Jane Donnelly - Max's Proposal

“I’m asking you to marry me,” Max said slowly “I’m asking you to marry me,” Max said slowly Sara froze. “What did you say? Are you drunk?” she gasped. “Not in the least.” “Why?” “I’m in my mid-thirties, I’m tired of playing the field and I need a wife.” Which still left the question unanswered. “But why me?” “You’re honest. You’re loyal, you’re bright and beautiful, and I find you very desirable. I mistrust love matches. I’m not an emotional man, and from what I’ve seen of others, love usually turns into a bad joke.” Sara was lost for words.... About the Author Jane Donnelly began eaming her living as a teenage reporter. When she married the editor of the newspaper, she freelanced for women’s magazines for a while, and wrote her first Harlequin ® novel as a hard-up single parent. Now she lives in a roses-around-the-door cottage in England near Stratford-on-Avon, with her daughter, four dogs and assorted rescued animals. Besides writing she enjoys traveling, swimming, walking and the company of friends. Title Page Max’s Proposal Jane Donnelly www.millsandboon.co.uk CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT Copyright

“I’m asking you to marry me,” Max said slowly

Sara froze. “What did you say? Are you drunk?” she gasped.

“Not in the least.”

“Why?”

“I’m in my mid-thirties, I’m tired of playing the field and I need a wife.” Which still left the question unanswered.

“But why me?”

“You’re honest. You’re loyal, you’re bright and beautiful, and I find you very desirable. I mistrust love matches. I’m not an emotional man, and from what I’ve seen of others, love usually turns into a bad joke.”

Sara was lost for words....

Jane Donnelly began eaming her living as a teenage reporter. When she married the editor of the newspaper, she freelanced for women’s magazines for a while, and wrote her first Harlequin ®novel as a hard-up single parent. Now she lives in a roses-around-the-door cottage in England near Stratford-on-Avon, with her daughter, four dogs and assorted rescued animals. Besides writing she enjoys traveling, swimming, walking and the company of friends.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

SARA SOLWAY’S toes felt red-hot in the pretty pumps with the rhinestone heels. So much for that bargain. Marked down in the sales, she hadn’t been able to resist them. Now if she didn’t get out of them soon she would be needing scissors to cut them off because she could feel her feet puffing up. Music and voices filled the air from the Bonfire Night Ball in the great hall of the Moated House, but there was no one else in this corridor. Sara leaned against a door and balanced on one leg. But then the door swung inwards and sent her sprawling backwards into the room.

For a few seconds she lay winded on the carpet. Lights and noise spilled in from the corridor; behind her the shadowy room was quiet. She sat up, easing off her shoes, which felt wonderful. She was not going back straight away. She wouldn’t be missed for a while. She was on duty tonight, covering the ball for the local newspaper. Carrying her shoes, she padded between the shapes of furniture towards the long window at the far end of the room and the big wing-backed chair. She sank into the downy softness of the chair and pulled her feet up under her so that she could massage her insteps. When she went back she would get a strong black coffee to keep herself awake...

But then suddenly lights went on. She shifted slightly, flexing her shoulders, and stiffened when she recognised a man’s voice. She hadn’t caught the words. Realising who was speaking had brought her wide awake. Although he was the one with every right to walk into any room. It was his house. He was hosting tonight’s charity ball. If anyone strolled in, switching on lights, it would probably be Max Vella. But he was about the last man Sara wanted to find her snoozing in a hidden corner. Not that it was any of his business what she did. He didn’t own the Chronicle. Half the town maybe, but he was not her boss.

Then she heard him say, ‘Right, and now I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.’ Sara could be overhearing something top secret because he was not giving friendly advice he was issuing orders. Another man mumbled something and Vella said, ‘Just listen.’

Sara was a born reporter and that meant a born listener, and she huddled down in the chair, making herself as small as possible, bright-eyed with anticipation. She could see nothing. Her chair was turned away from the room, facing the window, and that was as well because it meant they couldn’t see her.

They were discussing some property that might be going at a knock-down rate, Sara gathered, and the other man was to grease palms and keep Vella’s name out of it. The other man didn’t sound too happy. He sounded small and anxious, while Max Vella was always big and aggressive enough to stop a tank.

She must remember every word. This could add up to a corruption expose. The local paper she worked for would be wary of taking on one of the town’s leading employers, but there were other papers and radio stations that would be interested.

They seemed to be walking away from her towards the door, because the voices were quieter until she heard Vella say, ‘If he won’t co-operate I want him out of the way permanently. Another accident. As soon as possible.’ Sara’s little glow of triumph went as abruptly as if icy water had been tipped over her. He couldn’t have meant what she thought he’d meant. Everybody knew he was as ruthless as they come, but out of the way permanently ...?

This sort of thing was part of the plot of novels and TV films. It did happen. But when you’d come along to cover a charity bash and overheard your host arranging a fatal accident it paralysed you. Another accident? How many had there been? She pressed fingertips to her temples, feeling a vein pulsing hotly beneath the thin skin. What was she going to do? Who should she tell? Who would believe her when she said she’d fallen asleep and woken to hear this? They would think she’d still been only half-awake, and with only Sara’s word who would make an enemy of Max Vella?

He had the clout of big money. But somebody’s life was in danger and when she got out of here she must look for who was with Vella. She would have to if he and the man were still together—although she probably wouldn’t recognise the other man’s voice as it had hardly been raised above a murmur.

She was breathing fast and shallowly, like a cornered animal. There had been silence since she’d heard the door close. They had surely been gone long enough for her to creep out and hurry back into the cover of the crowds, but she couldn’t move a muscle. She was punch-drunk, shocked rigid and she felt him before she saw him.

His shadow seemed to fall over her and then he was beside the chair, looming over her. ‘Well, hello,’ he said. ‘What have we here?’

Instinctively and frantically she tried to grin, stretching her lips in a grimace that might pass as a smile, gibbering, ‘Oh, hello; this is a wonderfully comfortable chair. It’s a dreadful thing to say but I fell asleep for a few minutes. Not that this isn’t a brilliant party, but my shoes were pinching so I kicked them off and closed my eyes.’ She looked at her wrist-watch, and he must see how her hand was shaking. ‘Am I in time for the fireworks?’

‘You haven’t missed the fireworks,’ he said. ‘You haven’t missed a thing.’