Nicola Marsh - Girl in a Vintage Dress

‘Fresh, funny, flirty and feel-good—who can resist one of Nicola Marsh’s delectable category romances? With a fabulously fun heroine, a sexy hero and lashings of witty dialogue, Overtime in the Boss’s Bed is another keeper from the stellar pen of Nicola Marsh!’

—PHS Reviews on

Overtime in the Boss’s Bed

‘Nicola Marsh heats up your winter nights with this blazingly sensual tale of lost love, second chances and old secrets! In Marriage: For Business or Pleasure? Nicola Marsh blends hot sensuality with tender romance, witty humour and nail-biting drama, which will keep readers eagerly turning the pages of this spellbinding contemporary romance!’

—PHS Reviews on

Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?

‘This lovers-reunited tale is awash in passion, sensuality and plenty of sparks. The terrific characters immediately capture your attention, and from there the pages go flying by.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?

‘Sterling characters, an exotic setting and crackling sexual tension make for a great read.’

—RT Book Reviews on

A Trip with the Tycoon

NICOLA MARSHhas always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary whose content could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves in her dream job.

Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.comfor the latest news of her books.

Wedding Date with Mr Wrong

Marrying the Enemy

Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?

Interview with the Daredevil

Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex!

Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss

Overtime in the Boss’s Bed

Three Times a Bridesmaid…

Married: For Business or Pleasure?

A Trip with the Tycoon

Two Weeks in the Magnate’s Bed

Did you know these are also available as eBooks?

Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my sister-in-law Deb,

the queen of retro chic.

Here’s to a future of fabulous frocks,

snazzy shoes and catch-ups over coffee.

THE moment Chase Etheridge turned into Errol Street the fine hairs on the back of his neck snapped to attention.

Bad enough driving through North Melbourne, the suburb he’d once called home, but this particular street held more than long suppressed memories.

Errol Street encapsulated everything he’d run from, everything he’d rather forget.

Yet here he was edging through traffic, searching for a parking spot, trying to concentrate on the road and obliterate the memories running through his mind like a rerun of a B grade movie.

Riding his bike down to Arden Street to watch his beloved Kangaroos footy team train, walking to the local primary school, picking up Cari from a friend’s: not bad memories so much as snapshots of his past. A past where he’d raised Cari and taken on far too much responsibility from a young age. A past filled with making school lunches, correcting homework and cooking dinners. A past where he hadn’t had a chance to be a kid.

Though some good had come out of it. Cari adored him and the feeling was mutual. He’d do anything for his sister, the sole reason he was here.

Easing his Jag into a prime parking space, he ignored the uncharacteristic twist of nerves in his gut. Him, nervous? Laughable, as any of his employees at Dazzle would attest to.

Make millions? Take the entertainment industry by storm? Be the best in the business? Could do it with his eyes closed. He didn’t have time to be nervous yet striding up a rejuvenated Errol Street, packed with trendy cafés and boutiques and far removed from the street he remembered, he couldn’t help but feel a touch anxious.

If being back here wasn’t bad enough, strolling into some fancy schmancy vintage shop with the aim of organising his sister’s hen’s night was enough to send a shiver of dread through the hardest of men.

His mobile beeped and he answered a text message from his PA, one eye on his smartphone, the other on the shopfronts until he spotted his destination.

Go Retro.

Written in candy cane pink in a curly font against a backdrop of shoes and hats and lipsticks, he’d rather be anywhere else but he had business to conduct and that was one thing he did well.

Firing off another message to Jerrie, he nudged the door open with his butt and entered the shop, mentally calculating profit margins and new dates in response to his uber efficient PA’s next question.

A tiny bell tinkled overhead but he didn’t look up, frowning as Jerrie emailed him the updated guest list for tonight’s modelling agency launch.

‘Excuse me.’

He held up a finger, not ready to be interrupted while dealing with this latest problem.

‘We don’t allow mobile phones in here.’

He should’ve known. A shop dealing in retro stuff would live in the Dark Ages.

‘Just give me a minute—’

‘Sorry, Retro rules.’

Before he could argue the phone was plucked out of his hands and he finally glanced up, ready to blast the cheeky shop assistant.

‘How dare you…’

The rest of his rebuttal died on his lips as his angry glare clashed with the biggest, softest brown eyes he’d ever seen, fringed in illegally long eyelashes that added to an air of fragility.

Not many people stood up to him let alone a five foot six curvaceous blonde who looked as if she’d stepped out of the fifties with her hair pinned up in curls and held back by a headband the same polka dot material as her rock and roll dress.

‘I dare because I’m the owner, and rules are rules.’

She pocketed his smartphone, hiding it in the side pocket of a voluminous skirt and having the audacity to smile.

‘You’ll get it back when you leave. Now, is there anything I can help you with?’

Frowning, he was on the verge of demanding his phone back and marching right back out of here, Cari’s hen’s night or not, when he caught a glimmer of fear behind those lashings of mascara.

For all her boldness in playing enforcer, the owner of all this frippery didn’t like playing the big, bad boss. Something he could identify with so he settled for thrusting his hands into his pockets and glancing around, seeing the place for the first time.

Riotous colour assaulted his senses: fake pink roses stuck on black pillbox hats, orange and teal gloves spilling out of floral boxes, emerald feather boas draped over satin clad mannequins and primrose paisley scarves only a small sampling of the merchandise cramming every nook and cranny of the store.

To his discerning eye, which much preferred sleek modern lines in everything from furniture to fashion, this place was his worst nightmare.

‘Can I help you with something specific? An item of clothing? Accessories? A special something for your wife?’

‘I don’t have a partner,’ he said, a blinder of a headache building behind his eyes as he stared at the incredible visual assault of florals and flounces and feathers, glitter and gowns and gaudy baubles that twinkled beneath the muted down-lights, the only concession to the twenty-first century in the entire place.