Kathleen O'Brien - The Redemption Of Matthew Quinn

Natalie Granville’s

TOP TEN THINGS TO DO ON YOUR NON-WEDDING DAY

10. Avoid pitying phone calls from your concerned friends and relatives. (Especially when you’re the “jilter,” not the “jiltee.”)

9. Avoid visits from your concerned friends and relatives. (As above.)

8. Find a useful alternative for that never-to-be-worn gown. (Dressing up garden statuary is de rigueur this season.)

7. Don’t wear white—unless it’s decidedly not wedding gear. (That bikini will do the trick just fine.)

6. Drink whatever you want to calm those non-wedding jitters. (Leave the champagne cocktails for the misguided fools who do want to get married.)

5. Never let anyone tell you you’re bitter. (Remember—you broke it off because you were getting married for the wrong reasons.)

4. Return all the presents given to you by your wealthy former fiancé. (You don’t want anyone to accuse you of gaining anything but experience from this sad affair.)

3. Break all the rules you want. (After all, everyone in town is already talking about you.)

2. Celebrate your narrow escape. (You really did do the right thing.)

And the number one thing to do on your non-wedding day: Hire the gorgeous guy with the mysterious past who shows up at your door looking for work….

Dear Reader,

What a potent concept the past is! I’ve known people who cling to it, people who slide it under a microscope, people who run screaming from it and even a few who rewrite it. I’ve never met anyone who is indifferent to it.

I’m no exception. I loved being seven, eighteen, twenty-five. I revere my oldest friends, because when I say, “remember when,” they do. My house is full of nicked chairs my grandmother bought. My conversations are decorated with my father’s pearls of wisdom, and my conscience is buckled in tight with my mother’s admonitions.

I’m free to love my past, because I’m also free to tell it to get lost. Sometimes I give away the chair that doesn’t fit. Now and then I string my own pearls. Occasionally I even blow my mother a mental kiss, salute her for teaching me to think for myself, and do the thing she said I mustn’t.

But what if you couldn’t? What if your past owned you—instead of the other way around? That’s what happened to Matthew Quinn. He’s just been released from prison, but in his heart he’s still locked away. He can’t forget his past, not even long enough to fall in love.

It’s going to take a special woman to redeem him. But Natalie Granville is a prisoner of her past, too. She’s shackled to Summer House, a moldering old relic she doesn’t want, can’t afford and yet feels a duty to preserve.

The Redemption of Matthew Quinn is the story of how they finally manage to come to terms with the past—and to fall in love with the future. I hope you enjoy making the journey with them.

Warmly,

Kathleen O’Brien

The Redemption of Matthew Quinn

Kathleen O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

927—THE REAL FATHER

967—A SELF-MADE MAN

1015—WINTER BABY * Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

1047—BABES IN ARMS * Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

AT HIGH NOON when she should have been saying “I do,” Natalie Granville was lounging on the cracked porch of her maggoty mansion, wearing nothing but a bikini, a smile and a light coating of perspiration.

Through the open double doors to the parlor, she listened to the answering machine. At least ten people had already called to check on her. Their messages ranged from the carefully indirect— “Hi, Nat, just wondering if you felt like talking”—to the blunt growls of her elderly cousin Granville Frome— “Dammit, girl, where are you? If you’re holed up somewhere crying, I’m going to break that bastard’s nose.”

But Natalie ignored them all. She was a Granville, and by heaven she didn’t need anybody’s pity.

She hoisted herself onto the wide marble banister and lay back carefully, so that the sun could bake her entire body. She slathered sunscreen across the bridge of her nose, where those annoying freckles liked to pop up, balanced her bottle of Jack Daniel’s on her stomach, and went on enjoying the heavenly day.

The would-have-been wedding day. Above her, the hot blue sky wore white lace clouds. Around her, the air sparkled like diamonds. The birds were singing schmaltzy romantic ditties.

Actually, she admitted to the bottle, trying to be honest— Granvilles were unflinchingly honest—it would have been a lovely day to get married.

Then she grinned, though her lips felt a little bit numb. Aw, who was she kidding? It was an even lovelier day to not get married.

Oops. Her grandfather wouldn’t like that split infinitive. Granvilles always used perfect grammar. She raised the bottle over her head and, without turning her head, apologized to the glowering portrait that hung on the parlor wall.

“Sorry, Gramps. I guess I’m breaking all the rules today.”

She wouldn’t have called him Gramps, either, if it hadn’t been for the Jack Daniel’s. And the fact that he’d been dead for five years.

“Um, hello. Miss? Excuse me.” A man’s voice floated up to her from the driveway, which sloped away beside the terraced garden. “Sorry, but I have a delivery for Natalie Granville?”

She maneuvered herself upright carefully, straddling the banister as if it were a marble horse. “I’m Natalie Granville,” she said politely. Darn, this position felt kind of awkward—the man was looking at her very strangely.

And she couldn’t quite decide what to do with the Jack Daniel’s. She didn’t want the bottle to fall off and break. She hugged it to her side, but that didn’t seem very hospitable, so she held it out. “Want some?”

The man—more like a boy, really—flushed. “No thanks,” he said quickly. He held out a very large, flat box. “I just need your signature for this.”

Natalie stared at the package, which looked familiar. Not the sort of thing she received for the nursery business she ran from the greenhouse, though. Too flat. Too feminine, with its shiny white corners.