About NATALIE ANDERSON
Natalie adores a happy endingâwhich is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure youâve got a happy ending in your hands right now, because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice, and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offeringâyou guessed itâa happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children.
If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on facebook.com/authornataliea, on Twitter @authornataliea, or at her website, www.natalie-anderson.com
Praise for Natalie Anderson
âThis wonderful tale is a terrific mix
of spark, sizzle and passion.â âRT Book Reviews on Ruthless Boss, Royal Mistress
âSizzling chemistry in the boardroom and
well-developed characters make this a winner.â âRT Book Reviews on Hot Boss, Boardroom Mistress
âYou can always rely on Natalie Anderson
to deliver a fun and feel-good read ⦠The Millionaireâs Mistletoe Mistress is another fabulous read by this amazing rising star â¦!â âPHS reviews on The Millionaireâs Mistletoe Mistress
Also by Natalie Anderson
Nice Girls Finish Last
Dating and Other Dangers The End of Faking It Walk on the Wild Side Unbuttoned by Her Maverick Boss* Caught on Camera with the CEO* To Love, Honour and Disobey
*Part of the Hot Under the Collar duet
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
For the University of Canterburyâs Student Volunteer Armyâthanks for showing, in the most fantastic way, that the brightest lights on Christchurchâs horizon not only have brains and beauty, but also the most tremendous hearts. Youâve been such heroes, and youâve proved how positive our cityâs future will be.
DR GABE Hollingsworth glowered at the bumper sticker on the car in front; the streamlined silver silhouettes reminded him that tomorrow was recruitment day. Half his team would be there to check out the possible additions to the posse of alluring females. But while the players saw the dancers as fresh game, Gabe reckoned the women were the hunters, not the hunted, with their sparkling eyes, suggestive poses and PhDs in serious flirting. They might officially âsupportâ the countryâs greatest rugby club, but theyâd high-kicked more than one manâs life right into touch. Including his. So heâd be light years away from the stadium at audition hour tomorrow.
He took the next left, while the silver-stickered car went straight on out of sight. Relieved, Gabe automatically glanced at the property on the edge of the park. Heâd been curious so long it had become a habit. So he saw it immediatelyâthe rough bit of board with âTo Letâ and a mobile number scrawled on it that hadnât been there this morning. Gabe pulled over and put a hand to his pocket, let it drop again without retrieving his phone. He was right outsideâthereâd be no harm in walking to the front door and making enquiries in person, would there?
Assuming he could find the front door.
A decrepit garage stood on the edge of the footpath while the rest of the front boundary was marked by ferocious planting. He walked the length of the two-metre-high prickly âhedgeâ of trees so intertwined you couldnât see through their thick evergreen foliage, then he peered behind the sign precariously tacked in front of the rusted letterbox. He saw hidden there what could be a narrow goat track between the branchesâmake that a single-file ant track. He winced as gnarled twigs scratched his bare arms. Pushing through, he figured it was an abandoned wreck of a house, probably in the midst of some development argument with greenies on one side wanting it to be absorbed into the park, while property tycoons fought on the other for consent to demolish it and put some apartment or office block in its prime central-city location. But the spiky green fortification intrigued him and the idea of having a central-city hideaway appealed given the fatal attraction nightmare his last fling had become. No chance of some unhinged ex-lover carrying out a home invasion hereâa high-maintenance type like Diana would never risk her skin and nails to get through. Hell, he could barely get through. But he ignored the scratches and catches at his clothing and hair; the resistance made him all the more determined to see what was beyond. He snapped branches and stomped over the rough ground and suddenly was out in open space, blinking in the brightness of the summer evening.
He straightened, forgetting the zillion stinging scrapes on his skin as he stared. It wasnât an abandoned wreck at all.
Roxie only had the downstairs bathroom to do and the place was clean, empty and ready for occupation. She picked up the spray bottle of foul-smelling chemical disinfectant and straightened her sore shoulders. She was determined to get it finished tonight because the optimist in her hoped people might call about renting the house tomorrow. Flicking on the hot tap, she stepped right into the shower cubicle. Getting wet didnât matter because as soon as she was done sheâd head to her studio, have a real shower and flop into bed. She hunched down to get into the corners, pointing the jet of water ahead, and furiously wiped the walls. Sheâd spent most of the day cleaning, had practised her routines as rest breaks to stop herself dwelling on how different the place looked without furniture. It would never be the same now, but would always be homeâher heart. This place was all she had left.