Her Valentine Blind Date

Mills & Boon^>® Romance brings you another page-turning romance from

Raye Morgan

Get swept up in Raye Morgan’s captivating world of feel-good fantasy stories that will touch your heart and keep you smiling from beginning to end!

Praise for the author:

“Raye Morgan [delivers] a wonderfully romantic story that proves love is truly worth fighting for… with sharp wit and keen insight into the human heart. Readers will remember [her] novel [s] long after turning the final page.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Raye Morgan has been a nursery school teacher, a travel agent, a clerk and a business editor, but her best job ever has been writing romances—and fostering romance in her own family at the same time. Current score: two boys married, two more to go. Raye has published over seventy romances, and claims to have many more waiting in the wings. She lives in Southern California, with her husband and whichever son happens to be staying at home at that moment.

Dear Reader

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Marilyn Monroe taught us that little gem many years ago, and some believe it’s true to this day. Not romance readers, though. We put our trust in relationships. The old man-woman thing. The eyes meeting across a crowded room. The quickening pulse as you catch sight of that gorgeous guy in your doorway. The soft, exciting crush of his lips on yours. The swell of his hard biceps under your fingers… Whoops—where was I?

Oh, yes—diamonds.

We may not rely on diamonds as the life support Marilyn was singing about, but they are special. We love them for their beauty, and for what they represent: commitment, eternal love and faithfulness. Funny thing—these are all elements of our fascination with romantic fiction.

Read a lot of romances—and here’s hoping there are more diamonds in your future.

Celebrate!

Raye Morgan

BY

RAYE MORGAN

CHAPTER ONE

BAD timing.

Max Angeli shoved the single red rose he was carrying into his pocket as he flipped open his mobile and barked a greeting, resigned to the certainty that whatever he was about to be told was going to create a new level of chaos in his life. First problem—the dance club he’d just walked into was too noisy. Lights swirled and the heavy drumbeat of sensual rhythms pounded. The brittle clink of crystal liquor glasses vied with high-pitched feminine laughter to fill the air with a sort of desperate frivolity. He already despised the place.

“Hold on, Tito,” he said into the phone. “Let me get to a spot where I can hear you.”

He could tell it was his assistant on the other end of the call, but he couldn’t understand a word he was saying. A quick scan of the crowded lounge located the powder room and he headed for it. The sound level improved only marginally, but enough to let him hear what Tito was saying.

“We found her.”

Max felt as though he’d touched a live electric wire. Everything in him was shocked. Closing his eyes, he tried to take it in. They’d been searching for weeks, with no apparent leads, until this last tip that his brother’s ex-girlfriend, Sheila Bern, might have traveled by bus to Dallas.

His brother, Gino, had died just months before. Sheila hadn’t surfaced at the time, but she’d contacted Max months later to say she’d had Gino’s baby. When he’d asked for proof that the baby was indeed his brother’s, she’d vanished again. He’d almost given up hope. And now, to hear that she’d been found…

“You found her?” he repeated hoarsely. “Are you sure?”

“Well, yes and no.”

His grip hardened on the mobile. “Damn it, Tito…”

“Just get over here, Max. You’ll see what I mean.” He rattled off an address.

Max closed his eyes again and memorized the information. “Okay,” he said. “Sit tight. I’ve got to get out of this blind date thing I got myself involved in. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay. Hey, boss? Hurry.”

Max nodded. “You got it.” He snapped the phone shut and turned back to the noisy room, tempted to head straight for his car and forget the woman who was waiting for him somewhere in all this annoying crush of revelers. But even he couldn’t be quite that rude. Besides, his mother would make him pay. She might be sitting in a terraced penthouse in Venice at the moment, but she had ways of reaching across the ocean to Dallas and turning on the guilt machine. Even though she was American, he was the Italian son, and he’d been raised to value keeping his mother happy.

Hesitating on the threshold, he scanned the room and searched for a woman holding a red rose—the match to the poor, straggly item he’d belatedly retrieved from his suit pocket. All he needed to do was find her and let her know something had come up. Simple. It should only take a minute.

Cari Christensen bit her lip and wished she could drown her red rose in the glass of wine that sat untouched in front of her.

“Five more minutes,” she promised herself. “And then, if he’s not here, I’m going to drop that rose into a trash basket and melt into the crowd. Without that, he’ll never know who I am.”