The Final Seduction

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?’