The Millionaire's Convenient Bride. CATHERINE GEORGEЧитать онлайн книгу.

      To Howard, with my love.

      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 ONE

      HESTER’S excitement escalated as she neared her goal. She checked the address again, then mounted the steps of one of the tall houses which lined three sides of leafy Albany Square. She rang the bell, gave her name over an intercom and, after a pause, the door was opened by a man who was obviously an employee of some kind, but nothing like her idea of a butler.

      He smiled at her pleasantly. ‘Good morning, Miss Ward. Come this way.’

      Hester followed him along a high-ceilinged hall and up a flight of Bath stone stairs to a large, book-lined study. He held out the chair in front of the desk, told her his employer would be with her shortly and left her alone. Her anticipation at fever pitch, Hester sat, tense, on the edge of the chair. Her preliminary interview had been over coffee in a hotel lounge with John Austin, personal assistant of the owner of this house, but now she was about to meet the man himself.

      On the desk a solitary framed photograph faced the window. She hesitated a moment, then turned it towards her and felt a rush of pure adrenaline. Her hunch had been right! The man she’d come to see really was her mysterious Mr Jones. And one look at that striking face, with its knife-edge cheekbones and intense dark eyes, sent her straight back to her first encounter with the man smiling down at a child in the photograph.

      She had been packing that cold January night when her mother rushed in, radiating urgency.

      ‘Give me a hand, darling. We’ve got guests.’

      Hester stared at her in disbelief. ‘What? At this time of night?’

      ‘I just couldn’t say no. It’s snowing, and they look exhausted.’

      ‘Honestly, Mother! We’re supposed to be closed for the entire month. You should have put the No Vacancies sign out.’

      Moira Ward gave her a stern look. ‘I want help, please, not a lecture.’

      ‘Right away!’ Hester hurried after her mother, down the back stairs to the kitchen. ‘Where are they?’

      Moira began taking food from the refrigerator. ‘Settling into their rooms while I whip up a snack. Mr Jones accepted my offer of sandwiches with such enthusiasm I think it’s a long time since either of them had a meal.’

      Hester shook her head in disapproval as she buttered bread. ‘You’re too soft-hearted by half.’

      ‘But not soft-headed,’ returned Moira tartly. ‘I don’t turn away paying guests who offer cash in advance.’ She sighed. ‘Besides, the poor girl looked ready to drop. I couldn’t turn them away.’

      ‘Of course you couldn’t!’ Hester blew her a kiss. ‘What shall I put in these?’

      ‘Slice some of the roast ham from supper, and I’ll heat up the rest of my vegetable soup. The girl looked frozen.’

      ‘You want me to take the tray up?’

      ‘Yes, please, darling. I’d rather they knew I’m not alone in the house.’

      Hester laughed. ‘I doubt that my presence will make much difference if Mr Jones has anything sinister in mind.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Wait a minute. Did you say rooms plural?’

      Moira nodded. ‘The connecting rooms at the front.’

      ‘So we not only feed these people supper as well as breakfast, we clean the two largest rooms in the house after they’ve gone!’

      ‘For which I’ve been paid a handsome sum in advance,’ her mother reminded her, and, with a triumphant smile, played her trump card. ‘You can have half of it to take back to college.’

      Hester laughed as she gave her mother a hug. ‘Brilliant! Thanks, Ma. Why aren’t they sleeping together, do you think?’

      ‘Ours is not to reason why.’ Moira added a tureen of steaming soup to the tray and sent her daughter on her way.

      Hester bore her burden with care up the wide staircase, eager to take a look at the couple who’d appealed to her mother’s hospitable heart.

      The man who opened the first of the garden view rooms smiled as he took the tray and one look at the handsome, haggard face took Hester’s breath away.

      ‘Thank you.’ His voice was deep, with a timbre that sent shivers down her spine. ‘Would you tell Mrs Ward we’re deeply grateful?’

      ‘I will,’ she said with effort, and pulled herself together. ‘You’ll find biscuits, coffee, tea and kettle on the desk, and I’ve brought fresh milk. Can I get you anything else?’

      He shook his head as he inspected the tray’s contents. ‘This is wonderful—and much appreciated.’

      ‘No trouble at all,’ she assured him fervently. ‘What time would you like breakfast?’

      He glanced at the closed connecting door. ‘We need to be on our way first thing. Would toast and coffee be possible about seven-thirty?’

      ‘Of course. I’ll bring it up.’ And bring it willingly if it meant another encounter with the knee-trembling Mr Jones. Plus no dining room to clean afterwards.

      Hester went back downstairs in a pink haze. That, she thought reverently, was one mouth-watering male specimen if you liked your men tall, dark and masterful. Which she did. Or would if she knew any. She sighed enviously. The lady with him was very lucky. Her man had charisma in spades.

      Moira was drinking tea at the table when Hester went back to the kitchen. ‘Everything all right?’

      ‘With the über-gorgeous Mr Jones, yes. The connecting door was half closed so I didn’t see his lady.’

      ‘If you had, you’d have seen for yourself why I couldn’t turn them away. She looks like a ghost, poor thing.’

      Hester poured milk into a mug, stirred in squares of chocolate and put it in the microwave to heat. ‘He wants breakfast at seven thirty, so I said I’d take it up. But what on earth were they doing out here in January at this time of night? We don’t normally do much with passing trade.’

      This was true. Most of their customers came via tourist agencies and the Internet.

      ‘Mr Jones said he’d meant to drive overnight,’ said her mother, ‘but his companion began feeling ill about the time it started to snow. At which point he spotted our sign on the main road and turned up here on the off chance that we had room.’

      Hester fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I thought Smith was the alias of choice for secret getaways. Do you think Jones is his real name?’

      ‘That’s how he signed the register.’

      ‘Pretty anonymous. He could have murdered the woman’s