Emma Richmond - A Husband For Christmas

“He’s my son and I would like to get to know him, find out what he’s like....” “He’s my son and I would like to get to know him, find out what he’s like....” “Yes, of course.” “I know you don’t want me here....” “Not want,” she corrected hastily, “can’t. Can’t,” she repeated. “I told you....” “Yes... Suppose I don’t ever get it back, Gellis?” “Don’t do this.” “I must. Have to. He’s my son. Let me stay...get to know him. I’ve lost my memory, my life. Don’t let me lose my son, too.... You will allow that, Gellis?” She gave a helpless nod...but she wasn’t really listening to what he asked, was aware only of his touch, and the knowledge that he was staying. The alarming knowledge that they would be sharing the house. A very small house. “There’s only one bedroom,” she blurted thickly. About the Author Emma Richmond was born during the Second World War in north Kent, England. She says, “Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny.” Title Page A Husband for Christmas Emma Richmond 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 Copyright

“He’s my son and I would like to get to know him, find out what he’s like....”

“Yes, of course.”

“I know you don’t want me here....”

“Not want,” she corrected hastily, “can’t. Can’t,” she repeated. “I told you....”

“Yes... Suppose I don’t ever get it back, Gellis?”

“Don’t do this.”

“I must. Have to. He’s my son. Let me stay...get to know him. I’ve lost my memory, my life. Don’t let me lose my son, too.... You will allow that, Gellis?”

She gave a helpless nod...but she wasn’t really listening to what he asked, was aware only of his touch, and the knowledge that he was staying. The alarming knowledge that they would be sharing the house. A very small house.

“There’s only one bedroom,” she blurted thickly.

Emma Richmond was born during the Second World War in north Kent, England. She says, “Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny.”

“Emma Richmond’s stories have it all—humor, emotion and wonderful, memorable characters.”

—Day Leclaire, author of THE SECRET BABY and the

FAIRYTALE WEDDINGS trilogy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THICK dark hair hung to her waist in a loosely woven plait, big brown eyes surveyed the world without interest. Beautiful, introspective, sad. Oblivious of the Christmas jingle that played endlessly over the loudspeaker, the noisy chatter, Gellis stared inward, wrapped up in her own thoughts. The opening of the café door brought momentary awareness—and then shock.

Déjà vu—except it wasn’t. Unable to tear her eyes away, rigid with disbelief, uncomprehending, she stared at the tall, dark-haired man as he took the table next to her own. Hard and tough, fit. Ruthless. He had a badger stripe at his left temple, but it was Sébastien. Hazel eyes with those startling flecks of green stared dismissively round—until they found Gellis. And then they stopped. With a leisurely, almost insulting examination of her exquisite face, he gave a cynical smile of appreciation.

She didn’t smile back. Couldn’t smile back. There was no warmth in that glance, no humour. It was Sébastien, but not the Sébastien she had known. Loved. That Sébastien’s eyes had been filled with laughter, and he had looked what he was—what she had thought he was, she corrected with bitter anguish—a humorous and honest man. And his dark hair had had no streak of white.

Eighteen months ago, in another café, another place, they had exchanged glances—and love had been born. Not immediately, not instantly, but it had been born. And consummated.

Frozen in place, she continued to stare—and he raised one eyebrow in mocking question.

She was unable to respond, unable to do anything but sit there like a fool. He frowned, asked harshly, ‘You know me?’ And when she didn’t answer, merely continued to stare at him in shock, he reached out, grabbed her forearm, hard. ‘I asked if you knew me!’ he gritted.

A catch in her throat, a little sound of distress; she lurched to her feet, prepared to flee.

‘Sit down,’ he grated. ‘Sit down!’ With a ruthless disregard for any pain he might be causing her, he dragged her down to her seat. Face thrust forward, eyes hard, mouth a grim line, he asked with menacing softness, ‘Who am I?’

‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, please don’t do this.’ And his frown deepened, making carved, ugly grooves between his brows.

‘Do what? Do what?’ he repeated savagely. ‘Where do you know me from? When?’

‘You know when!’ she cried.

‘No, lady, I don’t! So when?’ he demanded urgently. ‘More than four months ago?’

Throat tight, the most awful ache in her chest, eyes fixed on his in disbelief and pain, she gave a jerky nod, and he let out a shuddering sigh, briefly closed his eyes.

‘And my name is?’

‘What?’ she asked in a frightened little whisper.

‘What’s my name? What’s my name, dammit?’

‘Sébastien.’

‘Sébastien,’ he echoed, and his free hand curled into a tight fist. ‘Sébastien what? Sébastien what?’ he repeated menacingly when she didn’t answer.’

‘Fourcard.’

‘French?’

‘Yes. Yes!’ she shouted in distress.

‘From?’

‘Collioure.’ And he closed his eyes again, let out a breath that seemed to Gellis as though it had been held for a very long time.

‘Sébastien Fourcard,’ he repeated quietly. ‘From Collioure. Mon Dieu. At last.’ Opening his eyes, he stared at her. ‘And you are?’

‘Gellis.’

‘Gellis,’ he echoed flatly.

‘You’re hurting me,’ she asserted.

Staring at her arm as though quite unaware that he had been holding it in an iron fist, he hastily released it. ‘Pardon. And we were, what? Friends? Lovers?’

Snatching her eyes away, she too stared at her arm, watched the white imprint of his fingers slowly turn red. Oh, dear God. Oh, dear, dear God. How could he not remember? Of all the scenarios she had envisaged over the past four months, that had not been one of them. She had conjured up excuse after excuse for his behaviour, even blamed herself—but had not dreamed that he wouldn’t remember her. Or himself. Or himself? Snapping her eyes back to his, she opened her mouth, closed it. And he gave a cruel smile.

‘Yes,’ he agreed harshly. Leaning back in his chair, eyes still fixed unwaveringly on her face, he explained flatly, ‘I have no memory of events, people, places prior to August this year.’ Touching the white stripe of hair, as though it was something he did rather a lot, he added mockingly, ‘And until I sat at this table a few minutes ago I did not even know my own name. So, acquaintances, Mends—or lovers?’

Numb, barely able to comprehend, she just stared. He’d lost his memory?

‘Lovers,’ he guessed. ‘Only a lover could look that reproachful. What did I do? Run out on you?’