Christmas Wishes, Mistletoe Kisses

Louise couldn’t quite believe her eyes. On almost every available surface there were candles, and a fire was crackling brightly. There was holly and ivy on the mantel, and in the corner, near one of the windows…a Christmas tree!

Not a huge one, but at least five feet high, bare except for a silver star on top. She spotted a box of decorations sitting on the floor, waiting to be hung. She picked a bauble out of the box and fingered it gently.

How…? Who…? Ben!

Not knowing what else to do, she sat cross-legged in front of the fire, staring at the patterns on the tiles until they danced in front of her eyes. Was this guy for real? Tears sprang to her eyes and she wiped them away hastily. No one had ever gone out of their way to do something so special for her before.

Louise stood up and placed a hand over her mouth. Oh, this was dangerous. All at once she saw the folly of her whole ‘daydreaming is safe’ plan. It was backfiring spectacularly. Her mind now constantly drifted towards Ben Oliver. And now her brain was starting to clamour for more than just fantasies. Especially when he did things like this. She was aching for all the moments she’d rehearsed in her head to become real…

As a child, Fiona Harper was constantly teased for either having her nose in a book, or living in a dream world. Things haven’t changed much since then, but at least in writing she’s found a use for her runaway imagination. After studying dance at university, Fiona worked as a dancer, teacher and choreographer, before trading in that career for video-editing and production. When she became a mother she cut back on her working hours to spend time with her children, and when her littlest one started pre-school she found a few spare moments to rediscover an old but not forgotten love—writing.

Fiona lives in London, but her other favourite places to be are the Highlands of Scotland, and the Kent countryside on a summer’s afternoon. She loves cooking good food and anything cinnamon-flavoured. Of course she still can’t keep away from a good book, or a good movie—especially romances—but only if she’s stocked up with tissues, because she knows she will need them by the end, be it happy or sad. Her favourite things in the world are her wonderful husband, who has learned to decipher her incoherent ramblings, and her two daughters.

Recent titles by the same author:

SAYING YES TO THE MILLIONAIRE

ENGLISH LORD, ORDINARY LADY

BREAK UP TO MAKE UP

HER PARENTHOOD ASSIGNMENT

Dear Reader

Everyone has their own family Christmas traditions, don’t they? I discovered that all-important fact when I got married. In my family we used to rush downstairs on Christmas morning and tear open our presents before breakfast. Imagine the sheer self-restraint I had to show when I discovered that my husband’s family opened theirs after Christmas dinner, and only when all the washing up was done and everyone had a cup of tea in their hands. How I managed to hold out that first year, I’ll never know.

Anyway, my husband and I have managed to combine our families’ different Christmas cultures and have come up with a few of our own too. One thing I absolutely cannot be without on Christmas day is bread sauce! It sounds odd, but it’s a traditional English accompaniment to roast turkey, and so easy to make!

First, fill a pan with a pint of milk. Stud an onion with three cloves and place in the milk, along with a bay leaf. Bring the milk to the boil, then remove from the heat. Discard the onion and the bay leaf, add four ounces of white breadcrumbs and season. Cook for five minutes, stirring until the sauce has thickened. Remove from the heat and stir in one ounce of butter and four tablespoons of single cream. Spoon into a serving dish, sprinkle with grated nutmeg and, voilà, you have a little bit of heaven to go with your Christmas lunch. Once you’ve tried it, you’ll never go back—I promise!

Christmas blessings and a happy New Year

Fiona Harper

CHRISTMAS WISHES, MISTLETOE KISSES

BY

FIONA HARPER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mum, I love you.

CHAPTER ONE

MOST women would have given at least one kidney to be in Louise’s shoes—both literally and figuratively. The shoes in question were hot off the Paris catwalk, impossibly high heels held to her foot by delicately interwoven silver straps. The main attraction, however, was the man sitting across the dinner table from her. The very same hunk of gorgeousness who had topped a magazine poll of ‘Hollywood’s Hottest’ only last Thursday.

Louise stared at her cutlery, intent on tracing a figure of eight pattern on her dessert spoon and eavesdropped on conversations in the busy restaurant. Other people’s conversations. Other people’s lives.

Her dinner companion shifted in his seat and the heel of his boot made jarring contact with the little toe of her right foot. She jerked away and leaned over to rub it.

‘Thanks a bunch, Toby!’ she said, glaring at him from half under the table.

Toby stopped grinning at a pair of bleached blonde socialites who were in the process of wafting past their table and turned to face her, eyebrows raised. ‘What?’

‘Never mind,’ she muttered and sat up straight again, carefully crossing her ankles and tucking them under her chair. Her little toe was still warm and pulsing.

The waiter appeared with their exquisite-looking entrées and Toby’s eyebrows relaxed back into their normal ‘sexily brooding’ position as he started tearing into his guinea-fowl. Louise’s knife and fork stayed on the tablecloth.

He hadn’t even bothered with his normal comments about the carbs on her plate. She was supposed to be getting rid of that baby weight, remember? Never mind that Jack had just turned eight. His father was still living in a dream world if he thought she was going to be able to squeeze back into those size zero designer frocks hanging in the back of her wardrobe.

But then Toby had emotionally checked out of their marriage some time ago. She kept up the pretence for Jack’s sake, posed and smiled for the press and celebrity magazines and fiercely denied any rumours of a rift. He hadn’t ever said he’d stopped loving her, but it was evident in the things he didn’t do, the things he didn’t say. And then there was the latest rumour…

She picked up her cutlery and attacked her pasta.

‘Slow down, Lulu! No one’s timing you,’ Toby said, eyes still on his plate.

Lulu. When they’d first met, she’d thought it had been cute that he’d picked up on, and used, her baby brother’s attempts at her name. Lulu was exotic, exciting…and a heck of a lot more interesting than plain old Louise. She’d liked being Lulu back then.

Now she just wanted him to see Louise again. She stopped eating and looked at him, waiting for him to raise his head, give her a smile, his trademark cheeky wink—anything.

He waved for the waiter and asked for another bottle of wine. Then she saw him glance across and nod at the two blondes, now seated a few tables away, but not once in the next ten minutes did he look at her. Her seat might as well have been empty.

‘Toby?’

‘What?’ Finally he glanced in her direction. But once, where she had been able to see her dreams coming to life, there was only a vacancy.

He rubbed his front tooth with his forefinger and it made a horrible squeaking noise. ‘Do I have spinach on my teeth, or something?’

She shook her head. What spinach would dare sully the picture of masculine perfection sitting opposite her? The thought was almost sacrilegious. She was tempted to laugh.

The words wouldn’t come. How did you ask what she wanted to ask? And how did you stand the answer?

She tried to say it with her eyes instead. When she’d been modelling, photographers had always raved about the ‘intensity’ in her eyes. She tried to show it all—the emptiness inside her, the magnetic force that kept the pair of them revolving around each other, the small spark of hope that hadn’t quite been extinguished yet. If he’d just do it once…really connect with her…

‘Jeez, Lulu. Cheer up, will—’

A chime from the phone in his pocket interrupted him. He slid it out and held it shielded in his hand and slightly under the table. The only change in his features was a slight curve of his bottom lip. Now he looked at her properly. He searched her face for a reaction, and then returned the mobile to his jacket pocket and returned his gaze to his plate.

She waited.

He shrugged. ‘Work stuff. You know…’

Unfortunately she had the feeling that she did know. And she kept knowing all the way through dinner as she shoved one forkful after another into her mouth, tasting nothing.

The rumour was true.

All afternoon, since she’d spoken to her friend on the phone, she’d hoped it was all silly speculation, someone putting two and two together and coming up with five. Six years ago, when the tabloids had been jumping with the stories of Toby’s ‘secret love trysts’ with his leading lady, she’d refused to believe it, had given interview after interview denying there had been any truth in it. During the second ‘incident’ she’d done the same but, while her outward performance had been just as impassioned, inside she’d been counting all the things that hadn’t added up: the hushed phone calls, the extra meetings with his agent. Never enough to pin him down, but just enough to make her die a little more each time she shook her head for the reporters and dismissed it as nonsense.

She blocked out the busy restaurant with her eyelids. No way could she go through that again. And no way could she put Jack through it. He’d been too young to understand before, but he was reading so well now. What if he saw something on the front of a newspaper? She squeezed her jaw together. What kind of message was she giving to her son by lying to the world and letting Toby use her as a doormat? What kind of man would he become if this was his example?

‘Oh, my God! It’s Tobias Thornton! Can I have your autograph?’

Louise’s eyes snapped open and she stared at two women hovering—no, make that drooling—next to Toby’s chair. Toby smiled and did the gracious but smouldering thing his fans loved him for as he put his ostentatious squiggle on the woman’s napkin. Louise just tapped her foot.

Only when they’d finished gushing and jiggling on the spot did they glance at her. And a split second scowl was obviously all she was worth. They didn’t even bother keeping their voices down as they walked away. Huddled over her new treasure, she clearly heard one say, ‘He is so hot!’

Toby opened his mouth to speak but, once again, his phone got the first word in. He glanced at the display, stifled a smile, then gestured to Louise that he was going to have to take this one. ‘My agent,’ he mouthed as he walked off to stand near the bar.

My foot, thought Louise, as the waiter cleared her half-eaten pasta.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he talked. Her husband smiled and laughed and absent-mindedly preened himself in the mirror behind the bar. His agent was male, over fifty and as wide as he was tall. No, Louise could do the maths. And the number she kept coming up with was four.

Even as something withered inside her, she sat up straighter in her chair. She demanded eye contact from Toby as he finished his call and sauntered back towards her. Now she got her smile—warm, bright, his eyes telling her she was the most wonderful thing in the world.

As he sat down at the table, he reached for her hand and brushed her knuckle with the tip of his thumb. Louise leaned forward and smiled back at him, turning on the wattage as only a former model knew how to do. And when Toby leaned in, clearly hoping he was going to be able to have his cake and eat it too this evening, she let the grin slide from her face and spoke in a low, scratchy whisper.

‘Toby…’ She paused, mentally adding all the names she wasn’t about to call him out loud. ‘I want a divorce.’

A hefty gust of wind blew up the river and ruffled the tips of the waves. The small dinghy rocked as Ben tied it to an ancient blackened mooring ring on a stone jetty. He stared at the knot and did an extra half-hitch, just to be sure, then climbed out, walked up along the jetty and headed up a narrow, stony path that traversed the steep and wooded hill.

He whistled as he walked, stopping every now and then just to smell the clean, slightly salty air and listen to the nagging seagulls that swooped over the river. At first glance it seemed as if he was walking through traditional English countryside, but every now and then he would pass a reminder that this wasn’t a wilderness, but a once-loved, slightly exotic garden. Bamboo hid among the oaks and palms stood shoulder to shoulder with willows and birches.

After only ten minutes the woods thinned and faded away until he was standing in a grassy clearing that was dominated by a majestic, if slightly crumbling, white Georgian mansion.

Each time he saw this beautiful building now, he felt a little sadder. Even if he hadn’t known its history, hadn’t known that the last owner had been dead for more than two years, he would have been able to tell that Whitehaven was empty. There was something eerily vacant about those tall windows that stared, unblinking, out over the treetops to the river below and the rolling countryside of the far bank.

He ambled up to the front porch and tugged at a trail of ivy that had wound itself up the base of one of the thick white pillars. It had been nearly a month since his last visit and the grounds were so huge there was no way he could single-handedly keep the advancing weeds at bay. Too many vines and brambles were sneaking up to the house, reclaiming the land as their own.

Laura would have hated to see her beloved garden’s gradual surrender. He could imagine her reaction if she could have seen it now—the sharp shake of her snowy-white head, the determined glint in those cloudy eyes. Laura would have flexed her knobbly knuckles and reached for the secateurs in a shot. Not that her arthritic hands could have done much good.

At ninety-two, she’d been a feisty old bird, one worthy of such a demanding and magical place as Whitehaven. Perhaps that was why he came up here on the Sundays when it was his ex-wife’s turn to have Jasmine for the weekend. Perhaps that was why he tended to the lilies and carnivorous plants in the greenhouses and mowed the top and bottom lawns. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head as he crunched across the gravel driveway and made his way round the house and past the old stable block. He was keeping it all in trust on Laura’s behalf until the new owner came. Then he’d be able to spend his Sunday afternoons dozing in front of the rugby on TV and trying not to notice how still the house was without his whirlwind of a daughter.

He ducked through an arch and entered the walled garden. The whole grassy area was enclosed by a moss-covered red brick wall, and sloping greenhouses filled one side. It was the time of year that the insect-eating plants liked to hibernate and he needed to check on them, make sure the temperature in the old glasshouses was warm enough.

And so he pottered away for a good ten minutes, checking pots and inspecting leaves, until he heard a crash behind him. Instantly, he swung round, knocking a couple of tall pitcher plants off the bench.

The first thing he saw was the eyes—large, dark and stormy.

‘Get out! Get off my property at once!’

She was standing, hands on hips and her legs apart, but he noticed that she kept her distance and worried the ends of her coat sleeves with her fingers. His hands shot up in surrender and he backed away slightly, just to show he wasn’t a threat.

‘Sorry! I didn’t realise…I didn’t know anybody had—’

‘You’re trespassing!’

He nodded. Technically, he was. Only up until a few seconds ago he hadn’t known anybody cared—save a dead film star who’d loved this place as unconditionally as the children she’d never had.

‘I made a promise to the previous owner, when she was ill, that I would look after the garden until the house was sold.’

She just stared at him. Now his heart rate was starting to return to normal, he had time to look a little more closely at her. She was dressed entirely in black: black boots, black trousers and a long black coat. She even had long, almost-black hair. And, beneath her heavy fringe, her face held a stark and defiant beauty.

‘Well, the house has been sold. To me. So you can clear off now,’ she said.

He pressed his lips together. There wasn’t much he could say to that. But the thought of leaving Whitehaven and never coming back shadowed him like a black rain cloud. This new woman—striking as she was—didn’t look like the sort to potter around a greenhouse or dead-head flower borders.

He picked up his coat from where it lay on the bench and turned to go. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I won’t come again.’

‘Wait!’

He had almost reached the door at the end of the long, narrow greenhouse before she called out. He stopped, but didn’t turn round straight away. Slowly, and with a spark of matching defiance in his eyes, he circled round to face her.

She took a few steps forward, then stopped, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘The estate agent told me the place has been empty for years. Why do you still come?’

He shrugged. ‘A promise is a promise.’

Her brows crinkled and she nodded. A long silence stretched between them, yet he didn’t move because he had the oddest feeling she was on the verge of saying something. Finally, when she knotted her hands further and looked away, he took his signal to leave.

This time, he had his hand on the door knob before she spoke.

‘Did you really know her? Laura Hastings?’

He let his hand drop to his side and looked over his shoulder. ‘Yes.’ A flash of irritation shot through him. For some unfathomable reason, he’d not expected this of her. He’d thought her better than one of those busybodies who craved gossip about celebrities.

‘What was she like?’ Her voice was quiet, not gushing and over-inquisitive, but her question still annoyed him.

He stared at her blankly. ‘I really must be going. I meant what I said. I won’t trespass here again.’

She ran after him as he swung the greenhouse door open and stepped out into the chilly October air. He could hear the heels of her boots clopping on the iron grating in the greenhouse floor. The noise echoed and magnified and he let the door swing shut to muffle it.

‘Hey! You’re going the wrong way!’

No, he wasn’t. And he wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat, either.

She didn’t give up, though. Even though it must have been hell to stride after him in those high-heeled boots, she kept pace. Something to do with those long legs, probably. Either the changeable riverside weather had turned milder, or he could feel the hot anger radiating out from her as she closed the gap. He left the walled garden through a different gate from the one he’d entered by and chose a path that took him back down the hill towards his boat.

‘I asked you to get off my land!’

He stopped and turned in one motion, and was surprised to find himself almost nose to nose with her. Not that she quite matched his six foot two, but she had the advantage of heels and a slight slope.

She stepped back but her eyes lost none of their ferocity.

He didn’t have time for mood swings and tantrums. He had more than he could handle of those from Megan at the moment. That was why coming to Whitehaven was such a good distraction on a Sunday afternoon. It soothed him.

He looked Miss High-and-Mighty right back in the eyes. ‘And I’m getting off your land as fast as I can.’ Even though he had a strange sense that she was the trespasser. She was the one spoiling the peace and quiet of the one perfect spot in this world.

Her lips pressed together in a pout. One that might have been quite appealing if he weren’t so angry with her for being here. ‘The road is that way.’ She jerked a thumb in the direction of the drive.

‘I know.’ He deliberately didn’t elaborate for a few seconds. Just because he was feeling unusually awkward, although, in the back of his mind, he knew she was bearing the brunt of his frustration with someone else. But the woman in front of him was cut from the same cloth—exclusive designer cloth, by the look of it—and he just couldn’t seem to stem his reaction. He took a deep breath. ‘But my boat is tied up down by the boathouse.’

He blinked, waiting for more of her frosty words.

‘I have a boathouse?’ Once again, the tide had changed and she was suddenly back to being wistful and dreamy and far too beautiful to be real. That just got his goat even more. When she spoke again she was staring off into the bare treetops above his head. ‘It’s real? It wasn’t just a film set?’

He shrugged and set off down the path and his features hardened as he heard her following him.

‘Now what? I’m going, okay?’ he called out, only half-turning to let the words drift over his shoulder.

‘I want to see the boathouse.’

Ben normally loved the walk back down the hill on an autumn afternoon, but today it was totally ruined for him. He couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the leaves, ranging from pale yellow to deep crimson. He didn’t even stop to watch the trails of smoke snaking from the cottages of Lower Hadwell, just across the river. All he could hear were the footsteps behind him. All he could see—even though she was directly behind him and completely out of sight—was a pair of intense, dark eyes looking scornfully at him. It wasn’t a moment too soon when he spotted the uneven stone steps that led down to the jetty.

As he reached the top step he heard a loud gasp behind him. Instinctively, he turned and put out a hand to steady her. But she hadn’t stumbled. And she hadn’t even registered his impulsive offer of help. She stood with her hands over her mouth and her eyes shining. Great. Now it was time for the waterworks. He was out of here.

As quickly as he could, he made his way to where his boat was tied and started untying the painter, busily ignoring her slow descent of the steps behind him. Just as he was about to step off the jetty and into the dinghy his mobile phone chimed in his back pocket. He would have ignored it, but it was Megan’s ring tone. Something might have happened to their daughter.

And, since she was standing within reaching distance, not doing much but staring at the old stone boathouse, he slapped the end of the rope into the frosty woman’s hands and dug around in his jeans pocket for his phone.

‘Dad?’ Not Megan, but Jasmine.

‘What’s up, Jellybean?’

There was a snort on the other end of the line. ‘Do you have to keep calling me that? I’m almost twelve. It’s hardly dignified.’

Ben’s brows lowered over his eyes. Less than twenty-four hours out of his custody and she was already starting to sound like her mother. ‘What’s up, Jas?’

‘Mum says she can’t drop me off this evening. She’s got something on. Can you come and get me?’

Ben looked at his watch. Jasmine had been due back at five. It was past three now. ‘What time?’ Maybe it was just as well he’d had to leave Whitehaven early. It would take all of that time to cross the river, walk back to the cottage and drive the ten miles to Totnes.

He waited while his daughter had a muffled conference with her mother.