One Husband Required!

Three brides in search

of the perfect dress—

and the perfect husband!

Welcome to this fabulous new trilogy by

talented Presents® author Sharon Kendrick. On a bride’s special day, there’s nothing more important to her than a beautiful wedding dress—apart from the perfect bridegroom! Meet three women who are about to find both....

In February you met Holly Lovelace in

One Bridegroom Required! In March,

Holly’s very special wedding dress was worn

by Amber for her big day in

One Wedding Required! And this month in

One Husband Required!, Amber’s sister,

Ursula, walks up the aisle in it, too!

Read on and share the excitement as

Holly, Amber and Ursula meet and marry

their bridegrooms!

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…

One Husband Required!

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the Fabulous Fozards—

Baz (Benito), Gill (Wigs), George, Franny and Tot

Contents

Cover Dear Reader About the Author Title Page Dedication PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE Copyright

PROLOGUE

THE wedding dress gleamed pearl-gold in the morning light. Finest silk-satin and sheer organza. A drift of tulle, like a summer cloud. Ursula ran her fingers lightly over the plastic cover which protected it, and sighed.

It was sleek, stark and stunning—the perfect gown to make a beautiful bride. Ursula’s mother had bought it for her daughters for just that reason, but Ursula knew in her heart that she would never wear the dress.

For a start it was much too small.

And the man she loved was married to someone else...

CHAPTER ONE

July

‘URSULA?’

‘Yes, Ross?’

‘Um...are you doing anything on Saturday?’

Ursula O’Neil was a practical woman who usually ran on automatic pilot until at least midday. But this one question was enough to make her hand hover over the telephone. She looked up at her boss in amazement

It was the ‘um’ as much as the question itself that made Ursula sit up and take notice.

Six years of working for a man meant you got to know him pretty well. He could be distracted when he was working, irritable on a deadline, and soft as butter with his daughter—but Ross Sheridan hesitating? Never!

Words were his business, his stock-in-trade. What Ross couldn’t do with a few words wasn’t worth knowing... He could make you weep, or giggle, or rush out to buy a certain brand of dog food—even if you didn’t own a dog! These days he was Chairman of the agency, true, but at heart he was still a simple copywriter.

And a man who never hesitated.

Ursula forgot all about the telephone call she had been about to make. ‘Would you mind repeating what you just said, Ross?’

Ross studied the pencil which was positioned between his long fingers like a spear. Then he looked up and smiled, and Ursula was caught in the crossfire of eyes so dark they were almost black. Inky, brilliant and unforgettable.

But the eyes were obscured by a frown. ‘I said, are you doing anything on Saturday?’

Well, he wasn’t asking her for a date, that was for sure. But Ursula allowed herself the brief and guilty fantasy that he was before she said, ‘Well, no, I’m not, as it happens. Why?’

‘We’re having a party.’

‘You’re having a party?’ she repeated carefully.

‘That’s right.’

‘Where?’

‘Where do people usually hold parties? At home, of course.’

‘Oh. I see.’ But she didn’t. Ross and his wife had held parties before and never bothered sending her an invitation. So why the sudden change in behaviour?

‘And I wondered whether you’d like to come along?’

Ursula continued to gaze at Ross, as if seeking clues for the invitation in a face which was much too interesting to be described as merely handsome. But it came pretty close...

‘Me?’ she squeaked, realising as she said it that she sounded like some latter-day Cinderella!

‘Yes, you,’ he agreed, frowning even more. ‘For pity’s sake, Ursula—I’ve never seen you so lost for words before! What do you think’s going to happen? I’m not planning to cosh you over the head and sell you off to the highest bidder!’

Interesting fantasy, decided Ursula.

He leaned back in his chair. ‘Have I shocked you so much by asking you?’

‘Not shocked,’ she corrected primly. ‘I think it would take a little more than that to shock me, Ross! Bemused might be a better description. I mean, in all the years I’ve worked with you—’

‘Please don’t remind me how many!’

‘I won’t.’ Years which had just blurred and flown. The reality of just how many should have disturbed Ursula far more than it seemed to disturb Ross—but then she never let herself stop to think about it. Because then she might start thinking she was in a rut and that it was time for a change.

And she didn’t want to change. For who in their right mind would ever change the perfect job and the perfect boss?

‘Ever since I first entered the mad, mixed-up world of advertising...’ she smiled ‘...and you plucked me from the obscurity of the general office to become your personal assistant—’

‘And?’ he cut in impatiently, as he was in the habit of doing if he thought something was irrelevant. ‘What’s that got to do with me asking you to a party?’

‘Well, you’ve never invited me to anything at your house before.’

‘That’s because you once told me quite emphatically that you didn’t like to mix business with pleasure!’

Ursula thought about this for a moment. ‘That’s true,’ she admitted. Well, true that she had said it, not that she had meant it, of course. Not deep down. It had been a survival technique to protect herself from the buckets of charm her boss possessed. She could have quite happily spent every evening in Ross’s company if the truth were known. Every lunchtime. Every breakfast. Every waking hour if she was being embarrassingly and brutally honest, and only one thing stopped her.

He was married.

And even if he wasn’t married—even if he wasn’t—there was no way he would look twice at her. Men like Ross Sheridan were never attracted to women with unfashionably curved bodies of softly cushioned hips, and breasts which looked like overripe melons. They liked their women slim. No. Skinny. With plenty of bones showing, like sleek racehorses. Classy women.

Like Jane. Ross’s wife.

Jane, who was tall and creative and possessed the kind of qualities which readers of teenage magazines were always aspiring to. Jane who could throw on a tatty old dress bought from the thrift shop and look like a million dollars in it.

Swallowing down whatever stupid emotion it was which had caused her throat to constrict, Ursula stared at her boss. ‘So what’s it in aid of—this party?’

For the first time in all the time she had known him Ursula saw Ross’s face grow slightly uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind how to answer. So. First hesitation. Now tension. And all in the space of a single conversation. How very odd.

‘We promised Katy that she could have a birthday party,’ he drawled. ‘And Jane thought it might be a good idea to swell the numbers. Invite a few adults. And I immediately thought of you.’

‘Ah!’ Ursula smiled with pleasure. ‘Now I see!’

Katy was Ross’s daughter and Ursula loved her to bits. Sometimes he brought her into the office with him during the school holidays, when Jane was extra busy. Katy liked to trot round after Ursula like a little dog, and Ursula genuinely enjoyed her company.

She had taught Katy how to use the computer, and to play gin rummy, and in return Katy kept her up to date on the current fashions and music scene! It only seemed five minutes since the last birthday, when—come to think of it—Ursula had accompanied Katy and Ross on a trip to London Zoo. She screwed her nose up as she tried to remember. Now where had Jane been that day?

‘I can’t believe her birthday has come around again!’ she told him. ‘She’ll be eleven, won’t she?’

He shook his dark head. ‘Ten.’ He twirled the pencil like a drum majorette’s baton, in the way he always did when something was on his mind. ‘She just looks older.’

‘Acts older too,’ observed Ursula thoughtfully as she thought about Katy’s remarkable self-possession. ‘She’s a very grown-up young lady, and she knows more about fractions and base numbers than I ever will!’

‘Well, that doesn’t say very much,’ mused Ross, a glint of mischief lightening his dark eyes, ‘since you are the most mathematically challenged person I know!’

‘If that means I hate anything to do with figures, then you’re right!’ Ursula observed the twirling movement he was continuing to make with his fingers. ‘Is something wrong, Ross?’

His fingers stilled and his eyes narrowed warily. ‘Wrong?’ he repeated suspiciously. ‘What makes you ask that?’

If she admitted to studying his body language, and detecting an edginess simply by looking at his hands—then wouldn’t that make her look a bit sad? ‘You just seem a little preoccupied this morning,’ she told him truthfully. ‘You have done all week, to be honest.’ Indeed, all month if she was being brutally honest.

‘You know me too well, Ursula,’ he said quietly, only it sounded more like an accusation than a compliment.

‘Well?’ She ignored the warning look in his eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘My deadlines are mounting—’

‘Then delegate!’ she told him sternly. ‘You’re the Chairman of the agency, for heaven’s sake!’

‘But the client wants me.’

That was the trouble—the client always did want him. ‘Well, the client may not be able to have you!’ she glowered. ‘They may have to use Oliver instead, or one of the many creative whizkids you pay huge salaries to!’

‘We’ll see.’ He gave a dismissive shrug, then turned on his lazy smile. ‘So will you come, Ursula? Katy would love you to be there.’

Ursula only pretended to think about it. She had always refused to attend social events when they were connected with work, but this was the first time he had ever invited her to his house. She told herself that it was simply a genuine desire to help Katy celebrate her birthday which had her itching to attend. And it was. But deep down she was dying for a glimpse into his home life. Would he be as messy as he was in the office? Would Jane be clucking round the kitchen like a mother hen? ‘Thanks very much. I’d love to come.’

‘Good.’

‘What time on Saturday?’

‘About six o’clock? We promised Katy that she could have an early-evening party.’

There it was again, the ‘we’ word, reminding Ursula—if she had needed any reminding—that Ross was already spoken for.

‘So no jelly and ice cream?’ she questioned lightly.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that! If you’re very good, I’ll see if I can organise chocolate cake!’ He grinned back and began to draw funny little shapes onto the large sheet of paper in front of him, which told Ursula that he was about to go into creative mode.

Unusually—and lucratively—Ross Sheridan managed to combine the twin accomplishments of being artistic and yet having a strong head for business. In the competitive world of advertising he was already a bit of a legend—and he was still only thirty-two! As a copywriter, he was second to none—his the dizzy success story which others aspired to. As people said—any campaign with Ross Sheridan’s name on it was Midas-kissed!

His rise had seemed effortless—but Ursula knew how hard he had worked to get to where he was today. He had started out at Wickens, one of London’s biggest agencies, where he had quickly established himself as one to watch. Early on he had produced two brilliantly successful ads which had gone on to win national awards. That was where he had met Ursula, who had been temping because the money had been better and she had needed as much as she’d been able to get her hands on.

In Ursula, Ross had recognised talents which complemented his own. She was punctual, efficient and sensible. She didn’t spend hours on the phone to her boyfriend or come back from lunch all giggly with wine.

When Ross had left Wickens he had taken Ursula with him—to the buzzy ‘hotshop’ agency where all the brightest talents had converged, and where Ross had met Oliver Blackman. And when Oliver and Ross had formed Sheridan-Blackman—their own breakaway agency—Ursula had been their first full-time member of staff.

She’d been with Ross so long that sometimes she felt like part of the wallpaper—while at others it seemed that her life with him had sped by in a flash. And the one great constant was his charisma. That never dimmed, just kept drawing you to him, like a moth to the flame.

Like all creative personalities, he had his flaws. He could be irritable and exacting, short-tempered and impatient. But he compensated with his enthusiasm, his brilliance and the occasional smile which could make grown women swoon.

She looked at him now, trying to analyse his appeal.

Every day was dress-down day at Sheridan-Blackman, and today Ross was wearing trousers which made his legs look spectacularly long. He wore these with an open-neck shirt which couldn’t disguise those lumberjack shoulders or the lean body which every woman in the building dreamed of.

He topped six feet in his bare feet—which everyone knew because he often kicked his shoes off after arriving at the office! His hair was lighter than black but darker than brown—wavy, thick and usually in need of a trim.

Ursula sighed. It wasn’t easy working for a man who looked as if he should be starring in a jeans commercial!

Forcing herself to concentrate on something else, Ursula rose to her feet. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ she asked him.

‘Coffee sounds good.’

She was almost at the door when he said, ‘Ursula?’

She turned round, noticing blue-black shadows beneath his eyes, and thinking that he looked as if he needed a good night’s sleep. ‘Yes, Ross?’

‘Any chance of a couple of aspirin to go with that coffee?’

When he turned those big dark eyes on her like an abandoned puppy, there was every chance that she would grind the chalk to make the tablets herself!

‘Hangover?’ she quizzed sweetly. ‘Or some ongoing complaint I should know about?’

He scowled. ‘I just asked you for a couple of pills—I didn’t expect to have you carry out a full medical on me!’

Unwanted, X-rated thoughts went sizzling across her mind, but Ursula didn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes, boss,’ she said crisply. ‘You just carry on sitting there quietly relaxing while I run around and fetch for you.’

‘Thanks,’ he replied absently, scribbling on a notepad and not seeming to notice the sarcasm in her voice.

In the office’s adjoining kitchen, Ursula ground some coffee beans, then plugged the kettle in. She looked out of the window at the London skyscape as she waited for it to boil, reflecting on how lucky she was to work slap-bang in the centre of London, and in such a stunning suite of offices. For a girl with just a clutch of typing certificates to her name she hadn’t done too badly!

Like the rest of the building, the kitchen had been designed with the kind of flair you would expect from an advertising agency. Glossy and slick. As Ross had informed her on her first day at Wickens, ‘Image is everything in this business.’ Ursula remembered that he had said it in a very cynical, jaded kind of way, and she recalled wondering whether he was happy or not.

She remembered the day she had discovered that he was married, with a young daughter, and the great stabbing feeling of disappointment she had felt. Which had been utterly ridiculous when she had thought about it afterwards. Surely she hadn’t been expecting that a dreamy hot-shot like Ross would be interested in a plump Irish orphan like her?

But having her hopes dashed—however futile they had been—had meant that she had gone on to develop a strong working relationship with her boss, one that wasn’t based on false expectations of having him clasp her in his arms one day! That wasn’t to say that she didn’t still sometimes have the occasional little fantasy about him—but she wasn’t alone in that. So did every other woman in the building!

‘What’s happened to the coffee?’ came a low growl from the office. ‘Are you boarding a plane for Colombia to harvest the beans yourself?’

Ursula smiled as she popped two aspirin out of their foil container, poured him a glass of water and carried them through to him.

He looked pale, she thought critically, handing him the drink and the tablets.

‘Thanks.’

‘Are you ill, Ross?’

He shook his head. ‘Just sleep-depleted.’

‘Well, don’t frown,’ she told him sweetly. ‘It’ll give you lines,’ and went back out to the delectable smell wafting from the kitchen before he had time to come up with a smart reply.

Pinned on one of the walls of the kitchen was a framed still of one of Ross’s most successful campaigns, featuring a glossy young blonde with bee-stung lips, sipping from a glass of iced cocoa. The blonde had been sitting on a beach, clad in the skimpiest of bikinis, and Ross’s copyline had read, ‘Not Just For Bedtime...’.

The campaign had exploded the myth that cocoa was only drunk by fuddy-duddies. It had also started a hot and angry debate in the women’s pages in newspapers about whether it wasn’t time to stop using sexist images to sell products. Ross had refused to comment.

Sales had shot through the ceiling, and Ross had become the hottest property in town—and in more than just a commercial sense. With his creative genius, a body that was lean and hard—and eyes which could sometimes resemble hell’s fire—Ross Sheridan was the man whom everybody wanted to be seen out with.

Except that he was seen out with nobody because he had a wife and daughter at home!

And Ursula admired him for that. Over the years, the man had had enough temptation put in his path to have tempted the holiest of saints. She had seen models and actresses coming on to him like nobody’s business. But Ross hadn’t just resisted—he had shown absolutely no interest.

Which only added to his appeal. The irresistible man who was beyond temptation. Moody, spiky, brilliant and erratic.

She carried the tray of coffee through, added a plate of his favourite biscuits. She had poured them both a cup and settled back down at her desk when his deep voice punctured the silence.

‘Ursula?’

‘Yes, Ross?’

‘Um, how old are you exactly?’

Ursula blinked. Again, the uncharacteristic use of the word ‘um’. ‘But you know how old I am!’

His mouth assumed a stubborn little-boy curve. ‘Not exactly, I don’t,’ he hedged obstinately.

‘How exact do you want? Down to the nearest minute? Are you plotting my horoscope for me?’

‘Very funny.’

‘Don’t you know that it’s rude to ask a lady her age?’

‘But I don’t know any ladies,’ he mocked. ‘Only women.’

The velvet sensuality which underpinned his words had the undesirable effect of making Ursula’s cheeks grow scarlet.

‘Ursula,’ he teased, ‘you’re blushing.’

‘Well, you caused it!’ she snapped.

‘Only because you were being so coy about your age.’

‘That was not coyness!’ she returned. ‘It was a perfectly natural wish to keep something of myself back!’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. You keep plenty of yourself back,’ he remarked obscurely, and took a sip of his coffee before catching her in the inky crossfire of his eyes. ‘So are you going to tell me?’

Ursula found herself wondering briefly whether there was ever an age that a woman was happy to admit to! ‘I’m twenty-seven—twenty-eight soon.’ She stared across the room at him. ‘Why do you want to know?’

He batted her back an innocent look. ‘Does there need to be a reason?’

Ursula shrugged, and the upward movement caused her long dark hair to catch the light in a blue-black gleam. She wore her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders—not a terribly practical style for work, but at least it diminished the width of her unfashionably round face. Or so she thought. ‘Of course there needs to be a reason!’ she told him. ‘I’ve worked with you for the past six years and you’ve never bothered asking me before!’

‘Maybe I’m planning to surprise you—’

‘You mean you’re going to turn up on time tomorrow morning?’

He laughed, but it was a slightly uneasy laugh. ‘You’re right,’ he sighed. ‘I have been late a lot recently.’

Ursula quickly straightened the papers on her desk into a neat line. She wasn’t going to ask why. Didn’t need to. Married men who kept turning up late in the morning usually had a very legitimate reason for doing soy—presumably because they had been distracted by the womanly wiles of their wives.

And that was an area of Ross’s life which Ursula determinedly kept her nose out of. She was glad that Ross was happily married—she just didn’t want it rammed down her throat every five minutes.