Carole Mortimer - Claiming His Christmas Bride

Molly’s mouth had gone dry, and color warmed her cheeks as she saw Gideon’s dark gaze follow the movement of her tongue across her lips.

She could barely breathe, was aware of Gideon with every sense and nerve of her body—aware of him in a way she had never been aware of any man before.

What would he say, this man who believed she had been his brother James’s mistress, if the two of them were ever to make love and he discovered that she had never had a lover—that, at twenty-nine, she was still a virgin?

CAROLE MORTIMER was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written an amazing 125 books for Mills & Boon ®. Carole is married to Peter and she has four sons, Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter Jr., and a bearded collie called Merlyn. They live in an old farmhouse in the English countryside.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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About the Author CAROLE MORTIMER was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written an amazing 125 books for Mills & Boon ® . Carole is married to Peter and she has four sons, Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter Jr., and a bearded collie called Merlyn. They live in an old farmhouse in the English countryside.

Title Page Claiming His Christmas Bride Carole Mortimer www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

‘I REALIZE this is a christening, but isn’t it a little early in the day’s proceedings to be wetting the baby’s head?’

Caught in the act of raising the glass of champagne to her lips, Molly froze. Unfortunately, the bubbly wine in the glass didn’t freeze, too, slopping over the side to splash over her hand and down her wrist, instantly soaking into the sleeve of her jacket.

‘Even for you,’ that taunting voice added derisively.

Molly looked up indignantly, glaring across at the man who stood in the doorway watching her with hooded eyes so dark a blue they were almost the same colour as the iris.

Gideon Webber…!

She closed her eyes briefly. It had to be him who caught her guzzling a glass of champagne, didn’t it? It just had to be!

He was the reason she had sneaked in here for this illicit glass of champagne in the first place, knowing she was going to need every bit of help she could find to face him later on this morning.

Except it wasn’t later. It was now. And as she glanced back across at Gideon Webber she could see that same look of contempt on his arrogant face as had been there the last time she had seen him. The first as well as the last!

Not that the man looked any less lethally attractive than he had just over three years ago, when they had last met; his hair was that strange but attractive mixture of golden blond and molasses, his eyes that deep cobalt-blue, his nose long and arrogant, over a finely chiselled mouth, his chin square and determined. The last time Molly had seen him he had been wearing casual denims and a tee shirt, but today he looked even more arrogantly attractive in the formal dark suit and snowy white shirt, the latter complementing his golden tan.

Which he had no doubt recently acquired at some expensive ski resort—it was all right for some! Molly thought uncharitably.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ she snapped, even as she put the glass down on the table. She reached into her bag to look for the tissue she had put in there earlier for emergencies, having decided she had to be ready for any eventuality today! The last thing she wanted was to start sniffing in the middle of her nephew’s christening.

Gideon Webber shrugged broad shoulders, the slightly contemptuous smile still curving that arrogant mouth. ‘You seem to be rather—fond of—the odd glass or six, shall we say?’ He arched mocking brows.

‘No, we will not say!’ Molly returned waspishly, stuffing the ineffectual tissue back in her bag. The sleeve of her jacket was still soaking wet. She just hoped it wouldn’t stain when it dried; she had paid a lot of money for the new suit she was wearing in honour of the day.

Gideon Webber grimaced unrepentantly. ‘We’ve only met twice—and both times you’ve had a glass in your hand!’

‘The last time it was Alka-Seltzer,’ she defended with another resentful glare.

‘So it was,’ he acknowledged with hard mockery. ‘I remember commenting at the time that you would probably have been better downing another glass of whatever had put you in that state in the first place!’

Molly drew in a sharp breath as he made no effort to hide his deliberately insulting tone.

She had been dreading today anyway, ever since Crystal had told her who Peter’s two godfathers were to be. But she had finally convinced herself that surely Gideon Webber was too polite to make any reference to their last memorable meeting. Obviously, in light of their present conversation, it was a totally erroneous assumption for her to have made about this—this—

This what? she questioned herself heavily.

Under any other circumstances she would have considered this man lethally attractive, ‘drop-dead gorgeous’, as some of her more colourful friends might have said. And he was gorgeous, no doubt about that—over six feet of lethal attraction. He just also happened to be one of the few people who had ever seen her the worse for wear because of too much alcohol…!

Time to take a bit more control of this conversation, she decided firmly. ‘Those were exceptional circumstances,’ she told him decisively.

He raised blond brows over enigmatic blue eyes. ‘And today?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Molly snapped impatiently. ‘At most, I’ve had two sips of champagne.’ She picked up the glass to take another assertive swallow. ‘That makes three now.’ She looked across at him challengingly.

He gave an acknowledging inclination of his head. ‘If you say so,’ he drawled.

Molly felt the colour enter her cheeks at this obvious scepticism as to the amount of champagne she had actually imbibed—a colour that didn’t exactly go with her blaze of rich Titian hair. But, damn it, the man was making it sound as if she were some sort of alcoholic who sneaked around swigging alcohol whenever there was no one else around—

Wasn’t that exactly what she had just been doing?

Well…yes. But—

She gave an irritable sigh. ‘I do say so.’ She nodded curtly. ‘I was just—it was only—’ Oh, give up, Molly, she advised herself self-disgustedly—While you’re not ahead! ‘Shouldn’t we all be leaving for the church?’ she prompted briskly.