Books
Bachelor Dad on Her Doorstep Harlequin Romance Back in her hometown for the first time in years, Jaz Harper is determined to face old flame Connor Reed with dignity. She won't be hurt again. But Jaz hasn't reckoned on Connor having become even more irresistibly handsome—or a bachelor dad. As Connor's daughter bonds with Jaz, Connor realizes Jaz's warm nature is slowly melting away the hardened demeanor he's built up over the years…. |
CataRomance 5 stars |
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The Aristocrat and the Single Mum Harlequin Romance From hard-working mum – to lady of the manor! Handsome English aristocrat Lord Simon Morton-Blake is reluctant to get involved with anyone on his visit to Australia – especially a single mother like Kate Petherbridge! But Simon can’t deny his unexpected attraction to vivacious Kate, nor refuse her offer of a place to stay. Thrown into the middle of Kate’s lively family, Simon finds his buttoned-up manner slowly undone. A happy family isn’t something Simon’s ever known before, but he’s starting to realise there’s one ready-made just for him... |
Romantic Times 4.5 stars "A simple story told very well, this one has great characters with nice chemistry. It's also by turns truly funny and moving." |
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The Loner's Guarded Heart Harlequin Romance Josie was touched that her brothers had arranged a holiday for her – she certainly needed one. Only, the location isn’t the lively resort she expected, but a rustic cabin in a beautiful but isolated Australian idyll... Her only neighbor for miles is the taciturn, if incredibly attractive, Kent Black. Following a family tragedy, Kent cut himself off from the world. Josie can’t help but be intrigued by this solitary man, and with her bubbly, warm personality, she’s determined to pick away at the iron padlock around his heart. |
 CataRomance 4.5 stars "‘Packed with a smoldering tension and underlying passion The Loner’s Guarded Heart by Michelle Douglas will leave readers wanting more... [It] is a keeper that I will treasure. If you are a reader that loves tender heartfelt stories then this book is a must buy because it has all these elements and so much more.." |
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His Christmas Angel Harlequin Romance December 2007 Home for Christmas... Once Sol Adams and Cassie Campbell had been inseparable, drawn to each other when times were tough. Cassie has spent the last ten years trying to move on from her life back then, but now Sol is home for Christmas, more gorgeous than ever, and she can’t avoid him – or her memories... His bride for New Year? Sol can see Cassie’s changed – she’s now a widow, a woman who tirelessly cares for others. But he knows her too well – he can see the hurt and yearning behind her cheerful smile. Can he get to the bottom o f her troubled heart and make this Christmas angel his much-loved wife? |
Romantic Times 4.5 stars "Michelle Douglas makes an outstanding debut with HIS CHRISTMAS ANGEL, a complex, richly emotional story. The characters are handled especially well, as are the many conflicts and relationships. This one's a keeper." |
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Excerpt from Bachelor Dad on Her Doorstep Jaz made the move back to Clara Falls in bright, clear sunlight two weeks later. And this time she had to drive down Clara Falls' main street because an enormous skip blocked the lane leading to the residential parking behind the bookshop. She slammed on the brakes and stared at it. Unless she turned her car around to flee back to Sydney, she'd have to drive down the main street and find a place to park. Her mouth went dry. Turn the car around… ? The temptation stretched through her. Her hands clenched on the steering wheel. She'd sworn never to return. She didn't want to live here. She didn't want to deal with the memories that would pound at her day after day. And she sure as hell didn't want to see Connor Reed again. Not that she expected to run into him too often. He'd avoid her the way the righteous spurned the wicked, the way a reformed alcoholic shunned whisky… the way mice baulked at cats. Good. Turn the car around… ? She relaxed her hands and pushed her shoulders back. No. Returning to Clara Falls, saving her mother's bookshop—it was the right thing to do. She'd honour her mother's memory; she'd haul the bookshop back from the brink of bankruptcy. She'd do Frieda Harper proud. Pity you didn't do that a month ago, a year ago, two years ago, when it might have made a difference. Guilt crawled across her skin. Regret swelled in her stomach until she could taste bile on her tongue. Regret that she hadn't returned when her mother was still alive. Regret that she'd never said all the things she should've said. Regret that her mother was dead. Did she honestly think that saving a bookshop and praying for forgiveness would make any difference at all? Don't think about it! Wrong time. Wrong place. She backed the car out of the lane and turned in the direction of the main street. She had to pause at the pedestrian crossing and, as she stared up the length of the main street, her breath caught. Oh, good Lord. She'd forgotten just how pretty this place was. Clara Falls was one of the main tourist hubs in Australia's breathtaking Blue Mountains. Jaz hadn't forgotten the majesty of Echo Point and The Three Sisters. She hadn't forgotten the grandeur of the Jamison Valley, but Clara Falls… The artist in her paid silent homage. Maybe she'd taken it for granted all those years ago. She eased the car up the street and the first stirrings of excitement started replacing her dread. The butcher's shop and mini-mart had both received a facelift. Teddy bears now picnicked in a shop window once crowded with tarot cards and crystals. The wide traffic island down the centre of the road— once grey cement—now sported close-cropped grass, flowerbeds and park benches. But the numerous cafés and restaurants still did a bustling trade. This was still the same wide street. Clara Falls was still the same tourist hotspot. The town had made an art form out of catering to out-of-towners. It had a reputation for quirky arts-and-craft shops, bohemian-style cafés and cosmopolitan restaurants, and… and… darn it, but it was pretty! A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She cruised the length of the street—she couldn't park directly out the front of the bookshop as a tradesman's van had parked in such a way that it took up two spaces. So, when she reached the end of the street, she turned the car around and cruised back down the other side, gobbling up every familiar landmark along the way. Finally, she parked the car and sagged back in her seat. She'd spent so long trying to forget Connor Reed that she'd forgotten… stuff she shouldn't have. Yeah, like how to be a halfway decent human being. The sunlight abruptly went out of her day. The taste of bile stretched through her mouth again. Her mother had always told Jaz that she needed to return and face her demons, only then could she lay them to rest. Perhaps Frieda had been right— what had happened here in Clara Falls had overshadowed Jaz's entire adult life. She wanted peace. Eight years away hadn't given her that. Not that she deserved it now. She pushed out of the car. She waited for a break in the traffic, then crossed the road to the island. An elderly man in front of her stumbled up the first step and she grabbed his arm to steady him. She'd crossed at this particular spot more times than she could remember as a child and teenager, almost always heading for the sanctuary of the bookshop. Three steps up, five paces across, and three steps back down the other side. The man muttered his thanks without even looking at her and hurried off. 'Spoilsport,' someone hissed at Jaz. Then to the man, 'And one of these days you'll actually sit down and pass the time of day with me, Boyd Longbottom!' The elderly woman turned back to Jaz. 'The only entertainment I get these days is watching old Boyd trip up that same step day in, day out.' Dark eyes twinkled. 'Though now you're back in town, Jazmin Harper, I have great hopes that things will liven up around here again.' 'Mrs Lavender!' Jaz grinned. She couldn't help it. Mrs Lavender had once owned the bookshop. Mrs Lavender had been a friend. 'In as fine form as ever, I see. It's nice to see you.' Mrs Lavender patted the seat beside her and Jaz sat. She'd expected to feel out of place. She didn't. She nodded towards the bookshop although she couldn't quite bring herself to look at it yet. She had a feeling that its familiarity might break her heart afresh. 'Do you miss it?' 'Every single day. But I'm afraid the old bones aren't what they used to be. Doctor's orders and whatnot. I'm glad you've come back, Jaz.' This all uttered in a rush. It made Jaz's smile widen. 'Thank you.' A short pause, then, 'I was sorry about what happened to your mother.' Jaz's smile evaporated. 'Thank you.' 'I heard you held a memorial service in Sydney.' 'I did.' 'I was sick in hospital at the time or I would have been there.' Jaz shook her head. 'It doesn't matter.' 'Of course it does! Frieda and I were friends.' Jaz found she could smile again, after a fashion. According to the more uptight members of the town, Frieda might've lacked a certain respectability, but she certainly hadn't lacked friends. The memorial had been well attended. 'This place was never the same after you left.' Mrs Lavender's voice hauled Jaz back. She gave a short laugh. 'I can believe that.' Those dark eyes, shrewd with age, surveyed her closely. 'You did the right thing, you know. Leaving.' No, she hadn't. What she'd done had led directly to her mother's death. She'd left and she'd sworn to never come back. It had broken her mother's heart. She'd hold herself responsible for that till the day she died. And she'd hold Connor responsible too. If he'd believed in Jaz, like he'd always sworn he would, Jaz would never have had to leave. She would never have had to stay away. Stop it! She shook herself. She hadn't returned to Clara Falls for vengeance. Do unto others…that had been Frieda's creed. She would do Frieda Harper proud. She'd save the bookshop, then she'd sell it to someone other than Gordon Sears, then she'd leave, and this time she would never come back. 'You always were a good girl, Jaz. And smart.' It hadn't been smart to believe Connor's promises. She shook off the thought and pulled her mind back, to find Mrs Lavender smiling at her broadly. 'How long are you staying?' 'Twelve months.' She'd had to give herself a time limit—it was the only thing that would keep her sane. She figured it'd take a full twelve months to see the bookshop safe again. 'Well, I think it's time you took yourself off and got to work, dear.' Mrs Lavender pointed across the road. 'I think you'll find there's a lot to do.' Jaz followed the direction of Mrs Lavender's hand, and that was when she saw and understood the reason behind the tradesman's van parked out the front of the bookshop. The muscles in her shoulders, her back, her stomach, all tightened. The minor repairs on the building were supposed to have been finished last week. The receptionist for the building firm Richard had hired had promised faithfully. A pulse pounded behind her eyes. 'Frieda's Fiction Fair'—the sign on the bookshop's awning—was being replaced. With… 'Jaz's Joint'! She shot to her feet. Her lip curled. Her nose curled. Inside her boots, even her toes curled. She'd requested that the sign be freshened up. Not… Not… She fought the instinct to bolt across the road and topple the sign-writer and his ladder to the ground. 'I'll be seeing you then, shall I, Jazmin?' With an effort, she unclenched her teeth. 'Absolutely, Mrs Lavender.' She forced herself to take three deep breaths, and only then did she step off the kerb of the island. She would sort this out like the adult she was, not the teenager she had been. She made her way across the road and tried not to notice how firm her offending tradesman's butt looked in form-fitting jeans or how the power of those long, long legs were barely disguised by soft worn denim. In fact, in some places the denim was so worn… The teenager she'd once been wouldn't have noticed. That girl had only had eyes for Connor. But the woman she was now… Stop ogling! She stopped by the ladder and glanced up. Then took an involuntary step backwards at the sudden clench of familiarity. The sign-writer's blond-tipped hair… It fell in the exact same waves as— Her heart lodged in her throat, leaving an abyss in her chest. Get a grip. Don't lose it now. The familiarity had to be a trick of the light. Ha! More like a trick of the mind. Planted there by memories she'd done her best to bury. She swallowed and her heart settled—sort of—in her chest again. 'Excuse me,' she managed to force out of an uncooperative throat, 'but I'd like to know who gave you the authority to change that sign.' The sign-writer stilled, laid his brush down on the top of the ladder and wiped his hands across that denim-encased butt with agonising slowness. Jaz couldn't help wondering how it would feel to follow that action with her own hands. Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, the sign-writer turned around…and Jaz froze. 'Hello, Jaz.' The familiarity, the sudden sense of rightness at seeing him here like this, reached right inside her chest to twist her heart until she couldn't breathe. No! He took one step down the ladder. 'You're looking…well.' He didn't smile. His gaze travelled over her face, down the long line of her body and back again and, although half of his face was in shadow, she could see that she left him unmoved. Connor Reed! She sucked in a breath, took another involuntary step back. It took every ounce of strength she could marshal to not turn around and run. Do something. Say something, she ordered. Her heart pounded in her throat. Sharp breaths stung her lungs. Connor Reed. She'd known they'd run into each other eventually, but not here. Not at the bookshop. Not on her first day. Stop staring. Don't you dare run! 'I…um…' She had to clear her throat. She didn't run. 'I'd appreciate it if you'd stop working on that.' She pointed to the sign and, by some freak or miracle or because some deity was smiling down on her, her hand didn't shake. It gave her the confidence to lift her chin and throw her shoulders back again. He glanced at the sign, then back at her, a frown in his eyes. 'You don't like it?' 'I loathe it. But I'd prefer not to discuss it on the street.' Oh, dear Lord. She had to set some ground rules. Fast. Ground rule number one was that Connor Reed stay as far away from her as humanly possible. Ground rule number two—don't look him directly in the eye. She swung away, meaning to find refuge in the one place in this town she could safely call home…and found the bookshop closed. The sign on the door read 'Closed' in big black letters. The darkened interior mocked her. She reached out and tested the door. It didn't budge. Somebody nearby sniggered. 'That's taken the wind out of your sails, nicely. Good!' Jaz glanced around to find a middle-aged woman glaring at her. She kept her voice cool. 'Excuse me, but do I know you?' The woman ignored Jaz's words and pushed her face in close. 'We don't need your kind in a nice place like this.' A disturbance in the air, some super-sense on her personal radar, told her Connor had descended the ladder to stand directly behind her. He still smelt like the mountains in autumn. She pulled a packet of gum from her pocket and shoved a long spearmint-flavoured stick into her mouth. It immediately overpowered all other scents in her near vicinity. 'My kind?' she enquired as pleasantly as she could. If these people couldn't get past the memory of her as a teenage Goth with attitude, if they couldn't see that she'd grown up, then…then they needed to open their eyes wider. Something told her it was their minds that needed opening up and not their eyes. 'A tattoo artist!' the woman spat. 'What do we want with one of those? You're probably a member of a bike gang and… and do drugs!' Jaz almost laughed at the absurdity. Almost. She lifted her arms, looked down at herself, then back at the other woman. For a moment the other woman looked discomfited. 'That's enough, Dianne.' That was from Connor. Jaz almost turned around but common sense kicked in—don't look him directly in the eye. 'Don't you go letting her get her hooks into you again, Connor. She did what she could to lead you astray when you were teenagers and don't you forget it!' Jaz snorted. She couldn't help herself. The woman— Dianne—swung back to her. 'You probably think this is going to be a nice little money spinner.' She nodded to the bookshop. Not at the moment. Not after reviewing the sales figures Richard had sent her. 'You didn't come near your mother for years and now, when her body is barely cold in the ground, you descend on her shop like a vulture. Like a greedy, grasping—' 'That's enough, Dianne!' Connor again. Jaz didn't want him fighting her battles—she wanted him to stay as far from her as possible. He wasn't getting a second chance to break her heart. Not in this lifetime! But she could barely breathe, let alone talk. Didn't come near your mother for years…barely cold in the ground… The weight pressed down so hard on Jaz's chest that she wanted nothing more than to lie down on the ground and let it crush her. 'You have the gall to say that after the number of weekends Frieda spent in Sydney with Jaz, living the high life? Jaz didn't need to come home and you bloody well know it!'
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From the book "Bachelor Dad on Her Doorstep" by Michelle Douglas Mills and Boon Romance August 2009 ISBN: 9780373184620 Copyright: © 2009 Michelle Douglas ® and (TM) are trademarks of the publisher. The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. For more romance information go to: http://www.eHarlequin.com |
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Excerpt from THE ARISTOCRAT AND THE SINGLE MUM Kate reached the last item in the file, closed her eyes, closed the file and counted to ten. Then she opened her eyes, opened the file and started again. The bell above the door jangled, telling her someone had entered the office, but she didn’t move from her crouch in front of the filing cabinet. In fact, it was hard to move at all with all the boxes piled around her. ‘Hello?’ At any other time a voice like that would’ve had her swinging around in curiosity... and anticipation. The voice was deep and masculine, with an intriguing British burr. A lot of tourists with a lot of different accents passed through this part of the world and Kate loved accents. She’d once meant to travel to some of those faraway places and immerse herself in different cultures, different languages. But that was before she’d fallen pregnant with Jesse. This particular accent, though, was her all-time favourite and could turn her insides to mush in the space of a heartbeat. ‘I won’t be a moment,’ she called. Half-hidden by the desk, her customer probably couldn’t see her. And although she usually made it a point to deal with prospective customers first, she took a deep breath and carefully examined the file again, lifting out and checking each document before moving to the next one. Darn it. It wasn’t there. Where had she put it? The accountant had wanted it last week. She’d promised to get it to him today. She slapped the side of the filing cabinet as if it were its fault. She glanced around at all the boxes and groaned. ‘Is something wrong?’ She couldn’t resist that accent any longer. ‘I’m sorry.’ She turned. ‘I...’ She blinked. Air squeezed out of her lungs. Oh dear Lord, who cared about finding receipts for boat repairs when a man like this stood in her office? She tried to catch her breath, but it flitted in and out of her lungs with more speed than grace, evading her every attempt to harness it. She thought she ought to stand, but the longer she stared at him the more the world tilted to one side and, as she had no desire to fall flat on her face at his feet, she decided she’d better stay right where she was. Very carefully, she lowered her knees to the ground so she knelt rather than crouched. More stability – that’s what she needed. And breakfast. She absolutely, positively shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Low blood sugar and all that. She tried to hold back a sigh, but her mystery man had such a beautiful face to go with the beautiful British accent – not to mention a superb body – and it had been a long time since she’d beheld such a perfect example of masculine beauty that she had no hope of containing it. It came out on one long low breath. His too-short hair, as far as she could tell, was his single flaw. But it gleamed rich and dark in the half-light of her office and she could imagine its crispness against her palms with more clarity than sense. She shook herself. ‘Hello.’ Her voice came out normal. She had no idea how. She even managed a smile. ‘Hello,’ he said again in that to-die-for accent, but he said it slowly, as if making a discovery. Then he smiled. Firm, sensual lips. Cheek creases. The world abruptly stopped tilting and something slammed into her stomach with the impact of a missile. It felt wrong and right – both at the same time. It didn’t make sense. The man’s eyes widened, his lips pursed for a brief moment, and she wondered if he’d felt the impact too. Another sigh welled up inside her. And yearning. She expelled the sigh on one hard breath, but could do nothing with the yearning. She forced herself to her feet. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall behind him – eleven a.m. The day was yet young. She had plenty of time to find receipts for boat repairs and visit her accountant. She had all the time in the world. ‘Is everything all right?’ Just in time she stopped herself from saying, It is now, because that was crazy talk. Fanciful. She was a single mother with a child. She didn’t do fanciful. Not any more. Her tourist had dark eyes that crinkled at the corners. They were nice eyes and they looked at her with concern. ‘I’m sorry. Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit distracted.’ By him. But she didn’t want him to know that. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and ordered herself to stop ogling the poor man, decided she’d buried herself in her work for far too long and that she better start getting out a bit more. ‘I’m just having one of those mornings, you know?’ ‘Yep.’ He gave one hard nod. ‘Know exactly what you mean. Today, I can absolutely relate to that.’ Their gazes met and a surge of fellow feeling passed between them. In the dim light of her office she couldn’t work out if his eyes were brown or grey. She’d need to be closer to tell for sure, but they were clear and direct and she found herself liking them. Her day suddenly started to look up. ‘How can I help you?’ She pulled the reservation book towards her. He smiled again and her knees gave a funny little wobble. She’d bet she looked a wreck. She resisted the urge to pat down her hair and to straighten her shirt. He didn’t look a wreck. He looked impeccable in a charcoal-grey suit. Italian, she’d bet. Actually, she wouldn’t know an Italian suit if it leapt up and bit her on the nose. It could be Bond Street for all she knew. She knew shoes though, and those shoes were definitely Italian leather. ‘I’m actually wanting to speak to your employer, Kate Petherbridge.’ Kate blinked. ‘I was here at nine o’clock this morning.’ He pointed to the glass door, which had the office hours printed across it. The previous owner’s office hours. Kate hadn’t got around to having them changed yet. ‘Nobody showed up, which at the time I thought pretty unprofessional.’ She’d moved into this office two days ago. She’d figured they’d need the extra room at home now. But there was still so much to do. Her shoulders started to sag. He smiled again. Her knees gave another funny wobble. Outside, a magpie started to warble. ‘But if you’re having one of those kinds of days then–‘ he shrugged, ‘–it can’t be helped.’ He glanced down at the items spread across her desk – the contents of her purse drying out after their dunking in the bay. Without warning, the strap had given way when she’d raced the passenger list down to Archie. It was her best shoulder bag too. Only quick reflexes had saved the bag, contents and all, from sinking to the bottom to lie cradled against the oyster-encrusted rocks metres below. They seemed a paltry treasure – two bank cards, her driver’s licence and medical card, a diary-cum-address book, the little paper money she’d had on her, a tab of aspirin that for some reason she hadn’t thrown away, and a couple of soggy photographs. The one of Danny and Felice before they’d set off on their honeymoon was completely ruined. ‘My bag fell in the bay.’ It was a completely ludicrous statement – self-evident – but the man opposite didn’t laugh. He nodded as if he understood. ‘That was right after I’d buried Moby – the goldfish.’ That had not been a good start to the day. It was why she’d taken her favourite shoulder bag – to try and cheer herself up. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Thank you.’ He lifted one hand. ‘For what it’s worth, I hit a kangaroo in my hire car this morning.’ Even as she winced at the picture his words created, Kate decided then and there that their joint dispiriting tales of woe made this man a good omen. ‘How fast were you travelling?’ ‘Eighty kilometres an hour.’ She winced again. Kangaroos didn’t survive eighty-kilometre-per-hour collisions. He suddenly shook himself. He leaned forward and offered his hand. ‘I’m Simon Morton-Blake.’ Kate placed her hand inside his immediately. His long fingers curled around hers and he squeezed briefly. She squeezed back. They both smiled. His hair gleamed richer, darker. Reluctantly, or so it seemed to Kate, their hands parted company again. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m–‘ The smile slid off her face. ‘What did you say your name was?’ ‘Morton-Blake. Simon.’ What! His eyes narrowed. ‘Why? Do you recognise it?’ Of course she recognised it, but Felice hadn’t mentioned anything about family. ‘The full title is Simon Morton-Blake, the seventh Lord of Holm–’ his lips twisted in self-derision ‘–but I don’t expect you’ve heard of that.’ Her jaw dropped. ‘You’re a lord? Like... a real lord?’ ‘I am. Are you impressed?’ He raised an eyebrow and she wasn’t sure who he was sending up – her or himself. ‘It doesn’t seem to hold much cachet in Australia,’ he commented. ‘No, I don’t suppose it does, but...’ She peered up at him ‘...do you, like, have your own castle?’ She could imagine him living in a castle. She could imagine him in a kilt. Don’t be ridiculous! He’s English, not Scottish. Still... she’d give a lot to see him in a kilt. ‘The estate does have a fifteenth-century manor house and quite a few sheep, but no castle I’m afraid. Not even the ruins of a castle.’ He gave a mock grimace. ‘Have I fallen in your estimation?’ Kate laughed. Even though his name was Morton-Blake and he had to be some kind of relative of Felice’s. Even though Felice hadn’t mentioned anything about family, let alone family as distinguished as the seventh Lord of Holm. He must be a distant cousin or something. Perhaps Felice had sent him a postcard extolling the beauties of Port Stephens – and it had many – and how much fun she was having working for Kate’s dolphin tour business. But why hadn’t she mentioned him? Why had Felice let Danny and Kate think she had no family at all? ‘And you are?’ Kate snapped back to attention. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She drew in a breath, tried to smile. ‘I’m Kate Petherbridge.’ His face darkened and his eyebrows drew down low over his eyes as he placed his hands on her desk and leaned across it towards her. His eyes weren’t brown but a dark smoky-grey. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me where the hell my sister is?’ Very slowly, Kate sat. ‘Sister?’ Her mouth went dry. ‘Felice is your sister?’ |
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From the book "The Aristocrat and the Single Mum" by Michelle Douglas Mills and Boon Romance March 2009 ISBN: 978-0373175765 Copyright: © 2009 Michelle Douglas ® and (TM) are trademarks of the publisher. The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. For more romance information go to: http://www.eHarlequin.com |
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Excerpt from HIS CHRISTMAS ANGEL: SOL slammed through the house and out the back door to the veranda. Gripping the railing, he hauled in a breath. Then another. Half an hour. He'd been back half an hour and already he was dying to get the hell out of here. Nothing had changed. For Pete's sake, you'd think after ten years... He rolled his shoulders trying to ease the tension that had them wedged up tighter than double lapped dovetail joints. His eyes swept across the backyard. What a mess. The fence needed mending the lawn needing mowing and the- Cassie's tree. His angry thoughts slammed to a halt. He squinted into the afternoon sun, but two giant oleanders on the other side of the fence prevented him from making out much of the house in the yard beyond. Did Cassie Campbell still live there? Cassie Parker, he amended. Married ten years ago. And widowed for eighteen months. Some things had changed. He dragged a hand down his face. Cassie wouldn't live there now she'd live in the centre of town with the rest of the Parkers. She didn't need to live on the outskirts any more. And since her mother had died... An ache hollowed out his chest. He hadn't come back for the funeral. He hadn't come back for Brian's funeral either. He stared hard at what he could see of the house and yard, trying to imagine someone else living there, but he couldn't. His gaze came back to the tree squatting in the corner, his lips curved upwards and the tension seeped out of him. Back then the only thing that had kept life bearable around here was Cassie Campbell. Cassie Parker, he reminded himself and his smile faded. He clenched the veranda railing again. What the hell did he think he was doing? Trying to catch a glimpse of Cassie Campbell? He had an insane urge to butt his head against a veranda post. He'd left all thoughts of Cassie behind ten years ago. Yeah right, which is why you're craning your neck over her back fence with your tongue hanging out. He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. For Pete's sake, it wouldn't even be her damn fence any more. He went to turn away when a leg dangled out of the tree, a long, lean, female leg. He blinked and shaded his eyes. Cassie Campbell? His breath hitched. Parker, he amended, steeling himself. And don't be such a goddamn idiot. But curiosity propelled him down the back steps and across the yard all the same. That was a damn fine leg and he was real curious to see who lived in Cassie's old place now. A mumbled half-smothered expletive drifted out of the tree as he drew near and for some reason it made him grin. He quickened his step and without waiting for his eyes to adjust to the shade, glanced up. The breath punched out of him. A strange choked noise emerged from the back of his throat. He couldn't have uttered a single coherent sound if his life depended on it. Dancing violet eyes swung around to stare down at him. They raked across his face then generous lips formed a perfect O. 'Good lord, if it isn't Sol Adams home for Christmas at last.' Cassie Campbell! His heart started to pump hard and fast. He swallowed. The sound rolled in the spaces beneath the tree, loud in the summer afternoon. 'Hey, Cassie,' he finally managed to get out. 'Hey, Cassie?' She rolled her eyes. 'After ten years that's all you can think to say?' Then she smiled. Really smiled. Cassie had always put her whole heart into a smile. It outshone the hot summer sun. He blinked, but he couldn't look away. His groin ached. The entire surface of his skin tightened as if he'd grown too big for it. Her smile wavered. 'You didn't even say goodbye.' |
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From the book "His Christmas Angel" by Michelle Douglas Mills and Boon Romance December 2007 ISBN: 978 0 733 58279 0 Copyright: © 2007 Michelle Douglas ® and (TM) are trademarks of the publisher. The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. For more romance information go to: http://www.eHarlequin.com |
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