were the color of toffee and more than a match for the rest of him. She shot him a smile, reached for his bulky canvas carryall.
‘I’ll do it.’ His voice was deep and quiet, like velvet over steel.
‘Is this a gender thing?’
‘I prefer to think of it as a weight thing.’ The look he sent her may have been swift but what it lacked in longevity it made up for in intensity. She felt the force of it, of him, clear through to her soul. ‘You’re not very big, are you?’ he said finally.
Erin blew out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and pushed a wayward strand of short brown hair from her eyes. So she was five foot four and a little on the slender side. This wasn’t news. Maybe he hadn’t seen clear through to her soul after all. Because if he had he’d have known better than to comment on her size.
By the time he’d shut the boot on his luggage she had the passenger door open and was waiting for him to get in. He looked at her, looked at the door, and the faintest of smiles crossed his lips. Obviously he wasn’t used to having car doors opened for him either. ‘Are you sure you’re after a luxury taxi service?’ she asked him dryly. ‘Because the regular taxis are just over there.’
He glanced at the long line of regular taxis, glanced back at her. ‘Will a luxury ride get me into the city any faster?’
‘Only in your imagination.’
His smile widened fractionally.
‘On the upside, I have three different newspapers you can read on the way and I can order in coffee.’
‘Good coffee?’ he asked.
‘Exceptional coffee.’
‘Espresso, black, two sugars,’ he said, and got in. Men were so easy.
She shut his door and headed for the driver’s seat. ‘Where to?’
‘Albany Street, Double Bay.’
Nice. She picked up her mobile, called in his coffee order, pulled out into the traffic, and set about making his journey a luxury one. ‘Newspaper?’ she asked. ‘I have the Sydney Morning Herald, The Australian, or the Financial Review.’
‘No.’
‘Music?’ There was something for everyone.
‘No.’
O-kay. He didn’t look like he wanted conversation either but she gave it a whirl, just in case. ‘So where’d you fly in from?’
‘London.’
‘Been away long?’ His accent told her he was Australian.
‘Six years.’
‘Six years in London? Without a break? No wonder you look tired.’
‘Maybe I will have that paper,’ he said, his gaze meeting hers in the rear vision mirror.
‘That would be a ‘no’ to conversation, then?’
‘Right.’
She handed him the Sydney Morning Herald in silence. Maybe he was an elite athlete. A soccer player returning home at the end of the European season after his team’s final crushing defeat. Maybe he’d missed the winning penalty goal and was barely able to talk through the weight of his despair. Yeah, that would work. ‘You’re not a soccer player, are you?’
‘No.’
‘A poet?’ That would work too. Because he could have taught Byron himself a thing or two about looking sexy, unreachable, and sorely in need of comfort all at the same time.
‘No.’ He opened the paper. Rattled it.
Fine. Maybe she should forget about her taciturn passenger and concentrate on her driving instead. She could do that. No problem.
Five minutes later she pulled up outside Café Siciliano, lowered the rear window, and a curvaceous young waitress handed her passenger an espresso in a takeaway cup along with two straws of sugar. ‘The sugar’s already in it,’ the girl said. ‘This is extra, just in case.’
‘You’re an angel,’ he said in that soft, deep voice and the girl blinked and blushed prettily.
Harrumph! Erin jabbed at the controls and watched as the tinted window slid smoothly closed. He hadn’t called her an angel for seeing to it that he got coffee in the first place. Ungrateful sod. Her gaze clashed with his in the rear vision mirror and she could have sworn she saw laughter flicker in their depths.
‘Wayward pixies can’t be angels,’ he said solemnly. ‘Different fantasy altogether.’
‘Gee,’ she said. ‘Glad we’ve cleared that up.’ He had such glorious eyes. Such a heart stopping face. Pity he lived in fairyland. She pulled out onto the road a little more abruptly than usual. Forget service with a smile. It was time to deliver the man to his destination.
And then the engine coughed. Not good. It coughed some more as she swung the car round the nearest corner and into a side street and then, with a well-bred splutter, the late model luxury Mercedes died altogether.
‘We seem to have stopped,’ he said.
Oh, now he wanted to talk. ‘Drink your coffee,’ she said, and tried to start the car. The ignition turned over but the engine spluttered like an old maid choking on hot tea.
‘Could be a fuel problem,’ he offered.
‘Could be lots of things.’ Erin drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and considered her options. First things first. ‘I need to get you another ride.’
‘No you don’t,’ he said. ‘You need to pop the hood so we can take a look at what’s wrong.’
‘You’re a mechanic?’
‘No, but I know cars.’
‘That’s close enough.’ Erin liked cars. She enjoyed driving them. But she didn’t know a whole lot about fixing them. She released the bonnet, got out of the car, and joined him in staring down at the immaculately clean engine. ‘What can you do without tools?’
‘Check fuses and connections,’ he said and set about doing so with a confidence she found reassuring. He had nice hands, hands that looked like they knew both strength and gentleness. She looked for a ring, a wristwatch, but he wore no jewelry of any kind. Some things simply didn’t need embellishment.
‘And I thought chivalry was dead.’ There wasn’t much she could do to help except stay out of his light so she leaned back against the grille and waited. ‘Rescue people often? You’re not a fire fighter, are you? Emergency services?’
‘Do you always measure a man by his occupation?’ he asked absently, his attention still on the engine.
‘Not always. Sometimes I measure him by his sweet words and pretty face, but that doesn’t always work out.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Of course, there’s always star signs,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘You mean you judge a person by his birthday?’ She had his attention now; his complete and utter incredulous attention.
‘Hey, the measurement of man is a tough one. A girl needs all the help she can get.’
‘Yes, but astrology?’
‘I’m thinking Scorpio for you. Moody, intense…’ Unbelievable in bed. The mere thought of which was making her fidget. ‘But I could be wrong.’
‘I suspect you often are.’
He hadn’t, she noted, come right out and told her she was wrong. That was interesting. ‘You are a Scorpio, aren’t you? I knew it.’
He regarded her with exasperation. ‘It means nothing.’
‘Nope, it means that without any more information whatsoever I can start to measure the man. At least, that’s the theory.’ And after a moment, ‘We’re quite compatible.’
‘Hard to believe,’ he murmured dryly.
Erin suppressed a chuckle. ‘Yep, what with that pretty face it’s a good thing you’re low on sweet talk otherwise I might be lost.’
His smile was slow in coming but when it arrived it scrambled her brain. ‘I try to save the sweet talk,’ he said.
‘What on earth for?’
‘Later.’
WIFE FOR A WEEK
When Hallie Bennett was growing up, she wanted to be an archaeologist, a trapeze artist, or possibly even a fairy. Never in her wildest nightmares did she think she’d end up working in a tiny shoe store in London. But it’s only temporary, right?
Software developer, Nick Cooper, is about to close a deal with a wealthy Hong Kong software distributor. But there’s a catch. He invented a wife to ward off the businessman’s amorous daughter and now he and his wife are invited to Hong Kong to socialise and seal the deal. He needs a wife for a week. Someone savvy enough to keep the businessman’s daughter out of his bed, persuasive enough to pull off the pretence, and screwy enough to do it.
But first he has to buy his mother a new pair of shoes...
SLEEPING PARTNER
Mia Fletcher has just inherited a dilapidated colonial hotel in the heart of Penang from the mother she never knew. She’s tempted to stay and restore it. Even more tempted to find out what she can about her mysterious mother… And enigmatic hotelier Ethan Hamilton can help her do both. There’s just one catch.
He’s the son of the man her mother ran off with.
And she’s hopelessly, outrageously attracted to him…
PRICELESS
Is he a gem... or a rough diamond?
Clothes, look, attitude - jeweller Erin reckons she can tell at a glance a man's occupation. But Tristan Bennett has her foxed: he's tall, sexy, and enigmatic - and she can't tell whether he's a gem or a rough diamond.
But Tristan admits he can drive, and has a week to spare - and he'll act as protector to Erin while she goes up-country to Australia's gem mines to buy precious stones.
Once she and Tristan are on the road, the heat they generate drives both of them to distraction. Erin knows they're headed for trouble - unless they can keep the lid on the sensual attraction growing between them...
‘Miss Fletcher?’ asked the wizened old doorman, resplendent in a bone coloured tunic and turban.
Mia nodded and turned to stare up at the dilapidated hotel before her. The majestic marble columns and crumbling portico plasterwork. The magnificent marble entrance stairs, dulled by age and the passing of many feet…
The tangled mess of overgrown garden…
‘Welcome to Penang, Pearl of the Orient,’ he said grandly. ‘And the Cornwallis Hotel, lustrous heart of colonial Georgetown.’
The hotel was situated in the heart of the island’s colonial district true enough, and had a certain frayed, yesteryear kind of appeal, but lustrous? Mia slid the doorman a bemused glance.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘That the hotel is old and much in need of repair, but sixty years ago, when I first started working here, it was indeed a glory to behold.’
‘I believe you.’
Rajah, according to his discreetly placed nametag, beamed. ‘It could be so again,’ he said. ‘Love could make it so.’
Love and vast chunks of money.
‘Just as soon as the curse is broken.’
‘There’s a curse?’
‘But of course. How else would the hotel come to be in such disrepair?’
‘Years and years of neglect?’
‘That too,’ he said. ‘I’ll inform Mr Ethan of your arrival. He’s been waiting for you. We all have.’ Rajah swept open the door for her. ‘Miss Fletcher.’
‘Mia,’ she said, belatedly wondering how he’d known who she was.
‘Miss Mia,’ he said, his old eyes shining. ‘Welcome home.’
Release Dates:
UK - March 2006 as Mills & Boon Modern (Extra Sensual)
Australia - October 2006 as Harlequin Mills & Boon Sexy Sensation
It's small but gorgeous - the Spanish cover of Wife For A Week!
