Heidi Rice - The Good, The Bad And The Wild

‘Heidi Rice is simply brilliant when it comes to

writing sharp, sassy and sexy romantic novels!’

—www.cataromance.com

‘The amusing opening spins into

an emotional and heartfelt story.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Hot-Shot Tycoon

‘I was actually breathless while reading this book….

It’s a sensual ride you won’t want to lose

the opportunity of reading.’

—www.thePinkHeartSociety.com on

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

HEIDI RICEwas born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer for the last ten years. Then a few years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon ®novel.

Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.comor visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com

On the First Night of Christmas…

Cupcakes and Killer Heels

Unfinished Business with the Duke

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Abby Green, for seeing me to the end of this book,

and being a fabulous roomie in NYC 2011!

With special thanks to Michelle Styles,

who knows the Bay Area much better than I do.

‘DON’T look now, but he’s here and he’s right behind us.’

Eva Redmond’s heart catapulted into her throat as the urgent whisper from her old college chum Tess sliced through the hum of polite conversation and the tinkle of champagne glasses in the upscale San Francisco art gallery. ‘Are you sure?’

Tess looked past Eva’s right shoulder. ‘Tall? Check.’ She nodded. ‘Dark? Check. Handsome? Check. The only one not in a suit? Check.’ She grinned at Eva. ‘Yup, it’s definitely your rebel scriptwriter.’ Her gaze flicked past Eva again. ‘And you’re in luck. Not only is he alone. But he’s even hotter than his photo.’

Eva stared blankly at the six foot square canvas in front of her—which was titled The Explosion of the Senses, but looked more like an explosion in a paint factory to her untrained eye—and swallowed down the knot of apprehension that had been tightening around her larynx ever since she’d boarded the plane at Heathrow that morning.

The knowledge that the man she’d travelled five thousand miles to meet was standing a few feet away made it feel as if she were trying to swallow a boulder.

‘Goodie,’ she muttered.

Tess laughed and nudged her. ‘Don’t sound so pleased.’

‘Why would I be pleased?’ Eva whispered back, fairly sure Nick Delisantro’s extreme hotness was not going to work in her favour. If only he were a geeky academic. Sticking with what you knew might be dull. But dull had its advantages.

‘Why wouldn’t you be?’ Tess countered. ‘Giving a scorching hot guy the news that he’s the heir to a fortune in Italian real estate is what I’d call a win-win situation.’

Eva nobly resisted the urge to sneak a peek over her shoulder. ‘Yes, but I’m not you, am I?’ she remarked wryly as she studied her friend dispassionately.

In her ice-blue, off the shoulder silk gown and six-inch designer heels, Tess looked elegant, slim, super-confident—and completely at home in the rarefied atmosphere of a gallery opening in San Francisco’s Union Square neighbourhood. Which wasn’t at all surprising. Tess had spent the last three years building a formidable reputation as an events planner in the US and even at university she’d been able to schmooze for England. Eva meanwhile had spent the years since she’d gained her first at Cambridge burying her nose in dusty antiquarian documents and computer research data. She couldn’t schmooze to save her life—and she’d never felt more out of place than among all these beautiful people who had elevated socialising to an art form.

The admission touched some lonely place deep inside. She shook off the thought. She wasn’t lonely; her life was exactly how she wanted it. Settled, secure, content. Until two days ago, when her boss Henry Crenshawe had demanded she travel halfway round the globe to be humiliated in public.

‘And it’s not as simple as telling him he could be the Duca D’Alegria’s grandson. I’ll also have to tell him the man he always thought was his biological father isn’t.’ Eva tensed at the thought of having such an intimate conversation with a stranger. A scorching hot stranger who had steadfastly ignored all her attempts to contact him in close to a month. ‘I shouldn’t have let you talk me into asking him for an appointment here. It’s not appropriate.’

Tess gave an easy shrug. ‘So don’t ask him straight away. Flirt with him first. He’ll be much more amenable. I guarantee it.’

Eva doubted that. She didn’t know how to flirt and this man was a master at it. During her extensive research for the firm’s high-profile new client, it was one of the few things she’d managed to discover about the elusive Niccolo Carmine Delisantro—the man who she had deduced was almost certainly the illegitimate grandson Don Vincenzo Palatino Vittorio Savargo De Rossi, the Duca D’Alegria, was offering a small fortune to locate.

The dry facts of Delisantro’s life had told her very little about him as a person—North London runaway turned successful Hollywood scriptwriter and San Francisco resident who had scripted the biggest box-office hit of the decade five years ago—except that he was a wow with the ladies and he guarded his privacy like a hawk.

‘You can take a look now, and see what you’re up against.’ Tess indicated with her champagne flute. ‘Kate Elmsly’s cornered him,’ she finished, mentioning the perky and persistent gallery owner who had greeted them both earlier.

Trying to even her breathing, Eva turned. And her lungs seized to a halt. The back of her neck bristled as she took a hasty sip of her champagne cocktail. This was worse than she thought.