Sophie Weston - Midnight Wedding

“I think it’s great that you have so many people who want you to be happy. Even though this isn’t real—I mean—”

“You mean even though this isn’t a real marriage,” said Jack, suddenly harsh.

“Well, yes.” Holly was taken aback. “But they don’t know that. They still wish you well. I think you ought to appreciate that. And remember it always.”

His voice was cynical. “On the cold dark nights when I’m alone?”

Holly winced. “Don’t.”

“You know, I never expected to spend my wedding night planning for the lonely times to come.” Holly hadn’t heard that note of savagery from supercontrolled Jack Armour before.

“But you knew,” she stammered. “You agreed…. It was your idea….”

Born in London, Sophie Weston is a traveler by nature who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance while recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed it so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of London with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories.

Thrilling romance:

MORE THAN A MILLIONAIRE

Books by Sophie Weston

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3630—THE SHEIKH’S BRIDE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

THE group of international journalists was miserable. Ignaz was fourteen thousand feet up in the Andes. The near-vertical track had challenged even the state-of-the-art Land Rover. The rain was relentless, the disaster site was a uniform mud colour and the press officer was clearly out of his depth.

‘What the hell am I going to photograph?’ muttered Elegance magazine’s star feature writer.

‘It will stop in half an hour,’ said a crisp voice behind them.

They all swung round. And saw a Greek god in khaki shorts. There was a silence filled with something between awe and screaming resentment.

‘Jack,’ said the press officer with unmistakable relief. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Dr Jack Armour.’

‘Oh, wow,’ said Elegance magazine reverentially.

It was not difficult to see why. Dr Jack Armour was tall. Not just tall, but somehow larger than life. His skin was tanned to dark gold and you could see a lot of it. In contrast to the journalists huddling in their protective clothing, he wore the minimum, magnificently impervious to the steady downpour. Droplets ran down the muscled chest, darkening the dusting of hair there to black. His long legs were bare.

‘Dr Armour is the American expert I was telling you about. It is he who will show you round the emergency recovery site. Please feel free to ask him anything you want.’

‘Dr Armour!’ muttered Elegance magazine. ‘That is sex on a stick.’ She raised her camera.

‘Good morning,’ said the Greek god, amused.

He led the way up the hillside, moving as easily as a mountain goat, while he kept up a level of informed commentary. The muscular legs made nonsense of the mud, the slope and the ice-rink-slippery patches of exposed rock. Rain dripped off him. He seemed unaware of it, even though his sleeveless cotton jacket left his arms and much of his bronzed chest naked to the elements.

The journalists breathed hard.

‘Sorry about the pace,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got to wind this up fast. I’m flying to Paris today.’

‘Lucky you,’ said one of the panting journalists ruefully.

‘I hate the place. But there’s a meeting I can’t miss.’

Elegance magazine was shocked and said so. ‘Hate Paris? City of culture, city of lovers?’

Jack Armour laughed aloud at that. ‘When I go to Paris I’ll be concentrating on natural disaster statistics. No sightseeing. No sex.’

She pursed her red-painted mouth. ‘So when do you do your—sight-seeing?’ The last two words were loaded with meaning.

The laughter died out of his face, leaving his eyes so dark they looked black in the sulphurous light.

‘Shut up,’ hissed a British journalist out of the corner of his mouth. He knew the man and his sore points.

Jack Armour ignored him and fixed Elegance magazine with a level gaze. It made her shift uncomfortably, a new experience for her.

‘A guy in my line of work has no time for—sight-seeing,’ he said deliberately.

‘But—’

‘Shut up,’ the British journalist hissed again.

Jack’s expression was as yielding as steel. ‘Tried it. Found it doesn’t work. End of experiment.’

Something in the harsh voice silenced even Elegance magazine.

HOLLY stepped carefully out of the elevator, balancing her tower of caterer’s boxes with concentration. She was working hard to repress a superstitious shiver. She hated these huge, impersonal buildings, no matter how luxurious. They reminded her of visiting her mother at work in that vast office in London.

Most of the time she managed to forget all of that: mother, London and that other life. It was nearly eight years ago, after all. Then a train crash had taken her mother’s life and, along with it, every familiar thing in Holly’s schoolgirl existence. It sometimes seemed to her that ever since, wherever she was, she had been a stranger passing through.

The mirrored doors of the elevator reflected back just how much of a stranger. These days she hardly recognised herself. She had shot up on long colt’s legs. Her mid-brown hair had lightened. Now in some lights it almost looked gold. It was still uncontrollably curly. So she kept it long and plaited it for work. Now in her dungarees and baseball cap she looked like a gawky schoolboy.

Here in Paris she had been reborn as a delivery boy, she thought wryly. For the time being.

Her mother, she now realised, had tried to prepare her for life’s unpredictability.

‘Everything’s temporary, Hol,’ she would say, over and over.

All these years later, Holly could recall her huge eyes. Even when she was laughing with her daughter they had always seemed sad.

‘You’ve got to look after yourself,’ she would mutter, hugging Holly to her suffocatingly. ‘Nobody else will.’ And then, when she was exhausted, beyond laughter or sadness, ‘Forgive me.’

Of course Holly had not known there was anything to forgive then. Or nothing more than half her class had to forgive, chiefly the frequent absence of an overworked career mother. She had never known her father. She could not guess that her mother had left a message for him in her will.

But she had. A shocked and grieving Holly had found herself tidied up and transferred to his millionaire’s home in the American mid-West before she knew what was happening to her. So that was when she had discovered for herself the other great truth her mother had bequeathed her: ‘You can’t trust a man, except to break your heart.’