The Runaway Bride And The Billionaire

A Mediterranean escape!

Heartbroken jilted bride Immi Marlowe flees to Isola dei Fiore, desperate to get away. But just around the corner from Villa Rosa, a gorgeous billionaire is waiting to sweep her off her feet...

Matt Stark shares Immi’s sense of adventure, and on the island’s golden beaches they form a connection that neither wants to end. Immi’s stay is supposed to be temporary—but with her secret past revealed, how far will Matt go to prove they can go the distance?

Immi noticed that Matt was still holding her hand; she really ought to find a tactful way of removing her hand from his…

Yet for the life of her she couldn’t pull away, because she liked the feeling of his fingers tangled with hers.

They lay there in a strangely companionable silence, just watching the stars, and Matt pointed out a couple more constellations. ‘That one’s Lupus—the wolf.’ They lay until the air started to get chilly, and then Matt sighed. ‘I guess we’d better get back.’

He saw her back to the house—and they still seemed to be holding hands.

This time he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Immi.’

Her skin tingled where his lips had touched her, and it was the easiest thing in the world to kiss his cheek back. Except somehow he’d moved, and she ended up brushing her mouth against his. It felt as if she’d been galvanised. She felt him go very still, too. And then he dropped the blankets and cushions he’d been holding in his free hand, slid his arms round her and kissed her properly.

It felt as if she were floating among the stars they’d just been watching.

Summer at Villa Rosa

Four sisters escape to the Mediterranean...

Only to find reunions, romance...and royalty!

Villa Rosa holds a very special place in the hearts of Posy Marlowe and her three sisters. It’s filled with memories of idyllic summer holidays on L’Isola dei Fiori. And her recent inheritance of the beautiful but fading palazzo from her godmother, Sofia, couldn’t have come at a better time for them all!

Now, this summer, they all escape to L’Isola dei Fiori and discover Villa Rosa again.

Don’t miss all four books in this fabulous quartet:

On sale June: Her Pregnancy Bombshell

by Liz Fielding (Miranda’s story)

On sale July: The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

by Scarlet Wilson (Portia’s story)

On sale August: The Runaway Bride and the Billionaire

by Kate Hardy (Imogen’s story)

On sale September: A Proposal from the Crown Prince

by Jessica Gilmore (Posy’s story)

Only in Mills & Boon Romance.

And on August 7th Jessica Gilmore brings you an exciting online read—a prequel to Summer at Villa Rosa.

Available at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Runaway Bride and the Billionaire

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATE HARDY has always loved books, and could read before she went to school. She discovered Mills & Boon books when she was twelve and decided this was what she wanted to do. When she isn’t writing Kate enjoys reading, cinema, ballroom dancing and the gym. You can contact her via her website: www.katehardy.com.

To Liz Fielding, Scarlet Wilson and Jessica Gilmore—

I thoroughly enjoyed our time creating

the Marlowe girls and Villa Rosa!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Summer at Villa Rosa

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED to be jealous of your twin.

Especially when you knew she’d just been through a rough time and she deserved every bit of happiness. And especially when it was her wedding day.

Immi really hoped that Andie was feeling so loved-up with Cleve that her twin-sense was temporarily muted and she had no idea that one of her bridesmaids was having a serious wobble.

Though, actually, Immi had a feeling that all three of the bridesmaids were having a serious wobble right now. Posy, the baby of the family, had a smile so bright and brittle that it was practically cracking. The same was true of Portia, the oldest of the Marlowe girls: the family rebel who was behaving so perfectly that she might as well have ‘faking it’ written across her forehead in bright red lipstick.

Maybe she should suggest a midnight rendezvous on the beach, where the three of them could sit and talk—just as they had when they’d been children, snuggling up beneath a duvet and having whispered conversations late into the night. Maybe they could help each other with their problems. But Posy seemed to have closed off to everyone since she’d joined the ballet corps and Portia wasn’t given to talking about personal stuff.

And what did Immi have to whine about anyway? She had a job she loved, helping to run Marlowe Aviation, the family firm; and she was in the run-up to her wedding to Stephen Walters, who was all set to be promoted to her father’s second-in-command at work.

Except Stephen didn’t look at her the way that Cleve looked at Andie.

And Immi had a nasty feeling that she didn’t look at him the way that Andie looked at Cleve: as if there was nobody else on the surface of the planet.

She shook herself. It was probably just the stress of organising her own wedding making her so antsy. There were only two months to go and it had snowballed into a massive affair. Everything was completely under control—organising was what Immi did best—but now she’d seen how gorgeous her sister’s quiet, understated wedding was, it brought home to her that the bridezilla stuff wasn’t what she really wanted for herself, either.

The doubts had been creeping in for weeks. She’d overheard Stephen’s best man Jamie saying that all he had to do was keep his nose clean until Imogen said ‘I do’ and he got the corner office. At the time, she’d tried to dismiss it as banter, but now she wondered if there was something more to it. Stephen had said he was too busy to take time off for Andie’s wedding, and because it was only a small affair he was sure nobody would mind if he didn’t make it. But was a man as ambitious as Stephen Walters really too busy to attend the wedding of the boss’s daughter—his own fiancée’s twin? Or did he have other reasons for not wanting to be here?

Oh, for pity’s sake. She had to stop overthinking things.

And she really had to stop the paranoia. What had happened eight years ago wasn’t going to repeat itself. So what if it was a cliché, marrying the boss’s daughter? Stephen said he loved her. Wanting all the extra frills was just being selfish. Immi was done with being selfish. She’d put her family through enough worries. No more.

* * *

Imogen Marlowe looked amazing, Matt thought.

The first time he’d met her, she’d been wearing a power suit, all businesslike and slightly intimidating and determined to find out exactly what was going on with her twin. The second time he’d met her, early this morning, she’d been barefoot, wearing ankle-grazer faded jeans teamed with an oversized sweater, with a streak of mud on her face from where she’d been raiding the garden for flowers—the beautiful white marguerite daisies that she’d turned into raffia-tied bouquets for the bride and the bridesmaids, and the osteospermum that graced the tables in tin cans with an organza ribbon tied in a bow around them.

Right now, she looked the epitome of cool elegance in a teal-coloured vintage couture gown. The dress was sleeveless, with straps a finger width wide and a neckline that just skimmed her collarbones. A large round brooch made from tiny white seed pearls and four large black pearls was pinned on a vertical bow in the centre of the empire line bodice, and she wore a matching pearl collar. Her dark hair was cut in an immaculate, sharp bob and her make-up was discreet and understated.

And Matt really, really wanted to untie that bow and unwrap her from that dress. Find out exactly what that material was hiding.

He shook himself. Maybe it was the wedding making him soppy. The best man and the bridesmaid, indeed.

But, as the best man, he was supposed to dance with the bridesmaid.

At that very second, human speech seemed to have deserted him. Which was crazy. What was it about this woman that made him feel all tongue-tied?

‘That’s a gorgeous dress, Imogen,’ he said in the end, knowing it sounded lame but not having a clue what else to say.

‘Thank you. It’s one of Sofia’s—my sister Posy’s godmother. And the amazing costume jewellery belonged to her too.’ She gestured to the brooch and the collar.

‘I kind of guessed that.’ He smiled. ‘It’s nice that all four of you sisters are wearing one of her dresses.’

‘It’s almost like her still being here with us,’ Immi agreed. ‘I remember coming to the villa as a child and Sofia always let us play dress-up with her amazing clothes. Though I guess that was because we always treated her stuff with respect—we didn’t smear chocolate everywhere or rip things.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t ever remember seeing this dress when I was little, but it’s so stunning: like an eighteenth-century mantua dress, but updated to have a modern profile.’

‘Mantua?’ he asked.

She gestured to the bow. ‘An open-fronted dress with a matching train and petticoat, and the train’s lifted up to show the petticoat.’

‘Mantua. I’ll remember that.’

‘I only know that because my guilty secret is watching historical dramas,’ she said, giving him a rueful smile that made his heart feel as if it had done a backflip. ‘Portia knows more about that stuff than I do, really.’

Portia was the Hollywood reporter, he remembered. The oldest sister.

‘And it’s good of Posy to let us all borrow the dresses and jewellery. Strictly speaking, they all belong to her now—along with the villa.’

‘But sisters always share. At least, mine do,’ he said.

‘You have sisters?’ She looked surprised.

‘Four. All younger than me.’

‘So you’re used to all the talking, then.’

It was his turn for the rueful smile. ‘Just a bit. Um, as the bridesmaid and the best man, I’m guessing we ought to...?’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, and let him lead her onto the temporary dance floor.

* * *

This was bad, Immi thought. Seriously bad.

Matt Stark was Cleve’s best man—a guy who lived in the cottage down the road and had kept an eye on the Villa Rosa since Sofia’s death. According to Andie, he was a computer genius who’d made a fortune from a computer program that helped people run their homes by voice control—everything from turning a house alarm on or off to opening curtains, changing the thermostat on a heating system or dimming a light. Immi had been introduced to Matt’s mother Gloria earlier, and understood at that moment exactly what had driven her son to make the program: Gloria was in a wheelchair, crippled by arthritis, and Matt’s computer system had given her back some of her independence.

He’d kept an eye on Sofia, too; although he hadn’t managed to persuade her to let him install a satellite phone for emergencies, she had agreed to let him rig up a bell she could ring if she needed help.

And he’d rescued Immi’s spider-hating twin from having to stick her head in a cupboard full of cobwebs.

Matt Stark was one of the good guys, and it was fine for her to like him instantly.

It was also fine for her to appreciate that he was good-looking—tall, with brown eyes and dark hair brushed back from his forehead, and a tiny little quirk at the corners of his mouth that told her he smiled often.

What wasn’t fine was for her to tingle where he touched her. Particularly because she didn’t feel like that when her husband-to-be touched her.

She needed to get a grip. Make an excuse that she needed to go and fiddle with the flowers on the table, or something. But for the life of her she couldn’t pull herself out of Matt’s arms. It felt as if she was under some weird kind of spell. All the social graces she used every single day in business had simply deserted her. She had no idea what to say to him.

Worse still, she found herself looking at his mouth again. Wondering. Supposing it was just the two of them and the night and the music? Dancing under the stars, in the garden that overlooked the sea, with the air full of the scent of roses...

And he was looking at her mouth as if he was thinking exactly the same thing. Wondering what it would be like if they kissed. Wondering how she tasted.

She couldn’t breathe.

This was all wrong. She shouldn’t even be thinking about kissing another man. She was getting married in eight weeks’ time. She was meant to be in love with her fiancé, not thinking about kissing Matt Stark in front of her entire family at her twin sister’s wedding.

And yet she could feel her lips parting. Feel him drawing her that tiny bit closer, enough that she could feel the heat of his body against hers. Feel herself tipping her head back...

* * *

Insta-lust, that was what his sisters called this feeling, Matt remembered. Instant crazy attraction.

It had nothing to do with the glamorous dress or the high heels, and everything to do with the woman in his arms. She felt soft and sweet and the perfect fit. And he was pretty sure she felt it, too: because her hazel eyes had turned almost golden, her pupils were huge and that perfect rosebud mouth was parted ever so slightly.

All he had to do was dip his head...

And he was just about to do it when he noticed something.

Something that made him feel as if several buckets of ice-cold water had been dropped on him.

How the hell had he missed that rock on her left hand? That huge hands-off-she’s-mine signal?

It might be traditional for the best man to dance with the bridesmaid, but that was as far as this could go. Much as Matt wanted to kiss Imogen Marlowe, he couldn’t. He didn’t remember seeing her with anyone at the actual wedding, but that massive diamond practically screamed that she was engaged.

He forced himself to ask, ‘Is your fiancé here this evening?’

And then he saw all the colour drain out of her face and horror fill her eyes. As if she were completely shocked by what had almost just happened.

‘I—er, no. He couldn’t make it. Business,’ she said swiftly.

Business was more important than the wedding of his fiancée’s twin sister?

If Immi had been his sister and her fiancé hadn’t shown up to the wedding of any of the other sisters, Matt would’ve been asking some very serious questions. Starting with whether said fiancé was the right man for her, if he couldn’t put her first in his life.

But this was none of his business.

And he wasn’t going to get involved with someone who wasn’t free.

‘Pity,’ Matt said, keeping his voice as expressionless as possible. And as soon as the dance was over, he gave her his politest smile. ‘I guess I need to dance with the other bridesmaids now.’

‘Best man duties. Of course,’ she said, looking relieved.

‘See you later.’ And he’d make very sure that there was distance between them for the rest of the evening. No more up close and personal. Because Imogen Marlowe was completely off limits.

CHAPTER ONE

A month later

‘HONEY, I’M HO—’ Immi stopped mid-word in the entrance hall of her flat.

There were shoes lying in the middle of the floor, clearly kicked off and abandoned without a thought—women’s shoes that weren’t hers.

A little further on was a skirt. Also not hers.

A top. Also not hers.

A black lacy push-up bra, just outside the door to her bedroom.

She dragged in a breath. There had to be good reason for a trail of another woman’s clothes leading to her bedroom. Stephen knew she wasn’t due back from her business trip until tomorrow. Maybe he’d lent the key to the flat to one of his friends.

Because the logical explanation made her sick to her stomach.

Her fiancé wouldn’t be cheating on her, in her own bed, a month before their wedding...would he?

But there were noises coming from the bedroom. Familiar noises. And the hope that she was making a fuss over nothing died as she heard a woman screaming, ‘Oh, Stephen!’

Oh, God...oh, God...oh, God...

This was eight years ago, all over again. When she hadn’t been feeling well at a party and had gone to get her coat from the bedroom, only to discover her boyfriend having sex under the pile of coats with another girl.

Except this time was so much worse. Because it wasn’t the teenage boy she’d given her virginity to, the boy who’d sneered from under the pile of coats that he’d only slept with her for a bet because nobody would have really wanted to sleep with Immi the Elephant.

This was the man she was meant to be marrying.

Cold seeped all the way through her. There had to be some mistake.

‘Oh, Stephen, yes!’

No mistake, then.

She dragged in a deep breath. She could back away, close the front door quietly, pretend she hadn’t seen anything and then go to a coffee shop. Then she could call Stephen to say that she’d managed to conclude her meeting early and would be home in an hour. It would give him enough time to get his girlfriend out of her flat and clean up all traces of the woman’s presence. Immi could simply forget what she’d seen and pretend that nothing had happened.

But did she really want to spend the rest of her life living a lie? Marry a man who clearly didn’t love her, despite his protestations—because why else would he be seeing another woman behind her back?

Immi the Elephant.

She shook herself. She wasn’t an insecure, unhappy teenager any more. And she wasn’t going to do what she’d done back then and try to starve herself into what she’d thought was an acceptable shape. She’d worked hard to become who she was now: Imogen Marlowe, a strong, successful businesswoman.

And she was going to deal with this exactly as a strong, successful businesswoman would.

Lifting her chin, she marched over to the bedroom door. She banged on it twice—judging that it would give Stephen’s girlfriend just about enough time to cover herself with bedding, because Immi definitely didn’t need to be faced with the total naked truth—and opened the door.

‘What the—?’ Stephen began.

‘Who the hell are you?’ the girl squeaked, holding the bedclothes tightly against herself. ‘Stevie? What’s going on?’

Immi stared at the girl. She looked young, easily impressed. No doubt Stephen had turned on the charm. Charm that Immi now knew was as designer as his clothes and just as easily shed. ‘I,’ she said quietly, ‘am the person who owns this flat. Stephen’s fiancée.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘Well, I was his fiancée up until about two minutes ago, when I walked in to find your clothes all over the floor in my hallway and you screaming his name in my bed.’

The girl at least had the grace to blush and fall silent.

‘Immi! Look, this isn’t what you—’ Stephen began.

‘On the contrary,’ Immi cut in. ‘It’s exactly what I think it is. And now I know what Jamie meant by keeping your nose clean until the wedding. Pity you didn’t listen to him. But I’m glad you didn’t—because if I’d come home early from business and caught you in my bed with a girlfriend after we were married, it would’ve been that much worse. At least now I don’t have the mess of a divorce to deal with.’ Just a big, glitzy wedding to unpick. A wedding that had already snowballed until it felt as if it had taken on a life of its own.

Stephen looked too shocked to say another word.

Good.

Because she was only just holding herself together as it was.

She took his engagement ring off her finger and dropped it on the floor. ‘I’m going out for an hour and a half,’ she said. ‘When I get back, I expect you, your girlfriend and all your stuff to be gone.’

‘But, Immi—’

‘And you needn’t bother returning your key or getting it back from however many women you’ve given it to,’ she cut in, not wanting to hear any excuses, ‘because I’m getting the locks changed.’

‘Immi, don’t do this. I love you.’

A month or so ago, she might have believed him. But not after her twin’s wedding. Not after seeing the emotion in the eyes of a man who really did love the woman walking down the aisle towards him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You love the idea of being married to the boss’s daughter. Getting the corner office.’ And how it hurt to admit it. She’d been Immi the Elephant, the means to win a bet, to Shaun. She’d been the means to an end for Stephen. She’d spent her teen years battling the feeling of inadequacy, and even now she had days when the doubts swamped her—but she still knew she deserved better than this. ‘I’m guessing Dad might not be too keen on that idea, now.’

He went white. ‘Immi—’

If he’d said that he was sorry, she might’ve considered listening to him. But instead he’d tried to pull the wool over her eyes. Tried to lie his way out of it. Tried to tell her that finding him completely naked with another woman in her own bed wasn’t what she thought it was.

Did he think she was that pathetic and needy, that she’d go ahead and marry a man who clearly had no respect for her?

‘No,’ she said, and turned on her heel and walked out.

A few minutes later, Immi was sitting in a quiet corner of a nearby coffee shop, without a clue how she’d managed to walk there or how she’d even ordered anything, but in front of her was an espresso and her phone.

The phone whose ringer she’d turned to silent, but every time Stephen’s name flashed up on the screen she hit the ‘ignore’ button.

She ignored his texts, too.

Well, she’d seen them on her screen. Each one was increasingly desperate—no doubt as he realised that the glittering prize of Marlowe Aviation was slipping out of his grasp.

Immi, please.

Forgive me.

I don’t know why I did it.

I love you.

No. He didn’t love her at all. And he knew exactly why he’d slept with that girl: because he wanted to.

She couldn’t forgive him for a betrayal like that.

Particularly as he still hadn’t said the little five-letter word that might’ve made her talk to him. So clearly he wasn’t sorry at all. Or maybe just sorry that he’d been caught.

She took a sip of the coffee. It didn’t taste of anything, but she forced herself to drink it. She was not going back to being the bad twin, the one everyone worried about because she’d gone off the rails and starved herself as a teen—not quite far enough to need hospitalisation, but enough to need counselling. The girl whose family looked at her collarbones before they looked at her face, and who made a point of hugging her just to check for themselves that she wasn’t any more slender than the last time they’d hugged her.