Allison Leigh - Once Upon a Valentine

She blamed the entire thing on the shirt.

His shirt, to be precise.

Everything would have been fine, if he’d just kept it on.

But no. He had to go be the gentleman. He’d known she was soaked through. And with no electricity thanks to the ice storm that had blanketed Seattle with hardly any warning, she had also been freezing.

So he’d given her a towel, threadbare as it was, to dry off as best she could.

And then he’d given her his shirt.

Really, that’s when all the trouble started.

That’s when she’d obviously lost every bit of common sense that she’d ever possessed.

What else could possibly explain the fact that she was now lying on a pile of cushions on the floor of Merrick & Sullivan Yachting with Paxton Merrick’s sinewy arm over her waist as if he had every right to do so?

* * *

The Hunt for Cinderella:

Seeking Prince Charming

Once Upon a Valentine

Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

There is a saying that you can never be too rich or too thin. Allison Leighdoesn’t believe that, but she does believe that you can never have enough books! When her stories find a way into the hearts—and bookshelves—of others, Allison says she feels she’s done something right. Making her home in Arizona with her husband, she enjoys hearing from her readers at Allison@allisonleigh.com or PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA

For all of you Cinderellas-at-heart

Contents

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

Epilogue

Excerpt

Chapter One

December

She blamed the entire thing on the shirt.

His shirt, to be precise.

Everything would have been fine, if he’d just kept it on.

But no. He had to go be the gentleman. He’d known she was soaked through. And with no electricity thanks to the ice storm that had blanketed Seattle with hardly any warning, she also had been freezing.

So he’d given her a towel, threadbare as it was, to dry off as best she could.

And then he’d given her his shirt.

Really, that’s when all the trouble started.

That’s when she’d obviously lost every bit of common sense that she’d ever possessed.

What else could possibly explain the fact that she was now lying on a pile of cushions on the floor of Merrick & Sullivan Yachting with Paxton Merrick’s sinewy arm over her waist, his big palm cupping her breast as if he had every right to do so?

Shea Weatherby chewed the inside of her lip as she lay motionless in hopes that he wouldn’t wake up.

It was morning. Sunlight was filling the room. The wind that had howled and screamed and driven her into his office in the first place in search of shelter when her car wouldn’t start was now silent. She couldn’t see out the windows without turning over, though, and that was something she didn’t want to do.

Because it would mean turning toward Pax too.

Bad enough she could feel the heat of his body burning down every inch of her backside. Because she’d obviously lost her head after the whole shirt-offering incident, she clearly couldn’t be trusted to look at his infernally attractive face or other...body parts.

She closed her eyes against the sunshine, wondering how on earth she’d be able to salvage some dignity here.

She’d known Pax for well over two years. Had been regularly turning down his flirtatious overtures for just as long. But all it took was one night, stuck together because her bank account couldn’t extend itself yet to replace her old junker of a car once and for all, and she’d tumbled like a house of cards.

He’d loaned her his shirt to wear when she’d been soaked. He’d wrapped his arms around her and kept her warm when the electricity had gone out because of the storm. And when, heaven help her, she’d tasted the brush of his lips...

She wasn’t even sure who’d kissed who first, and Shea was more than a little afraid it had been her.

She curled her fingers into the cushion and blocked off the thoughts. Tried to, at least. It was hard, when her body still felt sated and warm and—might as well just admit it—more relaxed than it had been in years.

And more satisfied than ever, period.

Again, she shushed the voice inside her head.

She knew she should be grateful that Pax had been here at the leasing office at all. He spent a lot more time at the company’s actual boat works location farther up the shore near the bridge than he did here, at the office that overlooked the marina where the sailboats they leased out were moored. If he hadn’t been here, she’d have been stuck sitting inside her car that refused to start and riding out the ice storm because she’d had no way of getting back inside Cornelia’s building next door once she’d let herself out. Shea had just started working for the woman a week ago and hadn’t wanted the responsibility of an office key when she’d been offered one. By the time the storm had struck yesterday afternoon, everyone else in the office had already left before the roads became impassable, leaving Shea to fend for herself.

She squelched a sigh and opened her eyes again.

Pax had dragged the cushions they were lying on from the boxy, wooden chairs that were scattered around the airy office interior. They were thick and square and covered with a nautical stripe, and though they didn’t make an ideal bed, they were better than sleeping on the hardwood floor. It had been either the cushions, or curl up on a desktop. He’d also found a canvas tarp for them to use as a blanket and a few stubby candles that he’d stuck in mismatched coffee mugs to give them a little light.

Her gaze went from one of the de-cushioned chairs to the round table that sat in the center of the room. A showroom, she supposed it could be called, because—aside from the chairs—the only other piece of furniture was that round table, with a massive, wooden model of a sailing sloop displayed on top of it.

Pax and his partner, Erik Sullivan, built boats. Big, beautiful custom sailing yachts that looked like poetry in the water. Both men were single. Both numbingly good-looking. They were part of the yachting world and all that that entailed—money and the “beautiful people.” But they both had an interest in the welfare of their community, which was how Shea had come to meet Pax in the first place while covering a story for her newspaper, The Seattle Washtub.

It’d just been a human interest thing. Local boys made good—very good—by sharing their wealth with a group of kids. Didn’t hurt that those local boys were single, extremely attractive and millionaires.

She grimaced and shifted restlessly, and the second that she did, Pax’s thumb moved, brushing slowly over her nipple, which traitorously tightened and ached for more. She froze. Waited for another movement from him and wished that she could say that she dreaded one.

But that would be a monumental lie after what they’d already done. What her tightening nerves suggested would be a smashingly good thing to do again.

Shea prided herself on being practical. On being honest with herself. She knew perfectly well that nothing good ever came out of lying to herself.

Or out of weaving dreams from a slanted, sexy smile.

Been there. Done that. And had earned nothing but heartache as a result.

Pax’s thumb stroked her again. “You’re thinking too much.” His voice was deep and rumbling and ridiculously appealing as his fingers slid over her, moving with the delicate precision of a musician.

She slammed a lid over her romantic notions and focused hard on the base of the table a few feet away from her nose. “I’m not thinking anything at all.”